Bon Appetit

by Sandra Byrd

  “Yes, and this new tooth fairy is draining my bank account,” Philippe grumbled.

  After a few more minutes, we drove down the main street, with its twinkling with holiday lights, and delivered Céline to Patricia’s apartment.

  Then Philippe and I went to the café. A small quartet played jazz softly in the background, and the maître’d seated us.

  “Table à deux?” he asked.

  “Oui,” Philippe answered.

  I ordered the veal, as Philippe said it was very good. The café wasn’t fancy enough for me to wear the red dress I’d worn with Dan—and that would have felt strange, anyway. Instead, I wore a cashmere sweater with a loose cowl neck, also red. I knew red was a good color on me.

  “Congratulations on your schooling—the diplôme, the exhibition, everything,” Philippe said. “You’ve done very well. I really enjoyed your exhibit”. He grinned. “I knew you were a romantic”.

  “Yes,” I said. “I am. And with my best friend getting married soon …” The conversation felt awkward. “I’m glad to be done. And to have the monogrammed uniform”.

  “Oui,” he said. “They were delivered to the village, and Maman unpacked them. I imagine Odette was not too pleased when she saw it”.

  I sipped my wine and ate a stuffed olive before smiling. I was certain Odious was not happy.

  “I meant to ask you,” he said. “Do you have plans for Christmas?”

  “No”. I shook my head. “Not really. I plan to go to church”.

  “Bien sûr,” he said. “Of course. Even my papa and Patricia go to church on Christmas. But after?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Maman asked if you’d like to join the family at her house that night. Everyone will be there”.

  Finally! An invitation. I wouldn’t have to celebrate alone. “I’d love it,” I said.

  “You’ll get to see what Christmas is like in France,” he said. “Of course, I am sure it is wonderful in Seattle too. You must be eager to get back”.

  I carefully set my glass of wine down and looked at the table. “I like France, and I like Seattle,” I said. I was sure Patricia had talked to him about the job.

  “There’s no place for a woman like her own home,” Philippe said. “Even Patricia is eager to get back to Provence. Dominique is glad to be home, and so is Marianne. It’s okay to live somewhere else for a while, but after a time, one gets homesick. A woman misses her family, and then life is not so kind anymore. C’est natural”. He shrugged. “It seems like a good idea to bloom in your native soil”.

  “Oui,” I said, as the waiter delivered our main course.

  Was he trying to push me back to Seattle?

  Sixteen

  Every region has its own specialties, and whether it was Christmas Eve and the seafood dinner and the seven courses, whichever family you were from, it’s a visceral part of your life.

  Mario Batali

  Christmas Eve morning was crazy, filling orders at the Rambouillet bakery. We worked like an athletic team. We talked little, but each of us knew what the others needed, and we stepped up to the plate and made it happen. Later, most of us would celebrate at Maman’s house, so for now we focused on the work.

  Philippe put some Christmas music on in the back, and it made the entire area festive. Céline played with her fèves in the office and ate cookies nonstop.

  “Should I save one of the Bûche de Noël?” I asked Patricia. “For the dinner tonight?”

  “Non, non, non,” she said, clucking her tongue and wagging her finger. “Maman makes the Bûche de Noël. She has always, every year. Even when my own maman was alive”. Her eyes misted a little. “My maman was not a baker. Papa did it all”.

  “Okay,” I said. “Should I bring anything?”

  “Non,” she said. “And do not worry about gifts—no one expects you to bring any”. She clapped her hands and flour flew into the air.

  “I bought one for Céline … and one for Philippe,” I said. “Is that all right?”

  She grinned. “But of course!”

  We went back to work, and after filling all of our orders, we closed the bakery at noon. We’d be off for a few days, at least some of us would. Patricia would be going back to Provence after January 6.

  As we shut off the lights, I looked around the laboratoire and wondered if it should be my home. The bakery in Versailles would open after the first of the year. This was the last year Bûche de Noël would be made at Rambouillet.

  Patricia drove me home, which was nice in one sense, because I got home much, much faster than I would have on the train. Much, much, much faster. As soon as Patricia screeched into the driveway, I leapt out, thankful for my life.

  I saw Dominique, all dressed up, getting out of a car also. I looked down at my flour-and-chocolate-batter-splattered uniform, then at her neat, chic attire. Apparently, she hadn’t been at the bakery in the village that morning.

  She kissed a handsome young man who didn’t bother to get out of his sports car, then she waved as he screeched out of the driveway. He would certainly catch up to, and possibly even overtake, Patricia on the way back to town.

  I waved at Dominique, and she gave me a little Queen Elizabeth wave back before disappearing into the big house.

  It reminded me that I had better start packing. No matter where I went, I’d be leaving her cottage soon.

  I walked inside, looked at my chalkboard, and smiled. My lowtech French day planner. Jean 21 was listed as my Bible chapter. I would read it after Christmas. I wanted to read the Christmas passages this week.

  I put on some music and hot water for café presse. Just as I settled into a chair and put my feet up, there was a knock on the door. I got up and opened the door. “Oui? May I help you?”

  “Special delivery”. It was the FedEx man. Or, should I say, Exprèsse Fédérale? I signed for the package and took it inside.

  It was from Davis, Wilson, and Marks, with Dan’s name as the return address. I sat down and opened the box. Inside the FedEx box was a perfectly wrapped gold package. I pulled the beautiful tie off the top and used my new letter opener to slit the tape on the side. The wrap fell away and in my hand lay a box. When I opened it, I drew in a breath and smiled.

  It was the leather-bound volume of Jacques Prévert poetry I had admired—and bypassed—at the bouquinistes Dan and I had visited.

  Inside was a card with a quote written in Dan’s hand, followed by a note.

  I sank back into the chair, humbled and chastened by the fact that I’d thought Dan had overlooked me when really, he’d gone out of his way to remember just what I liked. I thumbed through the book, my heart rent by the words of Prévert as well as the feelings the gift stirred inside me. Part of me had wanted to believe he’d forgotten me, because if he had, he’d have made a decision for me. Now I was faced with making a decision on my own. Realizing the depth of his feelings pierced the thin sheath of self-protection in which I had held back my own.

  And yet, my feelings on all scores were not exactly settled. Later, Christmas would start with a drive to church with Céline and Philippe, both of whom I adored. Then we’d head back for a middle of the night meal and gift opening after the rest of the family attended midnight Mass.

  I needed a nap. I was already dog tired after the events of the past week and had pressing, unclear decisions just ahead.

  As I was about to settle down, the phone rang.

  “Hi, Lexi? It’s Dan”.

  “I know who it is. Calling at home rather than work this time, eh?” I teased.

  “Yeah”. He laughed. “I wanted to wait until I could see through online tracking that my package had been delivered. A few days ago my assistant gave me a list of all the business gifts she’d sent out—and your name was on it! I’m so sorry. She got your address from a business card”.

  “What business card?”

  “Sophie’s,” he said. “I dropped into L’Esperance to get your address, and she scribbled it down for me”
.

  I’d have to tell her. She’d get a big kick out of it. She’d already e-mailed me that she planned to go to church in our Jetta tonight. The first time she’d ever celebrated Christmas at church.

  “Well, thank you,” I said, my voice softening. “I love the book”.

  “I’m glad,” he said. “I like my suspenders too. Listen”. He must have held the phone away from his ear and toward his body, because I could hear them snap.

  I laughed. “I thought you’d enjoy something with the Eiffel Tower on it”.

  “I do,” he said. “Well, anyway, I just wanted to be the first person from home to wish you Merry Christmas”.

  “You are,” I reassured him. “Merry Christmas, Dan”.

  “Merry Christmas, Lexi”.

  We stayed on the phone for a few more seconds, neither of us wanting to hang up, but I finally did.

  I went back into my room and lay on the bed, but I couldn’t sleep. Cars were coming up and down Maman’s driveway and people were talking. How did they expect to stay up all night? None of them were napping, obviously.

  And then there was my racing mind. Dan. Philippe. Céline. Rambouillet. Seattle.

  I rolled over on my side and just began to drift off when I heard a sharp rapping at my door.

  I groaned. This nap was not meant to be.

  I sat up, walked into the living room and opened the door. Luc stood on my doorstep.

  “Bonjour,” he said, kissing my cheeks warmly. “And Joyeux Noël. May I come in?”

  “Bien sûr, of course,” I said. “Please”.

  He followed me into the little living room. “This place is certainly cleaner than when Dominique is in residence,” he said, looking around.

  I laughed. “Dominique is five years younger than me. I was messy at twenty too”.

  “I have only a few minutes,” he said. “I am on my way to Marianne’s parents’ house for Christmas. But there is something very important I want to talk with you about”.

  “Sure,” I said. I sat on the edge of my chair.

  “You know I plan to open a third bakery in Seattle, non?”

  “Yes,” I said, not sure how much of what I knew I should reveal. But he explained it all anyway.

  “Well, I signed a lease on a shop in Fremont,” he said, naming a funky section of Seattle. “I thought it would be a great dessert café, someplace for people to meet in the afternoons and late at night for dessert. Unfortunately, I am a better baker and businessman than I am a lawyer, and I didn’t read the contract too well. There is ample baking and display room, but I cannot get an eating-in permit for that location”.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Yes, I was too,” Luc continued, running his fingers through his hair. “So I consulted your friend Dan—of Davis, Wilson, and Marks, you know, the ones who do so many special orders with us?”

  “Oui”. I glanced at the Jacques Prévert poetry book just to my side. “I know Dan very well”.

  “He has come to my rescue. I asked him if he could get me out of the lease, and he said he thought his friend could. But after his trip from France, he came to consult with me. He said that, after visiting Paris, he had a better idea. Why not make an upscale pâtisserie at the Fremont location specializing in wedding cakes and high-end catering, like a lot of the businesses he worked with wanted? ‘There are quite a few places like that in Paris,’ he said, ‘but not Seattle.’ He assured me that his firm would use the place and would mention it around. He even suggested you might enjoy working in such a place when your schooling was done”.

  Dan had suggested an almost irresistible way for me to return to Seattle. But did he know Luc would tell me who had suggested it? Knowing Dan, he’d probably wanted it kept quiet to allow me to choose on my own. I sank back in my chair, trying to absorb the conversation.

  “So,” Luc said, “I talked about it with Sophie and Margot and even Papa, and they all agree the idea is fantastique!” He smiled. “Now, Margot is staying to be chief pastry chef over all three bakeries, but if you like this job, you’d be able to do cakes and chocolates and tartes at the new place in Fremont. I think we’ll call it Bijoux. Jewels. High end”.

  “You’re offering me that job?” I asked. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Oui,” he said. “Full-time. Under Margot, of course, which could be a problème …”

  “Oh, I like Patricia well enough now,” I said, “and she used to intimidate me”.

  Luc grimaced. “Margot is not Patricia. But we only have a one-year lease. If the business is successful after that year, it will become a permanent Delacroix bakery. If not, then”—he kissed his finger tips and opened them into the air—“pouf. There would be no more job. You understand?”

  “I do,” I said. A risk.

  “Good,” he said. “I will need your answer in a few weeks. Many changes happening, you understand. Someone else will have to be hired soon if you do not like this job. You can always stay in Rambouillet and bake breads”.

  “Merci,” I said, dazed.

  Luc looked at his watch and jumped up. “I must go, or I will not make it to Marianne’s mother’s house. I do not want to have the mother-in-law hit me with a broom for being late on Christmas, n’est-ce pas ?” He grinned.

  “Definitely not,” I agreed, smiling.

  “You think about this and let me know,” he said. “Okay?”

  “I will pray about it,” I said. Saying that aloud was almost the only witness I had with them.

  “Okay, pray then,” he grumbled good-heartedly. “But let me know. I think it would be a good job for you, Alexandra”.

  I nodded. “Joyeux Noël, Luc”.

  “Joyeux Noël, Alexandra”. He kissed my cheeks, rushed out the door, and then got into his car and drove off.

  No wonder Philippe had been asking me about Seattle. He’d been testing to see if I would really want to stay here once there was a choice.

  But stay here with him? Or just with the bakery?

  I played French Christmas carols and let the tiny lights on my Charlie Brown tree twinkle as I waited for Céline and Philippe to pick me up. Our church was having a midnight service to mirror the midnight Mass much of France would attend.

  I drank a mug of chocolat chaud to stave off my hunger. We wouldn’t eat Christmas dinner until one-thirty in the morning, probably the same time as my family in Seattle!

  At 11:20, Philippe’s car pulled into the round driveway. Through the window I could see there was someone—an adult—in the passenger seat. Céline sat in the back.

  I grabbed my coat and Bible and turned out the lights. By the time I’d finished, Philippe was at the door.

  “Joyeux Noël!” he greeted me, kissing each cheek. He looked really nice, dressed up for Christmas, as was I, in my red dress. “You look fantastique!” he said.

  “Joyeux Noël,” I responded. “And so do you!”

  He walked me to the car. “I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice. “Gabby called me just before I left and said her car had engine troubles, and asked if I could pick her up and bring her to church. I didn’t feel I could say no to someone on Christmas Eve. Her family does not go to church, and her Papa is nervous about driving in the dark anyway”.

  “No problème,” I said, more amused by her manipulations than disappointed she was with us. I couldn’t help wondering if Gabby had conveniently pulled a plug in her engine and would just as conveniently put it back after Christmas.

  I got into the backseat, next to Céline. “Joyeux Noël!” I said and reached over to squeeze her hand.

  “Merry Christmas!” she responded in English, I supposed because we were on our way to church. “First church, then food, then gifts!”

  I laughed with her. Children were the same the world over.

  “Good evening and Merry Christmas!” Gabby said brightly. “It’s nice that you can join us. I imagine you would spend the whole evening alone, otherwise”.

  I said nothin
g about spending Christmas with the Delacroix family. “I’m glad I can join you too”. I bit back a smile.

  We pulled up in front of the church door, and Philippe let the three of us out while he parked the car.

  We exchanged holiday kisses and greetings with others and then sat down. Philippe joined us, taking care to sit between me and Céline.

  The church was semidark, with lit candles casting warm flickers all around. There were boughs of evergreen on every pew, and the cinnamon pine scent they cast throughout the church felt both warm and intimate. In the back, out of sight, a cellist played Christmas carols, and I sang along to them in my head.

  We’d come early to get a good seat, and I opened my Bible to Matthew and read the Christmas story again while I waited. After doing so, I flipped to the end of the book and reread Matthew 28:19, the passage that had inspired me to come to France last year.

  Therefore go and make disciples of all nations …

  Have I done that, Lord? I asked silently. I’ve made a quiet, occasional point of telling Patricia and Luc that I pray, and I do try to keep you in conversation naturally. I looked over at Céline, who rested against her father’s shoulder. I’ve been kind to Céline. But making disciples?

  I looked around the room. My eyes were drawn to a woman sitting one row over and two rows ahead of me. How did I know her?

  Of course! One of the women in Anne’s English group. I spotted another. It was so wonderful of them to come to her exhibition. It made a big impact on her—an impact, I know, for Christ.

  I smiled and bowed my head. I know what He was saying. Anne wouldn’t have been here, with them, without me bringing her.

  But just one person? I asked inside. It seemed so … insignificant.

  I remembered another passage I had read in Matthew, before the one instructing us to make disciples of all nations. I flipped through Matthew until I found it in chapter 18, verse 12.

  What do you think? If a man owns a hundred sheep, and one of them wanders away, will he not leave the ninety-nine on the hills and go to look for the one that wandered off?