The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,41

me take him back to New York, no matter how much I begged and pleaded. I picked up Bearnard and hugged him to my chest, smelling a very faint hint of lavender, the scent of my childhood.

* * *

I was nine years old when I harvested the lavender with my grandmother. She’d explained that she’d purchased her plants in Provence, on a route where a sea of purple flowers bloom in mid-June. She’d told me of the beauty, how she wanted to bring it back to Champvert so she could add it to her special homemade mix of herbes de Provence, and promised to take me to the Routes de la Lavande so I could see and experience the magic myself. I’d asked if we could go the following day, and she’d smiled and said, “Pourquoi pas.” We packed a picnic lunch of homemade baguettes with ham, butter, and Emmental cheese along with a large container of cherries in the early morning and drove the six hours in her Mercedes, passing fields of happy sunflowers along the way.

“This was the last trip I took with your grand-père before he left us for the angels,” she said. “We’ll stay in the same château.” She patted my hand. “Roll down your window, breathe in the air, ma chérie. We’re almost there.”

The car rounded a corner and the landscape was just as she’d described it, the air strongly perfumed. Fields upon fields of lavender plants, sometimes offset with sunflowers or poppies, burst over the rolling terrain, the colors and scents so vibrant they took my breath away. Grand-mère stopped the car on the side of the road in front of a small shack selling goods like oils, bouquets, and Provençal textiles. I stood in awe, excited like the many bees buzzing through the flowers. It was here Grand-mère had purchased my teddy bear and her poppy apron.

Smiling wistfully at the memory, I inhaled Bearnard, letting the soothing effects of lavender calm my nerves down. With the bear tucked under my arm, regardless of everything, I thought of my grandmother and how I had to pull myself together for her, which Clothilde had reminded me of when she called me petulant.

But Clothilde was right. And I’d promised her I’d snap out of this funk; I was going to keep my word, no matter how uncomfortable I felt.

* * *

As I dressed the following day, I looked out my window, surveying the land, the buildings, and the beautiful gardens, feeling out of place. Perhaps it was time for me to try to fit in. I threw on a navy-blue midi dress with long sleeves that tied at the waist, and never wrinkled—the one I’d worn for Walter’s mother’s lunches—and my one and only pair of black ballerina flats. With no guests wandering around the château, I wanted to explore before Clothilde took me to see my grandmother, and I found myself in the hallway standing in front of an elevator, blinking back my astonishment. I pressed the call button and the doors opened. The interior of the compartment was elegant and sleek and modern, the kind you’d find in an upscale hotel in New York or Paris, with burgundy leather walls adorned with Chesterfield buttons, a modern stainless steel chandelier, and LED lights. Music played. Bach.

I knew my grandmother came from money, but I didn’t know she had this kind of money.

In France, the ground floor is the rez-de-chaussée. Instead of heading to the kitchen, I made my way to the third floor—which was actually the fourth, a fact that still didn’t quite register in my American mind—one floor up from mine, and also where my grandmother’s suite was located. I exited the lift and ambled down the hall. A member of the housekeeping staff—dressed in a pale gray dress with a crisp white shirt and carrying a bucket of cleaning supplies—rushed by and whispered a quick, “Bonjour, madame.” She swung a heavy wooden door open and I couldn’t help but peek into the room.

“Holy merde,” was all I could utter.

There was an Italian-style bathroom, including a shower and large Jacuzzi tub made of beautiful white French marble with thin gray veins. Billowy white curtains surrounded a beautiful, ornate wrought iron bed, and on the mattress made up with white French linens were white flower petals. The floors in this room were inlaid marble, red and black. The windows opened to the Juliet balcony. There was so much open space I could have done a