The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,82

watch. He wore a gold Rolex with a black dial.

“Circa 1980s. It was your grandfather’s. Grand-mère Odette gave it to me for my twentieth birthday,” he said. “Does it bother you that she gave it me?”

“No,” I said. He’d been here for Grand-mère. I hadn’t. “You deserve it. And more.”

“Go, relax. Sit on the couch,” he said. “I’m going to get started on dinner.”

As I watched Rémi cook, peeling potatoes and chopping, I thought that while I may be flipped-out with the magnitude of the château, I could grow to like it here. I could get used to this. To a life with him. But his situation was far from simple. A smiling photo of a woman on the mantel stared down at me, and I could only assume this was the famous Anaïs. While she wasn’t my spitting image, in a way, she did resemble me. She was thin. She had black hair. She had a hard look about her. I tucked my knees into my chest, thinking about how I was in way over my head.

Just then, the door opened. The dogs barked, and when Lola saw me, she squealed with joy. She toddled over to me and jumped into my lap. She latched her arms around my neck, nearly pulling me over. “Tatie Sophie!”

“My little Lola,” I said, breathing in her strawberry and sunshine scents.

Laetitia followed her in. “She did wonderful today! I think our little girl is a budding violinist.”

Her gaze met my curious one. This woman seemed so familiar to me, and I couldn’t place her until I recalled seeing her at the Christmas market. I knew she was older, midfifties, by my guess, I just didn’t remember her being so pretty—the kind of Frenchwoman carrying a certain je ne sais quoi. She took off her coat, hung it on a hook, and fluffed up her chestnut-colored hair. Her warm, chocolate-colored eyes locked onto mine. “Sophie, I assume?”

“C’est moi,” I said. “Nice to meet you. It’s Laetitia, right?”

After swapping the required air-kisses, she grabbed the bottle of wine and sat down next to me, pouring herself a glass. “I’ve been dying to meet you.” She tilted her head toward Rémi. “He always smiles at Lola, but not much else. I’m thrilled he’s no longer keeping us a secret. It’s not good for a child.”

“No,” I said. Did she say “us”? “It isn’t.”

“Of course, we often visit with your grand-mère, or she comes here, but it’s been difficult with her health. Is she doing better?”

“She has some good days, some bad,” I said. “I’m hoping she pulls through.”

“It must have been hard for you, coming back to all this after being gone for so long.”

“It’s been a challenge,” I said. How much did this woman, this stranger, know about my life? It was disconcerting.

“À table,” exclaimed Rémi.

It was time for dinner.

“Let’s eat,” said Laetitia. She commandeered Lola from my arms. “This one is a gourmand, and her papa cooks wonderful meals, doesn’t he?” She tickled Lola’s tummy.

“Oui,” said Lola as she squealed.

“You’ll sit there, Sophie,” said Laetitia, pointing.

The table, like the house, was rustic—a long slab of mahogany wood. Simple. Charming. I took my seat as Rémi brought the dishes over: potatoes cooked in duck fat, the roast beef, and a salad with pan-seared foie gras. He winked at me as he carved the roast. “We’re doing it American style for our American guest. How do you like the temperature of your meat?”

“Saignant” (Rare), I said. I liked mine bloody.

“Phew. If you said otherwise, I’d wonder if you were really born French.” His dimples puckered his cheeks.

“See?” said Laetitia. “He’s smiling. I’m so happy to see him like this.”

I wondered why a nanny would care so much for an employer’s happiness. I supposed they’d just become close, him being a single father needing somebody to take care of his child. I stared at Laetitia, my mother coming to mind. If she were alive, my mother would have been about the same age, maybe a little younger. Her eyes were a liquid brown, the color like maple syrup, and filled with kindness, not darkness. If my mother hadn’t been so sick, would she have been filled with warmth and light like Laetitia?

“I hope you like garlic,” said Rémi as he carved the meat. “I stuffed the roast with quite a few cloves.”

Over a conversation about what we’d done that day and Lola’s music lesson, we finished a delicious dinner, and I was impressed with Rémi’s cooking skills.