26
new york state of mind
It was hard keeping Rémi at a distance, especially when he smiled at me like a puppy dog waiting for a treat, his hazel eyes shining and expectant, like I’d race into his arms and say, “Rémi, I’m ready. I’ve had enough time to think. Take me into those strong arms of yours and carry me away!” As much as the notion tempted me, I wasn’t ready for a relationship. Far from it.
So I definitely wasn’t prepared to find Rémi in the kitchen with Lola, both of them covered in flour, a few days after I’d received O’Shea’s text. Lola had a bowl in front of her and she was whisking away—flour and milk splattering on her face, her mouth covered in chocolate.
“What in the world are you doing?” I asked.
“Making crêpes,” Rémi said, his voice not overly warm, but not exactly distant. “Today is February second. It’s la Chandeleur.”
“Crêpes, crêpes, crêpes,” repeated Lola. “Miam-miam.”
“It’s another French tradition—like the galette des rois—but better,” said Rémi by means of explanation. “In addition to being a religious celebration for Catholics, when Jesus was presented at the temple in Jerusalem, it’s also France’s national crêpe day.”
“Stop smiling at me like that,” I said, my eyes narrowing into a mock glare.
“Stop staring at me and help us make the crêpes. We’re making them for Grand-mère,” he said, turning his back to me and whisking the batter. “Ever done a pan flip?”
“Of course,” I said. “Just not with a crêpe, but I’m a quick learner.” I shoved him on the shoulder and gave him the stink eye. “You do realize I’m a seasoned chef?”
Rémi brushed by me and grabbed a pan. He placed it on a burner, turning the heat up to medium-high. I watched him rub the oil onto the pan. He ladled a spoonful of the batter, lifted it up, and swirled it around, coating every inch. He placed the pan back on the burner.
“The trick is to let the edges turn golden,” he said. “Then you take a spatula and lift the edges lightly, like this, see? Voilà! Then we flip.” He jutted out his arm a few times, the crêpe lifting from the pan. And then he flipped it. “Your turn.”
“Oh, I can do this. Easy peasy,” I said. I rubbed oil on the pan with a paper towel, as he had. I ladled the mixture, swirled it, and placed the pan on the burner. I waited for the edges to brown, and lifted them. I was ready for the pan flip. “One, two, three,” I said. “Flip.”
My crêpe didn’t land in the pan; it landed on the burner, the flames burning it down into a sticky mess. As I put the pan down, I could feel the blush rushing to my cheeks. Rémi came up behind me, wrapping his arms around me, and my body went still. “Slow, Rémi. I’m still figuring things out.”
“I’m trying to help you,” he said, pulling me in closer and kissing the nape of my neck.
Damn it. I had no willpower. I wanted to feel his lips on mine. Just as I turned to melt into his embrace, a snooty voice rang in my ears, ruining the moment. “It appears I’m interrupting something.”
Jane. Every bone in my body went rigid. I jerked away from Rémi and turned to face her. Her eyes locked onto mine with what I could only describe as a death stare. “We’re just making crêpes,” I said, throwing my hands up in defense. “When did you return?”
“This morning,” said Jane, her steadfast gaze accusatory and unflinching.
“And Phillipa?”
“She’s helping my parents unpack. She’ll pop by in a bit.” Jane regarded Lola with disgust. “Why is there a dirty child covered in chocolate in this kitchen?”
Rémi puffed out his chest proudly. “This is Lola, and she’s my daughter.”
Jane jolted as if she’d been electrocuted. “What?”
“Are you hard of hearing?” he said. “I said this is Lola, and she’s my daughter.”
“I’m sorry,” said Jane. “I don’t know what’s going on. Have I fallen into some strange alternate universe?”
It was now or never. “No,” I said, straightening my posture, “and I need to have a word with you in Grand-mère’s office.”
“Brilliant.” Jane turned on her kitten heel and stormed off. “Because I’d like to have a word with you, too.”
Jane paced in the office, her heels clicking on the polished floor. She whipped around to face me, her eyes like steel daggers. “Everything always works out for you, Sophie. Doesn’t it?”
“Not really, Jane,” I said. “And I need to know why you have such a big problem with me. Why are you trying to ensure my failure? Everything you do or say has one ultimate goal: to bring me down.”
Her posture stiffened. She raised her chin so high I could see into her flaring nostrils. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do. And I know what you did.” I clenched my fists into tight balls, an attempt to keep me from slapping her uppity attitude right out of her. I reminded myself that she was in the wrong and I was in the right. “Why did you send Eric my recipe?”
“Eric? Who is Eric?”
“Right,” I said with a snarl. I stepped over to the computer, fired it up, and opened a browser, pulling up the article from the Times. “Explain this. Explain why the chef who destroyed me is making his mark with the daurade recipe I created.” I stepped away and pointed to the photo.
Her eyes scanned the article and she sank into the chair, her head drooping. “I swear to God, I had nothing to do with this. I’d never do that to your grand-mère or the château.”
“But you would do it to me,” I said. “Let’s face it, we both know you don’t want me here. You want me to fail. Why?” I asked, already knowing the reason but wanting to hear it from her thin lips.
Her eyes widened with disbelief, as if she thought I was an idiot. “How do you expect me to feel?” she said. “I’ve been running things around here for five years and then you just show up—out of the blue. I’ve been building my life here. You don’t deserve to take over.”
There was a truth to her statement. I had just shown up. I hadn’t worked for any of this. But I did have my pride. My body trembled, but I remained strong.
“That isn’t your decision to make,” I said. “It’s my grand-mère’s. She handed over the keys to me on Christmas Eve.”
Her posture crumpled. “Just be done with it then. Fire me.”
“I told you I didn’t know how to run things around here,” I said. “Firing you isn’t up to me while Grand-mère is still alive.” I paused, my voice catching. “Are you going to tell me why you sent Eric the recipe so I can make a decision as to whether I tell her about your betrayal or not? Unless you want to tell her yourself.”
“I already told you I didn’t do it,” she said, placing her hands in her hair, her French twist unraveling. “There has to be another explanation.”
I didn’t have one. “Like what?”
“As I recall, we had a full house the night you made the daurade dish, half of the guests from New York,” said Jane. “Maybe we can cross-check the reservations, see if any names pop out to you. If they don’t, I’ll Google each and every one of them.”
“Do it,” I said, my hands on my hips.
Jane tapped the keyboard with her perfectly manicured nails. After a few clicks, she pulled up the names of the guests who had stayed at the château that weekend. I scanned the list and exhaled a deep breath.
“You see something?” asked Jane.
“Yep,” I said, not believing my eyes.
“Who?”
“Trevor Smith, freelance critic for the Times,” I said. “His palate knows food, he wrote the article praising Eric’s restaurant, and he’s also the one who destroyed my reputation by printing a story when he didn’t have all the facts.”
Jane pulled up a browser and ran a quick search. “I thought food critics were supposed to be anonymous, but here he is, right on Google Images. And you’ll never guess who he’s with.”
I didn’t have to guess when I already knew. “Eric.”
“I recognize this Trevor,” said Jane, pointing at the screen. “He was the guy who was talking about you.”
Back then, I didn’t make the connection, figuring it was a coincidence, and the news of Cendrillon hadn’t yet fizzled down. “Eric must have sent him,” I said under my breath. “He needed to poach my recipes because he’s the zero with no talent. He doesn’t know how to create recipes, he only knows how to follow them,” I said. “That’s why he wanted me to come work for him.”
“Yes, Phillipa told me about that, but why was this Trevor Smith here? It doesn’t make sense,” said Jane. She clicked though a few more articles. “Et voilà. Found it. He was covering the wedding for some social magazine,” she said, pointing.
“His article doesn’t even mention the food or the château,” I said, reading it quickly.
“You have your answer,” she said. Jane’s eyes met mine. “But I don’t have mine. What are you going to do with me?”
I didn’t respond at first. My brain was churning like a crazed hamster on a wheel. Although I didn’t trust Jane, I did need her until I figured out what I was going to do. She looked at me expectantly, cheeks sucked in, mouth puckered.
“Grand-mère told me you were very efficient. I’m going to respect her wishes.”
I could have sworn I heard her mutter, “Respect is earned, not given.” Oh, the things I wanted to say to her, but didn’t. I clamped my mouth shut.
Phillipa bounded into the room. She gave me an exuberant hug. “Rémi told me the two of you were in here. What’s going on? What did I miss, aside from the fact that he has an adorable daughter, Lola? Did you know about her? Where is her mum?”
“I know about her now,” I said. “She’s a really sweet little girl. And her mother died in childbirth.”
“I hope you and Rémi will be happy together,” said Jane stiffly, cutting off Phillipa.
“We’re not a couple,” I said.
“But you will be,” she said. “Or did I imagine what I saw in the kitchen?”
Phillipa slugged my arm. “What happened in the kitchen?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“Nothing?” said Jane with a snort. She raised a defiant and perfectly manicured eyebrow. Phillipa’s eyes went wide with anticipation.
I let out an embarrassed sigh. “Fine, we almost kissed.”
The almost kiss I wanted to share with Rémi, but then Jane ruined it with her unexpected interruption.
“Love is in the air!” Phillipa squealed. “I knew something about him had changed. He smiled at me, and he never smiles.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, we’re taking things slow,” I said.
“Slow? Good luck with that,” she said, raising her hands like claws and squeezing her fingers, making the perky butt motion. “Straight people and their wacky issues. No wonder I’m queer. So, tell me about this almost kiss.”
“It was nothing.” I cleared my throat, quickly changing the subject under Jane’s wicked glare. “Apparently, somebody in this room sent O’Shea an anonymous letter. He dug into it and found out the truth. He wants to destroy Eric,” I said with a grin. “Karma is a bitch and her name is Phillipa. Thank you.”
“Oh my God,” she said. “That’s incredible! Your name has been cleared!”
“Not yet, but he’s working on it, thanks to you.”
“Brilliant,” said Jane, eyeing me hopefully. “Are you thinking about going back to New York?”
“O’Shea offered me the chef de cuisine position,” I said. “Honestly, I don’t know what to do.”
“Unless you are committed to your life here, you should seriously think about taking him up on his offer,” said Jane. Her expression said what her mouth didn’t say: I’ll push you upstairs, help you pack, and drive you to the airport.
Phillipa stomped her foot with defiance. “What in sod’s sake? I only wanted to help you clear your name so you’d stay on at the château, not leave it, Sophie. You can’t be thinking about going back to New York. Because you can’t,” she said, racing out of the room. “I’m not happy for you anymore, I’m bloody livid.”
I stood shell-shocked, considering my options. I wanted to run after Phillipa to explain my feelings to her, the confusion swirling in my head, but I was rendered immobile.
“Don’t worry,” said Jane. “She’ll get over it.”
“I won’t.”
I turned around to find Rémi standing in the doorway with Lola in his arms. “What’s this about New York?”