The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,23
West. My grandmother and my mom didn’t greet each other like normal people. An icy friction volleyed between their cold stares that even I, as a child, could feel. There were no hugs, no kisses. Just tension.
“It’s nice to see you’re well, Céleste,” said my grandmother.
“I wish I could say the same thing to you.” My mother pushed me forward. “This is Sophie.”
My grandmother crouched down to eye level. “What a beautiful child. I hope your mother hasn’t ruined your education—”
“Mother, don’t start up or I’ll take her with me.” My mother’s eyes narrowed into a dagger-shooting glare, the same one she gave me if I didn’t clean up my toys. “Everything is all sorted?” my mother asked.
Grand-mère Odette handed her a file. “Yes. And I’m glad you finally agreed to allow Sophie to visit with me.”
“I wanted to spend some time in Paris anyway. As you know, she’ll fly as an unaccompanied minor on the way home. Which is in New York, not in France. Don’t get any ideas. Make sure she’s on the plane.” Her red lips pursed. “The key to the apartment?”
“It’s in the folder.”
“And the money? I’m twenty-five now. It can no longer be blocked.”
“The notaire has transferred it to your account.”
“Parfait,” said my mother. Before she walked away, she said, “Sophie, I’ll see you in a few months.”
She didn’t bother to kiss me. She just left. Grand-mère Odette took me by the hand and we watched her disappear into the crowded terminal, her heels click-clacking on the floor, men giving her appreciative looks. Grand-mère Odette smiled. “It’s about time you find your roots, ma chérie,” she said.
Together, we hopped on another flight to Toulouse, where I inundated her with questions.
“Is it true we are noble?”
“Yes, but only in name. Your great-great-grand-père was a comte, which is the same rank as an earl in England, and your great-great-grand-mère was considered a comtesse. We are the Valroux de la Tour de Champvert, but titles in this day and age are silly, pretentious, and don’t mean a thing.”
Visions of my favorite Disney characters filled my little head. “Am I a princess?” I asked.
She kissed me on the cheek. “You are ma princesse.”
The summers that followed until I was thirteen were absolute magic. I’d swim in the river or the lake with Rémi, the boy close to my age who lived on the farm down the road. Sometimes we’d chase fat geese and chubbier rabbits on his farm. Sometimes we’d catch and release slimy frogs. But my favorite thing to do was picking plump black cherries in the orchard for grand-mère’s clafoutis and homemade compotes.
Part of me was excited now to get back to Champvert, but not under these conditions. My stomach twisted in knots. There was no way I’d get any sleep until I was in France and until I knew Grand-mère Odette was okay. Plus, how was I going to explain what had gone down in New York? I wasn’t ready for an onslaught of I-told-you-sos. I knew all of the decisions I’d made so far had blown up in my face.
I crammed myself into the tight window seat and took in my surroundings. A few businessmen in suits. A family with two unruly children. Well-heeled women. Perhaps it was my imagination, but the plane appeared to freeze with all movement. It could have been supreme paranoia, but it seemed like everybody around me—even the kids—had stopped what they were doing and were staring at me. A sudden fear gripped my heart. I put my sunglasses on to avoid making eye contact with anybody, hoping I wouldn’t be recognized.
After the flight took off, I stared vacantly at the television monitor, flipping through films with the remote and never settling on one. I couldn’t sleep, my mind racing between my grand-mère’s health and my ruined career.
* * *
Seven hours later, the immigration officer in Paris regarded me with a quizzical expression when I handed over my American passport. “You have a French last name, non? Are you French?” he asked.
“I am,” I said, explaining that I was born in France but lived in New York. He asked to see my French passport, which made me a bit nervous, as it had expired a decade ago. I handed it over. He studied both documents for a minute, a scowl on his face.
“Alors, your name is Sophie Valroux on your American passport and Sophie Valroux de la Tour de Champvert on your French passport?”