Elvire’s jaw dropped. “Where am I?”
“Paradise,” I said. “With me, my mom, and my friend. And your friends.”
While the girls swam in the pool feeling like princesses of the desert, Mom, Debra, and I popped open a bottle of champagne. Debra placed her hand on my back. “I’ve never seen you so happy. You’ve really hit the jackpot with Jean-Luc. He’s really a great guy. I love him. And I’m in love with these girls. I’m so, so happy for you.”
“You know what, Debra,” I said, “I’ve never been happier in my life.”
“Let’s celebrate,” said my mom, holding up her glass.
“Things work out for a reason,” said Debra. “And, Sam, you deserve happiness. We all do.”
We settled back on lounge chairs with smiles on our faces.
After our day at the desert, I’d signed the girls up for two days of surf lessons. It was so cute seeing them in black and pink Roxy wet suits. I sat on the beach, taking pictures and cheering each of them on as they caught a wave, gliding gracefully across the water. Elvire skipped onto the beach, breathless.
“A seal was swimming next to me,” she screeched.
“That’s so cool,” I said. “Were you scared?”
She shook her head no. “Mais, cool? Our instructor, Joe, is like a character,” said Elvire. “He has blond dreadlocks and he speaks so funny. What’s ‘rad’?”
“Rad is when your mom tries to surf,” said Joe.
Elvire didn’t even blink at the word “mom.” My heart skipped a beat.
He dragged a long-board over, handing it over to me, along with a wet suit. “Your turn.”
I gave it the good old college try. It took me three times, with Joe swimming and pushing the board behind me, until I caught my first wave. From the beach, the girls screamed, “Soooooooo rad!”
Every evening we ate with my parents, me cooking, mostly barbecues, and on more than one occasion, we went out under the stars for a midnight swim. My mom was making the girls pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream for breakfast when Rayna walked into the kitchen.
I ran up and gave her hug. “Rayna! I’ve missed you.”
Rayna had worked for my mom for well over ten years, cleaning, but she wasn’t just a hire, she was part of the family. She was an immigrant from Guatemala, and my parents sponsored her when she was on the road to becoming an American. She was also there every step of the way when I was going through my divorce and rekindling my relationship with Jean-Luc. I’d return home from walking dogs and Rayna would exclaim, “You have a package! Flowers from France!” After Jean-Luc and I reconnected, and while I was still living at home with the parental units, Jean-Luc sent me orange and hot pink roses—my favorite color combo—every three months, from a French company that delivered to the U.S.
Rayna stepped back. “You have lost weight,” she said. “I liked you better when you were more gordito.”
“Gordito?”
“Fatter!” she said. “Woman are always better with more meat on their bones. Promise me you won’t get too skinny.”
“I promise,” I said. “But maybe I could stand to lose three more pounds?”
“No,” said Rayna. “Be gordito.” We talked about life as an immigrant. All the trials and tribulations. She asked me who cleaned. I said I did. And Jean-Luc too. Who cooks? Me, I said. I told her about the tuna noodle casserole fiasco. She gave me another huge, heartfelt hug and then grabbed the vacuum cleaner, about to head upstairs to the girls’ room.
I blocked her path. “Don’t go up there. For you, it’s off limits. I’ll clean it later.”
But there was no stopping Rayna. Her jaw dropped. Then, she threatened to grab garbage bags to throw away all of the clothes littering the floor. “Ay-yai-yai,” she said. “Never, never, never, never…”
“Teenage girls,” I said, embarrassment flushing my cheeks.
The phone rang just in time. It was Jean-Luc. “The police were just here for you.”
My heart nearly jumped out of my ribcage. “What? What are you talking about?”
He laughed. “Don’t worry about it. They just wanted to interview you for your ten-year carte de séjour. Oh, and they wanted to make sure that you live here with me, to make sure we don’t have a mariage blanc. I explained to the gendarme that you were in Los Angeles with Elvire. They want me to call when you are back in town.”
“Why?”
“So they can interview you,” he said.
Les fonctionnaires at the préfecture never mentioned an interview. Surprise! I was already nervous. Police scared the bejesus out of me. Out of all the dumb luck, the gendarme showed up at our home when I wasn’t in town, and our marriage probably looked sketchy. But I was where I was and there was nothing I could do about it, except pray.
The girls’ last night in town was July 4, and they were excited to experience an American tradition—the barbecues, the fireworks, the parties. A friend of my mother’s invited us over to his house for a get-together. A woman approached as I was making my way from the outside deck to the living room. The conversation started off amicably enough. The usual—“Oh, you’re so lucky to live in France! I love Paris,” to “How did you meet your husband?” to “Do you have kids?” I pointed to Elvire.
“I have two. That’s Elvire, my, er, uh, stepdaughter. Her brother, Max, and their dad are joining us in a few weeks…”
The woman’s eyes widened as she processed my answers, and severe awkwardness ensued. Her questions now carried a judgment. After living in France, I’d become accustomed to the French way of life, especially with strangers. “On s’occupe de ses oignons,” or minds one’s own business. This woman, however, wouldn’t back off. And all of a sudden she had me confessing that I’d had three consecutive miscarriages.
The woman eyed me, and then Elvire, and said, “Well, it’s never too late. A friend of mine just had a baby at fifty. How old are you?” She continued to blabber on about how there is nothing like having a child of your own. I tuned her out when she brought up the latest developments on in vitro fertilization.
Once my jaw recovered from being completely unhinged, my lips clenched together into a trembling smile. “Thanks,” I said, “I’ll keep that in my mind,” and, slowly, I backed away from the table, heading straight to the margarita bar. Screw the margarita. Give me a few shots of tequila.
Elvire noticed that I was upset and, after asking for a daiquiri for her and her friends to share, she asked why. So I told her what the woman had said. Her upper lip curled into a sneer.
“Do you mind if I just tell people that you and Max are my kids? My real kids?” I asked.
She hugged me and said, “That’s fine. We are your kids. Well, almost.”
I hugged her back. Hard.
An hour later, my parents, the girls, and I escaped the party. We headed home for a barbecue and then over to the Malibu Pier to watch the fireworks. The night was capped off with a midnight dip in the pool.
A few days later, Manon and Emma were replaced with Tracey and her baby girl, Vivienne. I finally met my beautiful goddaughter. Happier than I’d ever been, I wasn’t jealous, because I was an almost mom. And I was almost French.
Back in France, my appointment with the gendarme was surreal. My interviewer was muscular and tan, his bulging biceps struggling against the confines of his tight uniform. His teeth sparkled, whiter than white. His hair was perfectly coiffed, gelled to perfection. He was a beefcake. Did my life in France hinge upon the opinion of a twenty-four-year-old French Chippendale dancer disguised as a government official? I waited for him to whip out a boom box, to watch him strip while I clapped along to a familiar boy-band song. But this wasn’t a bachelorette party; it was serious. Victor asked a few questions, his long, dark eyelashes fluttering, like how long had Jean-Luc and I been married and where had we met. Then, he and Jean-Luc talked about scuba diving for half an hour. Before Victor left, he told me that my card would be ready in a few months. Apparently, I passed t
he immigrant test!
Sometimes I liked to walk in the park a few blocks from our house, to watch the children riding their bikes and scooters and the mallard ducks with their baby ducklings, or to just decompress in nature, occasionally catching a glimpse of dragonflies in the stream. I was sitting on a bench, smiling like a fool, when an old man walking wearing a cap and walking his dog came up to me.
“Can I join you?” the man asked.
“Yes, please do,” I said, sensing he wanted to talk to somebody.
We were exchanging the normal pleasantries, talking about the weather, when he turned to me. “Where are you from? Belgium?”
“No,” I said, holding back my smile. This was the first time somebody hadn’t asked if I was English. “I’m from the U.S. Los Angeles and Chicago.”
His jaw dropped. “What are you doing here? In Cugnaux?”
“I’m married to a Frenchman,” I said, patting the head of his dog.
“Aren’t you bored? There is nothing to do here,” he huffed. “Guess where I’m from?” he asked. “Can you tell me the name of the beautiful island off the coast of France?”
I took a wild guess. “L’île de Porquerolles? ”
“Bah,” he said. “I’m from Corsica. I still have a house there, just meters from the sea. I’m moving back there for good one day. The biggest mistake I ever made was marrying a Frenchwoman from Cugnaux. There’s nothing to do here,” he repeated. “It’s flat and it’s boring.”
“I love it here. Really I do. In a few hours, we can drive to the Atlantic coast, or the vineyards, the Mediterranean Sea or the mountains. We can explore old castles and beautiful villages, visiting ruins…”
“I’m still moving back to Corsica.” The old man shrugged. “Your French is very, very good, by the way.”
“Merci,” I said. “Merci beaucoup.”
At home, Jean-Luc was rummaging through the refrigerator. I sneaked up, hugging him from behind, my arms looped under his, my hands resting on his broad shoulders. “What are you looking for?” I asked.
He turned to face me, holding the eggplant we’d picked up at the market in the morning. “I wanted to make a tian Provençal to go with the barbecued lamb.”
“Do you need my help?”
“You remember how to prepare it?”
“I remember everything,” I said. “Now, let’s get to it.”
Jean-Luc pulled me in for a hard kiss. I withdrew from the embrace and raised my brows in surprise, pointing to the ceiling. “The kids are upstairs,” I said, and he laughed his warm, teasing laugh.
I shot him a sideways glance and grabbed two cutting boards and two knives from the sink, laying them down next to the pile of gleaming vegetables in front of us. I picked up a courgette, thinking about zucchini with its French name. So much had changed in three years. I’d even started dreaming in French.
Wordlessly, side-by-side, we sliced up the tomatoes, red onions, eggplant, and zucchini, placing them in a ceramic baking dish in tight rows. The end result was a vibrant display of alternating colors of green, deep purple, and two shades of red. The kitchen smelled of summer, sweet and fresh. I handed Jean-Luc the fleur de sel and pepper while I crushed the garlic. A little olive oil and some herbes de Provence, and our glistening creation was ready for the oven.
“We work well together,” I said.
“It’s only a vegetable dish.” Jean-Luc placed the tian in the oven, setting the timer for forty minutes. He popped his lips and shrugged his shoulders. “It’s simple.”
“It’s more than simple.” I grabbed a serving platter, placed the lamb leg on it, and seasoned the meat with herbes de Provence and a little olive oil on autopilot. “It’s perfect.”
Jean-Luc’s eyes flashed with understanding. “Anything can be built when you have the right tools. And we’ve built more than a few hundred meals together; we’ve constructed a new life.”
I eyed the bracelet on my wrist, the amethyst heart that had rested on my pulse ever since he’d given it to me on our second anniversary. Yes, here I was, living a new life in the here, in the now, right where I was supposed to be.
“Je t’aime,” I said.
“Je t’aime, aussi, mon coeur,” he said.
Recipes for Love
JEAN-LUC’S TRADITIONAL TIAN PROVENÇAL
Prep time: 15 minutes
Cook time: 35 minutes
Serves: 4 to 6
Great for: side dish for pork, chicken, and lamb, or stand-alone vegetarian meal
Wine suggestion: Bandol Blanc or rosé
•2 red onions, peeled and sliced
•1 clove garlic, peeled, de-germed, and finely minced
•2 zucchini, skin on, sliced
•6 tomatoes, sliced
•1 large eggplant, sliced
•1 healthy pinch herbes de Provence
•1 healthy pinch fleur de sel or other coarse salt, to taste
•Freshly ground black pepper, to taste
Preheat oven to 400°F. In a skillet over medium heat, add a dash of olive oil, along with the onion and garlic, cooking until translucent, about 5 minutes. Place the onions in the bottom of a 9 x 12 baking pan. Drizzle with olive oil. Place the vegetables, alternating tomato, eggplant, and zucchini, in the pan on top of the onions until the whole baking dish is filled. (The vegetables aren’t layered, but stacked sideways like a spine.) Drizzle the vegetables with olive oil. Season with herbes de Provence, a bit of fleur de sel, and pepper, and bake for 35 minutes. Serve with rice or quinoa.
Kathy’s Goat Cheese and Balsamic Glaze Tian Provençal
Prep time: 15 minutes
Cook time: 35 minutes
Serves: 4 to 6
Great for: side dish, vegetarian meal, or for anyone who loves tomatoes and cheese
Wine suggestion: Sancerre Rosé
•1 log goat cheese, sliced*
•¾ cup balsamic vinegar
Preheat the oven to 400°F. Prepare Jean-Luc’s tian, and after the vegetables have been placed in the dish, add in the cheese slices. Bake for 25 minutes.
10 minutes before serving, in a small pot, heat the vinegar over high heat for about 5 minutes, until it reduces to a syrup-like consistency. Carefully pour over the vegetables and bake for another 5 minutes.
*Feta cheese is also delicious in this recipe.
JEAN-LUC’S SIMPLE POT-AU-FEU
Prep time: 30 minutes
Cook time: 3 hours in a Dutch oven or 1½ hours in a pressure cooker
Serves: 6
Great for: winter family dinner
Wine suggestion: a hearty Bordeaux
•1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
•1 cup lardons
•2 cloves garlic, peeled, de-germed, and finely minced
•3 pounds lean stewing beef, brisket, or rump roast
•2 marrow bones (optional)
•2 cups beef stock
•1½ teaspoons black peppercorns
•3 cloves
•1 bouquet garni (p. 132)
•4 carrots, peeled and sliced in 2-inch rounds
•3 to 4 leeks, sliced in 2-inch rounds
•3 celery stalks, roughly chopped
•2 onions, peeled and quartered
•¼ cup flat parsley, finely chopped, plus extra for garnish
•¼ cup tarragon, finely chopped, plus extra for garnish
•6 medium red or gold potatoes, halved
•½ cabbage head, quartered and heart removed (optional)
•2 rutabagas, peeled and quartered
•¼ cup chives, finely chopped, for garnish
•Whole grain or Dijon mustard, for serving
•Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
Heat up a Dutch oven or a large pot with the oil. Cook the lardons with the garlic until brown, and remove with a slotted spoon, setting aside onto a paper towel. Season the beef with salt and pepper, and, in the same pot, sear the beef on all sides until brown. Add the garlic mixture back into
the pot, and place the marrow bones (if using), beef stock, peppercorns, cloves, and bouquet garni in the pot, seasoning with salt and pepper.
Add in the carrots, leeks, celery, onion, parsley, and tarragon, and then add enough water to cover the meat and vegetables. Bring to a boil, then lower the heat to a simmer. Cover with a lid and cook for 2 hours. Add the potatoes, cabbage (if using), and rutabagas to the pot. Cover and simmer for 1 hour.
If using a pressure cooker, once the beef is prepared, add all the ingredients to the pot at once, cover, and cut the cooking time in half.
Remove the bouquet garni before serving, and season with salt and pepper. To serve, place the beef on a carving dish and cut into individually sized portions. Place the meat in bowls and cover with the broth and vegetables. Garnish with parsley, chives, and tarragon. Serve with a baguette and mustard on the side.
JEAN-LUC’S CHERRY CLAFOUTIS
Prep time: 15 minutes (plus 20 minutes of rest time)
Cook time: 30 to 35 minutes
Serves: 6 to 8
Great for: easy and delicious dessert
Wine suggestion: Rosé d’Anjou
•1 pound fresh cherries*
•1 cup all-purpose flour
•1 teaspoon baking powder
•¾ cup sugar
•1 tablespoon vanilla extract
•1 to 2 pinches ground cinnamon
•2 pinches salt
•4 eggs
•1½ cups whole milk
•Confectioners’ sugar, for garnish
How to Make a French Family Page 26
