Page 55 of From Paris, with Butter
Although, to be honest, even a small family gathering would have overwhelmed me. I hadn’t really celebrated any holiday since my mother had died. The first Christmas after, my grandmother had still been alive, so I’d gone through the motions of the day, even though I was still numb to everything. She’d passed away a few months later, and even though there were some aunts and uncles who I’m sure would have let me join them for the holidays, I’d moved so much growing up I wasn’t close to any of them. It became easier to just stay home and pick up extra shifts so others could spend time with their own families.
But now I was being forced to remember what it was like to be part of a family unit again, and I was terrified. Hence all the baking.
The train from Paris to Aix-en-Provence was over three hours, but it passed easily. Laurent insisted I take the window seat, so I watched as nearly the whole of France flew by, all the cities and villages and farms where people were getting ready to celebrate Christmas—or, as I did, grit their way through the holiday season untilit passed.
I was feeling cozy right now, though, warm in my cashmere sweater and with my baked goods safely tucked away in the rack above us. Next to me, Laurent was flipping through a cookbook and making neat notes in the margins.
I leaned over his shoulder to see what he was writing. In a list of ingredients for soup au pistou, he’d crossed out “two celery stalks” and replaced it with “two-and-a-quarter celery stalks.”
“You can’t possibly think that quarter of a celery stalk makes a difference,” I said teasingly.
“It makes all the difference,” Laurent said gravely, brow furrowed as he continued reading the recipe. “I made this soup once with only the two stalks, and it was unbalanced.” He glanced up. “You always carefully measure ingredients when you bake.”
“Of course. But I’ve also never spent an hour at the market trying to choose three carrots. What was your excuse for that?”
“That wasveryimportant work,” Laurent said huffily. “The carrots needed to be the same width, otherwise they’d finish cooking at different times. It would have completely ruined the dish.”
I grinned. No matter how many times I teased Laurent, it still riled him up. I leaned my head against his shoulder.After a second or two of pretending to be deeply offended, he enveloped me in his arms.
See? I can conquer anything with this man. His family will be a piece of cake.
My phone buzzed, indicating an email. It was from Fatima, wishing me a good holiday and signing her approval on my proposed pastry menu for the gala. Laurent had offered to straighten things out with the gala team, but I’d declined his offer. If Sabine wasn’t just stirring up trouble and Fatima reallywasdisappointed with me, I wanted to know so I could exit gracefully. When I’d spoken to her, though, she’d been baffled.
“We’re delighted you’re here, Margot,” she’d assured me. “I did mention to Sabine I wanted to taste each of your ideas before approving the menu, but that’s all. Sabine must have misunderstood.”
Quite the misunderstanding,I’d thought to myself, although I certainly hadn’t said that to Fatima. In any case, gala plans had gone ahead, and Sabine hadn’t tried to stir up any more trouble.
I was jolted back to the present as we pulled into the Aix train station.
“Good lord,” I murmured, looking at the crowd assembled on the platform. “Half the town’s here.”
“That’s just the Roche family welcoming party,” Laurent said, peering out the window. “Look, they’re all waving.” He waved back cheerily.
I suddenly had an idea of what it must feel like to be an animal in a zoo. There had to be at least two dozen people there, all (like Laurent) smartly-dressed, good-looking, and grinning widely. They were all talking over each other and laughing as the train eased to a stop.
When we disembarked, we were swarmed like celebrities.
“You must be Margot, welcome to Provence!” a woman with thick glasses said.
“How was the train ride?” an elderly man asked.
“Are you hungry?”
“Did you bring us presents?” a redheaded boy asked me hopefully.
“I’m glad you forgave my dumb big brother for that night at the restaurant. He really was such an ass.” That came from Noelle, the petite blonde woman I recognized from Le Jules Verne, although she looked hugely happier than she had that evening. Laurent caught his sister up in a hug.
I gave up trying to answer any of them. Instead, I just smiled and kissed any cheek that presented itself.
There was a caravan of cars parked outside the station, and Laurent and I were hustled into Noelle’s green Peugeot. Up close, Noelle looked the way I imagined fairies would when I was a child: pale and delicate, but pulsing with life. She had the same gold-flecked eyes as her brother.
“I have no idea why you gave Laurent another chance, Margot, but I’m glad you did,” Noelle said. “I could tell you were a nice person even when you were telling Laurent off. Which, again, he completely deserved.” She flashed a grin.
“Mom and Dad are at the house,” Noelle said to her brother as she checked her mirrors. “They’ve been going insane getting everything perfect. The gardeners are on holiday so Mom had Dad trimming the hedges with her kitchen shears.”
“Ah,” I said, turning to Laurent with a grin. “So the perfectionism trait is inherited?”
“Did Laurent ever tell you about the time he skipped school?” Noelle asked, smirking. I shook my head.
