Cooking for Picasso (24 page)

A
FEW DAYS AFTER
I
nearly got myself arrested, I decided to take Aunt Matilda into my confidence about what I'd been searching for in Grandmother Ondine's café. But I had to swear her to secrecy, because my aunt was turning out to be amazingly garrulous. Even before I could tell her my news, I learned that she'd already told the entire class—including Gil—that I had come all this way to take a cooking course for my poor mother, who was laid up in a nursing home and unable to attend.

“You told Gil that?” I exclaimed. “Why? He's a pain in the ass. He uses personal information to embarrass people.” It was morning, and Aunt Matilda and I were getting dressed for class.

She said airily, “Oh, you misjudge Gil. I had a nice chat with him and he's actually a very sweet man. But you have to understand, he's under a lot of stress right now. What with all the renovations he's making—he had to borrow a ‘massive' amount of money, you see—and his silent partner, who's supposed to help him pay back the loan, is making a lot of demands, and putting a lot of pressure on Gil to make sure they reopen the
mas
as a hotel on time.”

I stared at her, agog. “How'd you wangle all that information out of him?”

She smiled at me a bit smugly. “He lost his mother at an early age, so he's susceptible to soothing, older gals like me. He grew up among tough kids, so he had to be tough, too. And his wife, you know, committed suicide. It wasn't his fault, of course. She was a poet,” she said, as if that explained everything.

“Oh! That's awful!” I exclaimed, taken aback.

“See? Doesn't that shed new light on Gil? Sometimes people with so much tragedy in their lives are prickly and pugnacious, just to hide their extreme vulnerability,” Aunt Matilda observed.

I glanced at her and said, “But I
know
he didn't tell you all those details about his wife!”

“No,” she admitted, “I read it in a magazine.”

I muttered, “I still don't see why you told him about Mom.”

Aunt Matilda said gently, “Anyone can see how concerned you are about your mother. It's all over your face, in everything you do. I see you checking for messages all the time, looking worried.” This was true. I'd been in regular contact with the hairdresser at the care home, who said Mom's progress was slow since they'd increased her meds, which the woman thought made it harder for Mom to move unassisted.

“Gil understood. See, you can't keep it all inside,” Aunt Matilda was saying earnestly. “When dealing with other human beings, dearie, there has to be some give and take. Personal information is like currency. You trade something to get something. Gil told me
his
troubles, I told him yours.”

“I see you didn't swap
your
troubles for his,” I pointed out.

She explained, “No, because I had to set him straight about you. He was convinced that you were up to no good at that café in Juan-les-Pins.” She peered at me. “So—
were
you up to no good?”

“Of course not!” I replied. And that was the point when I realized I needed her help. “Look, if I tell you what I was doing, will you absolutely
swear
that you will tell no one, no matter
what
happens?” I asked. Sensing a juicy tidbit, she nodded eagerly. So I told her about how Grandma Ondine cooked for Picasso, which of course immediately intrigued Aunt Matilda. And then I explained that maybe, just maybe, Grandma had hidden a painting for safekeeping somewhere.

I waited for her to tell me I was crazy, but her gambler instinct kicked right in. “Ahhh!” she said. “Now, that
would
be quite a find.” She pondered this. “Well, in an odd way it all makes sense now. You know, when your mother asked me about Picasso, she said, ‘It's just something I wanted to know—for Céline.' Maybe she hoped to find that painting for
you
—to give you your own legacy.”

I couldn't help having a catch in my voice as I said, “I looked all over that café. It's not there.”

But Aunt Matilda was now like a hound who'd been given the scent of her quarry. “You can't give up that easily,” she said briskly. “Let me see that notebook of yours. There must be something you overlooked. Do you have any living relatives in France?” I shook my head. That much I knew for sure.

“People,” she said. “Always start with people. Who do you know that knew your Grandma?”

“Besides Picasso?” I said. “Let's see. Well, the doctor who tended her. But I don't know his name. Wait, there was a lawyer. It's in Grandma's letter.” Aunt Matilda's optimism was contagious, and I showed it to her. “Monsieur Gerard Clément. He executed her last will and testament.” I used my phone to do a quick search on the Internet. I could find nothing, not even a website for his law firm.

“Not so unusual in France,” Aunt Matilda said, undaunted. “Sometimes they have enough local business so that they don't need to advertise to the greater world.” The breakfast bell sounded. We left our room for the circular staircase that led to the main level. As we hurried across the lobby she veered away from me and said, “Go on and grab me a
brioche
and
café au lait
while I find you an address.”

She was heading for the front desk. I said in alarm, “You swore secrecy, remember?”

“No sweat,” Aunt Matilda replied.

A few moments later she caught up with me just as our morning class was about to start, and she triumphantly handed me a slip of paper with an address and telephone number for Monsieur Gerard Clément. He apparently had an office in the “old town” section of Mougins.

“Where'd you get this?” I asked, nonplussed.

“The old-fashioned way, dear,” she said, wolfing down her coffee and bun. “The phone book.”

I quickly telephoned Clément, but a rather frosty receptionist told me that he was extremely busy. She said she'd give him my message; I doubted it.

“Watch it,” Aunt Matilda hissed. “Here comes Gil.”

By now, our class was cooking in earnest. Each day was a trial-by-fire devoted to one particular category of food: eggs, poultry, fish, meat, vegetables and beans. But some of the giddy novelty of a French culinary holiday was now giving way to the reality of
if you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen
.

You never knew which one of your errors would elicit a laugh or a scowl from Gil. He treated the elders gently, but I think he figured that since I was younger I was fair game, and should somehow know better, just because I had a French chef in my lineage. He once actually told me to “Please move your spoiled little American
cul
a bit faster.”

“What's a ‘cuh-yool'?” Lola whispered to me in her Texan drawl.

“Ass,” I whispered back, indignant.

“Oooh,” she said knowingly. “He likes you.”

Today, as we heard Gil's animated voice out in the hallway, Aunt Matilda's pal Peter warned, “He sounds rather more aggressive than usual, if that's possible.” We soon found out why. Gil entered accompanied by a slender woman dressed entirely in chef's whites, including a tall white hat.

“Class, meet Heather Bradbrook, the best pastry chef in all of London,” Gil said proudly.

She was delicate-looking, with naturally white-blonde hair, green eyes and an innate serenity that seemed to calm everyone, even Gil.

“Heather has graciously agreed to be a guest chef today, to teach you all about the magic of bread-making,” he said, smiling down at her from his big sporty height. His broad shoulders looked even broader with Heather standing next to him.

“They make a cute couple, don't they?” Magda the Scottish dog-lady said in a stage whisper so loud that I stepped away in embarrassment, not wanting anyone to think I'd made that comment.

“As for
pâtisserie,
” Gil was saying, “this delicate-looking chef will show you how tough she really is when she demonstrates how to pound puff pastry.”

One of the men—Joey from Chicago, I think—murmured that she could pound him anytime. I tried not to be shocked hearing this from a man his age, but the others were totally unfazed.

“So today, I leave you all in Heather's capable hands,” Gil concluded, “but I
will
get a full report card on each of you, so behave.” He bowed shortly to Heather, saying, “I'm off to my meeting.”

She gave him a nod and whispered, “Good luck.” Two young men from Gil's kitchen staff came barreling in, carrying enormous sacks of flour over their shoulders, and a few sizeable bags of sugar. “Okay, gather round,” Heather said to the class in a pleasantly modulated voice, but with such authority that we all shut up and shuffled forward. “Bread is flour—water—salt,” she chanted like a high priestess. “The magic is in the simplicity. But don't be fooled. You can't scrimp on time or effort.”

A baguette dough, a puff pastry made of folded multi-layers of butter and flour, a cake made of almond flour, and cookies of ground hazelnuts. The whole experience turned out to be so unexpectedly sensual—the warm yeasty scent of bread rising, and the soft, fleshy dough yielding beneath our kneading touch. We were working so intently that I didn't even notice my mobile phone ringing in my apron pocket until Magda nudged me and said, “It's
yours,
you know!”

I wiped flour off my hands and fumbled for it. Heather did not miss the look on my face when I saw who was calling. She said calmly, “You can step outside. We're done for today anyway; I was about to call a break. This afternoon there's an outdoor tour around the farmland of the
mas
.”

“Thanks,” I said, yanking off my apron and going out onto the terrace for privacy.

It was Monsieur Gerard Clément. “Yes,
bien sûr,
I remember your grandmother.” In his deep, melodious voice he spoke flawless English with just a hint of an elegant French accent. “What can I do for you?” he asked. I told him I needed to meet with him as it was too personal to discuss over the telephone. “I see, I see,” he replied in a mild, polite tone indicating he had no idea why I was being so mysterious. “Well, I am sure that my secretary can arrange for us to meet next month—”

“Oh, no, no, it can't possibly wait that long!” I cried. “I really must see you right away.”

“Ah, but you see, I leave this evening for
les vacances,
” he said.

“Vacation?” I exclaimed. “Then I've
got
to meet you today! I won't
be
here when you get back. My mother—she told me that you were the only one she trusted—” I choked up, then and there.

“Please don't distress yourself,” he said quickly, and I heard him rustling about as if he were consulting his calendar. “If it's really so critical, the only time I can possibly see you today is at two forty-five—”

“Bon, merci beaucoup,”
I said quickly, wondering how I'd get there on such short notice.

“But I must warn you we'll only have fifteen minutes, because I have a meeting that starts promptly at three,” he said, sounding as if he absolutely meant it.

“I'll see you at two forty-five,” I promised. He gave me the address and some brief directions.

After we hung up, I told Aunt Matilda what I was up to. “Good luck,” she said, crossing her fingers. I dashed upstairs to grab a cardigan and purse, then returned to the concierge desk.

“I need a map for the old town area of Mougins,” I told the tall Frenchman, Maurice, who was on duty, “and, um, I need a car right away.”

He sucked in his breath. “A car today will be difficult to get on such short notice,” he warned mildly, as he handed me the map. Then he straightened alertly as a well-dressed man appeared in the lobby acting like a guest, helping himself to the coffee cups and urns that stood on a side table.