The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,20

and never opened it again. But they didn’t. They just exchanged kind, loving smiles and then directed them at me. Walter winked at Robert. Something was up.

I placed one hand on my hip and paced, my other hand gripping my hair. “Let me get this straight. You don’t want to kick me out? Even after this breakfast from hell?”

“Not in a million years, Sophie. You’re like the deranged sister I never had,” said Robert. “We’re with you for the long haul.”

I pinched my lips together, not able to meet their expectant eyes, so I turned my back on them and picked up the pan of burned potatoes, throwing them into the trash. I didn’t deserve their support. As the disaster slid into the garbage, I hung my head, ashamed.

“Thanksgiving is in a few days,” said Walter. “We’re going to have a party here. It’ll be a major feast.”

I whipped around to face Walter. “Wait. Hold the phone,” I said. “The two of you barely know how to boil water. I’m assuming you want me to cook?”

This was nuts. I couldn’t even get a simple breakfast right. And Walter and Robert’s friends were super judgmental, especially when it came to food. I couldn’t face another setback. Not now. Not ever again. I clenched my jaw so tightly, my teeth hurt.

“I don’t think our delivery service does Turkey Day, and if they did, I’m thinking it would be abominable,” said Robert, fanning his face dramatically. “We want the real deal—with all the fixings.”

“You’re the chef here, Sophie,” said Walter. He placed a hand on my shoulder. “And you’re the best chef I know.”

My eyes darted to the stove, nasty smoke still filling the air from the pan of burned potatoes—the odor of defeat. Although I didn’t want to let them down, my confidence was shot.

“I don’t know what I am anymore,” I said. “I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to cook again.”

“You’re a chef and you’re also my best friend.” Walter smiled, his eyelashes fluttering. “Plus, you are family.”

Family, I thought. My mother was dead. I didn’t know who my father was. All I really had was Grand-mère Odette and I was terrified to call her. At least Walter and Robert were on Team Sophie.

“So, Thanksgiving?” said Walter, puffing out his bottom lip. “Please?”

Robert followed suit, letting out a whimper like a puppy.

They had me. I groaned. “Fine. But if it’s inedible, don’t blame the chef. She’s kind of a hot mess right now. Plan B: we’ll order in Chinese.”

“Plan A will be fine,” said Walter.

After Robert and Walter left for work, thinking of family, I googled my grandmother’s château. What I found had to be a different home. Even on the small screen, it was so much bigger than I remembered it to be. This château had two restaurants, Les Libellules and Le Papillon Sauvage, and was listed as being a part of La Société des Châteaux et Belles Demeures. I blinked back my confusion. Clearly, I was hallucinating. It had been too long since I’d visited my grandmother. Things couldn’t have changed that much. Still, I needed to hear her voice to ground me for a moment, though I knew it would be tinged with disappointment when I told her what had happened.

It was now two thirty p.m. in France. As I remembered from my childhood years, she would have already finished her morning duties in the garden, had lunch, and was probably having a café crème in the kitchen.

After staring at her name for a few minutes, I finally gathered the courage to call. My fingers shook as I punched in the number, listening to the phone ring and ring, that strange European drone. I was about to hang up when somebody answered.

“Allô?” came the response on the other end of the line. The intonation didn’t carry the throaty huskiness of my grandmother’s voice.

“Oui, bonjour,” I said, my words slurring a bit. I straightened my posture and continued after clearing my throat. “C’est Sophie, la petite-fille d’Odette. Clothilde? C’est vous?”

Clothilde had been by my grand-mère’s side for as long as I could remember. Even though I hadn’t spoken to her in years, I thought I recognized her voice.

“Oui, oui, oui, c’est moi,” she said. “You must be some kind of clairvoyant. I was going to call you in a few hours,” she said, her voice catching in her throat. “It’s your grand-mère.”

Clothilde’s breath came heavy and it took me a few seconds to make sense of her