Sophie Valroux's Paris Stars Read online

“Her name is Marie? Why am I just hearing about her now?”

  Phillipa shrugged. “You’ve been a bit preoccupied.”

  “I know,” I said, and a pinch of guilt tweaked at my heart.

  Phillipa stood silently for a moment, blushing. “Anyway, we were talking about the review.” She thrust a paper in front of my face. “Do you want to read it?”

  “No, you do the honors,” I said, slumping my shoulders. “Just do me a favor and spare me the sordid details.”

  Her English accent rose and fell with excitement. “ ‘Once-maligned chef Sophie Valroux is making her mark in the culinary world, rising up like a perfect soufflé—’ ”

  “Putain,” I said, interrupting her and driving my fingernails into my palms. “Can I ever escape my past?”

  “Oh, you have. And please don’t say ‘putain.’ It’s absolutely vulgar. Unless you’re a simpleton,” she said.

  I grabbed a croissant from the tray, pulled a piece off, and stuffed it in my mouth. Crumbs flaked onto my T-shirt as I chewed. One thing I loved about France was the way the breads and viennoiseries melted on my tongue in buttery goodness. Add the cheese, and I was in heaven.

  “It’s the New Yorker in me. And you sound like Jane,” I said, mouth full, referring to her polar-opposite twin sister. Sometimes I wondered if they were even related.

  “Well, I’d suggest you leave the New Yorker in you behind, because you’re here now. And here’s the proof,” said Phillipa, and she continued to read. “ ‘The flavors of southwestern France have never come so alive, with flair, a nod to classic recipes, and innovation. This Grand Chef deserves her title. The groans of delight emanating from the patrons of this wonderful restaurant every time they take a bite of one of her marvelous creations proves this. Never have I tasted the complex yet simple layers of flavors that Grand Chef Sophie Valroux provides, each dish complementary and more succulent than the last.’ ”

  “Well, that wasn’t bad,” I said, straightening my posture. My eyes widened, and I smiled. “In fact, it was really nice. And, you know, I couldn’t have done this without you.”

  “Thanks,” said Phillipa, nodding her head enthusiastically. “I’ve heard this critic is the toughest of them all.” She tilted her head to the tray. “Up and at ’em, sunshine. Live in the glorious moment. It’s the start of a beautiful season.”

  “You’re not having a coffee with me?”

  “Nah, I’ve got some things to do before the meeting,” she said. “Breakfast was my excuse to share the review with you.” She pivoted for the door and, before closing it, said, “See you in a few.”

  Coffee in hand, I sat in the window seat, fascinated by the puffy white clouds rolling in the sky, a melancholy sensation washing over me. I wished it were Grand-mère who’d knocked on the door to share the review and offer some kind of advice or guidance for my first season running the château as Grand Chef. I thought of the effortless way she’d danced around the kitchen, the way the names of foreign ingredients had rolled off her tongue as if she was fluent in another language. When I was a child, I’d sit on a wicker stool, the seat making indentations in my eight-year-old thighs, and sometimes she’d blindfold me and hold up spices to my nose.

  “Sophie, ma chérie, smell this,” she’d say. “What do you smell?”

  “Nutmeg,” I’d answer.

  “And this?”

  “Saffron.”

  After going through quite a few spices, my answers usually right, she’d whip off the blindfold and pinch my cheeks. “One day, you’re going to be a great chef,” she’d say, and I’d grin.

  “Merci, Grand-mère,” I’d respond. “One day I want to be just like you.”

  And perhaps I was. I’d taken over her life.

  A few weeks ago, after La Société des Châteaux et Belles Demeures decorated me with the honor of Grand Chef, I’d raced up to Grand-mère’s room, opened the door, and held out the plaque. Her eyes glistened with proud tears. “Ma chérie, I knew you could do it. You must have Rémi take my plaque down and put yours up at the front gate.”

  She was so proud of me, so supportive. But now she was gone, and nothing I could say or do would bring her back.

  * * *

  BEFORE I HEADED down the stairs to the staff meeting in Grand-mère’s office, now painfully mine, I slinked up one floor to her suite and stood in front of the large wooden door carved with the fleur-de-lis, breathing heavily. Finally, I found the courage to open it, and it creaked eerily when I did. Like my room, her living quarters weren’t renovated, and the decorations screamed classic French in shades of blue and white, whereas shades of green made up the color scheme of my room. Same layout. Same format. But there was one major difference, one making my head spin. I had to place my hands on the doorframe to keep my balance.

  Grand-mère’s scent of Chanel No. 5, lavender, nutmeg, and cinnamon lingered in the air, hitting my nostrils, so potent I slammed the door shut, not able to bring myself to step into her chambers. Instead, I made my way downstairs, heading into the oak-paneled office. As I traced the letters on Grand-mère’s Grand Chef plaque, moved from the outer gates, mine replacing it, a cough interrupted my thoughts; Jane and Phillipa stood in the doorway.

  Jane—manager of the château, our head gardener in our expansive greenhouse, and, oddly, beekeeper—was always poised and polished, kept her blond hair in a tight French twist, had a figure most women would kill for, and wore kitten heels, possibly even when beekeeping and gardening. “Ready for utter madness?” she asked.

  “As I’ll ever be,” I said with a gulp.

  “We’ve got this,” said Phillipa. She held her hand up for a high five.

  “I don’t do that,” I said, cringing.

  She burst into laughter, sounding a bit like a donkey braying. “I know. I was just messing with you, Chef.”

  Jane grinned, and it kind of unnerved me. Previously, when Jane smiled, I always felt like something was off, as if she were up to something. But even though we’d had our differences in the past, I didn’t know what I’d do without Jane.

  Before I could ponder the friendships I’d created with Phillipa and Jane, the rest of the staff entered the room. First came Gustave, our pastry chef and the man responsible for lunches at our second restaurant, Le Papillon Sauvage (the Wild Butterfly). Although he always had a bottle of pastis in hand, he was a maestro in the kitchen, preparing the wildest of desserts in the evenings and the most succulent of roast chickens and wood-fired pizzas during the day. Our guests loved him. He was the epitome of a southwestern Frenchman, always using exaggerated hand gestures and larger-than-life mouth sounds. He was the reason Le Papillon Sauvage had received a Bib Gourmand from Michelin. Not quite the same as gaining stars, this honor was reserved for restaurants serving exceptional meals for a moderate cost. One could eat at Le Papillon Sauvage for the price of twenty-nine euros, including wine from the château’s vineyards, complete with Gustave’s maniacal laughter.

  He held out his bottle of pastis. “Does anybody want some?”

  Sébastien, or Séb, our all-around guy in the kitchen and the youngest one on our crew, sauntered in just then, and his dark hazel eyes widened with disbelief. “It’s only nine in the morning,” he said.

  “Bah,” said Gustave, guzzling back a sip. “It’s the breakfast of kings.”

  Séb winced and lifted his upper lip into a sneer.

  The gray-haired granny brigade, comprised of les dames Truffaut, Bouchon, Pélissier, and Moreau, arrived next. I had no clue as to how four little ladies could handle so much, but they did. Per their usual ways, after exchanging the required bises, kissing everybody on their cheeks, they sat down on the couch and clucked away, smiling.

  My grand-mère’s best friend, Clothilde, clicked into the salon with her bouncing red curls and her ladybug-covered ballerina flats. She was a force in the kitchen, and worked w
ith Phillipa, Séb, and me to create the meals for Les Libellules. She raced up to me, clasped my hands, and said, “We’re going to be busier than usual this year, thanks to you, ma petite puce. I’m so proud of you.”

  My little flea. I loved when she used this term of endearment.

  Clothilde’s husband, Bernard, in charge of the château’s winemaking facilities, ran up to me and swung me around. “We’re all proud of you, Sophie, and we’re going to have the best season. The vines are looking great, just beautiful.”

  “I’m glad,” I said. “I can’t wait to see the harvest.”

  My adoptive family chatted away, throwing accolades in my direction as the rest of the staff, namely housekeeping and servers, arrived. Rémi was the last to show up, flanked by his two portly black Labrador retrievers, D’Artagnan and Aramis. They panted as they drooled and then wriggled around on the floor.

  Jane glowered at Rémi. “No animals in the château.”

  He smirked. “They work here too. Or did you forget?”

  “They do not work here.”

  “Yes, they most certainly do. They chase off the sangliers and hunt down the truffles. Maybe they should receive a salary?”

  I don’t know why Rémi got such a kick out of needling Jane, but he did. He was also right about the dogs and their task. The sangliers (wild boars) on the property scared the crap out of me, which was why I didn’t wander the grounds alone at night. Rémi raised a defiant brow, and the housekeeping staff burst into laughter.

  By his stoic expression and sarcastic response, Jane knew she wasn’t going to win this argument. Instead, she rolled her eyes dramatically and launched into manager-of-the-château mode. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us today. As you know, we have a very, very busy season ahead of us, and we all need to be on our A game. With the exception of the season’s end, the château is fully booked from May third, which is in two days, until we close our doors in the winter.” She eyed the housekeeping team and bared her teeth into an intimidating smile. “Ladies, I expect all of the guest rooms to be perfect, no detail left unturned.”

  They nodded. “Yes, madame.”

  Jane turned to me. “Anything you want to say to the brigade and servers?”

  The kitchen was where I sorted out my feelings, where I’d found my passion, where I expressed myself. Out of my comfort zone, all eyes on me, I ended up repeating the words Phillipa had said earlier. “We’ve got this.”

  Jane nudged me in the ribs and whispered, “You can do better than that.”

  I sucked in a deep breath. “After all the press, after everything, like Jane said, we’ve got a reputation to uphold. Every meal has to be better than the last one. No detail can be overlooked, especially in our main dining room. I realize we’re all under a lot of pressure. And we’re all still grieving over the loss of Grand-mère Odette, but we can do this—as a family.”

  Before the staff broke down into tears, Jane cleared her throat. “Are we all ready to make this the best season that Château de Champvert has ever known? Are we all ready to get to work? Do our best?”

  Applause. Smiles. Rémi mouthed, “I love you,” and then left with the dogs.

  “Then let’s get to it. I, like Sophie, have faith in all of you. If there are any issues along the way, please see me immediately,” said Jane.

  The staff chatted among themselves and then slipped out the door, leaving Jane, Phillipa, and me alone in the office. “Well, what do we do now?” I asked.

  “This season is going to be absolutely amazing,” said Jane. “The château was always near full but never booked to capacity. But it is now, thanks to you and all the glowing press. It’s a dream come true.”

  Phillipa squealed. “It is.”

  The girls stood in front of me, grinning, eyes wide, waiting for me to say something. I forced a smile. “Sure is,” I said wistfully, wondering about my dreams. “We’re going to have a fabulous season. And I’m so glad I have the two of you by my side.”

  Jane and Phillipa wrapped me in overexuberant hugs and then sashayed out of the room, Phillipa leaping a few times. After they left, I traced the raised bronze letters on my grand-mère’s Grand Chef plaque, gnawing on the inside of my cheek.

  Prior to Champvert, I only had one dream, and running a château in southwestern France was never a part of it. I wanted to be one of the rare female chefs Michelin decorated with its prestigious stars. Although gaining a star came with a lot of pressure, and I was already under enough as it was, I didn’t want to give up on the only life goal I’d had, the one pushing me forward for so many years. Before she died, Grand-mère told me that I could achieve my aspirations here in Champvert. I wondered if what she’d said was true, because my past had left me feeling quite jaded, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I knew I held all of the ingredients to carve out a perfect life, maybe write my own culinary narrative, but something was missing, and not just my grand-mère. A huge part of me felt like I’d woken up from a dream that was never mine, and that I was sleepwalking in a story I hadn’t written.

  2

  father knows best

  EVERYWHERE I TURNED, Grand-mère’s spirit materialized in hazy recollections, singing to me through the trees, whispering from every nook and cranny of the château. In a way, this brought a strong sense of comfort—as if she wasn’t really gone. My eyes darted to the château, with its iron balconies, the slate roof soaring into the cloudless cornflower-blue sky, and my gaze locked onto Grand-mère’s room. I wished she were sitting in her window seat, smiling down upon me and waving. But, of course, she wasn’t there.

  Instead of wallowing in self-pity, I forced myself to put grief to the side and focus on all things positive. That was what Grand-mère would have wanted. It was what I wanted. If I tumbled down a rocky path, so would the château, and I could never let that happen. People—namely, the entire village of Champvert—depended on me for jobs and survival.

  Before I fell knee-deep into the fiery wildness of kitchen life in two days, I wandered aimlessly around the property, reflecting on and appreciating this magnificent world my grand-mère created. I wanted to revel in the warmness of my first spring in Champvert and to breathe in the rare minutes of me time that remained.

  Ranging in different shades of pink from pale to vibrant, the peonies seemed to burst open practically overnight, swarms of bees zipping from flower to flower. In the orchard, fluffy white flowers adorned the cherry trees. The lake glimmered in the distance, the strands of the weeping willows blowing in the warm spring breeze. I’d read somewhere that weeping willows represented strength and were able to withstand the greatest of challenges. I wanted to be the tree, perseverant and ready for anything, even a storm.

  The air buzzed with life, dragonflies and butterflies dancing in the clear blue sky. Everything was blooming and thriving. Maybe even me. Surreal as it was, all of this—this land, this château—was mine. And I had a lot going on for me, which included Rémi.

  We’d shared our first kiss the day before I’d left Champvert after one of my summer visits. I was thirteen and he was fifteen. I remembered the look in his caramel eyes—dreamy and mischievous, just like they were this morning. We’d just gone swimming in the lake and we were sprawled out under one of the willow trees, drying off. As I recalled, he’d had braces and cut my lip.

  I closed my eyes, thinking about his body pressed against mine, his throaty laugh, and his wicked sense of humor. I knew he’d only brought the dogs to the meeting to get under Jane’s skin. And the joke he’d made this morning about slow deaths brought a smile to my lips.

  Rémi drove by on the mower, tending to the sprawling lawn of grass kissed by the morning dew. His Mediterranean complexion was already tanned the color of golden honey and made the smile he shot in my direction brighter, becoming more swoon-worthy when his adorable dimples puckered. His muscled arms glistened with a thin sheet o
f perspiration, and I wanted them wrapped around me, if only for a moment. But there was too much work to do before the guests arrived. In addition to mowing acres upon acres of rolling terrain, Rémi needed to trim the fleur-de-lis-shaped hedges, the gravel driveway was in desperate need of a raking, leaves and weeds had to be cleared—the list went on and on. Still, he pulled up to me and turned off the engine.

  “I’d like to take you out tomorrow night. Are you free?” he asked with a sly smile.

  “I’m always free,” I said with a snort. “I’m American.”

  “That joke again? It’s old. You’re also French. And I’ll rephrase my question,” he said, squinting into the sun. “Are you available tomorrow night? I’d like to take you somewhere.”

  “Like a real date?” I asked. With my settling Grand-mère’s affairs and preparing for the château’s opening, we hadn’t actually been on one yet.

  He winked. “I’ve got something special planned for us in Toulouse.”

  I clasped my hands over my mouth. “Escape the château for a night before madness sets in? I’m all for it. What are we doing? Where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  “Okay,” I said, wondering what he was up to. “Wait. What about tonight? I thought you were coming over.”

  “Laetitia has a hot date. She’s been whistling and smiling all morning,” he said. “She hasn’t gone out in years, so I promised Lola we’d have a papa-fille night. We’ll do fun things like dance around in tutus and have an imaginary tea party with her stuffed animals.”

  “Lucky little girl,” I said, my heart swelling because he was such a good dad. I tilted my head to the side, an idea coming to mind. “Can I stop by to see Lola?”

  “She’d love that,” he said with a wide grin. “But you better bring the ingredients for un chocolat chaud.”

  “I guess I can do that,” I said, blurting out a laugh.