The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,24

US,” I said. “For her career. Uh, she thought our last name was too long—”

“But she didn’t change your name in France?”

“No, not in France,” I said, worried I’d have a problem with this one. “She hasn’t been back here in nineteen years.”

“Ah bon?” he said, his eyebrows lifting as if saying he found it extremely bizarre a Frenchwoman would eschew her roots, especially noble ones. “Welcome home,” he said with a sympathetic smile and handed the documents back to me. “While you are here it might be a good idea to renew your French passport.”

“I will,” I said. “Merci.”

One two-hour layover later, I finally stepped off the plane in Toulouse.

* * *

Unbelievably, my two suitcases were the first ones out at baggage claim. I grabbed a token from a machine and commandeered a cart, wondering how on earth was I going to recognize Rémi. Rémi—the clean-cut farm boy with thick black eyelashes most women would be envious of. Rémi Dupont. A spark of remembrance lit my chest as I thought about my first kiss. I was thirteen. Rémi was fifteen. We’d just gone swimming in the lake and he’d pinned me down on the bank behind the willows. I remembered the look in his caramel eyes—dreamy and mischievous. I’d liked the kiss, but it had shocked me. I scrambled off the ground and ran into the vineyard, Rémi chasing after me. He caught up to me and we laughed. “Was my kiss that bad?” he’d asked and I’d blushed twenty shades of crimson.

“No, I’ve never done that before,” I’d said, meaning with a boy. My stuffed animals, on the other hand, had received their share of passionate smooches.

“I’m going to miss you, Sophie,” he’d said with a bashful grin. “I can’t wait until next summer.”

Unfortunately, I’d left Champvert the following day and never went back. I was looking forward to catching up with Rémi, to see how my first crush had changed. I snorted at the thought. We had a lot to share, I was sure of that. Would he laugh at how young we’d been? And how awkward our first kiss was? As I recalled, he wore braces and they’d cut my lips.

I pushed the cart through the automatic doors and glanced around hoping to see a familiar face. A few old men and women chatted at the exit. A couple of families waved their relations over. No Rémi. There was nobody there to greet me. Not a soul. Clothilde and I hadn’t exactly planned out my arrival well. I stood in the hallway for a good hour, searching for him, when a heavily bearded man wearing army fatigues walked directly toward me with purpose. Blood stained his clothes. Underneath the scruff, I noted he was good-looking, maybe even exceptionally so. But so was Ted Bundy. The man stopped directly in front of me and went in for les bises, where he air-kissed each of my cheeks.

“I’m late,” he said in French.

“Rémi?” I asked. He was taller and more built than I remembered. And hairier.

His brows furrowed. “What? Did you not recognize me?”

“Um, désolée, but no I didn’t.” I stared openmouthed at his clothes.

“I went hunting early this morning. The sangliers”—(wild boars)—“are destroying the fields in the region and the deer are running rampant,” he said, his French quick. “You’re not afraid of dogs, are you? They’re in the car. I’ve come directly from the chase.”

His words swam around in my brain, one expression and conjugation at a time. To my knowledge, Rémi didn’t speak one word of English and, even if he did, his scowl made it clear he wasn’t going to make an effort for me.

“Only hunting wild animals, I hope,” I said with an awkward donkey-like laugh, trying to muster up my best French.

“Alors, I haven’t shot a person yet,” said Rémi, looking like he wanted to kill me. He scorned my cart, pushed it out of the way, and grabbed my luggage. Unnerved, I followed him through the terminal and out into the parking lot, his pace brisk. We made our way to a white Ford Ranger, where two black Labrador retrievers with sloppy drool trickling down their mouths bounced in the back seat. On the sides of the truck, the emblem of my grandmother’s château caught my eye.

“You have an American car?” I asked.

“The motor is French,” he replied. He threw my bags into the back and then jumped into the driver’s seat. He rolled the passenger window down further. “What are you