The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,19

for my mother, I was even angrier with myself. Perhaps I’d deserved this fate. A good chef always paid attention to every detail. Cooking is a science, and it’s up to the chef to be continuously aware of every ingredient and every dish, tasting often, and I never tasted the velouté after Eric told me to spice it. I trusted his instincts when I never should have trusted him at all.

The facts were the facts. Eric did sabotage me; I’d trusted him, his palate, and the fact that he was chef de cuisine. But I should have trusted my gut and I didn’t. I hadn’t paid attention to anything. It was in this moment I realized that, along with Eric, I, Sophie Valroux, had sabotaged myself.

7

once burned, twice shy

Walter and Robert were right. I couldn’t continue like this. I didn’t want to end up like my mother. I thought of my grandmother. I thought of her strength. I thought of how disappointed she would be if she saw me like this. I’d tried calling or texting Monica; the phone just went to voice mail and she never responded. Go figure—at the CIA she was always in constant competition with me. Now I wasn’t a threat. I got it. She didn’t need to keep tabs on me anymore. My weakness disgusted me to the point of vomiting out the contents of my stomach daily. But then, one day, when I was hunched over the porcelain god, I had an awakening. That aha moment. This wasn’t me. Just because my career was in the crapper didn’t mean I needed to ruin everything else, such as my closest friendships—my only friendships.

It took me a good two hours to clean my room, throwing away the empty bags and containers of rotting Chinese food and sludge-like ice cream. I showered. I put on fresh pajamas. Although I’d cleaned myself up a bit, I was still hesitant to leave the apartment—not with the puffy bags under my eyes, not with the terror of being recognized sparking my mind.

After ordering in supplies for a killer breakfast, I set my alarm for six a.m., my plan to make amends with Walter and Robert. I may not have been the most loquacious or poetic when it came to apologies, but food was my way of communicating, my way of showing my love. On the menu—œufs cocotte with ham and chives, bacon, and roasted rosemary potatoes with truffle oil, my gourmet version of hash browns. By seven, the coffee was percolating and filling the kitchen with its earthy aroma. As I prepared my makeup meal, Walter pulled up a chair at the counter, eyeing me curiously.

“You’re up?” he questioned.

I shot him a closed-mouth, apologetic smile and poured him a cup of joe.

“You showered? And you’re making breakfast? For me?” he asked, and I shrugged. “There is a God. Is that bacon I smell?”

“Yep,” I said. “With œufs cocotte. It’s my apology—”

“Never apologize. Is my Sophie back?” he interrupted. “Because I really want her back.”

“I’m getting there—one step and one shower at a time. But I’m missing my heart—”

“You’re not missing your heart.”

“Without a kitchen I am.”

“Where are you standing right now?”

“In a kitchen,” I said with a huff. “And it’s not the same thing. Look, now that you and Robert are free and clear to live your lives, you have no need of me.”

“Yes, we do,” he said.

“I’m sure everybody wants a walking nightmare in their lives,” I said, my tone a bit snappish. Perhaps I was trying to test Walter’s friendship. If he didn’t love me, he’d send me away. And I wouldn’t blame him.

“You’ve been a bit terrifying lately, but you’re still my best friend.”

A tear slid down my cheek. “Some friend.”

Smoke filled the kitchen and the fire alarm went off. I’d burned the potatoes and my eggs were overdone. I grabbed a kitchen towel and waved it over my head. “For Pete’s sake, I can’t even cook anymore. I’ve lost my cooking mojo.”

Walter grabbed a plate, placing an overdone ramekin of eggs and burned potatoes on it. “I’m sure it’s still edible.” He picked up a forkful of potatoes and chewed, grimacing. “A bit overdone, but delicious.”

Robert stumbled into the kitchen. “What’s that horrible smell?” he asked.

“My life,” I said, throwing up my hands with resignation. “Up in smoke.”

“You still have a lot to be thankful for.”

“Like what?”

“Me and Walter,” said Robert.

If I were them, I would have pushed me out the front door, slammed it shut,