“Laurine!” Geneviève Ecollier’s chin jutted out like a ship’s prow. The mug Jean-Rémy had passed her was quivering in Marianne’s hands as the waitress reported hurriedly to the kitchen counter.
“Don’t stick your bust out like that, child. There’ll be lots of strutting roosters in here today. One day you’ll let one lead you on board his boat, and next year he won’t spare you so much as a glance.”
Laurine crossed her arms in front of her chest, and two delicate spots of pink appeared on her cheeks. One of the Parisian yacht owners kept asking her onto his boat for a glass of champagne. She didn’t know how she was going to say no after his third invitation, because the man protested that her rejections made him so desperate that he would unfortunately have to go and eat in Rozbras to recover from his grief. And that would be bad for Madame Geneviève, because on the other bank of the Aven was her great rival for the appetites and wallets of the yachtsmen who moored their boats between the two small ports of Kerdruc and Rozbras without ever weighing anchor.
Laurine didn’t know how to resolve her dilemma. If she went with them, she would quickly earn herself a reputation; if she didn’t, Madame Geneviève and Ar Mor would soon have no customers, because they’d all be sitting in Alain Poitier’s restaurant or the bar tabac eating mussels in cream sauce.
“Laurine! Stop daydreaming! Today’s special is cotriade, Breton fish stew. Belon oysters, moules marinières, and noix de Saint-Jacques Ar Mor au naturel, scallops in a gratin or with cognac sauce. In short, despite his testosterone imbalance, our chef is back to top form. Write it down, girl, or you’ll forget again.”
Marianne liked Madame Ecollier’s voice. It was as full and dark as the coffee Jean-Rémy had made to accompany her small breakfast—a delicious cheese omelet.
Laurine obediently took down her boss’s words on her waiter’s pad. “What’s tes…treso…tostron imbalance?” she asked.
“A salt addiction,” summed up Madame Geneviève, pointing her arrow-slit eyes at Jean-Rémy. “It would be good if you would finally dismiss that lady from your thoughts!”
“Which lady?” Jean-Rémy cautiously enquired.
“The one for whom you empty salt by the packet into the stock!”
“Jean-Rémy is oversalting because of a lady?” asked Laurine.
“He’s in love, and when they’re in love, cooks overdo it with the salt.”
“How about unhappy cooks?”
“They overdo it with the brandy.”
“So who is Jean-Rémy in love with?” asked Laurine.
“Now, if that isn’t an irrelevant question! Allez, allez, get to work, Laurine! Show Madame Marianne the Shell Room in the guesthouse, please.”
Geneviève Ecollier flashed Marianne a smile. Yes, maybe this woman who’d washed up here at the end of the world was everything she’d been praying for in recent months. Weren’t coincidences sometimes gifts of fate?
Jean-Rémy pushed a white bundle and a sheet of paper toward Marianne, who stared at it. He pointed to a figure in the middle of the page—892 euros; the number next to it appeared to be her working hours, six hours per day excluding Tuesday and Wednesday. Lodgings were included. He explained in simple French that she was hired to work at Ar Mor. And that she was going to have to learn French and he would teach her. Marianne nodded.
She took a look at the bundle. Chef’s whites, very similar to the ones she’d worn at housekeeping school. Jean-Rémy’s expression was beseeching.
Marianne felt grubby and unkempt in her old clothes. The uniform smelled of soap, and she longed to scrub the past few days from her skin and slip into the fresh whites. That was the only reason she signed her name on the dotted line.
“Great,” Jean-Rémy said with relief, and handed her a beret-shaped chef’s hat.
Marianne wedged the bundle under her arm and followed Laurine across the small courtyard to the guesthouse. She didn’t notice the ginger cat scamper out of the door after her.
Jean-Rémy arranged his pickings from the Concarneau fish market and packed the rays, dabs and tunas into polystyrene crates filled with crushed ice. The crabs scrabbled with their little legs. Madame Geneviève checked the bills.
“What would you think if I opened the hotel again, chef?” she asked with deliberate nonchalance.
“Good idea,” he replied, “but why are you asking now?”
Geneviève Ecollier let out a loud sigh, then answered quietly, “That woman from the sea, Marianne. You know whom she reminds me of? Of myself. Of me when I’m scared.”
Jean-Rémy nodded. Sometimes he saw his own dreams and doubts reflected in the faces of strangers. He set down a plate in front of Geneviève. He had decorated the omelet with red basil in the shape of a heart.
“Golly, Jean-Rémy. Are you trying to tell me something?”
“Indeed I am. Bon appétit!”
She ate in silence and then carried the plate into the scullery. “Whatever you say. Just don’t ruin my stock again, you hear?”
Stock, and life too: it was so easy to ruin everything.
The young chef tried not to think of Laurine, but it was as hard as if he’d decided not to breathe. Breathe in: Laurine. Breathe out: Laurine. Whenever she was nearby, he couldn’t tell a spoon from a knife and completely lost his wits. He was never going to be able to bewitch her as he could other women, gradually enticing them into his bed with addictive little appetizers: a bite of crabmeat in a cream of asparagus sauce here, the world’s best foie gras on toast there. For Jean-Rémy, a scallop served in its shell with a teaspoonful of velvety cognac and some exquisite whipped cream was more romantic than all the roses in the world. He knew why it was different with Laurine than it had been with every other woman he’d met: he had fallen in love, and his feelings were true and deep and pure. Well, not absolutely pure: of course he wanted to sleep with Laurine. But he mainly wanted to be with her, every day and every night.
It was a mystery to Jean-Rémy how he could have lived side by side with Laurine for two years without ever having kissed her.