Bon Appetit (13 page)

“Yes, Chef?” I hurried into his office.

“Are you working at the Delacroix bakery this afternoon?”

“Oui,”
I answered.

He handed me an envelope. “Can you bring this to Madame?”

“Bien sûr,”
I answered. “Of course”. I turned to go.

“Mademoiselle, I have not dismissed you,” he said.

My face flushed. “I’m sorry”.

He indicated for me to take a seat. “You realize you are the only American in our program, non?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I have had other Americans come through the program. One or two were satisfactory. Do you know that I am not anti-American, Mademoiselle Stuart?”

“You’ve been most professional toward me,” I said, giving a standard nonanswer.

“Of course”. He shrugged. “I
am
a professional. France, Mademoiselle, is a small country compared to your own. However, we have a long and noble history. Unfortunately, French ways are being nibbled away, bit by bit, to where we are in danger of becoming typical. Indistinct. My job, Mademoiselle, is to be a soldier guarding
the French way of life from being eaten alive by America and homogenized into the European Union. So you understand, there is nothing personal in my dislike”.

“I am here because I admire France, sir,” I answered. “I hope to become not just proficient, but to excel at French pastry making. I hope to contribute to the field and remain working here for quite some time”.

“If you can secure a permanent position with the Delacroix, that will be something. Monsieur Delacroix has contacted me about finding an experienced graduate to work at the new
pâtisserie
in Versailles. In a few years, that may be you”.

I guessed that to be a compliment. He dismissed me, politely but professionally, and I left, envelope in hand for Maman.

Someone experienced was already being hired for Versailles. How would I fit into the flagship bakery? What was I thinking? Things looked bleak on the employment front, and I had fewer than three months left.

On Thursday morning Anne and I were jotting notes in our recipe books when she leaned across the table toward me. “Are you sure you want me to come to the bakery with you?”

I wasn’t sure. I had a feeling deep down in the pit of my stomach that this would lead to something I couldn’t anticipate. But she was a good baker and a good friend.

“Yes,” I said. “You’ll enjoy it”.

I swallowed the little nub of insecurity and got back to work.

At the end of the day, Monsieur Desfreres called for our attention. He handed out small, soft leather notebooks, one to each student.

“As you know,” he said, “at the end of our course there will be an exhibition. This exhibition is where you will showcase the things you have learned in this course. Achieving your
diplôme
will consist of two parts. First, you will continue to take written examinations throughout the course, and at the end of the course, there will be a week of written finals. You will also perform and prepare recipes as I or my staff request that week. You must pass these examinations with ninety percent or better in order to earn your
diplôme”.

I recalled the test anxiety I’d had in junior high. And high school. Oh yeah, and college. Here, I hadn’t felt it because I was in my element—not academic, but baking. However, I knew I was being tested by an instructor just as happy to let me fail as to see me pass.

Chef cleared his throat and continued. “Second, during the last week of class, all students will prepare for their exhibition. You must prepare several items: a bread, a tarte, a cake, ice cream, plated desserts, etcetera, that will be placed on your table as a final offering of your work. Your fellow students will comment aloud on your work, and you may invite your
patron
and any other pastry or baking colleagues to attend. Many of them will choose to do so and listen to the others’ comments. This notebook is for you to jot down ideas for your final exhibition. Keep it private, please. Individuality, in addition to taste and presentation, will count”.

I fingered my notebook and looked around the room. A soft hush had fallen, like sifted flour.

After school, Anne and I took the train to my little cottage.

“Très belle!”
she exclaimed. “This is such a cute little place. How lucky you are to live here!”

“Yes, I am,” I agreed. “It’s mine until Dominique comes home”.

“When will that be?” Anne asked, sitting in one of the mustard yellow chairs.

“I overheard Maman talking with Dominique on the phone yesterday,” I admitted. “Dominique said she is bored in Seattle and wants to come home. I don’t know how she could be bored!”

“Maybe it’s something else,” Anne said, looking around the kitchen. “Maybe she wants to come back to her little cottage and her maman and papa”.

I nodded. “Maybe. But more likely she wants to come home to her boyfriend. I heard Maman say, ‘Of course he will wait a few more months.’ I think she’s encouraging Dominique to come home anyway, because she wants her nearby”.

“Can’t blame her,” Anne said as she took the glass of lemonade I offered.

“No,” I admitted. “But that means I’ll have an eviction notice in three months”.

“Where will you live, then?” Anne asked. “Will you go back to the United States?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. No job there now. Nowhere to live there, either. And I like France”.

Anne nodded. “I’m in the same position. Once I find a good job, I’ll be settled”. She looked at her watch. “Should we go? I don’t want to be late”.

I agreed and went to change into my uniform. When I came back, Anne was looking at my chalkboard. “What is this?” She pointed to the listing for Jean 9.

“My Bible reading”.

“On the menu board?”

“I told you the Bible is for bakers and cooks,” I teased. She grinned and we left, walking rapidly toward the village bakery.

We arrived just when I’d told Maman yesterday. I’d handed her the letter from Monsieur Desfreres, then too. I’d been dying of curiosity to know what it said, but of course, she shared nothing.

“Bonjour
, Madame,” Anne said upon introduction. “I am glad to be of help”. She took a neat piece of paper out of an envelope and handed it to Maman. As Maman stood next to me, she held it out so I could read it too.

“Bon!”
A large smile crossed Maman’s face. “You bake bread!”

“Yes,” Anne agreed.

“And brioche?”

“Oui
, I am fine at the brioche,” Anne agreed. In fact, she was competent with all breads, which is why she knew it was not simply her technique or bad yeast that had been a problem at school some weeks back. But why did Maman bring up the brioche, specifically? Come to think of it, no one had said anything at all to me about the brioche dough I’d left for Philippe last weekend.

“Then you can come in the afternoons all weekend while Mademoiselle Lexi is with her papa,” Maman said, interrupting my thoughts. “We’re very glad to have you”.

I smiled wanly. Had I replaced myself simply for the weekend or replaced myself altogether?

On Friday, I finished up my ice cream projects and then hopped on the train and came right home. I wanted to finish tidying up before Dad arrived and make him something special too.

I hadn’t spent any time just with my dad for years. Usually Mom was there too. Since she’d just gone to Italy, I think she wanted Dad to have his special trip as well.

As I cleaned, I thought about my conflicting feelings for my father. I wanted to tidy up the place and make him proud—but I wanted him to be proud of me when I wasn’t tidy too. I wanted him to be pleased with my new job, but also not care what the job was.

When I’d finished cleaning, I opened my laptop to check if his flight had been delayed, or if he’d be here on time.

No delays, in fact he’d landed a bit early. Allowing for time to rent a car, he’d be here in about two hours. I scanned the cottage. It was ready.

I checked my e-mail. A chatty one from Tanya, a forward from my brother. At the bottom of the list, one from Dan. With attachments.

I caught my breath and opened it.

Not “Yours, Dan,” but “Talk with you soon, Dan”.

Why did it matter that he was not “mine” anymore, anyway? I was the one who said we should leave things with no ties. I wanted to be fair to him. And, if I was honest, to myself, it was because I didn’t know what job—or guy—might be waiting for me in France. I’d heard both that distance made the heart grow fonder and that distance made the fond heart wander. Maybe, in my case, it was the former and not the latter.

I clicked on the picture and downloaded it. When it opened, I saw a group of dusty, happy, young professionals with a sunny Seattle skyline in the background. My heart skipped a beat when I saw Dan. I hadn’t forgotten what he looked like, but the picture brought it all back into my mind’s focus. His boyish grin, the rumpled, attractive way he looked in the softball uniform. His strawberry blond hair slightly slicked back.

Right next to him, leaning on him, was the only other person I recognized. An attractive brunette with a sprinkle of freckles in a catcher’s uniform, which made her look sporty and fun rather than bulky.

Nancy. The woman who had been coming on to him in his office last spring.

At the time, Dan hadn’t been interested. But that was before I moved.

Yeah, Lexi, you moved. You picked your life, he’s picked his
.

I deleted the picture.

After shutting down the computer, I turned on the oven. Dan was coming in a month—as a friend. And as a friend, I’d show him around. I’d do it for anybody. But he’d moved on, and so must I.

I pulled out my dad’s favorite cupcake recipe and began to mix, focusing on Dad again. This simple recipe was more special to me than almost any other, since it had been my very first. As I baked the cupcakes, though, I was thinking more about
millle-feuille
, someone else’s favorite dessert.

A couple hours later a small Renault pulled into the driveway. I saw a curtain move in the big house. Papa had been peeking through the window. I didn’t care. I ran out to meet my
own
papa.

“Dad!” I flew out the door and to the car. My dad, who had never been exceptionally affectionate, greeted me with a bear hug. Then he grabbed his small carry-on case from the passenger seat and walked toward the cottage with me.

“So here we are in France,” he said.

“Yes,” I grinned. “Here we are”. Paris, my dream. Normandy, his. “Let me show you my home”.

I ushered him into the cottage. “Ta da!” I showed him around the small kitchen, the living room, my bedroom. “You can set your stuff down in here,” I said. “I’ll sleep on one of the chairs in the living room tonight”.

“Bah,” Dad said. “What kind of gentleman allows a lady to sleep
on a chair while he’s in a bed? I’ll sleep on the floor with a pillow and some blankets. And you made us a reservation for tomorrow night in Normandy, right?”

“Right,” I said. “In Caen, near the beaches you want to see”.

The tips of his ears went pink with anticipation.

After he’d settled in, we walked through the village.

“Wow, this is unusual—old and interesting,” he said as we took my typical path past the rough rock walls, the stucco houses with age cracks lining their dignified faces, the wooden shutters keeping out both weather and change. He seemed surprised at the pleasant way people exchanged
“Bonjour!”
with one another on the streets. We sat down at the café in the village square to have a coffee, and then I took him to the bakery.

Odette was at the front counter. Her back was turned to me, and I saw her making pleasant—pleasant!—conversation with Anne. Anne looked in her element—confident, side-by-side with the baker Kamil. I sighed. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have expected to see her name embroidered on her uniform.