“He’ll be dead on his feet, that’s for sure.”
“But you’ll be glad to see him.”
“I will,” I said, not even trying to conceal my smile.
“You guys talk recently?”
“We did, earlier today. One of his co-workers is going to an immunology and infectious disease conference in Florida for him so that he’ll be able to come.”
“I’m sure he’ll be disappointed to miss out on the conference,” Caterina said, her voice dry.
I laughed. “They’re presenting a big project, so it’s kind of a huge deal. But Neil isn’t a conference guy, so he’s fine with missing it.”
“What’s the project?”
“They’re working a lot with antibiotic resistance. He’s passionate about it.”
“Rightly so. Scares me to think of the boys getting an infection in their lifetime that won’t be treatable.”
“Neil’s part of a huge initiative working on new therapies.”
“You guys have any other conversations about, you know, your relationship?”
“No.” I looked away. “I think we’ve both avoided it.”
“Hang in there.” She reached out and grabbed my hand. “Someday you’ll be settled down and worried about an entirely different set of things.”
I laughed and rolled my eyes. “I shall cherish your words of wisdom.”
She gave a sage nod. “I’m here for ya, babe.”
Knowing I only had a few letters to go, I settled in for the night, ready to find out as much as I could about Mireille and Gabriel, my mom, and the mysterious baby Alice.
I found a few more letters cataloguing the growth and development of the girls—nothing new. But when I came to a letter addressed in Mireille’s handwriting to her aunt Joséphine, a knot formed at the base of my stomach and I bent to carefully read each word.
July 22, 1942
Dear Tante Joséphine,
I hardly know how to write this letter. First, the girls and I and Anouk are safe. I do not feel I can give the specifics at this time. But know that my beloved has died, in circumstances I can hardly believe.
Yes, his death is related in more ways than one to recent events.
The girls and I are in a place we know well, where we have been cautiously welcomed. There will be more travels, for we are not yet out of harm’s way.
This is an untidy letter, and I hope one day to explain fully. I apologize. You saw my sweet love more than everyone else in the family, even Cécile. I know he loved you and came to think of you as his very own aunt.
Love and deep regards,
Mireille
I read the letter through three times; by the third, I realized I’d been crying from shock. It made no sense, but the more I read it, the more I could tell that was the point. Recent events? I opened up my Internet browser, searched for “Paris Jews WWII July 1942,” and found my answer.
The Vel’ d’Hiv Roundup—it had to be. The two days, July 16 and 17, when the Nazis directed a roundup of French Jews with the assistance of the French police.
The police recorded 13,152 arrests. The detainees were held in internment camps—including the Vélodrome d’Hiver—with little food, water, or sanitation before being shipped off to internment camps and finally Auschwitz.
Barely coherent, I strode into my room for my picture of Grand-mère and me upon my graduation from culinary school. Her smile spread across her face with limitless joy. In that moment, she was happy. I clung to that smile, clung to the idea that at some point she healed enough to smile.
I had no idea how, though—how did someone get over a loss like that? A husband and, somehow, a daughter.
She knew at the time that she was by no means the only woman to sustain brutal losses during the war. All things considered, I felt staggering relief that Gabriel hadn’t been one of the men arrested in Paris and deported to Auschwitz.
So many questions remained, though. What had become of baby Alice? How was it possible to learn so much and be left knowing so little?
My thoughts turned to the key and the closet at the chateau that I’d found, the one Sandrine hadn’t been able to open. Were there answers behind that door? Or did Cécile remember if Mireille had indeed made it safely to the chateau? And what did Mireille mean when she said that Gabriel’s death had to do with the Vel’ d’Hiv Roundup in more ways than one?
The letters had left my nerves sharp and jumpy; I turned to my kitchen.
It took a few hours and a large batch of strawberry ice cream, but after a while I felt my muscles begin to untangle and my lids grow heavy.
For the first night in many, I picked up a silly romance novel before bed and fell asleep and tried not to dream of internment camps.
~ SOOTHING STRAWBERRY ICE CREAM ~
Because of the nature of the process, it’s very helpful to have all of your ice cream ingredients measured and ready before starting. That way you’ll have everything ready to go the instant you need it. The French term for having your ingredients measured and set out is mise en place, which translates to “put in place.” You will also need an ice cream maker.
2 pounds (about 6 cups) of very ripe strawberries, rinsed, hulled, and sliced
1⅓ cups sugar, divided, plus ¼ cup sugar
Zest of 3 lemons (organic lemons preferred)
2 egg yolks
2 cups heavy cream
1 cup half and half
1 cup whole milk
2 teaspoons vanilla bean paste
Juice of 3 lemons
Place the strawberries in a bowl and mash them with ¼ cup of the sugar, mashing until the strawberries are pulpy with some small chunks of berry remaining. Alternately, pulse berries in a food processor a few times, until the berries have broken down but have not liquefied. Set berries aside.
Put the zest and ⅓ cup sugar in a food processor; process for about 30 seconds or until the zest has blended into the sugar.
Whisk egg yolks together in a small mixing bowl and set aside.
Mix the cream, half and half, milk, remaining cup of sugar, vanilla, and lemon zest mixture into a saucepan over medium heat.
Heat for 6–8 minutes or until the mixture is almost simmering. Do not allow the mixture to boil; stir continuously with a flat-bottomed utensil, scraping the bottom of the pan.
Once the cream mixture has reached a near-simmer, remove from the burner immediately. Slowly pour a cup of the hot cream into the egg yolks while stirring with a fork; continue to whisk until smooth. Then slowly pour the egg yolk mixture into the hot cream and return the pan to the burner, over medium-low heat. Cook, stirring constantly, until it’s thick enough to coat the back of a spoon, about 6–8 minutes.
Strain the custard into a bowl through a cheesecloth or fine sieve. Place a dishtowel over the bowl and allow the mixture to reach room temperature, about an hour.
When the custard is lukewarm, add the lemon juice; whisk until smooth. Add the strawberries. Cover and refrigerate until chilled.
Mix according to the ice cream maker’s instructions. Allow to set in the freezer for two to three hours.
Makes about 6 servings.
One of the secrets, and pleasures, of cooking is to learn to correct something if it goes awry; and one of the lessons is to grin and bear it if it cannot be fixed.
—JULIA CHILD
I shouldn’t have been surprised when the call came at two in the morning. “I’m sorry to wake you,” my father said, his voice rough and tired. “But we’re headed to the hospital. Your mother’s been very ill.”
I told him I’d meet them there and hung up. Unlike the last late-night ER run I’d made so long ago, before Memphis, this time I didn’t even try to pack snacks. My dad’s voice—it frightened me. I dressed, tied my hair back, and tucked Gigi into her kennel with a kind word and a treat.
Alex met me at the front of the ER. “She’s in the back, they admitted her.”
“What happened?” I asked as he led me through the
hospital labyrinth.
“She started vomiting and hasn’t been able to stop. Haven’t figured why yet.”
“That’s not good,” I said.
“No.”
I held his arm as we walked down the hallway, striding and turning until I heard the sound of my father’s voice and my mother’s dry, painful retching.
There were new nodes on my mom’s liver. The tests had taken hours, and the doctor had assured us that a proper radiologist might have different thoughts, and that she’d be scheduled for a full body scan on Monday. One look at his face, though, told us that the imagery revealed new cancer, that Mom’s cancer journey had just become more complicated.
Sophie and Nico stayed until the medications kicked in. My father sat next to my mother’s bed, holding her hand as if he worried his grasp might break her. Alex fell asleep in his chair, his head resting between the wall and the room divider.
Mom gazed at me from where her head rested against the flat hospital pillow. “You can go home, cherie. Get some rest, you have a big day tomorrow.”
“I won’t be able to sleep anyway,” I said. “I’d rather be here.”
“Well, it’s good to see your face. You’ve been busy lately.”
“I know. I’m sorry I haven’t been around to the house as much.”
“No,” she corrected gently. “You’ve been busy. I’m not upset at all. I’m so proud of you, of your work with the restaurant. And I think your grandmother would be too.”
Something in my head whispered to my heart—it was now or never. “About Grand-mère…” I took a deep breath. “I found something. A photo. More than that…” Another breath. “I found letters at Chateau de l’Abeille, letters between Grand-mère and Grand-tante Cécile, and letters between Grand-mère and a man named Gabriel Roussard.”
Before I could talk myself out of it, reason with myself that there had to be a better time, a better place—certainly a better preamble—the entire story spilled out like an overturned bottle of olive oil. My parents listened closely, asking a few questions for clarification but otherwise letting me tell them about the photo, the box hidden in Grand-mère’s trunk, the letters that answered questions and created new ones, the discovery of new and unfamiliar branches on the family tree.
“I just…I wanted you to know,” I said, ending with a rush of breath.
Maman patted my hand. “Such secrets you’ve carried,” she said. “That’s a great deal to take in.”
“I didn’t want to say anything until I knew more. But the more I learned…” I lifted a shoulder. “I have no idea what happened to Alice, or how Gabriel died.”
“He looked like our Nico, this Gabriel?”
“I’ll show you the photo. It’s uncanny. Tomorrow I’ll show you the letters.”
“Tomorrow you’ll be opening a new restaurant.”
“It won’t take a moment,” I began, but she stopped my words with the gentlest squeeze of the hand.
“I trust you, Juliette. And we will find Alice if we’re meant to find Alice. Tante Cécile might remember something, or she might not.”
“I should have told you sooner,” I said. “Or later. I don’t know…”
Her head rocked gently against her pillow in disagreement. “I loved my mother, Juliette, and I loved my father too. These letters you’ve found, yes, they change many things—but they don’t change everything.”
I released the breath I’d been holding, the one it seemed I’d held since the moment I’d found Gabriel’s photo. “Okay.”
“Be at peace, cherie,” she said, reaching out to cup my face the way she did when I was a child. “Be at peace.”
“I love you, Maman.”
“Je t’aime, Juliette. Now, would you do something for me?”
I gave a half smile. “You know I will.”
She fixed me with her best, most effective Mom gaze. “Go home and sleep.”
I called Neil on the way home, thankful for the first time that he was two hours ahead and very much awake.
“Is everything okay?” he asked upon answering. Both of us knew I never chose to be awake at 6 a.m.
I told him about my mom, her liver scans, the cancer, the letters. By the end, tears ran down my face and my hands gripped the steering wheel with a manic tension.
“I’m sad and scared. I’m glad she knows now,” I said, trying to summarize my stream of consciousness, “but she’s so sick, and I’m scared.” A deep breath. “But she’ll be okay. We’ll get through this. They’ll change her treatment, she’ll get better, and we’ll find out what became of Alice and Gabriel.”
“I hope so,” Neil said. “I want her to get better too. She’s your mom, and you love her. But mets on the liver are difficult. She needs her strength and liver mets can make it very difficult for her to hold food down.”
“There are medications. They’ll figure it out.”
“They might. But…you might want to prepare yourself.”
I braked too hard at the stoplight. “She’s going to be okay, Neil. She’s going to beat this.”
“Even in the best-case scenarios, ovarian cancer is a chronic condition. And at the stage she’s at—”
“No, stop!” I yelled. “She’s not going to die, don’t you dare say she’ll die. I can’t lose her. We can’t lose her.”
“Juliette—” Neil’s frustrated voice filled the car.
“You think she’s going to die. You do, don’t deny it.”
“I hope she makes a full recovery, I do, honey. But I also don’t want you to be surprised if it doesn’t work out that way. The statistics for her age, type, and stage are…challenging.”
“Listen to me, Neil McLaren,” I said, barely managing any control. “I don’t care about statistics. I care about my mom. So I will hope and pray and scrape together as much faith as I can that we will all get through this.”
“I’ll be leaving for the airport in a few minutes,” he said. “We can talk about this later. I just need you to believe me that I want the best for you and your family.”
He may have wanted my mom to make it, to go into remission, but I could hear in his voice that he didn’t believe she would be okay.
In that split second, every bit of me that longed for his arrival evaporated. I didn’t want to see his pitying face or listen to a speech about statistics.
I didn’t know if I could love a man who believed my mom would die.
“No,” I said. “Don’t do it.”
“What?”
My voice shook. “Just…stay home, Neil.”
“You’re asking me not to come?”
“I’m telling you I don’t want to have this argument again, in person.”
“Work is crazy for the next few months, Jules. If I don’t come out now, we won’t see each other for a while.”
“You’re telling me my mom is going to die. I can’t look at you, knowing that you think that. I’m sorry, and I wish it were different, but that’s where it’s at.”
“Juliette, no. I’m sorry. Please listen to me—I want the best for your mom, and your family, and you. I really do.”
“But you don’t believe it’s possible.”
“I—I’m sorry.”
“Please, Neil. I can’t look at your face, knowing that’s what you believe.”
“You can’t look at me,” he repeated, his voice wooden.
“I’m sorry.”
“So that’s it then? Are we done?”
“Neil, I—”
“You’re telling me not to get on a plane that’s taking off in two and a half hours.” His voice turned rough, frustrated. “Is this what you want, Juliette? Tell me.”
I’d finally pulled into my driveway and parked my car, exhaling deeply as I shifted the car into park. “It’s not what I want,” I said at last. “I didn’t wake up wanting this to happen. I didn’t wake up wanting to hear that my mom was in the ER again, either. It just is, Neil. I’m sorry.”
Silence. “Then it’s
good-bye, I guess.”
We hadn’t hung up yet. I could undo it. My eyes squeezed shut, and I thought about Neil’s face in Provence, in the sun, in the lavender fields. For a moment, I doubted.
But then I thought about that same face here, at the restaurant, with my parents, believing more firmly in my mother’s mortality than in her healing.
My eyes flew open. “Good-bye, Neil,” I said, my voice shaky but firm. “I wish you all the best, I really do.”
And then I hung up, ending my last conversation with Neil McLaren.
Neil McLaren, the man I thought I might love forever.
After the phone call, I went upstairs, took Gigi out, and went straight to bed. Gigi didn’t mind and settled on my pillow with a contented sigh.
I woke up hours later, unsettled. A few moments later, the memories came back—the ER, the call, the liver nodes, the breakup. My head rested against the pillow as I cried; large wet tears running down my face, spreading into my pillowcase.
If only the cancer hadn’t spread. If only I hadn’t called Neil. If only I weren’t so deeply, profoundly tired.
One look at my phone showed that Neil hadn’t tried to call or text back. We were done. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to remember our good-bye in Memphis, but even as I pictured his face, my anger returned.
How could he have been cruel about my mom’s condition? Every time my emotions ran toward sadness, I remembered what he’d said, and angry indignation swept away the sadness.
We were done. It was for the best.
I rose, resolved, and prepared for the day. I spent the morning organizing the paperwork, PR, and social media for the opening, and the afternoon arranging the fresh flowers for the tables, making sure the dining room looked perfect and ready to go.
Nico, Adrian, Clementine, and Kenny worked in the kitchen, prepping meats, cutting produce, and getting ready for the evening crush. I smiled, listening to the shouts and clangs that made it past the heavy kitchen doors—our little restaurant was finally coming to life.
I went upstairs to change into the dress Caterina had purchased for me. The black dress featured a pleated wrap-style bodice and an easy A-line skirt, trimmed in crocheted black lace, and finished with crocheted lace cap sleeves. The dress managed to be sophisticated enough for an evening seating while still being pretty and breezy.
Reservations for Two Page 28
