Chapter 11
11
G inger motioned to her great-granddaughter as she skirted between tables at the cafe. “Heather, dear, may we have more coffee?” This morning, they were seated at the far end of the patio for privacy.
Heather turned toward them with a dazzling smile. “I’ll make a fresh pot for you and leave it here. I know how Jack guzzles his coffee,” she added, grinning.
“What a lovely young woman,” Ginger said as Heather walked away. “And so happy.” In many ways, Heather reminded her of herself when she was young. Smart, determined, and so much in love. She sighed, glad that Heather had met her match. “Oh, to be that age again with a lifetime ahead.”
A shadow crossed Jack’s face, and he shifted in his chair. “Before we start, I want you to know I’m to meet Blake on his lunch hour today. We might have to cut this session short.”
“Not a problem.” Ginger detected something odd in his demeanor. “Did you sleep well last night?”
“Got something on my mind, that’s all.” He flipped open his notebook. “I’ll just take notes today. No recording.”
“As you wish.” She folded her hands, studying him with curiosity. Whatever was bothering him, he wasn’t ready to share yet. She could wait.
“So, we’ve covered your initial meeting with Bertrand and the acquisition of the cottage,” Jack began, tapping his pen against his notepad. “But I want to delve deeper into your contributions. Your work during that time was groundbreaking, wasn’t it?”
Ginger smiled. “Once again, you’re getting ahead of the story. Let me tell it my way.”
The bustling energy of Les Deux Magots in le sixième , the 6th arrondissement in Paris, hummed around Ginger as she sat at a sidewalk table with Bertrand. One year ago today, she had pledged her life and love to this intriguing man in an intimate ceremony by the sea.
Bertrand brought her hand to his lips, whispering a kiss over her skin. “Happy anniversary, my love,” he murmured, his eyes dancing with thoughts she could easily read.
Though they had celebrated earlier that morning with languid lovemaking and decadent breakfast in bed, she still wished to mark the occasion properly.
“Still happy?” he asked.
“Divinely so.”
“So am I.” He raised his glass to her, “To my exquisite wife. May we celebrate many more anniversaries just like this.”
Ginger flushed with pleasure, coupled with a dizzying cocktail of excitement.
“I have some news to share,” she began, taking his hands in hers.
Bertrand raised his brow, waiting for her.
She released a breath, feeling flustered despite the many times she had rehearsed this line. “Darling, we’re having a child.”
For an endless moment, the din of the sidewalk seemed to cease around them. Ginger watched as a rapid progression of shock, elation, and wonderment transformed his features into an expression so exquisite her heart ached.
He finally exhaled; his voice was edged with uncharacteristic huskiness. “A child? You’re...we’re to be parents?”
She nodded, unable to contain her happiness. “I am, without a doubt, pregnant.”
A low, rumbling laugh burst from him, suffused with such joy that he rose from his chair and embraced her, his palms cradling her face as his lips found hers.
“My dearest Ginger,” he said when they finally parted, breathless and grinning like adolescents. “What an incredible anniversary gift.” His hands slipped lower, spanning her abdomen with reverence. “Imagine, we’ll soon greet a little one.”
She was nearly as dazed as he was by the enormity of this news. “Are you truly happy? I know the timing isn’t quite right given our present circumstances.”
Bertrand’s expression sobered, though his eyes still glinted with excitement. “You know I only worry for your safety, ma chérie .”
“This is why I must continue my work for a while,” Ginger insisted, anticipating his next suggestion.
Sure enough, Bertrand’s eyes tightened slightly before he pressed on in a placating tone. “It might be best for you to return to Summer Beach.”
“No.” She placed a finger firmly over his lips, halting the proposal she had known would come. “I will not be coddled away to safety like some fragile flower.” Her eyes blazed with ferocious conviction. “This child is precisely why I must work to ensure a better, more secure future. I will not sit idle when I can contribute.” In truth, she felt herself on the verge of a momentous discovery, but she needed time.
Her husband’s eyes searched hers before he finally shook his head in surrender.
Cupping her face tenderly, he bestowed a lingering kiss upon her lips. “And that’s why I adore you, my strong, fierce love. Still, I must insist on a few reasonable precautions. Call your mother and talk all you want. She will be elated.”
A trans-Atlantic call was a luxury. “I will. Maybe we could return to Summer Beach just before my due date.” That would give her the strong impetus for a breakthrough in her work.
“Consider it planned.”
Ginger sighed with happiness. This child was the amazing culmination of the deepest love she had ever known. Her gaze strayed past Bertrand’s shoulder, where the sights of her beloved Paris glittered in the sunlight. She smiled, contented now. What better place to have started their family?
“How soon might we return?” Ginger asked, thinking about how much she would miss their life here.
“It’s not always my choice. I must go where I’m needed. But we will always return.”
Ginger loved being pregnant in Paris. She worked long enough to make significant progress on cracking a code that had long vexed teams of cryptologists, earning her a commendation that she declined.
She didn’t want attention drawn to her or her baby, so she insisted the men she worked with take the credit. Still, word spread among their colleagues about what she had accomplished.
At last, it was time to leave; Bertrand received orders for a transfer to Washington, D.C. He worried about her giving birth on the Atlantic crossing or on the train from New York to the West Coast.
They made it to Summer Beach scant weeks before their precious daughter Sandi was born.
While Ginger would miss Paris, this transfer was essential for Bertrand’s career. She could continue her work at Arlington Hall. Bertrand found a townhouse for them in Washington, D.C., and they brought an au pair from France to help with the baby.
Ginger was pleased that their lives took yet another turn. They attended White House events, saw New York theater productions, and vacationed in Palm Beach. Bertrand taught seminars at universities in Boston, where he reconnected with his old friend Kurt and his brother Oliver. Ginger was delighted to see her former boss as well.
“You must meet some good friends of mine here in Boston,” Kurt told them one day during lunch. “Paul and Julia Child. Like you, they’ve spent time in Paris and traveled the world. I think you’d all get on quite well.”
When they met, Ginger was fascinated by the couple, especially Julia, who had studied at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris. She was making a name for herself, having recently written a book on French cooking. Though younger, Ginger was nearly as tall as Julia, and the pair turned heads when they went out. They loved sharing stories about their time in France. Ginger was also intrigued about Julia’s work for the government, although they were careful about what they shared.
The two couples soon became fast friends, and Ginger and Bertrand visited Julia and Paul in Cambridge whenever they were in town.
This drizzly, overcast afternoon, Ginger leaned against the kitchen counter of the Child’s comfortable home near Harvard Square, watching Julia expertly slice onions with a practiced hand. The aroma of butter melting in a heavy-bottomed pot filled the air, mingling with herbs and spices. The kitchen was warm and inviting.
“Now, dear, the key to a perfect French onion soup is patience,” Julia instructed, her distinctive warble filled with enthusiasm as she outlined the steps. “You must let the onions caramelize slowly. It’s a labor of love.”
Ginger nodded, absorbing every word. “Like a mathematical equation,” she mused. “Layers of complexity, each step precise, the solution gradually revealed as you work through it.”
Julia’s eyebrows shot up, her face breaking into a delighted grin. “Oh, I do like that analogy. Paul, darling, did you hear that? Ginger’s comparing my soup to mathematical equations.”
A chuckle came from the corner of the kitchen, where Paul was meticulously measuring ingredients for cocktails with Bertrand. “Well, that certainly fits.”
Sitting at a table, Bertrand raised his glass. “To cocktail and culinary success.”
“Hear, hear,” Ginger said.
Julia guided her through the steps of preparing the roast chicken, explaining each step. “Cooking is a blend of art and science. It involves precision, timing, and combining elements for the best result. So relax, be fearless, and enjoy a glass of wine or a cocktail while you make dinner. You’ll be happier for it.”
While they talked, Ginger tucked a handful of cooked carrots, celery, parsley, thyme, and lemon slices into the cavity of a trussed chicken she’d massaged with butter. “How is this?” she asked when she finished.
Julia nodded her approval. “Very good. Everything tastes better with enough butter. And how did your soufflés turn out last week?”
“Ginger was busy, so I prepared them,” Bertrand said. “My soufflés are the height of diplomatic relations. Fluffy little peacekeepers, they turned out to be.”
The conversation flowed to their experiences in Paris as they sipped their drinks. Ginger loved strolling along the Seine, the city of lights sparkling around her.
“Do you remember that little cafe near the Sorbonne?” Ginger asked Bertrand. “Where we’d spend hours over coffee and croissants?”
“Paul and I had our haunts, too,” Julia said, naming their favorite spots.
“And the markets,” Paul added. “Julia spent hours examining every vegetable, every cut of meat. It was like watching a general plan a campaign.”
“One must start with the finest ingredients available,” Julia said, pausing for a sip.
As the evening progressed and the meal came together, Ginger was drawn into her friend’s culinary world. The precision, creativity, and sheer joy of crafting something delicious resonated with her analytical mind.
Over dinner, as they savored and devoured what they’d prepared, Julia raised her glass. “As I like to say, people who love to eat are always the best people. You and Bertrand certainly qualify.”
Ginger expressed her deep appreciation. “What a marvelous evening. You’ve sparked a new appreciation for cooking in me.”
As they clinked glasses, Ginger knew she’d found a new passion and cherished friends.
Bertrand leaned in for a kiss. “The roasted chicken was delicious.”
“I’ll be sure to replicate it.” She sighed happily.
The evening was equal parts humor, warmth, and intellect—with a main dish of culinary excellence. They lingered over their crème br?lée that Julia had finished with a blow torch.
Ginger fixed this pleasant evening in her mind, adding it to her mental snapshots. Often, when her work became tedious, she would take a break and flip through these images. Someday, she would revisit all these joyful moments.