A Wedding in Paris

by Barbara Bretton

  Marc clicked the shutter, almost unable to believe what he was seeing. But the camera did not lie. He had spent most of his adult life using his camera to gather evidence of the truth in war zones and disaster areas. Now it was showing him that even when it came to personal relationships, the true story was not always in words and actions but in the emotions communicated by the look in another’s eyes or the expression on their faces. Whatever Josh and Shannon’s outward behavior, they were very much aware of each other—very much in lust, if not in love.

  Pondering this, Marc slipped out of the room. He was so accustomed to focusing his lens on other people, he didn’t often stop to think about the impression he made on others. What did they see when they looked into his eyes? What did his father see? What did Lacey see?

  He should go to her and apologize for the abrupt way they had parted this morning. He’d been upset with his father, but that was no reason to take his feelings out on her. He hurried to the kitchen and pushed open the door, but Lacey was not in sight.

  Giselle stood on one side of the center worktable, a starched apron over her flowered dress, her chef’s toque flopped over one ear. She gripped the edge of the table and glared at the man who stood across from her, a stocky fellow dressed all in white, from his starched pants and tunic to his tall toque, which rose a foot above his head, straight as a bishop’s miter.

  “It is impossible for you to use my kitchen this morning, Monsieur Gautier,” Giselle said, her voice frosty. “I have an inn full of guests to cook for.”

  “But Mademoiselle Fortier, I must begin work on the fabulous gâteau I am to create for the wedding.” Monsieur Gautier smiled, his attitude all French charm. “When you see the masterpiece I have planned, you will understand why it requires two full days to create.”

  Giselle sniffed. “I do not see why you cannot create this supposed work of art at your studio.”

  “Non, non, mademoiselle.” Gautier came around the table and took one of Giselle’s hands in his. “The cake is far too delicate to risk transport. It must be made at the site of the reception. That is what the family have hired me to do. I am sorry if you were not informed.”

  “I did not think you would be here until later today.” Giselle jerked her hand from his. “Much later.”

  “Ah, the information must have been lost in the translation.” Gautier regarded her out of the corner of his eye. “As a professional, you understand how it is, dealing with foreigners.”

  Giselle’s frown was less severe. “At least you admit I am a professional, even if I am not some fancy pastry chef with a Cordon Bleu pedigree.”

  “But of course!” Gautier seized her hand again. “The reputation of the kitchen at Les Milles Fleurs is impeccable. I have heard your boeuf en croquette is the kind of dish a man might wish to taste at least once before he died, or his life would not be complete.”

  Marc half expected the haughty Giselle to slap such outrageous flattery off the pastry chef’s lips, but to his amazement, she actually smiled. “Monsieur, you are too kind,” she said, her cheeks quite pink.

  “Mademoiselle Fortier, I would be most honored if you would assist me with the creation of this wedding gâteau. Together I am sure we could make it a most memorable dessert, fitting the occasion.”

  Giselle took a step away from him, her face assuming a more solemn expression. “Monsieur, I have my own work to do. If you cannot afford an assistant, that is not my problem.”

  “Most assuredly, I do not mean to insult you.” Gautier rushed to apologize. “I would never regard one such as yourself as a mere assistant. The word I should have used was partner. Co-creator.”

  Giselle looked unconvinced. “As I said, monsieur, I have my own work to do. No matter how much you flatter me, that does not change.”

  “Of course, mademoiselle. I am impertinent. But the fact remains that you must cook and I must cook, and there is only one kitchen. How may we work out a compromise?”

  Marc could see that Gautier had her now. What would she do?

  “There are two ovens,” she said at last. “And we will share the worktable. All I ask is that you not interfere with my work as much as possible.”

  “Merci, mademoiselle.” Gautier made a courtly bow. “You are most gracious.”

  Marc continued watching them from the half-open door, curious to see how this would play out. If Giselle went after Monsieur Gautier with a rolling pin, he wanted to be around to photograph the scene. In the meantime, he snapped several pictures of them together.

  Gautier lifted a large hamper onto the worktable and began unpacking an impressive array of bowls, whisks, measuring cups and pans. From another hamper he pulled flour, sugar and mysterious bottles and boxes of ingredients. Giselle turned her back to him and began pulling her own cooking tools from the cabinets, but she glanced continuously in the polished steel surface of the refrigerator, which reflected Gautier’s actions.

  “Mademoiselle, do you prefer cinnamon or cardamom as the predominant note in the spice cake?” Gautier asked as he lined up his bottles and boxes along the edge of the worktable.

  “Cardamom, of course,” she said. “It is much more sophisticated.”

  “Of course.” He nodded and plucked one bottle from the row. “And perhaps a touch of clove?”

  “A touch, yes.” Giselle put down the frying pan she’d been holding and turned to him. “So you are making a spice cake for the wedding?”

  “A spice cake with a filling of preserved fruit, with marzipan and cream icing.”

  “That is too rich,” Giselle said. “A wedding cake should be light. It should melt on the tongue. On such a day one does not wish to be weighed down by heavy food.”

  “This cake will melt on the tongue,” Gautier said. “And the cream makes it very light. A fantasy of a gâteau.”

  “How many eggs are you using?” Giselle asked.

  “A dozen eggs.”

  She nodded approvingly. “And of course you separate them and beat the whites and yolks separately.”

  “That is not necessary with this recipe.”

  “How can it not be necessary? The cake will be like lead if you do not.”

  “Mademoiselle, I will show you. Now hand me that bowl, s’il vous plaît….”

  They were still squabbling when Marc left, debating the proper whisk to use and the correct measurement of cardamom. He wondered how long it would be before Giselle realized she had been lured into the role of Gautier’s assistant after all.

  Then again, perhaps this was what she’d wanted all along—to be involved in a way that would save face. Or perhaps other emotions were at work—the ones that drew men and women together to communicate without words.

  He returned to his room and sat on the edge of his bed, reviewing the photos he’d taken this morning on the camera’s digital screen.

  There was Giselle and Gautier, nose to nose, the air around them charged with energy. Josh and Shannon, intent on each other, making love with their eyes, even as their casual posture denied it. And finally, Gabe and Alexis, radiant with happiness and the promise of the future.

  Everywhere he looked, Marc saw people in love. Once more he felt envious. He’d thought himself above such sentimental nonsense before, but now he felt vulnerable in a way he never had. He felt an emptiness inside but didn’t begin to know how to fill it.

  He wasn’t one to believe much in fate, but he couldn’t help wondering if his being here now—at this inn, for this wedding, with his family all around him—was some kind of opportunity for him to try to figure out where he’d gone wrong, and how he could make up for what had been missing from his life so far.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WHEN IN DOUBT, bake something. Lacey had pretty much lived by this motto since she was old enough to put slice-and-bake cookies in the oven. So it was just as well that her confusion over her feelings for Marc coincided with the final exam in her pastry class, in which she was to create an original dessert and present it to t
he class.

  The day before the wedding, she found herself up to her elbows in flour and sugar and a pile of cherries in the kitchen of the inn. She had decided to prepare a fresh cherry tart with a cream filling in a hazelnut tart shell. Her fingers were stained from pitting the cherries and she still had a small mountain of hazelnuts to shell and grind.

  To make matters worse, Giselle and the pastry chef hired to create the wedding cake, Hugh Gautier, took it upon themselves to “help” her with the project.

  “Ma chère, you should add almond paste to the filling to complement the flavor of the cherries,” Monsieur Gautier advised.

  “Don’t listen to him.” Giselle elbowed Gautier out of the way. “Almond paste will make the filling too heavy.” She gave Gautier a disdainful look. “The man does not know how to make a truly light dish.”

  “Perhaps because I have an appreciation of a dish with body.” He eyed Giselle’s behind and grinned wickedly.

  Giselle squeaked and darted away, her cheeks bright pink, while Lacey choked back laughter.

  “Incorrigible!” Giselle sputtered.

  “Mademoiselle, it is true, you make me forget my manners.” Gautier put his hands together in a pleading gesture. “Forgive me, but I find you irresistible.”

  “I am sure you say that to every woman in every kitchen in which you work,” Giselle resumed her haughty attitude. “I know your type, monsieur.”

  “You know nothing, mademoiselle. But if you will allow, we could know each other better.”

  Lacey added the hazelnuts to the food processor and switched it on, drowning out the bickering and banter. If Giselle had asked her advice, Lacey would have told her to respond to Gautier’s flirtations. The older cook was obviously attracted to the dapper pastry chef, but pride or fear or some misguided belief about how she should act held her back.

  Is that why Marc kept retreating every time the two of them got close? She added butter and sugar to the food processor and watched as the ingredients transformed into dough. She sensed he wanted to be with her, but his own history or his ideas about love, or something kept him from moving forward.

  She emptied the dough into the tart pan she’d prepared and began shaping it into a crust. If only people would act on their feelings—follow their hearts, as Celeste had advised—and not think so much all the time. No doubt the world would be a better place.

  She finished shaping the crust and began preparing the filling. “How are things coming, chérie?” Monsieur Gautier emerged from the pantry carrying the bottom layer of the wedding cake on a tray. Giselle followed with the next layer.

  “It’s going well, I think.” She tasted the filling. It needed a little something. “I don’t think almond paste is right for the filling,” she said.

  “What did I tell you?” Giselle looked at Gautier.

  “But maybe—almond liqueur?” Lacey said.

  “Amaretto. C’est parfait!”

  “Not too much,” Giselle cautioned. “You don’t want to overwhelm the flavor of the hazelnuts and cherries.”

  “She is right,” Gautier said. “Just a touch. A soupçon.”

  “I have some amaretto here.” Giselle turned to a cupboard.

  “Allow me, mademoiselle.” Gautier rushed to take the bottle down from the top shelf.

  “Merci, monsieur.” Giselle looked almost coy and her face flushed once more, making her look much younger and less severe. Come to think of it, the two of them had been alone in that pantry for some time, Lacey mused. Perhaps they’d gotten better acquainted in more ways than one.

  “Here you are, mademoiselle.” Gautier handed her the bottle. “Try it now.”

  Under both older chefs’ supervision, she added a small measure of the liqueur to her filling and whipped it in. They each tasted the results.

  “Wonderful,” Giselle declared. “If your instructors do not give you a top mark they are idiots.”

  “She is right again.” Gautier beamed. “You have found just the right combination of ingredients, chérie. Congratulations. When you are graduated, perhaps you will come to work for me in my shop.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Giselle said. “She is going to stay here and work for me.” And the two were off once more, arguing all the way back to the pantry.

  Lacey smiled and added the filling to her hazelnut crust. Her creation would be delicious—worth the effort it had taken to get it right. Maybe it was the same with relationships—the more effort one put into them, the sweeter the reward.

  FOR THE WEDDING REHEARSAL DINNER, the dining room of the inn was transformed into a fantasy of tiny white lights and greenery. The ceiling and walls were draped in swaths of white netting, with strands of tiny lights glowing behind the fabric like starlight in fog. Potted palms were grouped around the room, while the table had been draped in white silk, and set with gold-rimmed china.

  Marc, camera in hand, took his designated place at the table and found he was across from his father and Margie. The two men hadn’t seen each other since the confrontation in his bedroom, but Marc had vowed to be civil. Alan had apparently taken the same vow. He nodded to Marc and said hello. “You remember Margie, of course,” he said.

  “Of course. Hello, Margie.” Marc shook hands with his father’s wife—he refused to think of her as his stepmother—and took his seat. The rest of the family joined them and the hum of conversation filled the room.

  “It is so wonderful to have everyone together like this to celebrate this wonderful occasion.” Celeste addressed them from her place at the head of the table. “I feel that love is in the air here. May we all fall under its spell.” She raised her glass and they all toasted, then servers brought in the first course, a cream-based pumpkin soup that had everyone raving.

  Marc looked up and caught his father watching him. “You look good,” Alan said. “All this traveling must agree with you.”

  Only a few days before, Uncle Frank had told him he looked worn-out. Had Paris made the difference, or something else? “I guess. I enjoy my work.” He did enjoy the work, but the only real reason he tolerated the travel anymore was that he had nothing to come home to but an empty apartment. It was easier to stay busy and on the road than to face the loneliness of his life away from work—something this time spent observing all the couples around him made him feel more acutely than ever.

  Uncle Frank stood and cleared his throat. Everyone turned their attention to him. “As the official host of this dinner, I want to welcome you all and say what a pleasure it’s been getting to know you these past few days.”

  Applause and calls of “Hear, hear!” greeted this sentiment.

  “I just want to say how happy we are to have Alexis and her family as part of our family,” Frank continued. “She’s a lovely young woman and I know she’s made my Gabe very happy.”

  Gabe leaned over and stole a quick kiss from his bride-to-be. Marc joined in the applause. Gabe did look happy, but how long would the feeling last past the wedding? Was there really such a thing as happily-ever-after?

  Throughout the main dish and the salad, Marc studied his fellow diners and fell into a deeper and deeper funk. So much for joining in the celebration. Everywhere he looked he saw people who were happier than he was. Even his father and Margie were smiling and seemed truly enamored of each other.

  He told himself he needed to snap out of his dark mood, but didn’t know how.

  The main course was followed by salad, then cheese. “We have a special treat tonight,” Celeste announced when the cheese plate was cleared. “For dessert, we have a new dish, created by our own Mademoiselle Lacey Jessup.”

  On cue, the door to the dining room opened and Lacey appeared, bearing a silver tray on which rested several gleaming cherry tarts. “The cherry and hazelnut tart is Lacey’s project for her pastry class at Le Cordon Bleu,” Celeste explained. “It is so delicious, we are sure she will receive the highest mark. We are privileged to have her share her creation with us.”

 
; Lacey blushed a deep pink as everyone applauded, but Marc had never seen her smile so much. She was so beautiful it hurt him to look at her. She glanced around the table, stopping when she came to him, her smile warmer still.

  His heart jumped in his chest, the sensation startling him. He had always suspected such physical reactions to another’s presence were the fiction of novels. Yet his behavior when near Lacey never failed to catch him off guard. And likewise, he could never predict how she would behave around him.

  He remembered her anger at his apology for kissing her the other night in the kitchen, and the memory made him smile.

  “What’s so amusing?”

  Alan’s question brought Marc out of his reverie. He shook his head and focused his attention of the slice of tart the server had set in front of him. “Just remembering something that happened,” he said.

  “Share the joke with me,” Alan said. “These dinners bore me out of my skull.” He took a large bite of tart and spoke around it. “The food’s good, though.”

  Of course Alan was too self-absorbed to be interested in any activity that didn’t revolve around himself. On another occasion, Marc would have pointed this out, but tonight he was reluctant to risk losing the pleasant feeling seeing Lacey had given him.

  When dinner had at last ended, he went in search of Lacey. He found her alone in the kitchen, scrubbing down the worktable. “The tart was delicious,” he said.

  “Thank you.” She didn’t look at him but kept scrubbing, the muscles of her bare arms tensing with each stroke. “I was flattered when Giselle asked me to cook it for the dinner tonight.” She laughed. “Though I suspect that may have had something to do with her determination not to give Monsieur Gautier the chance to contribute one of his own creations.”

  “Monsieur Gautier is the pastry chef?” he asked, remembering the man who had sparred with Giselle the day before.

  “Yes, that’s him. Giselle resents having to share her kitchen with him, plus she thinks he’s too haughty and grand. But at the same time, she’s very attracted to him.”