Chapter Twenty
Fall bloomed fully as I grew roots in my life and found my place among the tight-knit staff at Chez Margot.
Most employees had been there for years, and I was honored to be part of the family.
Lucas worked closely at my side until I felt comfortable on my own.
Then he’d begun the long, nerve-racking process of writing a proposal for his small business loan.
Any bank would be remiss to decline his request, in my opinion, but perhaps I was biased. Time and personal experience with Lucas had slowly etched away my hard-as-granite stance against the male of the species. Maybe they weren’t all villains, but they definitely weren’t all like Lucas.
From a purely unemotional standpoint, the bank approving the loan seemed like a no-brainer.
Chez Margot had an excellent, dedicated staff and a prime location, and the proposed menus were impeccable.
If that wasn’t enough, the restaurant had a large customer base passionate about their favorite French restaurateur.
Still, Lucas worried.
He had a vision for his business, and he wanted it so badly. So, it surprised no one when he called the entire staff in early one morning for a professional photo shoot. “To capture the personal side of life here,” he said.
I arrived, sleep deprived as usual, but with my hair and makeup done, something I typically skipped when going to work. It had taken a single day in the kitchen to see that any and all attempts at looking cute would melt away long before my shift ended.
Pam, who typically staffed the front desk, met me at the welcome stand. “You look incredible,” she said, tugging a blond section of hair over her shoulder.
“Thanks. I love your braids,” I said.
She beamed. “Pigtails increase tips. It’s been tested.”
I grinned.
“It’s so strange seeing the kitchen staff all dressed up,” she said. She motioned to the men and women who, like me, were usually covered in grease and sweat but today were freshly showered and photo ready.
“Anyone in particular?”
A deep blush spread over her freckled cheeks.
“Like John?”
Pam gasped. “How did you know?”
“Mother’s intuition?” I guessed.
She considered that a moment. “Do you think I have a chance?” she asked. “Or is it weird to crush on someone I work with?”
My traitorous gaze jumped to Lucas, and he immediately turned in my direction. “Nope, I think some of the most incredible romances probably began at work.” I wasn’t sure where I got that idea, but it pleased her, so I was thankful for the thought.
“Pam, Sophie,” Lucas called. He waved us closer, and we hurried to join him.
Lucas introduced us to Emily, a local photographer, then let her take charge. After she took each of our photos individually, she staged small group photos around the kitchen and dining area, then stayed to take candid shots when we began our prep work for the day.
I was in the ladies’ room when my phone alerted me to a new email. I washed up and took a quick peek on my way back to my station. The preview stopped me in my tracks.
Ancestry Seeker: Your results are in
“Oh, shit.” I looked around, then hurried past the kitchen to the employee lounge.
I flopped onto the chair where Lucas once bandaged my fingers, and I opened the message.
My hands trembled as I scanned the form letter explaining how to read the results. Then I clicked a link that promised my personal details. Belatedly, I recalled my vow not to read the findings without Alicia, and I opened my video chat app.
She still hadn’t forgiven me for sending the sample to the lab without her, and that wasn’t interesting at all.
The call rang through without an answer. No surprise.
School was in session, and Alicia was thirty teens deep into second period by now. Our schedules wouldn’t line up until late this afternoon, and I was physically incapable of waiting that long for information I should’ve had forty-six years ago.
I flipped back to my results page and devoured every word. My mood plummeted at the sight of one particular sentence.
No direct matches.
My shoulders sank as I stared in disappointment. I hadn’t allowed myself to consider this possibility, choosing instead to hold on to hope. I didn’t want this test to be as fruitless as every other attempt I’d made at finding my father.
Maybe I was meant to be alone.
“Sophie?” Lucas’s voice came from the doorway. “Everything okay?”
I nodded, eyes stinging from the absolute letdown.
“I went to see how you were doing in the kitchen, and I saw you running this way.”
I turned my phone screen to face Lucas as he entered the room.
He met me at the table and steadied my trembling hand with his. He read the screen, then met my eyes. “Ancestry test results?”
I sniffled. “Yeah.”
He looked at the screen again, a bit longer this time. “You’re French,” he said brightly. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
I laughed at his enthusiasm despite my mood. “I have no idea.”
“It’s because I believe all the most beautiful women are French.”
I stared. Everything I’d felt about the test results whooshed from my mind. Did he just—?
Lucas winked, then strode confidently back to the door. “Let me know when you go back to the kitchen,” he said. “Meanwhile, take your time.”
I stared at the empty doorway for a long beat after he’d gone, then dragged my attention back to the ancestry charts.
A region in the South of France was highlighted on the map. Three of the small towns I’d found with a restaurant on the corner of a street named Rue Pasteur fell inside the shaded area. A thrill coursed through me. I’d been right! Or very close.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have the time or money to trek across France, knocking on doors, in search of Sébastien Allard. But I loved this confirmation.
“I’m French,” I whispered, allowing the notion to fully register. Before seeing the map with my DNA results, the fact that my biological father was French hadn’t fully sunk in.
Holy shit! I am French!
I made immediate plans to spend my evening between bakes researching the Var area of France. I’d already learned that Var was part of the Provence-Alpes-C?te d’Azur region. The area was a provincial paradise that included the mountains, the sea, and the freaking French Riviera.
Excitement popped and fizzed in my stomach. I wanted to race home and look up everything about the small towns where my parents might’ve met. But for now, I had to get back to work.
Lucas stood at my station in the kitchen, mixing and prepping desserts in my absence. He smiled at my return. “All good?”
“Very good,” I said, heating slightly at the memory of him casually calling me beautiful.
He stepped away to allow me access. “Things got busy, so I kept up with the pace.”
“Thanks.”
Lucas went on his rounds without further ado.
I worked on autopilot until the end of my shift. My busy mind focused on two things: how to prove Robert was hiding our money, and how I could get enough of that money to visit France.
In between those two things, a montage played out in my head.
Alicia and I held old-fashioned, accordion-folded maps in our outstretched arms, trying to locate Rue Pasteur.
Our floppy sun hats and long maxi dresses fluttered in a warm breeze.
We entered cafés and shops on espadrille wedges and asked locals if they knew my father.
Every day, we wore ourselves out on the mission. Then we carried bottles of French wine to beautiful locations with panoramic views. We ate French bread and Brie and asked ourselves why we didn’t take a trip like this much sooner. And we vowed not to leave France until we completed our quest.
I tried to stay in the vision long enough to see my biological father, but instinct kept pulling me back. I imagined knocking on doors and hearing the locks slide away, but before the person on the other side came into view, I lost the image.
The only photos I had of Sébastien Allard were taken a half century ago. I couldn’t properly imagine what he might look like today. Thin and craggy? Robust and healthy? Portly and bald?
How did life treat him after the summer he met my mother?
I tossed my apron into the canvas laundry bag on my way out that afternoon and caught sight of a woman ogling the empty bakery display case. Pam wasn’t at the welcome stand.
“Hello,” I called, redirecting my path. “Can I help you?”
The woman straightened and glanced at my name tag before looking at my face. She wore a gray pantsuit with patent leather pumps and a matching bag tucked under one crooked arm. “You work here?”
“Yep.”
“Tell me about the pastries,” she said. “I hear amazing things about them all day, every day. I was practically forced to check them out.”
I tipped my chin upward to maintain eye contact.
She was easily a half foot taller than me in her heels.
She exuded confidence that made the height difference seem double.
“The pastries vary a little throughout the week,” I said.
“But usually we have éclairs, macarons, pains au chocolat, and madeleines. Occasionally there are mille-feuille or kouign-amann as well.”
She crossed long legs at the ankles and pursed her glossy pink lips as I spoke. Her flawless skin and makeup made me feel dowdy and old, even on a day I’d come to work looking my best.
My time in the kitchen had long ago erased those efforts.
“When are the deliveries made?” she asked.
“Daily. If you stop in for coffee tomorrow morning, you’ll have your pick.” I pulled the car keys from my pocket and smiled. Something about her demeanor bothered me, and standing there beside her, sweaty and exhausted, was taking a toll on my self-esteem. “Nice to meet you.”
“Virginia Bonnie Black,” she said. “I didn’t catch your name.”
I made a low, strangled sound. I hadn’t asked for her name, but now that I had it, I wished she’d take it back. And leave.