The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,13

gone overboard. The past ten hours flashed in my mind, a hazy blur of distress hitting me in waves. Yesterday wasn’t a nightmare; it was real. I eyed my cell phone and groaned when I picked it up, my eyes focusing on the screen. Why on earth had I texted Eric? Of course he’d responded.

I didn’t destroy your life. I offered you an opportunity. It’s up to you to take it.

I threw my phone across the room and punched the cushions on the Roche Bobois couch while trying to muffle my screams. Walter padded into the living room wearing his pajamas—plaid pants and a long-sleeved thermal top. He rubbed away the sleep from his eyes and let out a cough.

“Sophie, what did the couch do to you?”

It was his attempt at humor; I didn’t laugh. I grunted and sank onto the couch. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

“You know me, I’m always up at the crack of dawn.”

“Did you have fun last night?”

“We did, but something was missing at our celebration,” he said with a sweet smile. “You.”

“Sorry,” I said with a feeble shrug. “I wasn’t in the best shape.”

“Never apologize. I understand.” Walter shuffled over and sat down next to me. He put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me in to his chest. He always smelled like fresh lemons and oranges, which was comforting. I wanted to stay curled against him forever and never have to face my stinking life. As he stroked my hair, he said, “I know things appear really terrible right now, but today will be another day.”

“A worse day.” I bolted upright. “The entire culinary world knows about Cendrillon and me, the supposed sabotaging chef. They just don’t realize the blame is being placed on the wrong person.” I gulped. “You’re an attorney. Can I sue him? Can I sue Eric?”

“I practice family law, Sophie.”

“I know. But maybe somebody at your firm practices—what is it? Defamation of character?”

Walter let out a worried huff. “Let’s look at the facts. Do you have proof that Eric told you to put the spices in the dishes?”

“No, not exactly.”

“Is there anybody who would corroborate your story?”

“Miguel might,” I said, and then thought of his earlier actions. He couldn’t even look at me. No, loyalty was a one-way street in a kitchen like Cendrillon NY; it went to the chef. And, after Eric left, that chef would most likely be Alex. “Then again, probably not.”

“And would you really want to walk down that road? All the money you’d have to fork out? All the bad publicity? A trial that could last years? It would be Eric and Alex’s word against yours. Even though I know you didn’t do anything, the press would drag your name through the mud. Do you really want to go through all that?”

I thought about it.

“Why not? I’m already ruined. I have some money left over from when I sold my mother’s apartment. Plus, thanks to you and to my lack of shopping, and mostly eating at the restaurant, I’ve got two years of pay saved up. I have to do something.” The words gurgled out of my throat. “Anything.”

Walter raised an eyebrow. “Soph, I’d think about this a little more when things settle down. Little girls plot revenge. Smart women sit back and let karma do its job.”

“I hope karma is a bloodthirsty bitch,” I mumbled, my jaw clenched.

“Me, too,” said Walter with a laugh. His joy was short-lived. When he saw me huddled over, breathing hard, he became serious. “Just don’t do anything rash in the heat of the moment. You’ll only be adding fuel to Eric’s fire. Let the dust settle.”

“I guess you’re right,” I said, my head pounding. “I mean, it’s not like I can do anything now. It’s a he-said, she-said dilemma and O’Shea is listening to that He-Man bastard right now.”

“Think about the silver lining,” he said.

“Is there one?”

“We don’t have to get married.”

“I would have done that for you,” I said, wiping my nose with the sleeve of my pajamas.

“I know you would have, and that’s why I love you so much,” he said. “Let’s get the day started with some goodness. Coffee?”

I nodded, really needing to clear my head. “I’ll make it.”

“No, take it easy. You look spent. Hey, I may be the world’s worst cook, but I can handle a cup of joe.”

Robert padded into the living room, his pajamas matching Walter’s. He let out a roar of a yawn. “Oh, thank the lord, coffee! We