The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,58
than Clothilde. She didn’t keep her eyes on the road at all. We almost ran over the rogue sheep. By the time we reached Gaillac, dainty snowflakes floated in the air, swirling around with grace. Phillipa latched her arm onto mine, and we walked to the center of town. We traversed a narrow street, finally arriving at the market, where little log cabins had been set up, selling everything from candles and soaps to spices and sausages. Among the old and the young, we ambled through the market, me enjoying all the sights, smells, and sounds of Christmas.
She giggled. “I feel like we’re on a date.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I said. “I’ve never been on one. Eric and I just jumped right into a relationship.”
Her jaw dropped and she nudged me with her hip. “We are not talking about him. He’s dead to you. Got it?”
“Got it,” I said with a laugh. “What about you, Phillipa?” I asked. “Do you have a love in your life?”
“It’s hard meeting people like me in a small French town,” she said.
“People like you?”
“People that like girls instead of boys,” she said, scrunching her nose. “Don’t worry. You’re not my type. And I hope you’re okay with my confession. Some people aren’t when I tell them.”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
Phillipa’s eyes widened with fear. “What’s so funny?”
“I was a beard for my best friend, Walter. He was terrified to come out to his family. I pretended to be his fiancée for two years to throw off his mother. I lived with him.”
“No,” she said. “You?”
“Yep. Me,” I said. “Don’t look so surprised. He and his partner, Robert, finally came out to his mom. Anyway, a lot of stuff went down in New York. I flew here to—”
“Earn a thousand points of respect from me,” said Phillipa.
“Well, you’ll meet them. Walter and his partner will be here for Christmas Eve.” My grin stretched across my face until I realized I’d told Walter I’d have somebody pick him up. Asking Rémi or Clothilde was out of the question. “I have a favor to ask you.”
“Anything.”
“I don’t know how to drive. Plus, I will probably need to visit with Grand-mère. Would you be willing to get them at the airport?”
“Of course,” she said. “I’d be happy to.”
I blew out a sigh of relief. “Thank you so much.”
“No need to thank me,” she said, her grin wide. “Let’s celebrate our friendship with a vin chaud. My treat. Go peek in on Santa. I’ll be right back.”
I watched her walk away with a smile stretching across my face, realizing I’d actually made my first real friend in France and maybe my first true female friend ever. She didn’t judge me. She bolstered my confidence. She accepted me for who I was. I accepted her. I closed my eyes, listening to the festivities in the market, feeling rather festive myself. My holiday spirits were up. A little girl’s excited screech pierced my ears. “Papa, papa, le Père Noël! Le Père Noël!”
“Oui, oui, ma puce!”
Her father brushed past, bumping into me. “Désolé,” he said. I knew that voice. I turned to face him. An older woman with chocolate brown hair peeking out from her winter bonnet scooped a little girl around two or three years old out of his arms. The mother? But no, this woman was far too old to be of childbearing age.
“Rémi?” I questioned.
Rémi’s face blanched and he whispered, “What you just saw, you didn’t see.” A heavy silence filled the air. I blinked the confusion and snowflakes from my eyes. He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving me stunned and hurt by his attitude.
There was more to Rémi’s story than I’d imagined. I shivered, thinking about the fun we’d had as kids—picking cherries and swimming in the lake. He was so different now, and I wondered what, besides being a father, had happened to him. The only problem was that he was shutting me out in the cold and not letting me in.
A minute later, Phillipa sauntered up and handed me a paper cup of vin chaud, and the scents of orange, nutmeg, and cinnamon permeated my nostrils. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I wanted to confide in Phillipa, but a nagging feeling in my gut kept me from betraying Rémi. The fact that he had a daughter was his business, not mine. “I’m fine. Just a little cold,” I said, shifting uncomfortably. “What did you need to pick up for Clothilde?”