Learning Curves 1 - French Cooking 101 (6 page)

She let go of the spoon and parted their hands. She stepped back and said, “Now you try alone.”
 

Looking up from the mixing bowl, she realized that four out of five pairs of eyes shifted their gaze away from them. Charles was the only one still watching them. The others looked a bit uncomfortable, as if they had been forced to witness an intimate scene. Charles had an amused expression. Who knew what that man was thinking?
   

“So now you all pour your mixture in the ramekins and put them in the center of the oven. In twenty minutes, they will be ready,” she said. “While the soufflés cook, we’ll prepare the salads and the dressings. I suggest each team make a different one, and you can all taste the differences in flavor.”

❦

“Lunch was scrumptious,” Charles said to Ariane, pushing away his plate and giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you!”

“I really enjoyed the contrast between the bite of the seasoned salad and the softness of the soufflé,” commented Mary.

“You’re absolutely right. The mellow versus tart combination makes them both more interesting,” answered George.

“Good, I’m happy you enjoyed it,” said Ariane. “Now class is dismissed. Go take a walk, enjoy this perfect weather, and come back in two hours for the dinner preparation.”

“Oh no,” said Jenna. “I can’t think about food anymore. I can’t eat another bite. I’m so happy we didn’t prepare anything for dessert. I don’t think I’ll ever be hungry again.”

“That’s why we need to get out and exercise.” Thomas got up and took Jena’s hand. “Come on, let’s go.”

Watching them rush out, Ariane wondered if they were indeed going to take advantage of the Paris scenery or rush right back to their hotel room. They were so into each other, they reminded her of a story she had read about a couple who put a coffee bean in a jar every time they made love during their first year of marriage. Then they spent their remaining years together removing one bean on each occasion without ever clearing the jar.
 

“I’m meeting Jean-Michel for coffee, but I can help you clear the table before I go,” offered Charles.

“No, thank you. Go. I’ll be fine,” answered Ariane.

“Then I guess we’ll go for a digestive walk,” said Mary. “Come with us, Peter. George will show us around.”

“You’re sure you don’t need any help?” Peter asked. “I’d be happy to stay and give you a hand.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Thank you very much,” she said, unable to look into his blue eyes for more than an instant. “It’s your vacation. You should go and take advantage of the city.” She walked them to the door and locked it behind them. She brought the curtains down and went back to work.

In less than half an hour, she was done. She’d cleared the lunch table, loaded the dishwasher, cleaned the work stations, prepared the ingredients for the afternoon class, and set the dining table. She would have more than an hour to rest.

She was looking around to make sure everything was ready before going upstairs. She turned off the lights and was on her way up her spiral staircase when she heard someone turning the outside door handle.
 

Then a knock on the door and Peter’s voice. “Ariane, are you there? I want to talk to you.”

She ran up the last steps, walked into her bedroom, closed the door, and set her alarm clock to wake her up in a few minutes before the afternoon class. Lying down on her bed, fully clothed with her hair still in the working bun, she prayed for him to go away. She needed sleep. She couldn’t function without seven hours, and she had barely slept three. Peter called out one more time. She closed her eyes and fell into oblivion.

❦

WALKING AROUND WITH HIS SISTER and her new beau had been fun for about ten seconds. George was a serious bore. At least he was when Peter was around. The man didn’t talk. He grunted or gave two or three syllable answers to all of Peter’s questions. George didn’t lack vocabulary. After all, the man was an author. He wrote endless historical sagas. As far as words were concerned, he was probably a hundred times richer than the average person. He was capable of elaborate sentences with nuance and subtlety. So Peter knew George’s behavior was deliberate. The more Peter thought about it, the more annoyed he became. George was rude. Not only did he refuse to give them a chance to get acquainted, but he made it impossible for Peter to have a private conversation with his sister.
 

Peter wanted to ask her why she had decided to take a chance on such an ass. Obviously he wouldn’t have worded his question that way. Unlike George, he had some manners. He would have explained to Mary that he was not prying out of idle curiosity. He was looking for arguments to convince Ariane to open up to him. After all, his sister was not one to jump into bed with the first guy who asked. Or was she? All of a sudden, he didn’t know anymore. Since he couldn’t possibly ask her in front of the oaf, he abandoned them and went back to Ariane’s place.

The door was locked, and the curtains were drawn. He called Ariane’s name and realized there was no light or movement inside. Maybe she had gone out as well. So he sat down on the cobblestones and decided to savor the quiet of the patio. Ariane’s building was quaint. He liked being alone. He turned on his smart phone. He had not looked at his email since he had left New York. He may as well do it while he had nothing better to do.
 

One of the many things he liked about this job as a professor of mathematics was the lack of emergencies. Not that there were no rushes. Like when one of his most brilliant students thought he had found the answer to the P=NP question. Peter had spent two crazy days studying the kid’s proof before he found the error that derailed his demonstration. So much for the million-dollar prize for his pet student. That had been intense.
 

Nevertheless, the only real pressure was the kind he imposed on himself. Science walked at its own pace, and Peter liked it that way. So even though he was not as rich as his peers who had picked a Wall Street career—those who had picked that career and not yet suffered a fatal coronary on the floor of the market—he was happy with his professional choices.
 

Scrolling down the list of received emails, he saw the usual newsletters he subscribed to, a few emails from students, one from Nancy titled “Fall Term Tentative Schedule,” and one from Marsha, the dean of the School of Mathematics titled “While in Paris…”
 

He tapped that one open to find an order, politely presented as an invitation, to attend two meetings she had taken the liberty of organizing for him: one on Monday morning and the other one Monday at lunch. Good thing she had picked the end of his trip. Otherwise he would have messed up by not checking his email.
 

The dDean wanted Peter to meet a young mathematician she had invited to teach at their school for a year as a visiting Professorprofessor. The young man was a possible candidate for the next Fields Medal, and snatching him would do wonders for their prestige.
 

The dean had also set up an appointment with the administration of the Paris University, which was part of their exchange network. She wanted Peter to meet him in order to get feedback on the new Paris dean she didn’t know. It was important, but she was very clear that the priority was charming the boy wonder.

The dean was right. If one of the school’s professors, even a visiting professor, was awarded the Fields Medal, that would be great for the school. The medal was like a Nobel Prize of Mathematics, but it was only awarded every four years. The next one was coming up in 2014, just a few months away. Getting him to come along would be a great coup.
 

Peter finally understood why Marsha had accepted vacation during the course of the term. That had puzzled him. He knew she liked him, but that wasn’t enough. A woman—or a man for that matter—didn’t become the dean of the school by being a pushover. So as far as Marsha and the rest of the school staff were concerned, he wasn’t on vacation; he was on a mission for the school. He grinned. If it worked out right, he would negotiate an extra vacation week from her.

Scrolling back up, he looked at his students’ emails. Most of them had questions about their term papers. He would answer them upon his return. One was from his favorite student, who was turning in his paper early. Peter tapped it open, downloaded the paper to the smart phone, and read it on the small screen.

❦

He was so absorbed that he didn’t notice when Ariane unlocked the door and stepped outside. It took him a minute to become aware of her presence. She stood by the door looking at him, her head tilted. She was obviously waking up from a nap. He saw the trace of a pillow wrinkle on a cheek.
 

“Have you been waiting long?” she asked.

“A little while. I had some reading to catch up on,” he answered, springing to his feet. As she backed into the workshop, getting ready to raise the curtains, he asked, “Had a good nap?”

“How did you guess?”

“You have this little crease mark on your face here.” He caressed her cheek with his fingertips.

She didn’t move. She stood there looking at him, mouth half open as if she was going to say something and thought better of it. He stepped closer while his fingers, light as feathers, traced her jaw and then her lips.
 

He drank her up with his eyes. He inhaled her smell. So sweet. He wanted her so badly it was starting to hurt. He hated the sadness—or was it resignation?—he read in her eyes. He wanted to hear her bubbly giggles, the ones that came out in joyous spurts when she laughed at Charles’s jokes. He wanted to be the string for those pearls of laughter.

He slipped a hand around her waist and pulled her curvy body into his. It was a perfect fit. He kissed her forehead. Her breathing became uneven, but she didn’t pull away. She obviously wanted him. He felt the battle going on between her body—so quick to react to his touch—and her mind—very reasonably screaming for caution.
 

He decided not push further. For now. “I meant what I told you this morning. I’m not giving up.” He let go of her and stepped back, out of her personal space. He realized he had taken her by surprise. Was that a hint of regret that just appeared on her face?
 
Good.
 

Her hand shot out to rest on his arm and maintain the contact he had just severed. “I heard you this morning,” she whispered.
 

Her hand went up to his face, and she touched his lips as he had touched hers. She sighed and let her arms fall by her sides. Shoulders slumped, her gaze dropped from his face to the floor. Then, as if by the switch of a button, she straightened her back, raised her shoulders, and turned around to draw the curtains.
 

“No use crying over what could have been,” she said. “There’s not enough time.”
 

“What if there were?” he asked as an idea shaped in his mind. “Is it just a time issue, or is something else holding you back?”

“It’s time. There is no one else in my life.” She looked straight into his eyes again. “I don’t want to start something that is doomed for lack of time.”

“So if I stay here for a few months, would you be willing to give us a chance?”

“Oh oui, bien sûr. I would like that very much.”
 

Her enthusiastic answer, blurted spontaneously in French first, made his heart soar. His chances with her were better than good.

❦

THE AFTERNOON CLASS HAD GONE very nicely
, thought Mary, walking back to the hotel with her brother. She enjoyed the cool breeze on her legs after the heat of the kitchen. Even in her light cotton dress, she had been very warm all day. She wasn’t sure if it was the heat of the oven, the steam escaping the pots, or George’s presence.
 

When they left, Ariane was putting in the refrigerator the leftovers from the “pot au feu,” a traditional French beef stew. Ariane had explained she’d purposely gone overboard with the proportions to make sure they had plenty of leftovers to do an “hachis parmentier” on Sunday. That family-style dish was the French equivalent of shepherd’s pie. Under the blanket of mashed potatoes, the Irish minced meat was replaced by shredded boiled meat. “Pot au
 
feu” leftovers were the best choice.

The crème brûlée had been a real hit, especially with George and Thomas. Those two had welcomed an opportunity to play with a blowtorch. The tool was required to burn the sugar into the caramel topcoat the recipe called for. They were obviously more comfortable with that instrument than any of the others in Ariane’s kitchen. A very proud Jena had explained that Thomas was a techie and he always fixed stuff for everyone.
 

Prompted by Mary’s question, George had blurted out personal information: he had worked in construction to pay his way through college. Mary was impressed, but George just shrugged as if he was embarrassed. What a strange man. He should be proud that he had made it on his own. Mary wished she could make him understand that the world was not as hostile as he saw it. But then maybe it was—to him.

Peter had been distracted. His sister had joked about him being in absent-minded professor mode, and Peter confessed that there was some truth to it. He was a caricature of the research community.
 

“The entire world is a giant puzzle, and I get so focused on the little piece I’m working on that I forget about all the rest,” Peter had explained. “It doesn’t matter what I’m concentrating on—whether it’s where I’ve last seen my keys or one of my students’ questions—the process is always the same. I cannot multi-task.”
 

Confronted by Ariane’s scowl, he had promised to put his present issue on a back burner and pay attention to what he was doing. Mary wasn’t sure Ariane appreciated Peter picking the culinary image of the back burner for her benefit. Actually, that was one thing that made Mary uncomfortable around Ariane. She never knew how much of what was being said in English Ariane understood.