by Sandra Byrd
Dear Monsieur/Madame,
As the proprietor and chief baker of the Boulangerie du Belle Vue, I commend to you Anne Beaufort. Mile Beaufort has worked at my bakery since the age of seventeen, starting as a commis but learning the trade in the ensuing years. I do understand her desire to live and work closer to Paris, but our loss is your gain, certainement.
Mlle Beaufort is trained in all forms of bread baking, specializing, of course, in those of Norman origin. She is also a growing pâtissière.
For further information, do not hesitate to contact me at the phone number below.
Proprietor
“Bon!” A large smile crossed Maman’s face. “You bake bread!”
“Yes,” Anne agreed.
“And brioche?”
“Oui, I am fine at the brioche,” Anne agreed. In fact, she was competent with all breads, which is why she knew it was not simply her technique or bad yeast that had been a problem at school some weeks back. But why did Maman bring up the brioche, specifically? Come to think of it, no one had said anything at all to me about the brioche dough I’d left for Philippe last weekend.
“Then you can come in the afternoons all weekend while Mademoiselle Lexi is with her papa,” Maman said, interrupting my thoughts. “We’re very glad to have you”.
I smiled wanly. Had I replaced myself simply for the weekend or replaced myself altogether?
On Friday, I finished up my ice cream projects and then hopped on the train and came right home. I wanted to finish tidying up before Dad arrived and make him something special too.
I hadn’t spent any time just with my dad for years. Usually Mom was there too. Since she’d just gone to Italy, I think she wanted Dad to have his special trip as well.
As I cleaned, I thought about my conflicting feelings for my father. I wanted to tidy up the place and make him proud—but I wanted him to be proud of me when I wasn’t tidy too. I wanted him to be pleased with my new job, but also not care what the job was.
When I’d finished cleaning, I opened my laptop to check if his flight had been delayed, or if he’d be here on time.
No delays, in fact he’d landed a bit early. Allowing for time to rent a car, he’d be here in about two hours. I scanned the cottage. It was ready.
I checked my e-mail. A chatty one from Tanya, a forward from my brother. At the bottom of the list, one from Dan. With attachments.
I caught my breath and opened it.
Hi Lexi,
How are you? How goes the baking? Just checking to see if we’re still on for my visit. If so, I’ll be there in about a month. I’m looking forward to it. Any chance you can take a day off? I’d like to do a little sightseeing together. Not sure what your schedule looks like, or if you have time for an old friend.
Friend. My chest dropped a little.
Let me know either way, and if I need to make any arrangements. Otherwise, I’ll plan to stay at the Sofitel in the Sixteenth Arrondissement, so it’s closer to your village for drop-off, etc. I’ll rent a car.
You asked about the softball season, and I’m sorry to be so long in replying. Things have been really busy around here. We came out nearly on top of the league, which was great. I attached a picture of us in case you want to see.
Talk with you soon,
Dan
Not “Yours, Dan,” but “Talk with you soon, Dan”.
Why did it matter that he was not “mine” anymore, anyway? I was the one who said we should leave things with no ties. I wanted to be fair to him. And, if I was honest, to myself, it was because I didn’t know what job—or guy—might be waiting for me in France. I’d heard both that distance made the heart grow fonder and that distance made the fond heart wander. Maybe, in my case, it was the former and not the latter.
I clicked on the picture and downloaded it. When it opened, I saw a group of dusty, happy, young professionals with a sunny Seattle skyline in the background. My heart skipped a beat when I saw Dan. I hadn’t forgotten what he looked like, but the picture brought it all back into my mind’s focus. His boyish grin, the rumpled, attractive way he looked in the softball uniform. His strawberry blond hair slightly slicked back.
Right next to him, leaning on him, was the only other person I recognized. An attractive brunette with a sprinkle of freckles in a catcher’s uniform, which made her look sporty and fun rather than bulky.
Nancy. The woman who had been coming on to him in his office last spring.
At the time, Dan hadn’t been interested. But that was before I moved.
Yeah, Lexi, you moved. You picked your life, he’s picked his.
I deleted the picture.
After shutting down the computer, I turned on the oven. Dan was coming in a month—as a friend. And as a friend, I’d show him around. I’d do it for anybody. But he’d moved on, and so must I.
I pulled out my dad’s favorite cupcake recipe and began to mix, focusing on Dad again. This simple recipe was more special to me than almost any other, since it had been my very first. As I baked the cupcakes, though, I was thinking more about millle-feuille, someone else’s favorite dessert.
A couple hours later a small Renault pulled into the driveway. I saw a curtain move in the big house. Papa had been peeking through the window. I didn’t care. I ran out to meet my own papa.
“Dad!” I flew out the door and to the car. My dad, who had never been exceptionally affectionate, greeted me with a bear hug. Then he grabbed his small carry-on case from the passenger seat and walked toward the cottage with me.
“So here we are in France,” he said.
“Yes,” I grinned. “Here we are”. Paris, my dream. Normandy, his. “Let me show you my home”.
I ushered him into the cottage. “Ta da!” I showed him around the small kitchen, the living room, my bedroom. “You can set your stuff down in here,” I said. “I’ll sleep on one of the chairs in the living room tonight”.
“Bah,” Dad said. “What kind of gentleman allows a lady to sleep on a chair while he’s in a bed? I’ll sleep on the floor with a pillow and some blankets. And you made us a reservation for tomorrow night in Normandy, right?”
“Right,” I said. “In Caen, near the beaches you want to see”.
The tips of his ears went pink with anticipation.
After he’d settled in, we walked through the village.
“Wow, this is unusual—old and interesting,” he said as we took my typical path past the rough rock walls, the stucco houses with age cracks lining their dignified faces, the wooden shutters keeping out both weather and change. He seemed surprised at the pleasant way people exchanged “Bonjour!” with one another on the streets. We sat down at the café in the village square to have a coffee, and then I took him to the bakery.
Odette was at the front counter. Her back was turned to me, and I saw her making pleasant—pleasant!—conversation with Anne. Anne looked in her element—confident, side-by-side with the baker Kamil. I sighed. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have expected to see her name embroidered on her uniform.
“Is Maman here?” I asked Odious.
“But of course. Maman only takes a vacation in August,” she said. I bit back the response that if she had a life, she might need time off too.
I introduced Dad to Anne, who tried out her shiny, new English on him. He took to her. I could tell by the way he leaned toward her before answering. I was glad.
Then Maman came forward.
“I’d like you to meet my father,” I said, introducing them.
“Enchantée,” my father said, taking off his cap and making a slight bow.
Maman giggled and responded, “Enchantée, Monsieur”.
For a minute I was bemused, as she looked slightly flirtatious. Then I remembered she was flirting with my very married father.
“I hope our city is being as kind to your daughter as you have been to mine,” Dad said. I translated for him.
“Your daughter is très gentil,” she responded. “I hope her stay w
ith us will be memorable”.
It was a nice thing to say, but it emphasized the impermanence of my visit. Dad glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. He’d caught it too.
We strolled back through the village, and two of the villagers said hello to me. One bakery regular stopped to converse, and I was so grateful she’d said hello when my father was along.
Dad bought a bottle of Grand Marnier to take back for Nonna. We stopped at another store, and he bought a beautiful silk scarf with a silver pin for Mom. Then we went back to my cottage for dinner.
I’d whipped up a little veal dish, knowing he preferred meat. And afterward, I presented the dessert.
He sat back at the table with his toothpick, which made me extremely glad we were alone, and a big grin broke out over his face. “White cupcakes with sprinkles,” he said. “Just like you made me in your Easy-Bake Oven when you were a little girl”.
I smiled. “They’re the Dad Special”. I put one on a plate for him.
“Speaking of little girls, I brought that trinket you asked for,” he said. “I’ll get it after dinner”.
“Thanks, Dad,” I responded. I know he wanted an explanation, but I didn’t offer one. I wasn’t ready to have a conversation about it yet.
We chatted for a while and then jet lag got the best of him.
“Well, hon, I’m heading to bed. Big day tomorrow, and I’m pretty beat”.
I stood on my tiptoes to kiss him goodnight and he headed to the living room to sleep. I hoped Normandy would be more rewarding for him than Versailles had been for me. But I’d been alone.
I opened my e-mail before bed, just to check. Nothing new. Then I lay in bed for a long time, and when I fell asleep, I dreamed I was on the losing team in a softball match.
The next morning we got up early and packed the car. Dad stopped in the kitchen and looked at my blackboard.
“What’s this?” he asked.
I explained to him about French café and bakery menus, and how I was using my blackboards for my own menus.
“Who’s Jean?”
“It’s French for John. I’m reading the book of John in the Bible. When I can get to church”.
“You’re going to church here?” He seemed surprised.
“Yeah, I am. I … I actually feel the need even more here than at home,” I admitted.
“I’m going to church too,” he said gruffly, almost under his breath.
Now it was my turn to be surprised. “Really?” My dad hadn’t voluntarily gone to church for as long as I could remember.
“Well, since we moved, you know, your mother doesn’t have her friends at church, so I said I’d go with her until she made some”.
I nodded. Inside, I tingled. Here’s hoping Mom didn’t find friends at church any time soon.
It was four hours to the Norman beaches, but I loved the drive. Without a car, I was limited in my ability to sightsee, and with few days off and a heavy school load, my time was even more diminished.
“This is the old road Louis XIV used,” I told Dad. We grinned at the pleasure of being somewhere old and established.
We traveled through folds of land, roads tucked into rolling hills, and lush green valleys dotted with little farmsteads hidden away and completely unspoiled, seemingly untouched by the march of time. The farms were family operations, with maybe two cows looking wonderingly our way, a couple sheep bleating, and weed-whacking goats. Bossy hens dominated many fields. Sometimes a tired old man on a tired old tractor ambled by, face grizzled by the sun.
“There are apple trees everywhere,” Dad commented as we drove by yet another sign advertising tastings and visits to cider farms.
“Normandy is famous for apples,” I said, glad to be able to share my knowledge with him for a change.
We drove up the narrow gravel road through an old apple orchard, finally pulling over at a crumbling Tudor building. It looked like Henry VIII could have hefted the beams himself during the meeting at the Field of Cloth of Gold. I liked being inside the musty building of stone and timber. We tasted both fermented and unfermented homemade cider.
“I like this one,” Dad said after tasting the pommeau. I agreed with him—it tasted like a caramel apple to me. He bought a bottle from a wizened woman with skin like a walnut shell, and then we were back in the car and on our way.
Soon we arrived at Caen, where we would catch a tour bus to the beaches of Normandy. Dad was not an army guy—he was marine all the way—but all military men knew and honored the meaning of D-Day, the day the Norman beaches were invaded at great cost to American, Canadian, and English soldiers. It was the beginning of the end of World War II and the beginning of the end of the misery for the French of the time, who’d suffered starvation, humiliation, and hopelessness under Nazi occupation.
We toured the Caen War Memorial and ate lunch in the Memorial cafeteria. Then we boarded the tour bus. Dad pointed for me to sit near the window, but I insisted. “No, Dad. You”.
The bus stopped at the artificial harbor at Arromanches and then at the German gun battery at Longues-sur-Mer.
“I can almost imagine the enemy entrenched here,” Dad said quietly.
Lastly, we walked Omaha Beach. The sand was smooth and clean, white and peaceful, and dotted with carefree kids, as beaches should be. But thinking back to the war reel I’d watched with Dad as a kid, it didn’t take much to imagine the bodies of the men who had died here, churning in the gunmetal gray surf. They’d died for me, for Dad, and for Anne and Maman too. I was profoundly thankful to them. In spite of the large number of people standing on the sand, it was silent.
“We’ll save the American Military Cemetery for tomorrow,” Dad said as we reboarded the bus, “if it’s all right with you. I still have a little jet lag, and I don’t want to be sleepy for that”.
I nodded my agreement.
We got back to the car, drove to the hotel, and had a quick dinner. I ordered oyster shooters. Dad, predictably, refused them.
“I’ll take a steak,” he said. “American style”. I refused to roll my eyes.
The next morning was Sunday, and as I got dressed, I was very aware of missing church. I wondered if Buki would be there. I wondered if Gabby was sitting next to Philippe. I wondered if Mom was okay sitting alone in her church on Whidbey Island. Tanya and Steve went to church together every week now, and I expected her to tell me any day that he’d asked her to marry him. I wondered if Dan was still teaching Sunday school. I wondered if Nancy was a Christian.
“Ready?” Dad knocked on my door and I picked up my travel case and followed him out. After a quick breakfast of yogurt, fruit, and a croissant, we headed to the American Military Cemetery at Colleville-sur-Mer.
Dad led the way. At the last minute, I took my Bible with me. We found a bench to sit on and looked at the miles of bleached crosses stretching out before us. We sat there for a long time, me reading ahead in John so I wouldn’t disturb Dad or make him feel rushed. He remained quiet for a long time.
After half an hour, I came to John 15. I grinned. Another food analogy—the vine. I’d have to remember to tell Anne. I tucked it away to come back to later, as I felt the pressure on my heart to keep reading. When I came to John 15:13, I stopped.
Tell him, a voice whispered in my heart.
“Dad?” I said. “I came across something I want to share with you”.
He turned away from the sea of graves and I saw a tear in the corner of his eye, clinging without dropping, like the last raindrop on a leaf. “Yes?”
I read John 15:13 aloud in French, then translated it for him. “Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends”. I let my eyes rise to the field thick with crosses. “I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master’s business. Instead, I have called you friends”.
It was a holy moment for both of us, but especially Dad. I felt God was working in his life in a way I couldn’t understand, in a way that would not have happe
ned anywhere other than the American Military Cemetery in Normandy, France.
We drove home and Dad dropped me off at the cottage before heading to the airport for his overnight flight back to Seattle. As we arrived at the cottage, Céline ran out of the house.
“Lexi!” She gave me a big hug and then saw my dad. “Bonjour,” she said.
“Anglais,” I told her, indicating she should speak to my dad in English.
“Very pleased to meet you,” she said in sweetly accented English. “Papa and I missed you at church today,” she said to me. I saw Philippe out of the corner of my eye, heading toward us.
My stomach felt suddenly unsettled as he arrived. He smiled warmly at us, and I saw that his genuine kindness emanated even toward my dad.
“Dad, this is Philippe. He works at one of the bakeries. He’s Luc’s cousin”.
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Philippe said.
“You too,” Dad said. “So you’re a baker?”
“He’s the best baker. And the owner,” Céline bragged. I smiled at her, remembering how I’d bragged on my daddy’s rank when I was a little girl.
I saw my father’s eyebrow raise. Philippe as the owner was much more interesting to him than Philippe as a simple baker. Dad cleared his throat. His bald patch turned red, and I realized he might have understood there was more to my relationship with Philippe than simply employer and employee. But Dad’s manners were, as always, intact. “Thank you for giving my Lexi a job here”.
“It’s our pleasure,” Philippe said. “Alexandra is a wonderful baker and her cheerfulness is a pleasant addition to any of our bakeries. We hope she’ll be with us for a long time”.
My dad nodded thoughtfully, not answering. I rushed in with some small talk, and then Céline and Philippe went back to the big house.
“Are you happy, Lexi?” Dad asked as he put his travel case in the passenger side of the car.
“I am, Dad,” I said. “I don’t know what lies ahead, but I know I’m very glad to be here. I’m starting to belong”.
