The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,73

happen, especially when I was getting to know her again.

“You’ve invited Rémi, Lola, Clothilde, Bernard, and Agnès for the New Year’s Eve celebration?” she asked, and I nodded. “Although I’m looking forward to the meal you’ve planned, after reading about it, I’d simply adore a crème brûlée.”

“Yes, Grand-mère,” I said.

“One day, when I’m feeling better, I’m looking forward to joining you in the kitchen. I’m sure you’re a force to be reckoned with.”

“I’d love that, Grand-mère.” I kissed her on the cheek and made my way downstairs, thinking about my mother, my grandmother, and the château.

I rubbed my eyes with my fingertips. At Cendrillon, I’d been stuck adhering to rules and regulations and rigid recipes, and my creativity got lost in the process. I’d been telling somebody else’s story when all I’d ever wanted was to tell my own. But what if I didn’t like my story? Would the rest of Grand-mère’s diary provide me with the answers I needed to make my decision?

In the journal entry we’d read, the one with the dragonfly, my mother had been happy, and my heart had filled with joy. I wanted—no, needed—to wrap myself in her happiness, if only for a few minutes. I crawled into the corners of my memories, trying to remember something sweet she’d said. The past flooded my core, bringing me back to a day when she’d looked at me and said, “I don’t deserve something as wonderful as you.”

“You think I’m wonderful?” I’d said with surprise.

“Of course,” she’d said. “You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Until now, I’d forgotten this conversation. I supposed I’d blocked out any of the good memories, the sweet things my mother had said and done, with bad ones as a self-defense mechanism, trying to protect myself from the pain of when I lost her. But the memories came flooding back. When she wasn’t doped up, life with my mother really wasn’t all bad. I choked back my tears. It was then I realized I really missed her. I never hated her. I may have loved her too much.

* * *

After all the stress and surprises, our New Year’s Eve celebration was a nice way to wind down the year—a simple meal among family and friends. Well, a simple meal—the French way, almost an exact repeat of Christmas Eve, but for seven people, and it included the addition of a clementine-infused crème brûlée. After tucking a very tired and stuffed Lola into one of the window seats, we sat by the fire waiting for the clock to strike midnight, chatting and drinking the château’s ancestral-method sparkling wine. Grand-mère was getting stronger every minute. She even made it out of her wheelchair, walking slowly toward me, each step purposeful.

“Ma chérie,” said my grand-mère. “You are a wonderful chef. When I’m gone, I know the château will be in your capable hands. You’ve made me happier than I’ve been in a long while. Bonne année.”

“I hope you’ll be around for a while,” I said as we swapped kisses. “Look how great you’re doing. That day isn’t coming anytime soon.”

“But one day it will come,” she said. She clasped my hands in between hers before making her way over to Clothilde. A knot formed in my throat—so tight it was difficult to swallow.

Rémi was the last to exchange les bises with me.

“Thank you for being so kind to Lola and for being such a great friend,” he said. Rémi poured some sparkling wine into our glasses. “Here’s to the New Year. À ta santé.”

We toasted, and my heart wobbled a little bit.

22

there’s heat in this kitchen

The next few days were spent fulfilling duties at the château, such as polishing silverware, turning over mattresses, and maintaining the grounds, Rémi doing the latter when he wasn’t running into town picking up diapers for Lola. The weather was cold and dreary but there was some heat sparking my body, namely my growing feelings for Rémi. I liked how he fawned over Grand-mère. I liked his dimpled smile, especially when it was directed at me. I liked how he was a doting father to Lola. What I didn’t like was the fact that we’d barely spoken since New Year’s Eve. He was friendly enough, yes, but reserved and always rushing off to take care of something.

Then something happened between us. The snow fell hard again, covering the grounds of the château in a sugarcoated wonderland. I was coming back from the greenhouse and Rémi was hauling wood in