The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,71

granddaughter,” she said, and Agnès stiffened.

“I’ll be right outside the door,” said Agnès. “If she needs me—”

“I’ll be fine,” said Grand-mère. “I’m not dead yet. Sophie, be a dear and get the fire going. I’m quite cold.”

Agnès left the room and I stepped over to the fireplace, my hands trembling from nerves as I lit match after match. I could feel her watching me. Finally, the fire sparked and the flames lit up my grand-mère’s eyes.

“Sophie, I spoke with Rémi. He told me that you know of Lola, his darling little girl. And what I have to say is this: A child should never have to lose her mother. And a mother should never have to lose her daughter,” she said. “I know I haven’t wanted to talk about Céleste when you’ve asked—it hurt me to think about her. But I realize I’ve been hurting you, too. I’ve given this great thought, and it’s time for you to learn the truth.”

I sank down into the window seat. Although I was the one who’d pushed the subject, I felt as if I’d climbed up a jagged, rocky cliff and the only way to get down was to jump into the roiling sea below, not knowing the outcome. I shuddered. I’d wanted to have this conversation for so long, but wasn’t sure if I was ready for the answers. But I knew I needed them. I pulled my knees to my chest, preparing to dive in. “We’re finally going to talk about her?” I asked.

“Non, ma chérie,” said Grand-mère. She gripped her rosary beads. “Not exactly.”

I snapped to attention, my spine rigid. “I don’t understand.”

“Under a plank in the closet, hidden in the floor, is my journal,” she said, pointing to the door with a shaky hand. “I don’t know how to speak of the shameful secrets of my past. The journal will be our starting point. Go get it.”

With questions pulling and tugging at my brain, I headed into the closet. My heart raced as I stooped down onto my knees and ran my fingers over the wood, trying to find a knotty board in the floor that would be easy to lift like the one in the kitchen. Bingo. I found it and lifted the board, setting it to the side.

Just like the kitchen notebooks, the cover of the journal was made of rustic leather. Unlike the others, this one was marked Céleste. I stroked the cover, rubbing my fingertips over the grain of the leather, wondering what I’d find inside the journal’s pages.

“Did you find it, ma chérie?” Grand-mère called out.

“Yes, Grand-mère,” I said, returning to her side, my hands trembling.

“Sit down next to me. We’re going to read it together, but only one or two pages a day. I’m afraid that’s all I can handle,” she said, pausing. “Sophie, I love you with all of my heart. I may not have made the best decisions in the past, but I did whatever I could to protect our family—some of my actions were unspeakable, but I think, once you have the full story, forgivable.”

My palms went damp as I traced the letters of my mother’s name with my fingers, and, after a deep inhale and exhale, I opened the book. On the left side of the page there were two grainy black-and-white childhood pictures of my mother mounted into the book with triangular photo edges. She wore white underwear and danced in the garden. On the right-hand pages were journal entries. My voice shook as I read the first one.

18 April, 1980

My sweet Céleste—

Strawberries are in season! It’s a warm, beautiful day—around 25 degrees in the sun—and the Gariguettes are ripe and ready for picking, but you’ve already discovered that, ma puce, haven’t you? Soon the Charlottes, my sweet favorites, will follow. When they are ripe, we’ll pick and eat them together. For now, I’m just enjoying watching you from the kitchen window.

You have just ripped off your flowered sundress, the one with the poppies that matches my apron, and you are running around the garden in your white underwear, the ones with the lace trim on the bottom. Bright red juice drips off your face and chest from the Gariguettes you’ve been stuffing into your mouth. You are spinning and turning, whirling with your arms outstretched to the sun.

A dragonfly just zipped over your head. He’s the size of my hand and, from what I can tell, sapphire blue. His wings sparkle and flutter. You stop twirling