by Sandra Byrd
Peter was hurt because Jesus asked him the third time, “Do you love me?” He said, “Lord, you know all things; you know that I love you”.
Jesus said, “Feed my sheep”.
“I know You mean that for me,” I whispered to God. “But what does it mean?”
I lay there for a moment, trying to listen, but heard nothing. I remembered I had not understood the other passage in Matthew until I got here. Maybe I’d understand this one later too.
I got out of bed, trying to ready myself for the huge day ahead. Céline and Philippe were coming for dinner. The thought of it drove me to a cup of coffee.
I walked to the village and bought supplies, and a chocolate croissant for fortification. I sat at the café and drank a café crème while I watched the village wake up. My village. I knew most of the men arguing across the morning’s first cigarette. I knew whose kid was whining and whose dog was sniffing ankles. I knew which day the charcuterie would have the best, freshest salads. More than a few people smiled my way, though no one said more than bonjour. That was okay. I understood the French now and perhaps even had become more understated in my own way to accommodate and grow.
I went into the little shop and bought ingredients for puff pastry, almond paste, and some eggs. I bought a gold paper crown for Céline and a Coke for me.
At home, I lovingly created the nicest cake I’d ever made. I took out the bag of fèves I’d bought at the flea market and selected six—a baker, a journalist, Mary, Joseph, a fishmonger, and an angel. I placed them at even intervals in the batter and baked the cake. An hour later, it was perfect.
I went into my bedroom to pray and to nap. When I woke up, I finished preparing my cassoulet and my salade. At exactly six, Céline and Philippe arrived.
Philippe looked as nervous as I felt, which didn’t make my life any easier. We walked around the tiny cottage with a bit more distance between us, holding back, I think. Céline, on the other hand, was her normal self.
“Ooh, what a beautiful galette de rois!” she said. “You are better cake baker than my papa”.
“Hey, hey,” Philippe said, laughing.
“But your bread is best, Papa,” Céline acknowledged. Her joke broke the ice.
I wanted to eat dinner first. I didn’t want anything to spoil it. Afterward, we sat at the table and had coffee, and I cut the cake while Céline went to the restroom.
“Don’t say anything about your piece,” I whispered to Philippe. He looked up at me, curious, but said nothing. “I’ve baked a fève into every piece to ensure Céline got one”.
He grinned widely. “What a great idea!”
“She told me that every year Dominique always gets the fève”.
Philippe grimaced. “Sometimes family is good, sometimes it’s a little … too much. Dominique is in the ‘too much’ category”.
Céline raced back to the table. She took a bite of her cake, but didn’t find the fève. Philippe and I each took small bites, not wanting to reveal our small fèves.
Céline ate another large piece. “Why are you taking such small bites, Papa?” she asked. “Don’t you like Lexi’s galette des rois?”
Philippe laughed. “It’s just that the meal was so good, ma puce. I’m eating slowly”.
One more bite, nothing. On the fourth bite, Céline finally found her fève. “Oh! Look!” She jumped up and down, and I pulled the gold crown from the table in the living room.
“Put this on,” I told her. “You’re queen for a day. Everything you wish will be yours”.
Céline put the hat on her happy head, then took it off. “No, Lexi. You have it. I have everything I always wanted”.
I put on the hat at her insistence. “What do you mean?”
Philippe gave her a warning look, but she paid no attention. “I’m moving to California!”
I nearly fell off my chair. “What?”
Philippe shook his head. “No, no, we’re not moving to California. We’re moving to Seattle”.
This time I actually did stand up out of my chair. “You? You’re moving to Seattle? You and Céline?”
I tried to process it. I went to the counter and got the coffee press, ground some fresh grounds, and put water on to boil. This bought me a minute to regain my composure.
“Yes,” Philippe said. “It’s true. Although Little Miss Secret Keeper wasn’t supposed to say anything to you just yet”.
I sat down at the table again. “What’s going on?”
Philippe folded and unfolded his hands. “Well, you know Marianne is having a baby in two months”.
“No,” I said. “I didn’t know”. But it all made sense. That must have been what Sophie was talking about. She would never share anyone else’s good news, she’d allow a person to do that themselves. Everyone else must have assumed I’d known. Or they’d talked about it after I left the village bakery. Then we got caught up in the Christmas rush.
That must have been what Maman meant when she said Marianne would want to be near her mother right now.
I couldn’t help doing the math. If Marianne was seven months along, and they’d been married five months ago …
“Sometimes babies come early,” Philippe said, looking at Céline.
“Ah, oui,” I said.
“Marianne wanted to come back to France to have her baby, and live here, perhaps for a while, perhaps forever. Luc has been in Seattle for a while. I needed … some space from my father. Luc was tempted by the idea of baking at Versailles. I was tempted by the move to Seattle. And, voilà! Good news for everyone”.
“I’m moving to California,” Céline sang out again. This time, neither of us corrected her. We let her have her happy Epiphany Day. She got down from the table and played with my bag of fèves while I served Philippe more coffee.
“I didn’t want to say anything until you’d made up your mind to move back or not,” Philippe said. “And honestly, I had a lot of details to work out, and wasn’t certain how, or if, it was all going to come together for me and Céline. What are you going to do? Have you decided?”
I nodded. “Yes, just recently. I’ve decided to move back to Seattle, mainly because of the satisfying—and challenging—job opportunity. I miss my family. And—and I have unfinished business there,” I said. No more needed to be said.
No wonder Patricia had been so pleased when I told her I was moving back a few days ago. I thought she’d be devastated. Instead, she’d been as positively puffed as proofed dough.
“I thought so,” he said. “You do well here, but it’s not your home”.
He took a sip of coffee. It was silent for a moment.
“I don’t want you to think you owe us—me—anything when we move there,” he said. “But I want to say that we’d never have been willing to make this jump if we hadn’t met you. You showed us how very nice Americans can be. Céline feels much better moving there knowing a … special friend”. He cleared his throat. “So maybe this will allow us to grow our friendship a little further in the US. I will look forward to it”. He held my gaze for a moment while my insides flooded with confusion.
I’d already started to emotionally separate myself from them. Now, life seemed more complex than ever.
“I’m glad you’re coming,” I said, and I meant it. Whatever life held ahead for Philippe, for Dan, for me, it was good for Philippe to have some space from his father. He seemed so happy with the choice, as did the twirling, singing Céline.
“Maybe it’s me who should wear this,” he said, putting the gold crown on his head. “For the first time in years, I feel like a king on Three King’s Day”.
I grinned and offered him a refill. “Coffee, Your Majesty?”
The next morning I woke up still absorbing the shock of the news, but becoming more accustomed to it. If nothing else, my life the past year had taught me that I never knew exactly what was ahead, but that God had good plans, in the midst of pain, for all His children.
I got to the bakery in Rambouillet
a little early. It was my last official day of work.
“So, you know the news, eh?” Patricia beamed. I beamed with her. She had the newlywed glow and she wasn’t even married yet.
“Yes,” I said. “And now I know about Marianne”.
“You didn’t know Marianne was having a baby?” she asked, shocked.
“Non,” I said. “But I hope next year, when you’re expecting, you’ll tell me right away”.
She whipped me with the towel she had tucked under her apron, and we both laughed.
I spent the morning decorating cakes and looking at my watch. Just a few more hours, and I’d have to leave for my appointment.
I got caught up in my work, and when I looked at the clock again, I only had five minutes to spare.
I dashed through the bakery, still in my uniform and without a coat, and told Patricia, “I’ll be right back!”
She nodded, knowing where I was going.
I ran down the street and around the block, praying I wouldn’t slip on the ice, and arrived only five minutes late.
“Look, it’s Chef Nike,” Anne said.
“Ha ha,” I said in English, stopping to catch my breath.
Anne looked at me, then at the sign on the building in front of us. “Why am I at the office for work permits?”
“Because I didn’t know any other address in Rambouillet, and I didn’t want you to guess,” I said.
“Guess what?” Anne asked.
“You’ll see”. I stood for a minute, catching my breath. The door to the office opened, and out walked someone I recognized. She stopped and looked at me as if she recognized me.
Oh, yes. It was the woman who had reluctantly given me my six months’ work permit.
She looked at the name embroidered on my uniform. “Lexi. Yes, I remember you. Or at least your unusual name. American, right?”
“Kind of,” I said. “I work for a French company, now”.
She turned up her nose and huffed off, but Anne and I laughed together and I asked her to walk with me.
When we got in the door, Simone greeted us equally warmly. “Bonjour, mesdemoiselles chefs,” she teased. “Patricia is in the back”.
Anne and I walked back to the office, where Patricia waited for us. Anne looked at me questioningly as Patricia handed her a shirt-sized box.
“Your vrai amie, Lexi, has made a suggestion,” Patricia said. “I hope you like her idea”.
Anne opened the box, and pulled out a chef’s jacket. A jacket with her name embroidered on it.
“You’re offering me a job?” Anne asked. “Here?”
“My job,” Patricia said. “If you want it”.
Anne looked at me. “Is it okay?”
I gave her a quick run-down on what was waiting for me in Seattle, and she couldn’t contain her grin.
“And Philippe is going? And Dan is there? And you get to do cakes and pretty pastries all day?”
I saw Patricia’s brow wrinkle at the mention of Dan.
“Yes,” I said. “It’s a dream come true, for both of us”.
Anne sat in the office chair. “But … what about France? You love France”.
“I do. And I’m sure I’ll come back. But,” I said with a wry grin, “in America, they buy cakes at the grocery store. It’s clear my people need me”.
That was something we all agreed upon. Anne and Patricia joined me in laughter.
Simone came back to show Anne around, which left just Patricia and me. “Stay here,” I told her. I slipped back to the walk-in and took out a layered box I had carefully hidden in the back. I brought it to the office and handed it to Patricia.
“For me?” she asked, surprised.
I nodded sheepishly. “A late Christmas gift”.
Patricia undid the gold ribbon and carefully lifted off the box lid. “Oh, c’est très belle,” she said, her voice softer than I’d heard it in quite some time.
“They are for your wedding cake,” I said. “I won’t be here to help make it, so I wanted to make these for you instead”.
Together we peered inside the satin-lined box, and I smiled as I remembered the hours I’d spent at night, designing delicate gold flowers, grey kissing doves, pearls, and other marzipan and royal icing delights that would last, in the cooler, for months. Of course, I’d used the decorating tools she’d given me.
“They are beautiful,” Patricia said. “I will place them with pride on my cake. But maybe,” she teased, “you should have made some for yourself?” A wicked grin crossed her face.
“Maybe I already have,” I teased back.
“ Touché,” she said laughing with me. “You have learned well, my protégée”.
My heart swelled at the compliment. I’d do my part to make Bijoux a success if for no other reason than to honor her.
As for next week? Next month?
Life was uncertain. I’d eat dessert first.
Look for the final book in the
French Twist series
coming in the fall of 2009!
For more information visit www.sandrabyrd.com
Who ever said that growing
up and getting a life would be a piece of cake?
In book one of the French Twist series, journey to the beginning of Lexi Stuart’s adventures in getting out, growing up, and discovering the life God has for her.
Available in bookstores and from online retailers.
WATERBROOK PRESS
www.waterbrookpress.com
