Page 61 of From Paris, with Butter
Even Laurent’s grandmother seemed to have toned down her acidity. A little. She did make one comment about how I should be the one dishing food from the platters, “since I was so good at serving people,” but I ignored her and no similar comments followed.
After dinner we gathered in the living room to exchange gifts.
“Oh, Laurent. It’s beautiful,” I breathed as I lifted a silver necklace out of its box. The emerald pendant sparkled in the candlelight.
“It’s to match your mother’s ring.”
I reached out to kiss him, then noticed my bare hand with a start.
“Oh! I lost it. Laurent, I lost my mother’s ring.” My voice trembled. I’dalways cherished my possessions, and this one, a piece of jewelry I remembered seeing on my mother’s own hand so often, was particularly precious. My eyes suddenly filled with tears.
“It’s OK,” Laurent said, his arm going protectively around my shoulders. “We’ll find it. It’s in the house. It must be. I’ll set my parents to look for it. Nothing escapes my mother when she does her weekly deep clean. She’ll find it; I promise.”
“Alright,” I whispered, forcing myself to steady my breathing. Laurent was right. It would be OK. But it still felt like yet another reason to add to this day’s unhappiness.
At that moment, there was a knock at the front door. It was a jarring sound, and everyone’s head swiveled toward the noise. Laurent looked just as confused as I felt, but his grandmother had already sprung up and was heading to the door. I heard it creak open.
“Merry Christmas! I know you asked me to come, but I hope I’m not intruding,” an unseen voice said. There was something familiar about it. Laurent’s head shot up.
“Not at all. Merry Christmas, dear. Come inside,” Laurent’s grandmother replied (speaking far kinder than she ever had to me).
“We have a visitor,” his grandmother announced as she led the newcomer into the room. “You all remember Sabine.”
I was so startled my new necklace nearly slid through my fingers; I had to clutch it in a fist to keep it from falling to the floor. There she stood on the Roches’ scarred stone floor–my apparent arch-nemesis. She had a camel scarf covering her hair, and her cheeks were rosy from the cold. Laurent’s parents were frozen for a moment, then they lurched to their feet, greeting Sabine with kisses on her cheek.
Laurent’s grandmother was speaking again. “Excuse the intrusion, but I had a gift I wanted to give the Berlioz family. I heard Sabine knew Laurent’s new friend, so I decided to invite her over.” She turned directly to me and grinned triumphantly.
“You and Sabine know each other?” Laurent’s mother asked me, smiling uncertainly.
“Oh, yes,” Sabine said. “Margot is actually our little baker for the gala I’mrunning. Our professional pastry chef dropped out, and Fatima asked if a friend could take her place. It was very kind of Margot to accept, even if it is a lot for her.”
I wondered if anyone else could hear the venom in Sabine’s voice.
“How lovely you’re working together,” Laurent’s mother said politely.
“We’ve been enjoying Margot’s baking all weekend,” his father said. “The gala is lucky to have her.”
“Yes, well.” Sabine’s smile slipped somewhat.
“Your sister couldn’t join you?” Laurent’s grandmother asked.
Sabine smiled sweetly. “Oh, no. Camille is with her husband’s family today. Did you hear she and Adrien eloped last week? It was terribly romantic.”
Laurent stiffened beside me as his grandmother clapped her hands together in delight.
“How marvelous,” his grandmother said.
“It is,” Sabine agreed. “I’ve never seen her so happy.” She shot Laurent a glare. “But I have to get back to my own Christmas dinner now. Thank you for the gift,” she said, taking the small package Laurent’s grandmother offered. “Merry Christmas,” she said, and her gaze lingered on me as Laurent’s parents walked her to the door.
The door shut, and I heard Laurent’s father furiously whispering to Grand-mère. Laurent’s mother hurried back into the room.
“Who wants vin chaud?” Laurent’s mother asked, her voice a little higher-pitched than normal.
“I certainly need a drink,” Noelle said, glaring toward the front door.
I took a mug of vin chaud, but the drink did little to warm me. I was still feeling down when Laurent and I escaped to the shed. Laurent, who was normally so attentive, seemed wrapped in his own unhappiness.
“Laurent?”
