The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,45
now. “You have his eyes, a strength.”
“What was he like?” I asked.
“Strict and very serious, but passionate with a zest for life. He was a very giving man. A lot of people were struggling financially in Champvert, and he helped all of us, especially Clothilde and me. He paid for our son, Victor, to move to Paris for university and mentored him through business school. He bought our farm and invited us to live in the guesthouse. He gave us back our lives. In fact, he bought most of the properties in Champvert.” Bernard paused. “I miss Pierre every day, especially during the harvest, which you unfortunately missed. I hope you’ll be able to experience the magic someday.”
“I hope so, too,” I said, only now realizing how indebted the villagers of Champvert were to my family. The feelings that came with knowing my grandparents controlled everything like land overlords unsettled me. Granted, they were noble; I knew this. But it was like the entire community was enslaved to them. I wondered about my mother. She did everything she could to get out of Champvert. Was it their control she was trying to escape from? I wanted answers and only my grand-mère could give them to me.
“We’ll have to give you a proper wine tasting one of these days,” said Bernard. “Unfortunately, it’s only nine in the morning.”
“I could use some liquid courage now,” I mumbled, which Bernard clearly didn’t hear.
“It’s time to fatten you up,” said Bernard, pointing to the tray. “Mange-le.”
“Aren’t Frenchwomen supposed to be skinny?” I asked.
“Bah, not in the southwest of France. The food is too good here. And women with a little meat on their bones, like ma poule, are full of life.”
The way Clothilde smiled at Bernard lifted my spirits for a moment. It was inspiring. I’d never experienced love, not this way. Eric had shown me his “love” in bed in an animalistic way, never through kind actions or words. It wasn’t love; it was just sex. Pushing the thoughts of him out of my mind, I grabbed a chocolatine and inhaled its fragrance, the buttery flakes crumbling in my fingers. Food had always been my way of showing love, but I’d lost the desire to cook. I wondered if I could get it back again.
Right when I was chewing, Rémi appeared in the doorway of the restaurant, arms crossed over his chest. He’d shaved off his beard and wore black slacks, a crisp white shirt, and, from what I could tell, a black leather belt with a silver Prada buckle. The boy could clean up. His eyes bore into mine. “I’m supposed to take you to visit with Grand-mère. Clothilde asked because she’s uncomfortable driving in the snow.”
Buttery crumbs fell from my mouth, chocolate sticking to my tongue. My gaze shot to Clothilde’s. “I don’t want to go anywhere with him.”
“Fine by me,” said Rémi. “I have many things to do.”
Clothilde slammed her hand on the table. “The two of you are going to the hospital together. No arguments.”
Bernard raised his hands in resignation. “Never argue with my wife.”
Rémi turned to leave, but didn’t. He stood in the doorway, his back to me, his breathing labored. “On y va, Sophie” (Let’s go, Sophie), he said. “Now. I haven’t got all day.”
After scarfing down my chocolatine, I scrambled out of my chair and grabbed my coat. “So sorry to take up your precious time, Rémi,” I said.
Rémi pushed open the door. “You shouldn’t talk with your mouth full,” he said. “And, believe me, I have better things to do than chauffeur you around. Not everything is about you, princesse,” he said, and stormed down the driveway.
Just like at the airport, Rémi’s pace was brisk and I had to scramble to keep up with him, nearly falling in the snow a dozen times. He didn’t look back once. He bolted right to the truck and jumped in. From the inside, he opened the passenger door. As I crawled into my seat, his upper lip curved into a snarl.
“Look, I’m not happy about this either,” I said, meeting his glare. “But I need to see Grand-mère and I can’t drive with my ankle. Well, there’s that and the fact that I don’t have a driver’s license.”
“Quoi?” he asked, mouth agape. “How could you not know how to drive? You are twenty-six years old.”
I let out a huff. “Well, I lived in the city—no need for a car. I took taxis or the subway and never learned.”