The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,57
runny nose with the sleeve of my shirt and nodded, putting the toxic emotions invading my system to the side. Phillipa hip-bumped me. “I may have to lean on you, too, one day—especially when it comes to cooking.”
“Lean away,” I said, thinking I’d been self-dependent for so long that I wasn’t wired to depend on anybody, only myself. After my mother snapped when I was thirteen, I kept everybody at arm’s length, cutting off any friendships I’d had. Maybe it was time for me to change, to let my guard down, to let people in. Maybe I could shed my self-defense mechanisms and actually trust somebody. I wanted to. And I really wanted to trust my instincts and myself. But, still feeling like a train wreck, I also didn’t want to make false promises to Phillipa.
“Phillipa?” I asked.
“Yes?”
“If things don’t work out, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
18
friends and foes
Somehow I survived the rest of the weekend, namely by avoiding the guests, steering clear of Jane, and skulking down the stairwell into the kitchen like a rat. Alas, I didn’t see the bride or the groom, any of the floral arrangements, or the reactions when the guests ate my creations. Although I was incognito, I knew I was making my grand-mère proud. And, just for that, my confidence swelled. It wouldn’t be long before the old Sophie was back; I missed her.
A text alert buzzed and I pulled out my phone, looking at the name. Relief flooded my body: Walter.
Walter: It’s almost Christmas! We miss you. When are you coming back?
Me: I’m not sure.
Walter: If the mountain will not come to Muhammad, then Muhammad must go to the mountain.
Me: Huh?
Walter: We’re coming to France. First Paris, then on to you for two days. I hope you have room for visitors.
Me: You’ll have your choice of rooms. There are 26 of them. When r u thinking?
Walter: The 23rd and the 24th, if that’s okay.
Me: It’s more than okay. I’ll have somebody pick you up at the airport. Send me your flight details. Love you.
Right when I set my phone down, Phillipa knocked on my door and entered my room, carrying a tray of croissants, a variety of the château’s confitures, and, to my delight, coffee. She set the tray down on the dressing table. “All the guests are making their way down to Le Papillon Sauvage for breakfast, and I wanted to bring you something before everything’s eaten up.”
“Thank you,” I said, slipping out of bed and throwing on my bathrobe and slippers.
“I overheard one of the guests talking about the daurade,” she said.
My heart plummeted into my stomach. “Oh no—”
“Stop looking like an abused puppy,” she said. “I’m pretty sure ‘heaven on a plate’ is the highest of compliments.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “It is.”
“To celebrate, I’m thinking that after you eat, we should head over to the Christmas market in Gaillac. Get into the Christmas spirit. Ho-ho-ho and all that. Plus, I need to pick up some things for Clothilde.”
“Is Jane coming?”
“No, she’ll need to check the guests out.” Phillipa raised her nose and spoke with a hoity-toity accent. “And she thinks the market is for simpletons. It’s beneath her.”
It seemed my fate had been decided. “It’s not beneath me. I crave simple. I’d love to go.”
“Meet me out front in fifteen minutes,” she said. “Is that enough time for you to get ready?”
I bit into a croissant and nodded.
“Great. See you in a few.”
“Wait! What if one of the guests recognizes me?” I said, but Phillipa was already out the door. My heartbeat accelerated. I’d already agreed to accompany her to the market, but guests were still lingering around on the property. How would I make an escape without notice? I really needed to get away from the château, though, even if it was just for an hour or two. I couldn’t stay holed up in my room. Like Clothilde had said, I needed to join the world again. It was then I decided to wear a disguise—big black sunglasses, a hat, and a scarf wrapped over my head. Once again, I skulked down the servant’s stairwell and then I made a dash for it, right out the front door.
Phillipa burst into laughter when I breathlessly approached her car—a rusty burgundy Citroën with precarious-looking wheels. “Here comes secret chef.”
“Shhhh,” I said. “I’m not here.”
“Oh, but you are, and you look ridiculous,” she said, opening the door. “Jump in. Your chariot awaits. On y va.”