Chapter 3
Ember
Iarrive five minutes after eight for dinner, so I can sit in a corner after all the couples have found their seats.
The table is long and wide enough to seat twenty comfortably, but tonight we are only twelve so the chairs are spread apart, no one sitting too close to the other.
Papa sits at the head, with Mama on his right. Aksel and Freja flank either side, while Jonathan is next to Freja. Gisele and Heidi sit across from them, next to Aunt Tanya and Uncle Bob. Calypso is right by Ransom, leaning into him.
Just sit on his lap already, woman!
And I colossally miscalculated because the only place left is between Ransom and Uncle Bob.
Hell!
Dinner is always served at eight during the Rousseau chalet holiday—a tradition as crisp as the linen napkins folded into swans at each place setting.
Our housekeeper, Racquel, who has been here forever, ensures that the staff delivers in the way our family has celebrated holidays for many years—I think some of the traditions date back to the time when grand-mère was a young bride.
The food is traditional French, which is why the dining room smells like rosemary, garlic, and confit de canard.
The long oak table gleams under the golden light of the chandelier, polished to a soft, almost reflective sheen.
Dozens of white tapers flicker in antique silver holders.
The centerpiece is a low arrangement of white amaryllis, eucalyptus, and silver-painted pinecones nestled into a mirrored tray.
Outside the tall windows, snow falls in elegant flurries, frosting the trees and rooftops in white. Inside, soft textures, warm lights, and winter greenery echo the scene beyond the glass—an effortless harmony between the world outside and the space within.
I smile with practiced ease at Ransom when he rises to help me take my seat. He’s a gentleman when it comes to things like this.
Another way of saying it is that he’s old-fashioned. Stuffy.
After Ransom, I gravitated toward men nothing like him. They were my age and not in serious professions. Didn’t always make rent money.
For the past year, I’ve had a few one-night stands, very few. When you live in a lab and are an introvert, it’s easier to watch some porn and give your vibrator a workout than head to a bar and hope you meet someone who isn’t “pump and dump.”
Also, I think Ransom ruined me for other men. The son of a bitch.
“Red or white?” he asks, even though he used to know I’m all white all the time when it comes to wine. The sulfites used to clear red wine give me a headache, so I try to steer clear of them.
“White, please,” I reply politely, hurt that he’s forgotten.
Me? I remember everything.
His favorite wine is Masseto from Tuscany. A wine named after the rock-hard clusters of blue clay that form on the vineyard's surface.
His favorite book is The Color Purple.
His favorite movie is Casablanca. A romantic movie? I know. Surprised me, too.
His favorite TV show is The Wire.
His favorite meal is cassoulet.
He watches basketball as if it were a religion.
He doesn’t like turkey, which is why the one time we spent Thanksgiving together, I roasted a duck to go with the fixings.
He likes to hold my gaze when he eats me out.
He likes to watch me ride him, his hands on my breasts, kneading, torturing my nipples.
He likes to rest his cock in my mouth after he comes, just for a moment, wanting the warmth.
He….
I shift, rubbing my thighs together. I can smell his cologne. Hear his voice. I’m like a bitch in heat. Pathetic.
“I thought you were going to try Europe for your postdoc?” Uncle Bob asks me, as we wait for Racquel to finish serving the appetizer: smoked veal in a clear bouillon.
Mama has outdone herself this holiday season by snagging Chef Pascal, a Michelin-starred chef who trained under Alain Ducasse himself, for the chalet.
Hence, we’re having gourmet meals, and thanks to Aksel, who’s collaborating (that’s the word he used) with the Chef, every dish is superbly paired with wine.
However, since I don’t drink red wine, Aksel ensures that there is a white alternative.
My brother is very democratic when it comes to wine, even though his politics are way to the right, like my father’s and unlike Freja’s and Mama’s.
This has always led to interesting and, often, heated conversations around the dinner table.
“I got a great opportunity with Dr. Mel Camacho,” I reply, sipping my wine, aware that Ransom’s attention is on me.
There was a time when we were so intimate that I could touch him, hold his hand, lean against him, and now…nothing. He’s a stranger. And I have no rights.
The rights you had were temporary, Ember, even then, and you knew it.
I did know it, but I’d hoped that he felt the same way I did. That he could sense the magic between us.
But the sparks are gone now, right? They’d better be because he’s apparently getting married to that woman.
She is more his type. A lot like his ex. Blonde, beautiful, charming, socially adept, age appropriate (as far as he’s concerned)—all things I’m not.
“You’re doing your postdoc under Camacho?” Ransom asks, some disbelief tinging his voice.
“Yes.” I face him bravely. It’s been five years. I’ve had plenty of dalliances in between. I can handle Ransom Marchand.
He arches an eyebrow. “I know him.”
I lick my lips and then worry my lower lip nervously. He knows my boss? Well, that isn’t good news at all.
“Oh,” I murmur. Thankfully Mama starts eating, giving me the perfect excuse to chew instead of talk.
“He’s very particular about who he works with. You must’ve impressed him.”
The way he says it is condescending. I don’t like it. I nod absently and focus on the veal and bouillon. It’s excellent. The drizzle of truffle oil on top is particularly delicious. I save that detail for the next time I cook—it’s a passion of mine, which I use as a stress reliever.
Initially, it was a way to feel closer to Ransom, especially when I was trying to heal my broken heart, because we used to cook together; in fact, I learned how to cook from him. Now, I did it because it makes me feel closer to myself.
This man has had such a visceral impact on me, while I was just a fling for him. If that isn’t sad, I don’t know what is.
Soon, silverware is clinking against China. Conversations are aplenty. Jonathan asks Ransom a question about Stanford Medical, and I’m left alone to eat, to watch, to learn as I’ve always done.
We eat in the shadow of Magdalene with the Smoking Flame, the original Georges de La Tour hanging above the sideboard. Its presence is almost oppressive in its stillness—a reminder, perhaps, that reflection can be its own form of judgment.
The soup is followed by seared duck breast in cherry jus, accompanied by pommes dauphinoise and braised endives.
The paired wine is a 2005 Chateauneuf-du-Pape, brought by Aksel, of course, and served in tall crystal glasses that catch the light like jewels.
I continue to drink the 2019 Chassagne Montrachet that Aksel opened for me.
I’m a lightweight. I can drink about two glasses of wine before I’m out.
It’s during the cheese course, after a few glasses of wine have been drunk, that the conversation moves from the weather and skiing conditions to politics with all the inevitability of gravity.
I know they say don’t talk about religion, politics, or sex at the dinner table, but not in the Rousseau household. We discuss all three with gusto and passion.
There was that one time when Freja threw a Baccarat crystal vase onto a wall behind Aksel. She was eighteen then. She doesn’t do that kind of thing anymore…at least, I haven’t seen her do it.
I am spreading an ash-coated chèvre on walnut bread when Gisele sets down her glass of wine purposefully and leans in, “Jean, you must be in love with the EU’s revised climate budget.”
I add a small blob of honeycomb and a slice of pear onto the chèvre.
Ransom spears up an aged Comté and some Fourme d’Ambert onto his plate before sending the cheese plate along to Calypso.
Jonathan chuckles. “Now, Gisele, that’s provocative, and you know it.”
Papa slices into a wedge of Morbier. “It’s another round of performative idealism. They want emissions cuts and renewable targets, but won’t confront the inefficiency of bureaucracy. The subsidies are bloated and poorly managed.”
I take a sip of the wine. It’s softened since it was opened, mellowed into something exquisite. Wasn’t it in Wall Street where Michael Douglas said, words to the effect, that his wife could have the house and kids in the divorce, but he was keeping the Montrachet?
“You think subsidies for coal and fossil fuels should exist, which in itself is the problem,” Heidi remarks.
I’ve sat at dinner tables often enough to know that soon the ping pong of heads toward the speaker will begin. Slowly, but steadily, tempers will rise, and eventually the conversation will peter out, and something new will be discussed. No opinions or minds will be changed in the process.
Aksel, our resident economist, dabs his mouth and nods. “The intent is right, but the structure is flawed. We need more strategic capital deployment, not merely more of said capital deployment. Otherwise, you’re lighting euros on fire.”
Freja lets out a short laugh. “God forbid the planet burns, but the real tragedy is wasted capital.”
“We need innovation, but not at the cost of real-world practicality,” Jonathan says like he’s practicing his stump speech. “It’s not about throwing money around—it’s about anchoring policy in what actually works on the ground.”
Freja cuts in, as she does, with data, “The current subsidies have doubled solar adoption rates in southern Europe over the last two years.”
Mama sets her knife down. “I just don’t understand how people can look at the wildfires in California, the floods in Valencia, and still think this is about balance sheets. The planet is screaming.”
There’s a noisy ripple of agreement and disagreement.