Chapter 32
Suddenly, two hands grabbed me and roughly pulled me into a sitting position.
“What’s happening? What’s wrong?” a voice asked. It was sharp and angry.
The sudden movement was enough to shock my lungs out of the shallow breaths they’d been stuck in. My first real gulp of air was cool and sweet. For a long minute, all I could do was concentrate on my breathing as I trembled on the floor.
“P-panic attack,” I finally gasped out. I slumped back to the ground, but the hands forced me up again. The cool rim of a water glass was pressed to my lips.
“Drink it.”
I obeyed, although I half-choked on the first sips. The water gave me something to focus on, something to anchor myself to. I concentrated on how cool it was, how pleasant it was to drink. I’d been so thirsty; how had I not realized that?
Slowly, the roaring in my ears receded and my vision came back into focus. It wasn’t until nearly a minute later that I realized I had enough air now, although my breathing remained rapid.
“Are you alright?” the voice asked, and now I recognized it.
Laurent, who had been so pristine when he’d walked in, now looked distinctly disheveled as he knelt on the floor beside me. Concern was vivid on his face.
“Margot, are you alright?” he asked again.
I wanted to nod and get composedly to my feet. That’d show Laurent that this had been just a moment of weakness, but that I was doing fine. Better than fine, even. Then he would be confident in my status as an independent, capable woman. All I had to do was say “yes.”
Instead, I burst into tears.
Laurent didn’t need any more answer than that.
With a purposeful but gentle touch, he got me up and hustled me out of the ballroom.
But instead of turning to the kitchens, he opened a random side door and ushered me in.
I was crying too hard to see where we were, but I had a sense that we were now in a much smaller space. That was comforting, somehow.
It had been nearly two months since Laurent and I had seen each other. I was afraid that, after such a long time apart, he’d be awkward now, keeping his distance as I cried myself out.
But I need not have worried; Laurent had no such reservations. He held me as I sobbed into his shoulder, stroking my hair and murmuring my name.
When I finally shuddered to a stop, Laurent handed me a roll of paper towels. I looked around as I blew my nose. We were in some sort of storage closet, and it was absolutely filthy. I shuddered as I took in thick coats of dust and desiccated food scraps.
“I’m sorry,” I said, apologizing for I don’t even know what.
“That song, it…” I was trembling, but my voice was steady.
That was something, at least. “That song the band played was my mother’s favorite song.
She listened to it all the time, and I had it played at her funeral.
I guess I wasn’t expecting to hear it,” I finished weakly.
I was looking at my clenched hands, but I felt Laurent’s arm come around my shoulders. His touch steadied me. I inhaled deeply, concentrating on the air filling my lungs. I lay my head against Laurent’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breaths. “I’m sorry,” I said again.
“You don’t need to apologize,” he said softly.
Laurent handed me another paper towel. “Margot, I’m so sorry for what I said the last time we spoke. It was horrible of me. I know how much you miss your mom. She’d be so proud of you right now. I’m so proud of you. Look at what you’ve accomplished tonight.”
I sniffed. “Having a mental breakdown and cowering in a closet that’s littered with rat droppings?”
“I was thinking more of the desserts you baked for hundreds of people.”
“The macarons got ruined. We’re going to be short desserts.” I dropped my head. That was a mistake because I suddenly had an up-close view of the moldy bread crusts I was kneeling on.
“The macarons are ruined? How?”
“Sabine ‘bumped’ them.” I looked up to see Laurent’s face darken.
“That little—” his jaw clenched. “Don’t let her ruin this for you, Margot. Why don’t you bake something else to replace the macarons? Something quick?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
I thought about it. Why not? Why let Sabine’s petty vengeance be the last word? The gala had barely started, and I had plenty of extra ingredients. What was to stop me from dusting myself off (thoroughly, this closet really was disgusting), and baking something new?
I didn’t have time for macarons, but I had at least fifty recipes rattling around my head at any one time. I could just choose one of them.
I lifted my head so I could see Laurent. His face was radiant with confidence. It certainly meant something when the Earth’s number one grump thought I could fix this situation.
“You’re right. I’m going to do some frantic baking and save the pastry table. Thank you,” I told him. “Who would have thought you’d be the optimistic one between the two of us?”
Laurent’s eyes shone gold. “You are the only thing I’m ever optimistic about.”
There was hardly any space between us. His face was so close to mine. All I had to do was lean in a centimeter, and—
A door closed sharply down the hall, startling me. In a rush, my senses came flooding back.
What was I doing, nearly making out in a dilapidated storage closet with my ex? I had baking to do.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said, deliberately making my voice light. “Fatima probably thinks I’ve been kidnapped.”
Laurent pulled a rag from somewhere and wiped his face. (He’s a braver person than me. This whole closet was so filthy I was tempted to schedule myself a flea dip.)
When we stepped into the hallway, it was jarring to remember where I was.
I had no idea what I’d see when I re-entered the ballroom.
I didn’t think anyone, besides Laurent, had noticed when I’d collapsed from the panic attack.
The table runner would have blocked most of it from view.
But people must have seen that my station was deserted.
No one would have replenished the food, and we were already short one dessert.
I quickened my steps, dusting myself off as I went.
But when I entered the ballroom, what I found wasn’t empty platters of food or Fatima looking bemusedly at my unmanned station.
Instead, Madame Blanchet, of all people, was at my spot behind the table, still wearing her street clothes, and with her helmet at her feet. She was passing out desserts and holding court with a group of enraptured guests.
“And these are mille feuilles with date paste and almond-scented pastry cream,” she said confidently. I was the only one who noticed her reading from the menu. “Our pastry chef traveled to Morocco to harvest the dates and almonds by hand.”
Well, that was patently false, but Madame Blanchet’s audience seemed tipsy enough that I doubted they’d repeat the story anywhere. I went up to her.
“Madame, you didn’t go back home?”
Madame Blanchet, about to begin another tale, broke off and smiled serenely at me. “I decided I’d rather attend your nice event. I told the young man at the entrance I was the Prime Minister’s mother and he let me in.”
I winced.
“Don’t worry. I won’t cause any trouble. I only wanted to see what you’ve been working so hard on. I’ve packed some crèmes br?lées to take home. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
She indicated a black handbag. Peering inside, I saw it was crammed with ramekins.
Madame Blanchet looked up at me. “What a lovely event. Did you see the silent auction items? I put a thousand euros down on a blue Vespa. It’d be nice to have a pair, I think. Wish me luck!” She gathered her helmet and glided onto the dance floor.
I turned to Laurent. “Can you watch the table while I’m baking? I’ll be back as quick as I can.” He nodded, and I was gone.
Back in the kitchens, I surveyed my options. I needed a recipe I was confident in and that wouldn’t take long.
I spent a minute thinking about it, but, really, the choice was obvious. I’d make my mother’s palmiers. I had all the ingredients, they’d be done in half an hour, and I could pull off the recipe even in my worked-up state.
And if Sabine thought they were “too simple?” Well, Sabine could—
Your status as a sunshiny person depends on you not completing that thought, I told myself. Sabine would just have to deal with it.
In under five minutes I had the ingredients arrayed before me: puff pastry leftover from the mille feuilles, sugar, salt, cinnamon, and lemons.
I decided to add tahini for some North African flair.
The steps couldn’t be simpler: Mix the cinnamon, sugar, salt, and—my mother’s special ingredient—lemon zest in a bowl, roll out the puff pastry so it was smooth and flat, sprinkle the mixture liberally across the pastry, fold the sides inward a few times to form a roll with tight layers, then slice the dough, creating the classic palmier “heart” shape.
Once I’d laid the slices out, I spread them with a thin layer of tahini and a little more lemon zest, then into the oven they went. When they emerged a short time later, they’d be lightly caramelized and glittering with sugar.
As I worked through the steps, the tension that had saturated my body began to ebb away.
I can do this, I told myself. I’ve made palmiers since before I could reach the kitchen countertop.
They were one of the very first recipes my mother had taught me.
I could see her so clearly in my mind now: showing me how to spread the sugar mixture over the dough, explaining to my toddler self the importance of the lemon zest to balance the sweetness, exclaiming over the perfect heart-shapes I made, as though I really was as talented at baking as she was.
As I plated the warm palmiers, I could almost feel her in the kitchens with me: her long, curly hair pulled back into a bun, her sky-blue apron dusted with flour, her face relaxed into a smile as she observed my work.