We dropped dollops of tomato reduction paste onto cheese soup, then dragged a skewer through the colors. I’d used a similar technique with frosting and knew the trick well.
Chef made the process seem magical.
Something in my gut insisted this lesson was nice, but plating was not for me. I did not share Chef’s passion at all.
Chef spoke of edible flowers as if he’d invented them, but I’d used the same colorful buds to add interest, height, and texture to a number of specialty cakes every week for three years.
By lunchtime, I was mentally drained and out of motivation. I tried pretending all the food was pastry and imagined how I could translate the skills learned here to improve my business back home.
When Chef demonstrated the use of heavy, Dijon-based spreads on plates for flank steak, I imagined the mustard was caramel sauce, and the steak was a brownie.
His paprika was my cinnamon sugar.
Beside me, Lucas intently mimicked every move our teacher made. I couldn’t help but think he’d brought the wrong staff member for training, and I needed to tell him sooner rather than later. I didn’t want to plate for one more hour, let alone three more weeks, and a lifetime after that.
I also didn’t want to disappoint him. Lucas had brought me all the way to France because he believed in me. Could I really let him down?
He smiled and nudged me, pleased with his plate. I beamed appropriately in response. His joys were my joys, because I cared about his well-being. Just as he cared for mine.
I refocused on my plate. I could be an excellent plater of food for Lucas in the evenings and run my baking company by day. Couldn’t I? Why did it have to be one or the other?
“You okay?” he whispered. “Is he going too fast?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I’ve got it.” I upturned the bottle of pea puree and streaked the poison-green goo across a jet-black plate.
I just had to make it through this lesson. Then I had dinner plans with Lucas. Something major to look forward to, and only a few hours away.
When I might finally meet my biological dad.
Chapter Thirty-One
I was unprecedentedly nervous as we drove through the streets of France in our little rental car. Maybe it was the intimacy of sharing such a small space with him, or perhaps my jitters had more to do with the fact I would soon stand on the corner where my biological parents had stood so many decades before.
Tonight was the night I might meet Sébastien Allard.
“You doing okay?” Lucas asked, expertly piloting the car around a line of pedestrians attempting to herd children across the street. I was immeasurably thankful for him. He made driving through unfamiliar streets in a foreign country seem so easy and casual.
Then again, for Lucas, easy and casual were completely on brand.
“I’m okay,” I said. Whatever happened or didn’t happen tonight, I would be just fine.
I ran my clammy palms over the simple denim pants I’d chosen for our evening excursion. The cinched elastic waist had a wide red sash belt. I convinced myself, after trying on everything in my suitcase twice, that this was both casual, because denim, and nice, and because no buttons or zipper. Ultimately, I chose the most comfortable option in case I threw up or tried to run and fell down. If I couldn’t be cute, I could at least be prepared.
My well-loved ice-blue turtleneck offered a small measure of comfort on a night of uncomfortable anticipation.
I relaxed a bit when we broke free from the congestion and chaos of Nice. The sun hung low in the sky, signaling the end of yet another beautiful day. I tracked silhouettes of birds through a cotton candy–pink sky and tried to imagine how dinner might end.
“You did great in class today,” Lucas said, breaking the silence. “Did you enjoy the introduction to plating?”
“Yeah,” I answered instinctively. “It was interesting.”
He watched me for a prolonged moment before returning his eyes to the road. “I don’t know what we’ll find at the bistro,” he said. “Maybe just a nice meal, but if you want to leave at any time, tell me. I won’t hesitate to pay our bill and walk out or ask you to explain.”
I looked away. The potential for the night to end poorly was astronomical, and he knew it. I appreciated the support, but somehow his acknowledgment inflated my anxiety.
“Sophie?” he nudged. “I don’t always know what you’re thinking. You have to let me know tonight so that I can help.”
I rolled my head against the seat back, waiting to catch his eye. “Thank you for being so kind.”
