Page 59 of From Paris, with Butter
But dinner was pleasant, overall. I had Laurent on one side, and Michel, one of Laurent’s cousins on the other.
“Who is the craziest diner you’ve ever served?” Michel asked.
That story (which involved a suitcase full of wigs, fake paparazzi, and an attempt at smuggling a Dutch oven full of beef stew out of the restaurant) was enough to get us nearly to dessert.
When I’d finished speaking, I took a sip of wine. “Do you make it up to Paris often?”
Michel shook his head. “I live in Corsica and don’t leave much. The holidays are the only time I can convince myself to get off the island.”
“Oh, I love Corsica. I haven’t been in years, but I remember it being so beautiful. Do you enjoy living there?”
“Yes, very much. Good food, good beaches. We have a beautiful one, Plage de Tahiti. It’s very relaxed. No clothing requirements.” Michel smiled anxiously, and I knew he was trying his best to relate to me. But a nude beach?
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Laurent’s grandmother. For the first time, she was grinning.
Excellent. Now the entire Roche family thinks I’m an out-of-control nudist.
“Why does your grandmother hate me?” I asked Laurent later. The meal had ended and we were hand-in-hand, making the trek across the yard to his shed.
Laurent tucked me under his arm. “That’s just how she treats everyone. It’s not personal. You should have heard the things she said when Noelle dyed her hair blue back at university.” Laurent opened the door to his shed-home. “Come on, let’s focus on the twenty-odd family members who adored you. Tomorrow, I’ll take you around town, and you won’t need to see Grand-mère until dinner,” Laurent said, closing the door behind us.
“But for now, let’s get back to what we were doing earlier before we were so rudely interrupted.” He pulled me to him, hands slipping under the back of my sweater.
He didn’t need to tell me twice. “Alright. But make double sure you lock the front door.”
Chapter 22
The next morning, we woke early and had coffee and hot rolls with Laurent’s parents before anyone else (and one person in particular) was awake. I tried to help his parents prepare for dinner, but they declined all assistance and told us to enjoy ourselves.
We could have taken the Peugeot, but it was a beautiful day, one of those crisp-cold ones with a brilliant blue sky, and Laurent and I both wanted some fresh air.
We strolled along the country road into town, passing farms and little clusters of houses. Every time a car drove past us (which wasn’t often), the driver inevitably rolled to a stop. Recognizing Laurent, they got out and greeted him effusively, explaining that they were an old classmate/neighbor/librarian who was thrilled to see their prodigal son back home for Christmas.
Bouc-Bel-Air was full of Christmas cheer when we reached it: fairy lights strung across the trees, window decorations in every storefront, and a towering fir tree, bedecked with ornaments, in the currently-dry village fountain.
As we walked, Laurent pointed out key places from his youth: the tiny cinema, the street where the monthly antique market that his mother never missed was held, the primary school with cheery drawings hanging in the windows, the sprawling formal gardens, which were closed for winter but were apparently gorgeous the rest of the year.
Despite it being Christmas Eve, plenty of people were out, walking with their families or shopping for last-minute gifts. Plenty of them stopped Laurent here too, and although I could see how life in such a small town might be suffocating, I found it heartwarming that Laurent came from such a tight knit community. It was worlds away from how I grew up, just me and my mother,moving every time she got bored of a place.
As we continued our stroll, I glanced at Laurent. He looked gorgeous in Provence’s golden light, and I was overwhelmed with the desire to kiss him. So I did. We were still caught up in each other when a car honked very close by. The sound startled us apart.
“Merde, Noelle, what are you scaring people for?” Laurent said, frowning as his sister rolled down the window of the Peugeot. She beamed at us, not looking a bit remorseful.
“I’ve been sent to Aix to pick up missing ingredients, and I thought you two might like to join.”
We hopped in the back seat and sped to Aix as Christmas songs poured out of the radio. Noelle dropped us off close to the center of town, promising she’d meet up with us once she’d finished her shopping. I’d be happy to spend the entire day wandering Aix, admiring the honey-colored buildings, verdant town square, and understated elegance of it all. But Laurent had a place to show me.
“This way,” he said, pulling me along. We walked along the sidewalks, passing shops selling lavender and olive oil and stepping into the street to let carolers, children looking longingly into store windows, doe-eyed couples, and everyone else pass by. Laurent finally turned down a narrow stone street and stopped in front of…
“An Applebee’s?” I said, looking between him and the restaurant. Was this some sort of joke? Did Laurent really think my love of American chain restaurants was so strong that I wanted to eat at one on Christmas Eve? (I mean, he wasn’t wrong.)
“Oh,” I said, as the pieces fell into place. “This was your restaurant. This was Les Champs D’Or.”
Laurent didn’t hear me. He was looking at the building. He had the deep scowl he always wore when he tried to hide his feelings, but I saw the anguish breaking through beneath it.
“There isn’t much sidewalk here, but the town would let us shut down the street and put tables outside in the summer,” he said softly, looking through the windows. “My Aunt Lisle stitched all the tablecloths. We had a bouillabaisse special every weekend, and every Friday I’d drive to Marseille’s fish market andpick out the seafood.” He paused and cleared his throat. “We had an Easter lunch every year, and the place would be full of families, people I’d known my entire life, spending their holiday enjoying food I’d made.”
Laurent’s jaw went rigid, and I knew he was trying hard not to cry.
