Chapter 13 Jean-Paul
Chapter 13
Jean-Paul
Jean-Paul likes the periphery. He likes the way his cooktop serves as a border from the fuss of the table, how he can slide in and out of conversation as he wishes. The guests like it that way, too, every so often lobbing him a random question about how something is prepared. They feel the comfort that comes from knowing someone’s taking extra care in feeding them.
They’re gathered in the kitchen, sipping wine and champagne as he mixes olive oil with spices. Renée fusses with the already perfect charcuterie board. She’s probably wondering if Leo and Penny changed their minds, and when he spots his niece gazing out the window, he knows she’s wondering the same. Simone has always had a massive crush on Leo Shay. She’s holding her Nikon (a proper camera, she calls it), because on the first night, she always photographs the guests on the steps leading down to the kitchen. Simone makes a big deal of this ritual. She says she likes to capture those first moments, relishing how much is about to change, how guests arrive as strangers but rarely leave as such.
Renée checks her watch and eyes Jean-Paul. She signals to Simone that it’s time and taps a glass with a silver spoon. “If I can get you all together for a welcome photo.”
They set their wineglasses on the table, and Simone directs them toward the stairs. On the highest step in the back row are Lucy and Henry. Sienna and Adam are one step down, and Adam wraps an arm around his wife’s shoulder. The mother-daughter duo stand on the front step, a noticeable distance between them, and the mother is the only one in the group still holding her drink. The daughter stands with her arms crossed. They’re awkward, not yet at ease, and Simone waves them in closer. And just as she’s about to snap the shutter, there’s a commotion at the door.
“Sorry we’re late!” Leo shouts, making his way through the hallway followed by Penny.
Jean-Paul hears Renée’s sigh, the pleasant sound of relief, and before they can greet the actor and his wife, Simone gestures them toward the others.
“Oh my goodness, is that you, Simone?” Penny asks. “You were, like, five the last time we saw you!”
A collection of eyes dances as one of Hollywood’s greats saunters across the room, some hiding their surprise beneath curious smiles. Penny and Leo Shay. Jean-Paul’s mantra has worked. Sure, he notices the hesitancy of their steps, but their presence swells through the room. It will be an extraordinary week after all. How could it not? Leo is as handsome as ever; age has only made him more distinguished—at least, that’s what Renée said when she saw him in People magazine. And Penny: she is a sight with that long blond hair and generous smile. Leo Shay is nothing without his lucky charm, the shiny penny he vowed to love, honor, and cherish.
The guests pose, hopeful and hungry, when Simone presses the button. Click. A few more times. He hears the sound, sees the smiles. Possibility. It’s all there. When she finishes, the guests scatter toward the table, searching for their wine.
For now, they have a full house, and after Jean-Paul plates the salads, he joins Renée in properly greeting Leo and Penny. She takes Penny’s hands into hers as Jean-Paul pulls Leo into a bear hug. “It’s been too long,” he says.
“It’s good to be back,” Leo whispers, nodding at Penny. “I’m not so sure she’d agree.”
Jean-Paul brushes him off, well aware of the scandalous headlines. “That’ll change. Trust me. Renée will have it no other way.”
“What are you two whispering about?” Renée asks, holding Penny’s hand. “Whatever it is, we’ll work it out.” She isn’t wrong. They’ve witnessed Penny and Leo’s love in full bloom, and they know the inn’s transformative power. “Sit!” she orders them.
When everyone’s seated, Renée reintroduces herself and provides a brief history of her and Jean-Paul’s time in France before moving to the area and purchasing the old farmhouse. He slips away behind the counter, returning to tonight’s meal. It’s the same speech she repeats every week. “We knew very little about Vilas, but after visiting a bunch of properties, we stumbled across Broadstone Road.” She glances lovingly at him. “It took us forever to convince the owner to sell.”
“Two years,” he says, carefully shaping the croque monsieur bites. He feels their eyes on his fingers.
“Jean-Paul tends to this magnificent building the same way he tends to the menu. With care. Patience. Mostly everything you see was brought in from Europe, and Jean-Paul worked tirelessly on the restoration.”
He notices Lucy and Henry aren’t paying much attention. Adam’s texting beneath the table, thinking he has everyone fooled. He doesn’t. They’ve heard her speech a dozen times before, but Cassidy and Rosalie are new to the table, and Renée continues, sharing the week’s activities, the house rules, and responding to questions as though it were the first time.
He listens. Fading in and out. He’s on a precipice between doing what he loves and waiting to fall off the cliff, watching his life’s work stripped away. And worse, living with the fact that it’s probably his fault.
“Is there a gym nearby?” Cassidy interrupts.
Renée holds up both hands. “These mountains are your gym. There’s tons of activities that’ll get your heart racing.”
From there, Renée turns the night over to Jean-Paul, and he describes the evening’s menu and wine pairing. The table at Vis Ta Vie has a sterling reputation; the reviews describe Jean-Paul as a culinary genius, a master chef who carefully executes every detail. From the edible flowers adorning each course to the grades of meat and the years of certain wines, his selections are purposeful, the presentation exact.
The conversation among the guests begins simply, as it always does, with a greeting across the table. “We’re Lucy and Henry Rose-Wall from Buckhead. And that’s Adam and Sienna Kravitz. We’ve been friends since college,” says Lucy.
Sienna sips her wine. “How’s it possible that was eighteen years ago?”
“I’m Cassidy Banks.” The mother drops a hand on her nearly exposed breasts when she says this. “And this is my daughter, Rosalie. We’re from Chicago. Deerfield.”
The daughter offers a weak smile. In the light of the kitchen, her features look dark and clunky.
Leo and Penny don’t require an introduction, and someone asks what’s brought the famous actor to these parts. “Same thing as you,” Leo responds, praising the food and the peacefulness of the mountains. Unplugging. Renée pours wine, a bottle of red in one hand and white in the other. Leo points to the red. “We’ll have our usual.”
But Penny shakes her head. “White for me.”
Jean-Paul lets them do their thing as Simone serves the first course. Lucy’s chatting with the mother and the daughter, trying to draw the young girl out by asking her age and what grade she’s in. “How nice you have this time with your mom,” she says, to which Rosalie shrugs, gulping down a glass of water.
They dive into their salads as Simone and Renée circle the table refilling glasses. The chatter grows. The laces begin to knot together; the threads intertwine.
“We have friends who live in Deerfield,” Lucy says to Cassidy. “The Pollocks. They have three boys. Do you know them?”
“Nope. Don’t know any Pollocks.”
“Yes, we do,” Rosalie says with a scowl. “Billy’s parents.”
“Fordham,” Sienna answers when Leo asks her which law school she attended.
People at their table do this. They prod each other in search of the connective tissue that affirms commonality. Mutual acquaintances provide context, and pedigrees are baselines in summing up strangers. He’s heard the back-and-forth a million times. College is a tiny flag of victory, unless you attended an Ivy League. Bonus points for graduate school. The pecking order of who is who in the hierarchy of the world is decided on day one. But in twenty-four hours, maybe less, it will change. They’ll all be on a level playing field.
“Thirteen,” offer the two couples when asked how many years they’ve been coming to the inn.
“We’ve got you beat,” Leo chimes. “Twenty-five.”
“Not consistently,” Penny corrects him. “We haven’t been back in a while.”
Jean-Paul remembers their first trip. It coincided with the inn’s inaugural year. They were all so young, their futures bright and full of dreams. In light of the news, Jean-Paul is as surprised as anyone that they actually showed up.
Cassidy reaches for her wine and slurps what’s left in a single swig. “I can’t imagine we wouldn’t want to come back.” She says this between clamped teeth and a forced smile, fooling no one.
After the salads are cleared, Jean-Paul announces the second course: “Buttery French grilled cheese.” He can tell by the expression on Cassidy’s face that she wants to refuse them, but he doubts she’ll be able to.
“We have three girls,” Penny says when they’re asked about their children. She then glances at Leo. “Leo’s outnumbered.”
Henry gushes about their two sons, and Adam tells the story of the time some famous quarterback carried his two girls onto the field when they were two and four. Being the only men in female-dominated houses bonds Adam to Leo, and the two swap stories of soccer catastrophes and waking up from naps with their cheeks painted in lipstick.
Jean-Paul takes careful note of Renée as the subject of children dominates their table. She’s good, his wife. Practiced. And when Henry veers off toward his fascination with space, she follows right along, listening intently. Henry’s a pleasant-looking man. Tonight, the green of his shirt matches the green in his eyes. Nothing excites Henry more than the solar system. When he talks about it, he becomes expressive and animated. Who knew there were multiple stages of twilight? Or how a meteor shower , as he describes it, resembles a burst of bright fireworks?
“I can’t top what Henry does,” Sienna says, adding, somewhat disappointed, that she gave up her law practice to stay home with the kids. “My kids are my world, but those days in the office were at times easier than child-rearing!”
“Mothering’s next-level work,” Lucy chimes in. “There’s no such thing as nine-to-five. It’s twenty-four seven. And you’re consistently challenged mentally and physically by a tiny hellion. It’s much more taxing on the brain. There’s no on-off switch.”
Jean-Paul studies Renée’s expression. Vague. Unreadable. But he knows what lies underneath.
“What’s it like to be famous?” Rosalie quietly asks Leo.
Penny snorts. “He’s not really that famous. Anymore.”
She’s the first to touch on their very public scandal, but no one bites. Not yet.
“Can I get a picture with you?” Cassidy asks, standing up, phone in one hand, wine in the other. “The girls in my spin class will plotz.” But then she yelps, and the glass slips from her hand and cracks on the table. “Ouch!” She bends over as the guests all leap to her aid, but Jean-Paul saw it out of the corner of his eye. He saw the girl kick her mother in the shin.
“I love your movies.” Sienna breaks the silence. “I watched Andres and Sharita , like, a hundred times.” She pauses, licking the cheese from her lips. “Did you learn Spanish for the role?” And before he answers, she’s already moved on. “It’s really cool you’re here ... both of you.”
Lucy adds, “It’s good to see you’ve worked things out.” Which is met with silence as Leo turns to Penny, and she stares straight ahead before stabbing a fork into the tiny sandwich.
Cassidy’s tending to her shin. “Just banged into this leg here,” she says, loud enough for them all to hear. Simone replaces her glass, and Renée replenishes her wine. There’s one in every group, the one who drinks wine like water. This week it’s Cassidy Banks.
Adam recounts Leo’s infamous car chase with Dwayne Johnson in Night Ranger in excruciatingly long, dramatic detail. One of the women asks if he really threw himself out of the van on the Los Angeles freeway and jumped onto the moving train below, which has Leo downplaying the feat, his skin flushing. He encourages Adam to sum it up for her, and Adam doesn’t need to be asked twice. Leo may be a star, but a quiet shyness eclipses his on-screen persona. Jean-Paul appreciates that kind of humility. The gilded world hasn’t changed him. Jean-Paul wants to believe that Leo stayed true to himself and his family, that he’s one of the good guys. That’s why this stuff with his costar doesn’t make sense.
Henry mentions a notable political figure. “One to watch,” he adds. “Could be the candidate this country needs.”
Not at Jean-Paul’s table. Politics and alcohol don’t mix. The minute he hears the mention of anything remotely political, he interferes. “Would anyone like to assist with the main course?”
The young girl, Rosalie, raises her hand, and there’s something endearing about it. She must be getting used to the place. She jumps to his side, and in this light, he catches a glimmer in her heavily made-up eyes. She follows his lead, grabbing the wooden spoon and stirring the butter until it’s browned. “How do you know the right amount of ingredients to use?” she asks. “I’m a decent cook, I think. But without a cookbook and exact measurements, I get lost.”
He’s preparing the lamb jus, and he hands her a bottle of red wine, motioning toward the pot of lamb gravy on the burner and nudging her to have a taste. “I want you to add the wine.” The table looks on. Panic fills Rosalie’s eyes.
“Can you be more specific?” she asks.
He presses her to trust her senses, but she’s closing her eyes, lips moving as though she’s counting. Counting? When she opens them again, the counting stops, and he holds a spoon out to her. The table falls silent, and she takes a taste. He can tell she’s nervous, but he likes how she trusts him. How she will soon trust herself. She reaches for the bottle and pours the wine into the pot.
He dips a spoon in the sauce, smacking his lips. “Not bad.”
She musters a half smile as he adds more wine to the jus.
“Rosie’s a great cook,” Cassidy says.
“She will be,” he corrects her. Then he turns to Rosalie, who’s either embarrassed or proud (he can’t tell which). “You’re welcome in my kitchen anytime.”
This seems to please her, and she blushes. “Thank you so much, Mr. De La Rue.” And he doesn’t have to look at his wife to know what she’s thinking. That old, familiar pang creeps up on him too from time to time, the one they buried many years ago. He finds Renée staring across the room, across the clinking of glasses and muffled conversation. Back then, she would say it aloud, but then he told her to stop. It was too upsetting. Now he can tell by the flicker in her eyes, the washed-out sadness. The hazel color says just one thing: You would have been an incredible father.
The moment passes, and Rosalie returns to the seat beside her mother.
Simone weighs in, sharing with the table how Jean-Paul taught her to cook. “Every summer I’d visit from London, and he’d have me spooning and tasting and marinating.” She smiles when she adds, “Food is his love language.”
His niece has grown into a decent chef, but she prefers her camera. Her plan is to move on from Vis Ta Vie to pursue a photography career, and he already knows how much he’ll miss her.
The conversation continues as he serves the main course, each bite of his tasty meal uncovering another layer. The degrees of separation fan out, and commonality and mutual interest form. The camaraderie echoes the politeness found in friends and strangers, but there are still undertones of silent judgments, like hidden flavors, both sweet and sour.
Someone asks about past guests. This is always an entertaining subject. Renée and Jean-Paul describe the time someone sneaked in a puppy (pets aren’t allowed), the bride who spent her wedding night on the sofa, the couple who hit it off and eventually married. “It’s a great story but for the fact they were married to other people when they met.”
There’s laughter, and he loves laughter. He loves the joy the inn evokes in people.
When it’s time for dessert, Simone and Renée pass around the French custard dotted with berries and powdered sugar. Someone holds up a glass, toasting the host and hostess and toasting each other, and there’s the sound of clinking glasses. Renée finds him, threading an arm through his, and he takes it in, breathing in every nuance. The air feels cold, her skin, too, which defies their recent air-conditioning issues and the number of other reasons they should sell. But he won’t let that get in the way of this week. No matter what happens, he’s determined to make it a week they will never forget.