The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,22

My words came out in a garbled, nonsensical mess. Even I didn’t understand what I was saying as I tried to explain my grandmother’s serious situation.

Walter sucked in his breath. “Oh dear.” He pulled me in for a hug. Instead of talking, he just held me close and caressed my head. When Walter finally released me from his embrace, he had tears in his eyes, too. He wiped them away with the back of his hand.

We flopped down on my bed, lying side by side. I wondered if I’d ever see this beautiful room again. The wrought iron four-poster bed with billowy white curtains. The whitewashed wooden blinds. The antique dresser with the white marble top and the bronze Degas ballerina, a replica of La petite danseuse de quatorze ans, resting on it. A lithograph print of Josephine Baker in her famed banana skirt. Knowing of the passion I had for my French roots, Walter had designed this room wanting me to feel comfortable before I’d moved in for the big charade.

Walter finally broke the silence. “When does your flight take off?”

“Eleven o’ clock,” I said with a sniffle. “It’s the red-eye.”

“When are you coming back?”

“I don’t know. I booked a one-way ticket.”

Walter gulped. “You know this is your home. When you come back, we’ll welcome you with open arms.”

“I know. Thanks, Walter. For everything.”

“Can I at least reimburse you for your flight? It’s the least I can do. And I want to do so much more.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “Your friendship has meant the world to me. Without you, I wouldn’t have anybody.”

The truth of this statement hit me in the gut.

“I don’t know how long you’re going to be gone, but I’m going to miss you, even if it’s just for a day. I’m pretty used to having you around—even when you’re a pain in the ass.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Robert has to work late. He’s going to be so upset he wasn’t able to see you off.”

“Give him a big smooch from me.”

“I will,” said Walter, wiggling his brows. “Maybe even in public.”

Despite my own troubles, I managed to grin, happy he’d finally found his courage to live his life the way he wanted to—out in the open. “I forgot to tell you that I’m proud of you.”

“I know you are,” he said. “If you need anything, anything at all, call me, text me, or send a carrier pigeon. I’m here for you.”

“I will,” I said. “And I’m sorry I won’t be here for Thanksgiving. I probably would have made a disaster of the meal anyway.”

“No, you wouldn’t have.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to keep my tears from falling. “I’ve ordered everything you’ll need from Zabar’s for twelve people—a pre-roasted turkey and all the fixings, a couple of desserts, plus a few nibbles for an apéro like smoked salmon, foie gras, and grilled shrimp. They’ll deliver everything on Thanksgiving morning.”

“What am I going to do without you, Sophie?”

“Between you and Robert, you’ve got this. All you need to do is heat what needs to be heated up.”

“I meant I’ll miss you.” Walter’s eyes went all watery and he swallowed hard. “And, Sophie, you’ve got this. You’re an amazing chef. Sure, you’ve been thrown off your game, but with everything that happened, it’s no wonder. You’ll start over and become a bigger, more badass chef than ever before. You’ll rise from the ashes like a culinary phoenix!”

My lips quivered when I forced a smile. Although Walter’s statement was one of support, it reminded me, yet again, that I’d suffered a career destruction of mythical proportions.

8

au revoir, new york

I FLEW ON my first international flight when I was seven, my mother by my side. She didn’t pay attention to me, just read fashion magazines and didn’t take her sunglasses off. I wiggled in my seat with my coloring books, a stuffed rabbit, and my favorite blanket. Although I didn’t have any memories of her, I was excited to spend time with my grandmother, a phantom I’d been aware of but had only met when I was an infant. I didn’t sleep, just sat in my seat wide-eyed, giddy with excitement.

My mother walked me off the plane and into the terminal, where Grand-mère Odette waited. She was easy to spot—an older, plumper version of my mother, her gray hair pulled back into a tight chignon. Relief washed over me. Definitely not the Wicked Witch of the