Page 34 of Falling for Paris
Taking pictures of the dishes he cooked was her idea. He was experimenting with recipes to add to his cookbook. When he sent a few notes and images to his agent, the man wholeheartedly agreed that tracking the process as he prepared meals would help the production team tie everything together. Fine. It was all fine. Because the one thing that mattered to him was that he was cooking for someone he cared for.
He. Cooked. For. Her. Rafael had to slow down the thought because he didn’t know when, in the last ten days, this little routine started. They would return from one of the small French towns she wanted to visit. He would cook and Tori would be the cheerfulsous chef. When dinner was ready, she would carefully arrange the food pictures while he occasionally wrote down notes. He would consult them when ready to create the cookbook’s manuscript.
“Yes, that would do,” he answered, focusing on the pot. It was at the crucial point of removing the bundled herbs while adding the beans and vegetables. “In about three minutes, before the beans overcook, it needs a splash of sherry.”
She put the bowl beside the stove, pecked him on the cheek, and smelled the pot. “Can I do the splash?” she asked eagerly.
“Of course. And it will be my turn to take a picture,” he announced. He lifted his camera and captured his angel pouring the liquid into the stew.
“Now take it out of the heat,” he instructed from behind his phone.
She nodded studiously and moved the heavy pot.
“Should I plate it now?”
“A chef tastes frequently. Give it a try first.”
Victoria took a teaspoon from a dresser and daintily lifted the steaming liquid to her lips. Rafael zoomed into her pretty mouth. That’s when it struck him. This video of her cooking was one of a handful of memories he would have of Victoria. His breath hitched as a vise of longing clutched his chest.
Still recording, Rafael managed to ask, “Well? What do you think?”
“The duck offers a lot of flavor. A lot ofweight,” she said. “But the sherry lightens everything somehow. It’s amazing.”
She plated the dish and added a garnish of fresh herbs. Rafael had to stop the recording so she could take pictures of the dinner before they devoured it. He had to admit, Tori had an eye for finding the right angles and lighting to make the food look like, well, like home.
In the midst of their meal, their conversation meandered to the topic of their families. He loved hearing about her youngest sister’s adventures as a travel expert of some sort. Stories of her other sister raising twin boys were enjoyable as well. He didn’t cling to the details yet thoroughly enjoyed her soothing stories. He loved these conversations because he couldn’t get enough of the way she talked about her family, the affection and pride on her features.
“Do you visit your parents often?” she asked.
“I try to visit them in Montreal once a year,” he answered. And then he surprised himself by admitting, “This house was supposed to be theirs.”
“Really?”
“I bought it as a retirement present but…”
“They went to Montreal instead,” she finished the sentence when he found himself unable to continue. His parents moved to his mother’s hometown after retirement. They insisted that the cost of living in the Canadian city allowed them more flexibility and resources than staying in one of the most expensive cities in the world. He would have happily provided for them. Frugal as always, however, his parents refused to be a burden.
“In truth, it has turned out quite well. She reconnected with some friends from her childhood and my father has become an avid hockey fan,” he added.
“But you kept the house,” she said. “I’m glad you did, Rafael. I can’t imagine this house belonging to anyone but you.”
Certainly, the house was his refuge. Within these walls, he could be himself, even during the worst of his illness when he didn’t know what that meant anymore. It was his shelter from public scrutiny, his rest from hypervigilant anxiety. For a long time, this was the only place he didn’t feel self-conscious. This is the house in which he rebuilt his body with fitness routines and endured his pain in solitude. But, somehow, the woman in front of him tore down those exhausting walls. While she was here, the house turned from a fortress to a home.
She’d seen him work through muscle seizures a few times. Once, after he went for a run. Another time, right in the middle of turning the pasta maker, he felt the pain grab him like an ambush.
Each time, she brought him water, microwaved his weighted hot pack, and sat beside him as if they were just another couple relaxing together. She’d offer chatter, or play on her phone, or read a book. Or simply sit. No hassle. No pity. He knew because he looked rather closely. A flinch of distaste or a flood of overwrought emotion—he would have seen it. Instead, she offered her company: relaxed and unperturbed. Even earlier today, when he winced after a long walk under the blistering sun in a local vineyard, she suggested they sit under the shaded patio of the town market. The discomfort passed without much fuss at all.
So, even if his illness was kept at bay with planning and effort, it didn’t take over his every thought. No. Because the only one living in his mind twenty-four hours a day was his angel.
“Patrice loved the footage of the farm,” she said cheerily. “I’ve worked on marketing products before but we always hired people to capture footage or take pictures. I think I’m getting better at filming.”
He had to agree. “Not just filming. Patrice is asking for more of that footage of you. Apparently, you scowl less,” he was teasing but sincere. “And the people we interview seem to respond better to you than to me.” That was true as well.
During their visits along the countryside and nearby towns, Tori insisted on recording him. She chose the town, the local food specialty or store, and Rafael used his connections to get them special access. He chatted with people they met about cultivating, preparing, cooking, and celebrating food in various ways. These encounters weren’t meant to be rehearsed or polished. They were just something Tori enjoyed so he went along with her plans.
Whatever footage they gathered, they’d send to Patrice who would edit snippets as a popular feature in their school’s YouTube channel. They were a rather fantastic team, if he said so himself.
“If you’re done eating, I have a surprise for you,” she said.
