Page 56 of From Paris, with Butter
“Noelle, I don’t think this is the best way to—” Laurent began, but his sister spoke over him.
“He paid me ten euros to pretend to be our mother calling him out sick, hid in the garden until our parents left for work, then spent the day reorganizing the entire kitchen.” Noelle had the same laugh as Laurent.
“Apparently, the way our mother had it organized had been driving him crazy. When my parents got home and saw everything moved, Laurent tried to claim a vagrant must have broken in, not stolen anything, and taken the time to divide the rice into eight perfectly equal containers.”
“Only eight? These days he’s up to ten rice containers,” I said. Noelle and I both laughed as Laurent crossed his arms and grumbled about the challenges of living with the slovenly.
It was a fifteen-minute drive to Bouc-Bel-Air, the little village Laurent had grown up in. As Noelle expertly navigated the narrow streets, I peered out the window at the caramel-colored stone buildings. There was a clocktower, rows of pretty shops, and the crumbling remains of the town’s medieval castle perched on a hill. Surrounding the town were low, wild mountains, and I knew the sea must not be too far.
“What a beautiful place,” I said, half to myself.
“Isn’t it?” Noelle agreed, tucking a strand of her bob behind her ear. “Laurent’s been dying to leave his whole life.” She pulled up to a stone house surrounded by a sprawling garden. Laurent’s parents were waiting for us out front. As soon as I got out of the car, his mother embraced me and kissed me on each cheek.
“I’m so happy to meet you, Margot,” she said warmly. “I hope the train ride wasn’t too long.”
Laurent got his good looks from his mother: she had the same blond curls, although hers were long, and the same golden eyes and chiseled nose. She was casually yet elegantly dressed in a bronze-colored dress and cerulean shawl. She somehow looked both homey and ready for a night at the opera. Laurent’s father was stockier and had dark hair, but when he smiled, his whole face crinkled indelight, the same way Laurent’s did.
They led me inside, past the foyer and into the kitchen. Just seeing it made me smile. It was full of shelves, which were themselves full of various crockery and copper pots. There were red amaryllis in a ceramic vase and several bottles of wine on the table. The floor was stone, smooth and almost shiny from decades of wear, and the walls were brick. That should have made the room freezing, but there was a large fireplace with a roaring fire. I immediately wanted to settle into a chair with a pastry and glass of wine.
“Where’s Grand-mère?” Laurent asked his father.
“Your uncle is still picking her up; she had to finish packing. But they’ll be along for dinner,” Laurent’s father told him. Laurent relaxed a bit.
“It’s better to ease Margot in slowly. Meeting Grand-mère right away might terrify her,” Noelle said.
I smiled, assuming a joke, but everyone looked serious.
“What’s wrong with your grandmother?” I asked Laurent quietly.
“Oh, nothing’s the matter with Grand-mère,” Laurent’s mother said, her tone deliberately light. “She just takes a while to warm up to people.”
I looked at Laurent, wanting more information, but all he did was squeeze my shoulder reassuringly.
Just then, the door banged open and in flooded the rest of the family. They filled the kitchen to the brim, but in a way that made it seem full, not overwhelming. I was introduced to Laurent’s cousin Celine, who had the same smile as Laurent. Her two daughters launched themselves at Laurent, squealing with happiness at seeing their uncle and begging him to bake cookies with them.
“I will,” Laurent promised, trying to keep his balance while holding them both. “But do you know who’s going to help us? The best cookie maker I know.” He pointed in my direction, and both girls turned toward me, their eyes wide.
Immediately, they clambered down and began peppering me with questions about what cookies we were going to make, would they have chocolate, and could we start right now?
Other family members began pouring glasses of wine. Laurent put the bag filled with my baked goods on the table, where it was promptly attacked.
“Oh Margot, these are fabulous,” his mother said, holding a pain au chocolatin one hand and using the other to give my hand a gentle squeeze. “And what a beautiful ring. I’ve always loved emeralds.”
“Thank you,” I said, turning the ring so it caught the light. “It was my mother’s.” To avoid any awkward questions, Laurent had told his parents about my mother before we’d arrived. Laurent’s mother clearly remembered, for she pressed her hands to mine. It was just for a moment, but it was enough for me to feel the warmth in them.
“Laurent said you were a good baker, but he didn’t say you put half of France’s bakeries to shame,” Celine said, a bit of frosting from the éclair she’d just bitten into on the tip of her nose.
“Do you know Père Noël? Are these from him?” Celine’s younger daughter asked imperiously, a macaron in each hand.
Being with Laurent’s family was warm and easy, but still, after so much family togetherness, I was glad when Laurent and I finally escaped for a little time on our own.
“This was my bedroom when I was growing up,” he said, leading me across the garden.
“Your parents made you sleep outside?”
“No, silly. Here.” He stopped in front of a stone shed. “See?” he said, looking at the tiny building proudly. “Ah, they haven’t been weeding properly.” Laurent bent down to pluck a weed that was perhaps two centimeters tall. Then he opened the door and ushered me in.
Any thoughts I might have had about the Roches banishing their son to the shed disappeared as soon as I walked inside. It was like a treehouse, or a fort. A very, very tidy fort. There was a double bed spread with a patchwork quilt, a shelf with rows of cookbooks (carefully organized by descending size), a desk in the corner with a bronze lamp, and, in the other corner, a clothes rack with every item perfectly pressed, naturally.
