The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,21
words. Aside from food terminology and the rare occasions when I talked with my grand-mère, I hadn’t spoken or heard real French in over thirteen years. One by one, I translated her words in my head. Panic rose in my chest. I sank off the couch onto my knees. “What? Is everything okay? Is she okay?”
“No, I’m afraid everything is far from okay,” she said, her voice shaky. “Your grand-mère had a stroke a few days ago.” Clothilde sniffled. “This morning, they moved her to a larger hospital in Toulouse from Gaillac so she can get the care she needs.”
Was it possible for your heart to be sucked out of your chest? I couldn’t feel mine anymore. I was certain my grand-mère had heard I was a sabotaging chef and this distressing information had caused her stroke.
“No, no, no,” I said. “This can’t be happening. Not now.”
“I’m afraid so, dear,” she said. Clothilde inhaled deeply, clearly trying to find her breath. In between gasps and sobs, she said, “Dr. Simone is doing everything she can. Thankfully, due to the aneurysm’s small size and location, she is going to treat it within the blood vessels using a mildly invasive procedure. And she’s hoping to stop the bleeding.”
“Why didn’t anybody call me?” I spluttered.
“Ma puce, we didn’t want to worry you until we had all the facts.”
“I’ll book a ticket the instant we hang up.”
“No, don’t worry. Your grand-mère wouldn’t want you to feel like it’s an obligation.”
“Obligation” was an easy word to translate, the same word in English just with a different pronunciation. The phone was about to slip from my hand and I almost dropped it. “She doesn’t want to see me?”
“You have your own life to lead. I’m sure she’ll be fine. I’m praying she’ll be fine.”
“Clothilde, don’t be ridiculous. I’m booking a ticket.”
“If you insist,” she said with a sigh. “Call me once you have your flight information and I’ll send Rémi to pick you up.”
“Rémi? Rémi Dupont?” I asked. I hadn’t thought about him in years.
Clothilde’s voice caught for a moment. “The very one. I’d come and get you myself, but I need to be at the hospital—”
“I understand, Clothilde,” I said, choking on my words. “I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
Numb, I hung up the phone and called Air France. If something happened to Grand-mère Odette, if she didn’t make it, I’d never forgive myself. I booked the ticket, worried and skittish as if I’d had too much coffee.
* * *
In terms of my wardrobe, I really didn’t have much of anything notable—just a few dresses to throw off Nicole, and her ladies who lunched; three pairs of jeans; and sweaters. As for shoes, I had a pair of ballerina flats, two sets of heels—one kitten, one high—my woolly winter boots, and Keds—all of them black and dark like my mood. I shoved everything into a bag, not quite sure what my plan was. I didn’t know how long I’d be staying in France. A week? A month? Longer? Whatever. Did it matter? Save for Walter and Robert, there was nothing left for me in New York anymore.
I thrust my knives into their roll bag carrying case. Once treasured tools of the trade I took everywhere, the knives now carried bad karma. I could barely look at them. But a chef never goes anywhere without her knives. I wondered: Was I still a chef? Would I be one again? I didn’t know. Regardless, Grand-mère Odette had given me these knives after I’d graduated from the CIA, and even if I never cooked in a restaurant kitchen again, if I never julienned one more vegetable, they meant something to me.
My mother’s affairs, at least the things I’d kept of hers, were stuffed in the back of my closet in a big blue suitcase. I decided to bring it with me, thinking maybe my grandmother and I could go through her things together. Going back to Champvert conjured up memories of her and so many questions. I knew why I had problems with my mother. I’d lived with her, taken care of her. But I’d never understood why she and Grand-mère Odette were estranged.
As I zipped up my bag, a soft knock came and Walter opened my door hesitantly. “Oh, good, Sophie, you’re here. I was worried about you.” He eyed my suitcases curiously. “Going somewhere?”
Waves of sadness and guilt washed over me. I let out a few ragged sobs and fell to my knees.