Bon Appetit (14 page)

“Is Maman here?” I asked Odious.

“But of course. Maman only takes a vacation in August,” she said. I bit back the response that if she had a life, she might need time off too.

I introduced Dad to Anne, who tried out her shiny, new English on him. He took to her. I could tell by the way he leaned toward her before answering. I was glad.

Then Maman came forward.

“I’d like you to meet my father,” I said, introducing them.

“Enchantée,”
my father said, taking off his cap and making a slight bow.

Maman giggled and responded,
“Enchantée
, Monsieur”.

For a minute I was bemused, as she looked slightly flirtatious. Then I remembered she was flirting with my very married father.

“I hope our city is being as kind to your daughter as you have been to mine,” Dad said. I translated for him.

“Your daughter is
très gentil,”
she responded. “I hope her stay with us will be memorable”.

It was a nice thing to say, but it emphasized the impermanence of my visit. Dad glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. He’d caught it too.

We strolled back through the village, and two of the villagers said hello to me. One bakery regular stopped to converse, and I was so grateful she’d said hello when my father was along.

Dad bought a bottle of Grand Marnier to take back for Nonna. We stopped at another store, and he bought a beautiful silk scarf with a silver pin for Mom. Then we went back to my cottage for dinner.

I’d whipped up a little veal dish, knowing he preferred meat. And afterward, I presented the dessert.

He sat back at the table with his toothpick, which made me extremely glad we were alone, and a big grin broke out over his face. “White cupcakes with sprinkles,” he said. “Just like you made me in your Easy-Bake Oven when you were a little girl”.

I smiled. “They’re the Dad Special”. I put one on a plate for him.

“Speaking of little girls, I brought that trinket you asked for,” he said. “I’ll get it after dinner”.

“Thanks, Dad,” I responded. I know he wanted an explanation, but I didn’t offer one. I wasn’t ready to have a conversation about it yet.

We chatted for a while and then jet lag got the best of him.

“Well, hon, I’m heading to bed. Big day tomorrow, and I’m pretty beat”.

I stood on my tiptoes to kiss him goodnight and he headed to the living room to sleep. I hoped Normandy would be more rewarding for him than Versailles had been for me. But I’d been alone.

I opened my e-mail before bed, just to check. Nothing new. Then I lay in bed for a long time, and when I fell asleep, I dreamed I was on the losing team in a softball match.

The next morning we got up early and packed the car. Dad stopped in the kitchen and looked at my blackboard.

“What’s this?” he asked.

I explained to him about French café and bakery menus, and how I was using my blackboards for my own menus.

“Who’s Jean?”

“It’s French for John. I’m reading the book of John in the Bible. When I can get to church”.

“You’re going to church here?” He seemed surprised.

“Yeah, I am. I … I actually feel the need even more here than at home,” I admitted.

“I’m going to church too,” he said gruffly, almost under his breath.

Now it was my turn to be surprised. “Really?” My dad hadn’t voluntarily gone to church for as long as I could remember.

“Well, since we moved, you know, your mother doesn’t have her friends at church, so I said I’d go with her until she made some”.

I nodded. Inside, I tingled. Here’s hoping Mom didn’t find friends at church any time soon.

It was four hours to the Norman beaches, but I loved the drive. Without a car, I was limited in my ability to sightsee, and with few days off and a heavy school load, my time was even more diminished.

“This is the old road Louis XIV used,” I told Dad. We grinned at the pleasure of being somewhere old and established.

We traveled through folds of land, roads tucked into rolling hills, and lush green valleys dotted with little farmsteads hidden away and completely unspoiled, seemingly untouched by the march of time. The farms were family operations, with maybe two cows looking wonderingly our way, a couple sheep bleating, and weed-whacking goats. Bossy hens dominated many fields. Sometimes a tired old man on a tired old tractor ambled by, face grizzled by the sun.

“There are apple trees everywhere,” Dad commented as we drove by yet another sign advertising tastings and visits to cider farms.

“Normandy is famous for apples,” I said, glad to be able to share my knowledge with him for a change.

We drove up the narrow gravel road through an old apple orchard, finally pulling over at a crumbling Tudor building. It looked like Henry VIII could have hefted the beams himself during the meeting at the Field of Cloth of Gold. I liked being inside the musty building of stone and timber. We tasted both fermented and unfermented homemade cider.

“I like this one,” Dad said after tasting the pommeau. I agreed with him—it tasted like a caramel apple to me. He bought a bottle from a wizened woman with skin like a walnut shell, and then we were back in the car and on our way.

Soon we arrived at Caen, where we would catch a tour bus to the beaches of Normandy. Dad was not an army guy—he was marine all the way—but all military men knew and honored the meaning of D-Day, the day the Norman beaches were invaded at great cost to American, Canadian, and English soldiers. It was the beginning of the end of World War II and the beginning of the end of the misery for the French of the time, who’d suffered starvation, humiliation, and hopelessness under Nazi occupation.

We toured the Caen War Memorial and ate lunch in the Memorial cafeteria. Then we boarded the tour bus. Dad pointed for me to sit near the window, but I insisted. “No, Dad. You”.

The bus stopped at the artificial harbor at Arromanches and then at the German gun battery at Longues-sur-Mer.

“I can almost imagine the enemy entrenched here,” Dad said quietly.

Lastly, we walked Omaha Beach. The sand was smooth and clean, white and peaceful, and dotted with carefree kids, as beaches
should be. But thinking back to the war reel I’d watched with Dad as a kid, it didn’t take much to imagine the bodies of the men who had died here, churning in the gunmetal gray surf. They’d died for me, for Dad, and for Anne and Maman too. I was profoundly thankful to them. In spite of the large number of people standing on the sand, it was silent.

“We’ll save the American Military Cemetery for tomorrow,” Dad said as we reboarded the bus, “if it’s all right with you. I still have a little jet lag, and I don’t want to be sleepy for that”.

I nodded my agreement.

We got back to the car, drove to the hotel, and had a quick dinner. I ordered oyster shooters. Dad, predictably, refused them.

“I’ll take a steak,” he said. “American style”. I refused to roll my eyes.

The next morning was Sunday, and as I got dressed, I was very aware of missing church. I wondered if Buki would be there. I wondered if Gabby was sitting next to Philippe. I wondered if Mom was okay sitting alone in her church on Whidbey Island. Tanya and Steve went to church together every week now, and I expected her to tell me any day that he’d asked her to marry him. I wondered if Dan was still teaching Sunday school. I wondered if Nancy was a Christian.

“Ready?” Dad knocked on my door and I picked up my travel case and followed him out. After a quick breakfast of yogurt, fruit, and a croissant, we headed to the American Military Cemetery at Colleville-sur-Mer.

Dad led the way. At the last minute, I took my Bible with me. We found a bench to sit on and looked at the miles of bleached
crosses stretching out before us. We sat there for a long time, me reading ahead in John so I wouldn’t disturb Dad or make him feel rushed. He remained quiet for a long time.

After half an hour, I came to John 15. I grinned. Another food analogy—the vine. I’d have to remember to tell Anne. I tucked it away to come back to later, as I felt the pressure on my heart to keep reading. When I came to John 15:13, I stopped.

Tell him
, a voice whispered in my heart.

“Dad?” I said. “I came across something I want to share with you”.

He turned away from the sea of graves and I saw a tear in the corner of his eye, clinging without dropping, like the last raindrop on a leaf. “Yes?”

I read John 15:13 aloud in French, then translated it for him. “Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends”. I let my eyes rise to the field thick with crosses. “I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master’s business. Instead, I have called you friends”.

It was a holy moment for both of us, but especially Dad. I felt God was working in his life in a way I couldn’t understand, in a way that would not have happened anywhere other than the American Military Cemetery in Normandy, France.

We drove home and Dad dropped me off at the cottage before heading to the airport for his overnight flight back to Seattle. As we arrived at the cottage, Céline ran out of the house.

“Lexi!” She gave me a big hug and then saw my dad.
“Bonjour,”
she said.

“Anglais,”
I told her, indicating she should speak to my dad in English.

“Very pleased to meet you,” she said in sweetly accented English. “Papa and I missed you at church today,” she said to me. I saw Philippe out of the corner of my eye, heading toward us.

My stomach felt suddenly unsettled as he arrived. He smiled warmly at us, and I saw that his genuine kindness emanated even toward my dad.

“Dad, this is Philippe. He works at one of the bakeries. He’s Luc’s cousin”.

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Philippe said.

“You too,” Dad said. “So you’re a baker?”

“He’s the best baker. And the owner,” Céline bragged. I smiled at her, remembering how I’d bragged on my daddy’s rank when I was a little girl.

I saw my father’s eyebrow raise. Philippe as the owner was much more interesting to him than Philippe as a simple baker. Dad cleared his throat. His bald patch turned red, and I realized he might have understood there was more to my relationship with Philippe than simply employer and employee. But Dad’s manners were, as always, intact. “Thank you for giving my Lexi a job here”.

“It’s our pleasure,” Philippe said. “Alexandra is a wonderful baker and her cheerfulness is a pleasant addition to any of our bakeries. We hope she’ll be with us for a long time”.

My dad nodded thoughtfully, not answering. I rushed in with some small talk, and then Céline and Philippe went back to the big house.

“Are you happy, Lexi?” Dad asked as he put his travel case in the passenger side of the car.

“I am, Dad,” I said. “I don’t know what lies ahead, but I know I’m very glad to be here. I’m starting to belong”.

Dad smiled and looked at Céline as she entered the door to Maman’s. “Is that who I brought the gift for?”

I nodded.

“She seems like a nice little girl. Like you were”. He kissed my cheek and hugged me and then got into his car. As he started the engine, he rolled down his window. “Oh, one more thing,” he said.

“Yes?” I said, fighting homesickness at his departure, something I’d successful pushed away with the business of the past few days.

“I’m not sure I’m ready for a grandson named Napoléon”.

He grinned and I laughed. Then I watched his car drive away until I could see it no longer.

T
he next week I worked in Rambouillet, my homesickness seeping away as the days went by. Because I worked afternoons and Philippe was in early baking bread, our paths didn’t cross until Wednesday.

I put my apron on and went to the back.

Patricia caught my arm. “Maman passed this along to me,” she said. It was the envelope Monsieur Desfreres had given me the week before.

“What is it?” I asked. She gave it to me to open.