working with you. I’m such an idiot to even think it. I would never end up down the same path as my mother.”
And she hopped up into the train, with a happy wave.
Leaving Gabriel standing, riven to stone.
“You picked a fine time to move to the Côte d’Azur,” her sister Estelle told her. “Jo. I’m busy in New York. Fleur’s got a job in San Francisco. I thought you were going to be here in Paris for Papa.”
Jo stuffed her hands in her pockets, her stomach clenching. Her father, all alone. Again. This time, without even his arrogance and his chef skills. “I’ll be here three days out of the week. An twelve-hour round trip to spend three days with him every week isn’t enough ?”
“You were fixed in Paris! You could have been around for him whenever he needed you. I don’t think a lot of your timing.”
“It’s funny how your guilty conscience only works on my behalf,” Jo said sullenly. Why did people always want so much of her? Why was she so stingy with herself?
“Oh, so what do you want me to do? Quit my job in New York? I’ve already stretched it out here as much as I can. I’ve got to get back.”
“What do you want me to do?” Jo asked. “Say no to this? He’s holding a lawsuit over my head! ” Thank you, Gabriel Delange. Otherwise, she could never excuse this, to herself or anyone else. Otherwise, she would be in Paris, fighting her father’s depression every day.
Again the thought of her father, those three days without her, sitting at his table rolling that rolling pin bleakly, weighed down on her, grim and gray. Oh, Papa. “He’ll still be seeing his therapists, and I’ll have someone come in every morning and evening to check on him.” Even though he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, a voice in her head pointed out.
Estelle zipped her suitcase with grim intention: I’m out of here. “And what are you going to tell him? About why you’re spending half the week in Nice?”
“Sainte-Mère,” Jo corrected. Although . . . did her father have to know the exact location? There were a lot of good chefs around Nice. She just had to pick one in rare contact with her father. . . . “Daniel Laurier!” she said triumphantly.
Estelle looked at her blankly.
“ You know , the guy who took over Le Relais d’Or in Saint-Amour when he was nineteen? Dark hair? Intense? On TV all the time?”
“I can’t believe you like chefs so much,” Estelle muttered. “You actually know all the starred chefs by name? Didn’t you get enough of that level of narcissism when we were kids?” She cast a guilty but bitter glance in the direction of their father’s apartment building, a couple of arrondissements over.
Jo frowned, and plowed forward. “I’ll tell Papa that I’m working with him. He won’t have any problem with that.”
“Going after a chef that’s worth something, I see.” Her father rolled that damn rolling pin. “I can’t really blame you.”
“Papa. I want to keep writing cookbooks. When I met with, with Daniel Laurier to ask about a recipe for French Taste , the idea just developed. Working with him is a great opportunity for me. You didn’t think the only cookbook I would ever do would be yours?”
Her father shot her a glance and said nothing.
Ah. Maybe he had, in fact, wanted to be her sole center of attention. He made her heart ache. And that heart stretched away from the ache toward the south and the scent of jasmine, in pure yearning to be free.
“Come on, Papa, help me with this recipe.” She pulled one from his cookbook, a simple but delicious pea puree that he could do perfectly well, even with a hampered left hand. “Please?”
But he got up and left the room.
And left her with her aching heart. Yes, he was the one who chose to isolate himself, but that didn’t make him any less alone.
“We’ve got Matt out there,” Raphaël told Gabriel, stopping on the other side of the pass from him. Younger than Gabriel by six
And she hopped up into the train, with a happy wave.
Leaving Gabriel standing, riven to stone.
“You picked a fine time to move to the Côte d’Azur,” her sister Estelle told her. “Jo. I’m busy in New York. Fleur’s got a job in San Francisco. I thought you were going to be here in Paris for Papa.”
Jo stuffed her hands in her pockets, her stomach clenching. Her father, all alone. Again. This time, without even his arrogance and his chef skills. “I’ll be here three days out of the week. An twelve-hour round trip to spend three days with him every week isn’t enough ?”
“You were fixed in Paris! You could have been around for him whenever he needed you. I don’t think a lot of your timing.”
“It’s funny how your guilty conscience only works on my behalf,” Jo said sullenly. Why did people always want so much of her? Why was she so stingy with herself?
“Oh, so what do you want me to do? Quit my job in New York? I’ve already stretched it out here as much as I can. I’ve got to get back.”
“What do you want me to do?” Jo asked. “Say no to this? He’s holding a lawsuit over my head! ” Thank you, Gabriel Delange. Otherwise, she could never excuse this, to herself or anyone else. Otherwise, she would be in Paris, fighting her father’s depression every day.
Again the thought of her father, those three days without her, sitting at his table rolling that rolling pin bleakly, weighed down on her, grim and gray. Oh, Papa. “He’ll still be seeing his therapists, and I’ll have someone come in every morning and evening to check on him.” Even though he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, a voice in her head pointed out.
Estelle zipped her suitcase with grim intention: I’m out of here. “And what are you going to tell him? About why you’re spending half the week in Nice?”
“Sainte-Mère,” Jo corrected. Although . . . did her father have to know the exact location? There were a lot of good chefs around Nice. She just had to pick one in rare contact with her father. . . . “Daniel Laurier!” she said triumphantly.
Estelle looked at her blankly.
“ You know , the guy who took over Le Relais d’Or in Saint-Amour when he was nineteen? Dark hair? Intense? On TV all the time?”
“I can’t believe you like chefs so much,” Estelle muttered. “You actually know all the starred chefs by name? Didn’t you get enough of that level of narcissism when we were kids?” She cast a guilty but bitter glance in the direction of their father’s apartment building, a couple of arrondissements over.
Jo frowned, and plowed forward. “I’ll tell Papa that I’m working with him. He won’t have any problem with that.”
“Going after a chef that’s worth something, I see.” Her father rolled that damn rolling pin. “I can’t really blame you.”
“Papa. I want to keep writing cookbooks. When I met with, with Daniel Laurier to ask about a recipe for French Taste , the idea just developed. Working with him is a great opportunity for me. You didn’t think the only cookbook I would ever do would be yours?”
Her father shot her a glance and said nothing.
Ah. Maybe he had, in fact, wanted to be her sole center of attention. He made her heart ache. And that heart stretched away from the ache toward the south and the scent of jasmine, in pure yearning to be free.
“Come on, Papa, help me with this recipe.” She pulled one from his cookbook, a simple but delicious pea puree that he could do perfectly well, even with a hampered left hand. “Please?”
But he got up and left the room.
And left her with her aching heart. Yes, he was the one who chose to isolate himself, but that didn’t make him any less alone.
“We’ve got Matt out there,” Raphaël told Gabriel, stopping on the other side of the pass from him. Younger than Gabriel by six
Similar Books
