One afternoon, Maman called me into her room. Lily was asleep in her bassinet.
“How are you and Grace getting along?” Maman asked.
“Okay, I guess,” I said. She patted the bed, and I sat down next to her.
“Are you understanding each other any better?”
“It’s still hard to talk,” I admitted. “But I’m trying.”
She smiled. “It’ll get easier. My French wasn’t very good before I met your papa.”
“Really? But your French is so good now!”
“Merci,” she said. “But I had to work at it.”
I looked at her in surprise.
“Anyway,” she continued, “I wanted to tell you that Grace is feeling a bit homesick now that Aunt Karen is so busy helping me with the baby.”
“I feel homesick, too,” I said. “And I haven’t even gone anywhere.”
“Oh, sweetie. Change is hard for everyone. You miss Grand-mère, and you’re still getting used to having a new baby sister. Grace is still getting used to Paris, and she misses her family and friends.”
It hadn’t occurred to me that Grace and I had so much in common. I wished there was something I could do to cheer her up. If only I weren’t so afraid of getting the words wrong! Sometimes when I tried to speak English, my brain felt just like scrambled eggs.
That night at supper, we were finishing our dessert of crème caramel custard when Grace asked Papa a question.
Papa turned to me and translated. “At home, Grace helps Grandma and Grandpa in their bakery. She would like to help at La Pâtisserie.”
My breath caught. The bakery was my special place to be with Papa. Then I thought about what Maman had said about Grace being homesick. Would helping at La Pâtisserie make her feel better?
Before I could say anything, Papa turned back to Grace. “I don’t know,” he said, looking doubtful. “We’re very busy right now, so I don’t have time to show you around and explain how things work.”
When Papa told me what he’d said to Grace, I put down my spoon. This was my chance to speak up. “Papa, s’il te plaît?” I said. “Please? I will help Grace.”
Papa looked from me to Grace, and then at Maman. Maman nodded her head. “D’accord,” said Papa. “Okay. But Grace, you’ll have to stay close to Sylvie and to Colette, our intern.”
Grace lit up the whole table with her smile. “Thank you, Uncle Bernard!” she said. Then she turned to me. “Merci, Sylvie!” she added enthusiastically.
She looked so happy, I couldn’t help but smile, too.
The next day Grace came to the bakery after the morning rush. Colette and I were finishing the Mont Blanc pastries. Named after the highest mountain in the Alps, they’re made of egg-white meringues topped with chestnut squiggles and whipped cream. Yum! Colette was using a pastry bag to pipe the chestnut purée onto the “mountain,” and then I was spooning on the whipped cream “snow.”
When the Mont Blancs were ready, Colette and I showed Grace around the kitchen. In a mix of French and English, Colette explained each tool, machine, and device—the burner with its pot of apricot syrup to glaze the tartes, the shelves to cool the cakes, the decorating station, the ovens, even the supply of flour scoops, rolling pins, whisks, pastry brushes, and spatulas. We tiptoed around Emilie, Julien, and Sébastien. Grace oohed and aahed over the layers of puff pastry and the delicate icing designs on the millefeuille.
I moved over to a tray of tartes and began placing small strawberries point-side-up on each one. Grace watched me closely, and I smiled at her. I recognized the look of concentration on her face—it was the look of someone who loved to bake, just like me. Meanwhile, Colette was whisking eggs in a big copper bowl. Then she went through the swinging door to the front of the shop.
I was focusing on my strawberries, or I might have noticed that Grace had picked up a broom and was sweeping flour and dust into a pile. As Colette stepped through the kitchen door, a delivery person opened the back door—and whoosh! Grace’s sweepings suddenly flew into the air and, just as suddenly, settled back down, all over the mixing bowls full of cream and the cooling cakes.
“Non, non!” Papa scolded.
Grace froze. My mouth dropped open. Colette grabbed the broom. We never sweep while we’re baking. That’s a job for the end of the day. I should have explained that to Grace! This was all my fault. I’d promised to help Grace, but I got distracted. If only I’d been paying attention to what she was doing! Now there was extra work for everyone, and I could tell Grace felt terrible.
“C’est dommage,” said Papa, shaking his head. “Too bad. Let’s start over.”
Grace looked like she might cry. Colette pointed to the dirty pans and bowls in the sink on the other side of the kitchen and asked her to wash the dishes. Grace started scrubbing a pan so hard, I thought she’d scrub right through it. I felt sorry for her and wished I could make her feel better, but I was too shy to say something in English.
“Sylvie, tout de suite,” said Papa. “We need those strawberry tartes up front right away.”
“Oui, Papa,” I said. I turned away from Grace and went back to work on the tartes.
A little while later, Aunt Karen came into the kitchen.
“Grace?” she said. All our heads turned to her at once.
“Elle est sortie,” said Colette. “She went outside.”
Aunt Karen seemed confused. “But…she’s not…out front. Or upstairs.”
I was holding a strawberry in mid-air. I put it down.
“Bernard?” Aunt Karen said to Papa.
“Sylvie. Colette. Cherchez Grace,” said Papa. “Find Grace.”
olette and I pulled off our aprons and dashed out the door. Grace must’ve been pretty upset after the disaster with the broom. Which way had she gone? I grabbed my bike, and Colette got on Maman’s. We pedaled down Rue du Four, calling Grace’s name. There were gobs of tourists on the sidewalk, and so much traffic noise that I didn’t know how Grace would be able to hear us calling her. We passed the bank, the pharmacy, the shoe store. Could she have gone into one of them? There was no sign of her.
After a few blocks, I stopped to catch my breath. Colette wheeled up beside me.
“What are we going to do?” I said, worried. “She could have gone anywhere!”
“Let’s try that direction,” said Colette.
We took Rue des Canettes toward St. Sulpice Church. On the narrow side street there was much less traffic, but also hardly any people.
“Grace!” I called, panic creeping into my voice.
I saw a gray cat dart under a parked car and heard a familiar yap. It was la petite chienne, the little stray dog that Grace and I had seen in the Luxembourg Gardens. She’d been hanging around the bakery lately, and Grace was always on the lookout for her. Maybe it was a sign that Colette and I were on the right track! I pedaled harder.
We reached Place St. Sulpice, and Colette began to bike slowly down one side of the plaza. The outdoor tables at the corner café were packed. I got off my bike and wiped the sweat from my forehead. Gathering my courage, I approached a lady sitting at one of the tables.
“Excusez-moi, madame,” I said nervously. “Avez-vous vu une petite fille de neuf ans?”
She looked at me blankly. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak French,” she said in English.
Oh, no. Not only had I just spoken to a complete stranger, but now I had to repeat it in English! My shoulders bunched up, and blood rushed to my face. I had to find Grace, and that meant I had to speak English, no matter how hard it was.
I thought for a moment. “Did you see…a girl…nine years old?” I stammered.
“Maybe,” she said. “What does she look like?”
“Maybe” was better than “no.” But could I describe Grace in English? I concentrated, and the words tumbled out. “Her hair is…brown,” I said. The woman nodded. Encouraged, I added, “It is…long. She is this high.” I held up my hand to show the woman how tall Grace was.
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sp; “I think I did see a girl like that,” she said, pointing. “By the fountain over there.”
“Merci!” I said. “Merci beaucoup!” I shook the woman’s hand, pumping it up and down. “Thank you very much!”
Maman was right—I did know more English than I realized. Now if only the woman was talking about the right girl! I jumped back on my bike. Let it be Grace, let it be Grace, I chanted to myself, pedaling toward the huge stone fountain in the middle of the plaza.
As I rounded the fountain, I saw my cousin standing in front of one of the fierce lion sculptures. “Grace!” I called.
“Oh! Sylvie!” Grace ran toward me.
I rolled to a stop and held out my arms. “We could not find you,” I said. “Colette! Over here!”
A stream of English poured from Grace’s mouth, and she started to cry. Colette wheeled up and handed her a tissue.
“I’m sorry,” Grace said over and over.
“Do not feel bad,” I said, patting her on the back. I was so relieved to find her that the words came out in English without my even thinking. “We are here now.”
“I know,” she said, sniffling. “Thank you. I couldn’t figure out…I followed the little dog…”
“It is okay,” I said, giving her a hug. “We go back now. Try again.” I wanted her to know she was still welcome in the bakery. Everyone makes mistakes.
The three of us headed back to the shop, Colette and I walking our bicycles. Maman, Papa, and Aunt Karen were waiting in front with worried looks on their faces. When they saw us, everyone started talking at once. The grown-ups hugged Grace and praised Colette and me.
“Sylvie, thank you for finding Grace,” said Aunt Karen.
“We’re proud of you,” said Papa, tucking a curl behind my ear.
I felt a warm glow in my chest. “Merci, Papa,” I said. “Thank you,” I repeated in English. It was so good to be home.
That night after dinner, Grace announced she was going to bed early and went to my room. She’d had a hard day.
I wanted to cheer her up. I wondered if she would like company or if she would prefer to be left alone. I decided on company.
I made some tea and put two cups on a tray, along with two truffes au chocolat. The chocolate truffle candies were orange-and-thyme-flavored—the best! Then I knocked gently on my own door, which felt weird.
“Grace, you like?” I said in English.
She looked happy to see me. I was glad I’d brought two cups of tea. “Please, I sit?” I said.
Grace nodded. “Oui!”
We drank the tea and ate the chocolates sitting on her mattress. This time the silence between us didn’t feel so awkward. It felt like a quiet tea party.
When we finished the tea, I had an idea. “You help?” I said, holding up a magazine and scissors and pointing to the decorations on the wall.
“Oui!” she said. “Je toi aide.”
I looked at her sympathetically. She had said “I you help.” Speaking a foreign language is complicated. “Je vais t’aider,” I corrected her gently. “I will help you.”
“Je vais t’aider,” she repeated, smiling.
I fetched an extra pair of scissors from the kitchen, and together we cut out pictures of animals—dogs for Grace, cats for me. Grace cut very carefully and precisely. I liked the pictures she chose. After a while Napoléon wandered in, and I started to hum. I didn’t even know I was humming. It happens to me all the time.
Suddenly Grace began to sing. “Twinkle, twinkle little star…”
I looked up in surprise. “C’est la même chanson!” I said. “It is the same song!”
Grace grinned. “It’s also the alphabet song,” she said. “A, B, C, D, E, F, G—”
Just then, Napoléon meowed. He wanted to sing with Grace! We laughed. He meowed again. Grace and I had une crise de fou rire, a giggle fit. We couldn’t stop.
When we finally caught our breath, Grace picked up her cell phone and showed me some of her pictures. There were the Luxembourg Gardens and la petite chienne, baby Lily, and lots and lots of photos of her friends and family back home, including her father—my Uncle Matt—our grandparents, and her brother, Josh. I realized she must still be feeling homesick.
“You like having brother?” I asked slowly in English.
“Yes,” she said, “But…” She paused, searching for the right words in French. “Je voudrais…sister,” she said, pointing to a photo of Lily.
“Une soeur,” I said. She wanted a sister. “Baby sisters make a lot of noise,” I reminded her, miming a crying baby. “Wah! Wah!”
Grace laughed. “A big brother can be bossy,” she said.
“Bossy?” I didn’t know that word.
“They say, ‘Grace, do this. Grace, do that.’”
“Ah! Bossy. I understand.”
“But still…” she said and paused a moment. “J’aime…mon…frère. I love my brother.”
“J’aime ma soeur,” I said.
Scrolling through the pictures of Grace, Josh, Aunt Karen, and Uncle Matt, I saw how much Grace’s parents loved both their children. Before baby Lily arrived, I’d worried that my parents wouldn’t have enough love for more than one child at a time. Now I realized that as a family grows, the love grows, too. After all, I loved Papa, and when he met and married Maman, I came to love her. And now we all loved Lily. She was part of our family.
Napoléon meowed again, which brought back our giggles. As Grace snapped a selfie of the two of us, Napoléon snuck into the picture, and we laughed even harder. I was bubbling with happiness as we got ready for bed. It was such a relief to finally be able to talk to my cousin.
few days later, Grace asked to work in the bakery again. She promised not to make a mess. I thought it was brave of her to return to the kitchen, and I was glad that Papa said yes.
When she came in, I handed her an apron.
“I am happy you are back,” I said clearly in English. I’d been practicing.
“Moi aussi,” she said in French. “Qu’est-ce que je peux faire?” It sounded like she’d been practicing too. She wanted to know what she could do.
“Dishes,” said Colette and Papa at the same time, pointing to the sink.
Grace cheerfully set to work. Papa took a batch of madeleines out of the oven while Colette and I piped hazelnut cream onto rings of puff pastry. I had to pay close attention to get it right. I couldn’t let myself get distracted by the delicious smells that were floating through the kitchen—vanilla, lemon zest, and melted butter.
When Grace was done with the dishes, she asked Colette what to do next.
“We’re making crème brûlée,” said Colette. “You can help.”
The creamy custard required lots of egg yolks. Colette taught Grace how to separate eggs using one hand. She cracked an egg and twisted her fingers just so, letting the egg white slip into a bowl. Then she plopped the yolk into another bowl. For most people it takes a lot of practice, but Grace got the hang of it right away.
As I finished putting together rings of puff pastry and buttercream, Colette showed Grace how to make whipped cream with a whisk. Then Grace got her first lesson in using a piping bag, practicing on some éclairs. Afterward I showed her how to make whipped-cream rosettes. She was a natural!
By the time we were done, the crèmes brûlées had baked and cooled, and we got to watch the best part: one of the bakers caramelizing the sugar on top with a blowtorch. I loved the way the blue flame danced over the sugar, melting and browning it into a crackled crust.
Then Maman and Aunt Karen came into the shop with baby Lily. Her first visit to the bakery, and still so tiny! She was wide awake and looked adorable in her red, white, and green striped outfit. The bakers came out of the kitchen, and Colette, Grace, and I gathered round to say hello. Lily gazed at us with her big round eyes.
“D’accord, back to work,” Papa said after a while, and the bakers returned to their stations.
“Can I hold her, Maman?” I asked.
/> “Of course,” she said, “but you have to sit down.” She motioned to one of the tables.
Grace and I washed our hands and sat down. Maman put Lily in my lap, reminding me to support her head.
“Bonjour, Lily,” I said. “Ça va bien? Is everything good?”
She pursed her little lips. I knew she couldn’t understand my words, but we were still able to communicate.
I pointed to the display case. “Look at all the different pastries and desserts. Aren’t they pretty? That’s a chocolate opéra, the one with the puff pastry is a St. Honoré, and the green one is a tarte au citron vert. I sprinkled the lime zest on top myself. The big dish, that’s a cherry clafoutis. And this one,” I said, pointing to an éclair, “this one was made by Grace. She’s really good at pastry-making. She’s notre cousine et amie. Our cousin and friend.”
“Thank you,” said Grace after Maman translated what I’d said.
“Someday,” I said to Lily, “I’ll teach you how to make pastries.”
Papa came out from behind the counter and put his arms around me.
“Thanks for your help in the kitchen,” he said. “I’m sorry I’ve been so distracted. I really do appreciate everything you’ve been doing. You’re my special girl. Mon rayon de soleil.”
I beamed.
He turned to Grace. “You know, both of you show a lot of promise,” he said, first in French, then in English. “Baking talent must run in this family.”
“Thank you, Uncle Bernard,” said Grace. “Let me take a family picture.”
She whipped out her cell phone, and Papa and Maman stood behind me and Lily.
Click!
“Would you like me to take a picture of all of you together?” asked Colette.
“Oui!” Grace and I said at the same instant, which made us both laugh.
Grace handed the phone to Colette and pulled her chair next to mine. Aunt Karen crowded in behind. The cell phone clicked.
“What a happy family,” Colette said, handing Grace her phone.
Grace and I huddled over the phone to check out the picture, and I saw that it was indeed a happy family. Just a bigger one.
Grace and Sylvie Page 3
