Sophie Valroux’s Paris Stars

1 falling headfirst into spring For the first time since Grand-mre's funeral two short weeks ago, contentment, not grief, filled my heart. I sat in the window seat, gazing at the blue sky, reflecting on the changes in my life. My once-soiled reputation in New York had fully recovered and I was now Sophie Valroux, Grand Chef and ma”tresse de maison of Ch‰teau de Champvert in southwestern France, not the saboteur blamed for costing my former employer in New York a Michelin star. I had a new best friend in Phillipa, who kept me more or less balanced when I was feeling out of whack. And I had the love of RŽmi, my childhood sweetheart. All amazing transformations in the state of my world-save for the fact that Grand-mre was gone. To keep the occasional wave of remorse from pulling me under, I kept myself busy-planning menus and testing recipes. Rule number one: no crying in the kitchen, so that's where I placed my focus. Cooking always helped me to sort out my thoughts and pull myself together. Making Grand-mre's recipes, like spring lamb with a fresh mint chutney, the aromas of freshness permeating my nostrils, brought a sense of closure, and I felt closer to her. Food brought on nostalgia, all the happy times I'd spent with her. I needed to move on from my grief, dry up those tears, and forge on. We were going to be extraordinarily busy. In two days, we'd open the gates of Ch‰teau de Champvert to the public. The guests would be arriving in swarms, just like the bees in the ruches at the far end of the property, and we were booked solid from the third of May to the end of October-almost filled to capacity until we closed for the season in mid-December. At the very least, Les Libellules (the Dragonflies)-the ch‰teau's flagship restaurant, which I ran-closed its doors on Sundays and Mondays, so I would have a bit of time off. Sort of. I knew there would always be some kind of challenge to overcome. But I'd risen up from the ashes of destruction before, and spring was a chance for a new beginning. A smile curved across my lips. My gaze shot from the window to RŽmi. He slept peacefully in my bed, his breath rising and falling in soft whooshes. I wore his button-down shirt and held the collar up to my nose, breathing in his clean, woodsy scent. His left hand patted down the bed as he blindly searched for me. I let out a soft laugh, and his long eyelashes fluttered. He propped himself up on his elbows, the sunlight highlighting his muscular arms. "What are you doing way over there? Come back to bed," he said, squinting. I swung one leg down from the ledge slowly and purposefully, swiped my long hair over my shoulder, and smiled. "But shouldn't you get back to Lola?" RŽmi glanced at his watch. "She won't be up for another half hour. Which gives us twenty minutes." "To do what?" I asked, my heart thankful that Laetitia-Lola's grandmother-looked after his daughter when RŽmi snuck out to spend quality time with me. "Whatever we want," he said with a wicked grin. "Get over here, woman." "Did you just call me 'woman'?" "Alors, you are one, and very beautiful at that." He paused, eyeing me up and down. "My shirt looks good on you. Really good." I jumped off the window seat, ran over to the bed, and threw my body onto his. One of RŽmi's hands cupped the back of my neck, and the other grazed my hip with a soft touch. Our mouths molded together and our breaths became one-hotter and heavier, my legs enveloping his waist. RŽmi's tongue became more courageous, and I sighed as he wrapped his hand around my hair, pulling it lightly and tilting my head back. I loved when he did that-a bit animalistic, but hot nevertheless. Our feverish eyes met. His lips brushed against my collarbone. "Do you know how much I want you right now?" I knew. "And I want you, too, but-" "You still want to wait," he said, his eyes not leaving mine. "I do." Aside from passionate kisses and clinging to each other's bodies in extremely heated moments like horny teenagers, we hadn't moved our relationship to a truly physical level. Prior to RŽmi, I'd had only one boyfriend, and we didn't exactly make love. Eric was more like a pile driver and didn't care about pleasuring me. Plus, he'd cheated on me numerous times, the reason we broke up. At the time, my culinary aspirations were more important to me than the state of my heart, but, looking back, I realized he'd hurt me, made me feel useless as a woman. There was no denying the deliciously satisfying chemistry between RŽmi and me, but like a chocolate soufflŽ, the timing needed to be perfect or it would collapse. Having been burnt by a previous relationship, I didn't want RŽmi and me to break apart, and I needed to be ready to fully let myself go. But I adored being wrapped in his arms, and, damn, did I love his kisses. "You're killing me, Sophie," said RŽmi with an exaggerated groan. I kissed him lightly on the lips and whispered, "I could think of worse ways to die." He wrapped his arms around my waist and flipped me onto my back, straddling me. "Hmmm, slow, painful deaths," he said, his eyes glinting mischievously. "Burnt at the stake. Drowning. Buried alive-" "See," I said, rubbing my hands across his muscled chest. "You've got it pretty good." "I do." RŽmi flopped down beside me and let out a frustrated sigh. "I should get back to Lola before I lose all control. I'll see you later?" "Of course," I said. "The staff meeting is this morning." "I'd say you could keep my shirt," he said. "But I really shouldn't walk around the property half-naked." I slipped his shirt off and he kissed my shoulder. "Je t'aime, Sophie." "Je t'aime aussi." Love. It felt so good to say it, to feel it. I'd never really experienced it before, not like this. With another heavy breath, RŽmi scrambled out of bed, and I watched him dress, noting his V-shaped torso and six-pack abs, wondering how in the world I stayed in control. I'd already showered and dressed when Phillipa tapped on my door with her signature rat-a-tat-tat woodpecker knock. "I saw RŽmi heading over to his house. I figured the coast was clear." "I was hoping for a little me time." I sighed. Phillipa blurted out a laugh as she cracked the door open. "You never have you time. And I've barely seen you in two weeks. You're always with him." "Are you saying you miss me?" "I am." "You'll be sick of me soon," I said, thinking of how busy the kitchen was going to be. "I'd run while you can." "I'd never get sick of you," Phillipa said, and ambled into my room, a cheery grin lighting her face. She wheeled in a cart with a tray of buttery croissants and coffee in a French press. "It's a beautiful day. There isn't a cloud in the sky. The sun is shining. The birds are chirping-" "And you brought me breakfast. Thank you." Phillipa winked. "And you're about to get a real jolt. The review in World Gourmand Magazine just released. I wanted to be the one to share it with you." "What? When were they even here?" "Apparently at the soft opening," she said. A lump formed in my throat. I couldn't take any more bad news. I tried to recall what we'd prepared. The flames of drunken shrimp flambŽed in cognac sparked in my memories, which, as I recalled, we served over a terrine of chopped tomatoes, avocado, and strawberries, along with a creamy Parmesan-lemon risotto. Had it been good enough? Or would I be skewered in a review? I didn't want to know, so I changed the subject. I focused on my friend. She usually went au naturel. Today, she'd painted her lips bright pink, and thick mascara coated her lashes. "Phillipa, are you wearing makeup?" I asked. "Er, yes," she said, scrunching her pixie-like nose. "I may be getting in touch with my feminine side." "For somebody? Maybe?" I said, and wiggled my brows. "Maybe," she said. "But I don't want to jinx it." For once the conversation wasn't concentrated on ch‰teau business, the passing away of my grand-mre, or the relationship between RŽmi and me. It was nice changing the subject and focusing on something else. "I want details," I said. "And you'll get them once I know what's going on. We've only had one date. I will tell you one thing, though. She's supercute and she's a pastry chef." "Ahhhh," I said, my interest piqued. "And how was it?" "No more questions until I know if Marie-" "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 soufflŽ-'" "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-mre who'd knocked on the door to share the review and offer some kind of advice or guidance for my first season running the ch‰teau 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 chŽrie, 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-mre," 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 SociŽtŽ des Ch‰teaux et Belles Demeures decorated me with the honor of Grand Chef, I'd raced up to Grand-mre's room, opened the door, and held out the plaque. Her eyes glistened with proud tears. "Ma chŽrie, I knew you could do it. You must have RŽmi 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-mreÕs 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 werenÕt 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-mre'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-mre'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 ch‰teau, 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.