The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,72

and try to catch him. He flies by your astonished face. And, as you laugh, you start dancing again. Call me crazy, but I think the dragonfly is joining in with your whirly-twirly ways.

I want to capture this moment forever. Such freedom is a feeling I’ve never experienced, the way you’re blowing with the wind, your arms swaying in the breeze. Sometimes I feel enchained. But this is the life I chose. Or perhaps this life chose me. Or maybe I wasn’t given a choice? But on days like today, just watching you, I realize what a wonderful life I have. And, Céleste, I want you to have choices—the choices I’ve never had.

Tonight, for your dessert, I’ll make a crème brûlée with the Gariguette strawberries from the garden. It’s one of your favorites—at least this week.

Many bisous,

Ta mère

A deep sadness crept into my heart as I stared at the photos. There was a time when my mother was truly happy, when her eyes sparkled. There was a time when she giggled and laughed. I never knew that person; I only knew a shell of the person she once was. Although I wanted to read more, I closed the journal as my grandmother instructed. She squeezed my hand.

“She was beautiful, wasn’t she?” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “Such a happy and joyful little girl.”

Visions of my depressed mother floated in my mind. Cleaning up her vomit. Longing for a hug or a motherly touch. Taking care of her. For most of my life, my escape was the kitchen, trying to do something—anything—to make her smile. When I was fifteen, I turned to making French recipes—all of her favorites, like crêpes, bœuf bourguignon, coq au vin, hoping my mother would come back down to earth, that she’d love me; she never did.

“She was never happy,” I said, thinking, at least not with me.

“Non, perhaps not always, but I so love remembering her when she was like this.”

“Those days for me are really hard to come by,” I said, squeezing my eyes shut.

“They are hard for me, too. Which is why it’s so hard for me to talk about her.”

I snapped to attention. Would she talk about herself then? “Grand-mère, you wrote you felt enchained to the château. Was it because of my mother? Grand-père?”

“Ma chérie, things were simply different back then. Women were expected to trail after their husbands—bear children and not follow their dreams of having a career. Plus, being married to a noble came with a different set of challenges and rules.”

“You didn’t follow your dreams?”

Her eyes brightened. “Why, yes. After your grand-père died, I bought the pied-à-terre in Paris and I attended Le Cordon Bleu. Like you, I found my heart in the kitchen. But it’s my desire for you to know much more than that.”

Of course, I’d found her diploma when I was snooping in her office, but we’d never talked about it. Apparently, we were going to talk about everything now. This was what I’d wanted. Wasn’t it?

“You said you did everything at the château for me. Is that true?”

Her gaze flicked to the side. “I’d be lying if I didn’t say I did a lot of it for me, too. But you are my granddaughter, and I have a feeling we share more than a few dreams. I just didn’t get to follow my heart until much later in life.”

“I don’t even know what my dreams are anymore,” I said. “All I ever wanted to be was a Michelin-starred chef, but that dream was taken from me.”

“If you want that dream, you’ll have to fight for it. Les Libellules, our flagship resturant, is worthy of stars, and perhaps your stars will come to you,” she said. “Tell me, ma chérie, are you not happy here?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know,” I said, thinking all my dreams could fall right into my lap—dreams I hadn’t worked for. “It’s so easy and simple here but complicated at the same time. What do I know about running a château?”

“You’ll learn,” she said. “If anybody can do it, it’s you. Just get to know it better, at least while you’re here.” She yawned, her head lolling to the side. “I believe we’ve covered enough for one day, yes?”

There were so many questions, so many doubts, so much sadness swimming in my mind. The truth of the matter was that if I was truly running the château, it would mean my grand-mère had died. And I didn’t want that to