The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,7
sound of laughter came from inside the apartment. Walter was home and I really needed to talk to him. Unfortunately, he was probably entertaining one of his highbrow clients, preferring home meetings or restaurants where he could get them liquored up outside the confines of his stuffy office. Thankfully, there was only one apartment on each floor, the elevator opening up with a key into a private foyer, so I wasn’t risking exposing myself to anybody unless Walter or his client opened the front door. The laughter inside got louder. I figured I was safe.
Shivering with cold, I kicked off my clogs, tore off my drenched socks, and changed into my street clothes—jeans, sneakers, and a pale blue cashmere sweater. Then, I pulled out a brush and rebraided my hair so tight my temples throbbed. It wasn’t my best attempt at cleaning up, but I no longer looked like I’d gotten into a knife fight in the back of a dark alley. I balled up my wet and bloody clothes, stuffed them into my bag, and unlocked the door. Two glasses of champagne stood on the coffee table. There was no sign of Walter or his guest.
“Walter?”
He popped up from the couch like a surprised prairie dog, his head darting around in every direction. He wore a pair of silk boxer shorts with whales on them, nothing more. “Sophie? What are you doing here?”
“I live here, remember?” I said, dropping my bag to the marble floor in the entry.
“Yes, but you’re never home this early,” he said.
“And you’re never this naked at seven p.m.,” I said, eyeing the clock in the kitchen, realizing I’d just walked more than an hour and forty-five minutes in pouring rain.
A man with nutmeg-colored freckles peered over the couch and waved. “My fault,” he said, his nose scrunching.
It was Robert, Walter’s longtime friend from Stanford Law. He was also Walter’s boyfriend. And he was also half-naked in his Calvin Kleins. After a long hiatus, they’d gotten back together a few months ago. They scrambled around the living room, throwing on their pants and buttoning the buttons on their matching—yes, matching—Façonnable blue-and-white-checked dress shirts with stiff white collars.
As they dressed, I walked over to the kitchen and ran the water to clean the cut with soap. Thankfully, the knick wasn’t too deep. I wrapped a piece of gauze—a staple in our cabinets—around my hand.
“Did you hurt yourself?” asked Walter.
“Just another one of my klutzy moments.”
“With a knife?” he asked, and I shrugged. “Let me have a look.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “You’re not a doctor, you’re a lawyer.”
“You’re going to be more than fine in a minute,” said Walter, grinning like a fool. “Robert and I have some exciting news to share.”
“Oh, I think it might take more than a minute for me to be fine.”
Robert clapped his hands together and grinned with childish glee. “The charade is up! You don’t have to be Walter’s beard anymore. He finally came out to Nicole tonight!”
“Your mother? Wow. How did she take it?” I asked, gobsmacked.
“As well as can be expected,” said Walter. “She’s pretty disappointed I’m not marrying a beautiful French-born chef, and won’t be able to entertain her ladies who lunch. You know how Nicole is, she’s all about appearances.” He threw up his hands. “Let’s face it. Deep down, she always knew I was queer, but she didn’t want to come to terms with it. Thankfully, having a gay son is de rigueur now. She’ll snap back. I’m pretty sure she’s already planning our wedding. It’ll be a huge event.”
“That’s great,” I said, my throat constricting. His beautiful French-born chef was in total ruin. Walter didn’t need me anymore. My culinary career was in the crapper. I didn’t have a job. I didn’t have a fake fiancé. I really had nothing. They were probably buttering me up before they kicked me out. “Just swell.”
Walter smiled, which drew attention to the adorable dimples in his cheeks. His thick black hair brought out the brightness in his clear blue eyes.
“Here’s to my Sunday gal,” said Walter.
He and Robert raised their champagne glasses and clinked the bottle that I had picked up. Suddenly, the cut throbbed with a shooting pain. Instead of reaching for a glass, I chugged the Dom Pérignon straight from the bottle. Robert eyed me with a bit of disgust, but didn’t say anything.
“Here’s to Sunday,” I said.
“Do you remember the first day we met? Robert and I were talking about it earlier.”