The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,36

Then I dunked him. Those days were long gone.

Clothilde peeked over my shoulder. “Oh, ma petite puce, you’ll want the notebooks with recipes. These notebooks are old.”

A rogue paper slid out of the notebook onto the floor. I scrambled off my stool and picked it up. All somebody had written on it was Sophie1993. My first name. The year I was born. I held out the slip and looked at Clothilde with my eyebrows raised in question.

“Most of the information you were just looking at pertaining to the guests has been entered into the computer. Your grandmother likes to keep track of everything—their likes and dislikes, anniversaries, birthdays—”

“Why?”

“To her, every guest becomes a member of the family when they stay under her roof,” said Clothilde. “Speaking of guests, there’s work to be done. Did you find her recipe for the daube?”

I hadn’t. “Just give me a minute,” I said. A minute to take in all of the childhood memories flashing before my eyes. A minute of happiness. A minute to catch my breath.

12

the pressure cooker

I ’d just found the recipe for the daube when a young, elegant blond woman with steely blue eyes walked into the kitchen carrying a basket filled with fresh herbs—the scents of rosemary, thyme, basil, and tarragon infiltrated my nostrils. I wondered how in the world this woman could garden in kitten heels while keeping her nails manicured and her hair perfectly coiffed in a lacquered French twist. She eyed me up and down, locking on to my ripped jeans. “I see the prodigal granddaughter has returned.”

I was expecting French, not English, to come out of her mouth. I also wasn’t expecting to be insulted. After Rémi, the odd whispers of the waitstaff, and now this woman’s attitude, it seemed nobody aside from Clothilde and my grand-mère was all too thrilled I was back.

“I’m Sophie.” I was about to say, “Nice to meet you,” when she cut me off.

“I know exactly who you are. I’m Jane,” she said, her smile faker than a Louis Vuitton bag purchased on Canal Street. “We can’t wait to hear all about your life in New York. You were a Michelin chef, yes?”

By her smug expression, she knew exactly what had gone down in New York. I shifted on my stool uncomfortably and cleared my throat. “No, I worked at Michelin-starred restaurant,” I said. “A chef de partie.”

“How exciting,” she said.

“She learned everything she knows from her grand-mère,” said Clothilde, nodding her head of curls. “We’re very proud of her.”

A brunette with blue-violet eyes the color of pale hydrangeas trailed in a few minutes after Jane. She carried a large crate filled with mushrooms similar to porcinis. “I went foraging this morning and the cèpes are still in season! There must be hundreds, all of them exquisitely beautiful,” she said with excitement. She placed her bounty of mushrooms on the prep table and looked up, taking notice of me. “Bonjour, Sophie! I’m Phillipa, Jane’s twin.”

My upper lip twitched with disbelief. Granted, I was happy to have a break from speaking French, but I wasn’t expecting two English twins.

Complete polar opposites, Jane and Phillipa didn’t share any similar traits. Whereas Jane was tall and elegant with a swan-like neck and had a figure most women would kill for, Phillipa had cropped, shaggy hair, and was as skinny as a French green bean, un haricot vert, perhaps even skinnier than me if that was possible—and went au naturel with her makeup. By means of explanation, Phillipa said, “We’re fraternal twins.”

“Oh,” I said. “When you hear the word ‘twin,’ you expect—”

“Two of the same kind, cut from the same mold,” said Phillipa, her cockney accent strong. “Nobody ever believes us when we tell them.”

“Well, nice to meet you,” I said with a pause. “If you don’t mind me asking, where are you from?”

“Bibury, England. Ever hear of it?” said Phillipa.

“Sorry,” I said. “I haven’t.”

“No worries. Not many people have. It’s lovely, located on a river and, in a way, it reminds me a lot of here. Except we have much better weather in Champvert.”

“How long have you been working at the château?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

“Our parents retired and bought a small home in the next village over, Sauqueuse, about ten years ago. You get a lot more for your money in France than in England. There are quite a few of us rôti de bœuf in the area. Grand-mère Odette says we’re invading the Tarn-et-Garonne. Anyway, a few years ago, I lost