Page 64 of From Paris, with Butter
“I think you should go for it,” I told Laurent, concentrating hard on looking happy. If there was ever a moment I needed to call on the sunniest parts of my personality, this was it.
Laurent burst into a smile and caught me up in an embrace. As I breathed in his scent of rosemary and citrus, only one thought was running through my mind:Please don’t let this be what breaks us.
Chapter 24
Laurent left three weeks later. All his things, so recently unpacked, were packed up again and shipped to the Berlin flat his new employer had helped set up. He’d quit his hated office job, ended his lease with Madame Blanchet, regretfully informed Fatima that he could no longer work the gala, and suggested the sous chef he thought most prepared to take his place.
Now he and I stood inside his apartment. It was bare except for one suitcase, one extremely expensive cat carrier with an extremely expensive cashmere blanket lining the bottom, and one extremely spoiled gray cat ignoring us as she tore apart a catnip mouse.
“So,” Laurent said.
We were doing our best to make this separation as painless as possible. Laurent already had his train booked to visit me in four weeks, and I’d be going to see him two weeks after that. We had scheduled times to call each other every day. It wouldn’t last forever. But I still was miserable.
“It’s only right that you take this job,” I said. “Everyone knows that Germany’s culinary scene needs all the help it can get.”
My delivery was weak, but Laurent smiled all the same. “That’s my sunshine girl,” he said, and he pulled me into an embrace. “Thank you for supporting me.”
“I’m in the business of making dreams come true,” I said, my voice muffled against his shirt collar. “Just promise me you won’t get grumpy if a diner asks for curry sauce on their coq au vin. Remember, they don’t know any better.”
Laurent laughed, his chest rumbling against mine.
“And you won’t turn into terrible, workaholic Laurent?” A desperate note crept into my voice.
Laurent hugged me tighter. “I promise. If I start sleeping in the kitchensand skipping showers, I’ll reel myself back in.”
“You skipped showers? Wow, no wonder you got dumped.” We smiled at each other, both of us trying our hardest to keep things light. If we could laugh, then nothing was so bad. Right?
“Here,” I said, “I brought you something.” I pulled a small box out of my purse and pressed it into his hands. Laurent opened it to reveal six perfect macarons.
“I thought you deserved some that weren’t broken.” I said softly.
Laurent smiled at the memory. He gently lifted a macaron and bit into it, chewing slowly.
“Pistachio,” he said, grinning wider. “You got the flavor just right.”
His phone buzzed in his pocket. “That’ll be my taxi.”
Laurent looked sad but excited. I couldn’t imagine how I looked; I had about twenty emotions pulsing through me.
Laurent kissed me again, then bent down to pick up his suitcase and cat carrier. I walked him to the door and held it open for him.
“À bientôt,” I said. It was a deliberate choice of words. It meant, not goodbye, but closer to “bye for now.” You only used it when you knew you’d be seeing the person again soon, when being reunited was a sure thing.
“À bientôt, Margot,” Laurent said. His golden eyes held mine for a moment. Then he slipped into the taxi and was gone.
***
As winter trundled on, frost congealed on the windowpanes, snow turned to slush, and we passed around mug after mug of vin chaud and hot toddies at Le Jules Verne.
At the start of the year, I’d excitedly told Yasmine what Laurent had promised on Christmas. If she had any lingering doubts over our relationship, she hid them well, shrieking in surprise and promising to take me to look at rings so I could get an idea of what I’d like. Every time I thought back to that conversation it was as though I had a little flame inside me, banishing the gloominess.
Preparations for the gala continued. I worked as hard on my recipes as ever,trying not to let the fact that Laurent was no longer part of it dent my enthusiasm. He’d be at the gala, he’d promised, so he could see what I’d worked so hard on.
A frozen February morning found the culinary team doing test runs of our recipes in the kitchens again.
“I want every recipe to be a well-oiled machine by the day of the gala. You should be able to make this food in your sleep,” Fatima declared, looking surprisingly stern in a ruffled apron.
I was making the macarons today, three colors to match my three fillings: lemon, pistachio, and fig. I had the recipes finalized down to the exact gram of almond flour I needed, so this meeting was mostly to assuage Fatima’s concerns and butter up (as it were) a group of visiting high-roller donors with food.
