A French Wedding: A Novel

Prologue

The spring sun finally splits through clouds, casting a pale white light upon the small crowd. Several glance up from their conversations. A gull rides the thermals closer to the ocean, like origami flung into the sky. It hovers and dips, assessing the scene below: people gathered in soft-colored dresses or pressed shirts and trousers, drinks in hands, the welcome sunlight striking off the golds and ambers inside thin glasses. An earnest-looking woman in a pink dress offers canapés on a silver tray. The guests move slowly to seats in rows, reticent to break off their chatter. They lean over to kiss cheeks and grip hands, so pleased to see one another, so pleased to be here for this. In front, a teenage boy with a violin looks toward the girl at the end of the aisle, her blond hair dyed blush at the ends, and clears his throat. She is his cue, which sends nerves through his stomach, fizzing like champagne.

The guests, sensing, settle and quiet. The garden gives a sigh of fragrance, a scent that is pink and purple and heady, from the lilacs and hyacinths and roses in full and marvelous bloom. Then the violinist starts to play, notes soaring up and around heads. The singer, in a long dress embroidered with flowers and with a red rose tucked above her ear, joins him in song. In the crowd a baby squeals a reply.

The bride is at the end of the aisle now. All eyes slide toward her. She wears a cream silk dress that floats down to her toes. Most hold their breath, some feel tears at their eyes, and others stare, mesmerized. She steps over the soft grass, a loose bunch of flowers in her right hand. The sun, grown confident, seems to shine out of her as well, as though she might just burst with joy into a thousand sparkling splinters. At the front of the aisle she pauses, passing her bouquet to a friend. When she takes the hands of her lover, those close enough notice how she grips them till her knuckles pale and hear when he says, You are so beautiful, in a fragile kind of whisper.

They cling to each other, faces glowing, radiant. Hope—no, proof!—that it can be done and it can be good.

Deux ans plus tôt (two years earlier)

JULIETTE

Juliette wakes to the scent of dying roses: pink when they were given to her, now browned the color of summer skin, petals peeling away like sunburn. She is late, later than she wanted to be, on this day of all days. She blinks at the clock and leaps out of bed, swearing, Merde, merde, merde. She brushes past the drooping blooms, scattering more petals over the unmade bed and onto the floor like wedding confetti.

In the shower she washes quickly, hair knotted in a messy bun. She dries hastily and poorly, the towel thin and needing replacing. Brushes her teeth. Frowns at her face, which is too pale and too lined from so many nights in a kitchen. Makeup spread with a fast, light hand—too much and it will settle in the map of her skin—rivers and borderlines. Mascara. Blush to fix the problem of looking tired and wan. She brushes out her hair; it has grown down past her shoulders, a little frazzled at the ends, like her nerves, but unnoticeable once twisted up.

Juliette puts her thumb through the first pair of tights. She swears again and inspects the nail, which is short and ragged. She is more careful with the second pair; she takes her time, though it makes her heart jostle in her chest, impatient. Dress on and boots and then out the door with handbag slung over her shoulder swinging like a pendulum, her phone in her hand. She sends her restaurant manager, Louis, a quick apology as she rushes down the stairwell: Pardon! Je serai bientôt là. J.

Her boots sound out clip! clip! clip! on the stairs as though they too are scolding her.

—

A neighbor, Madame Deschamps, opens her door as Juliette hurries past it. She gathers her robe around her and steps backward. Juliette gives her a polite smile but madame simply clutches at the pilled gray-blue fabric and stares. Juliette has no time to stop and exchange pleasantries, her boots marching her down the staircase, that ancient curling spine, and out the front door onto the street.

Outside, the morning light is gray and flat, and the world smells of concrete and dog piss and baking from half a block away, which Juliette cannot help but lift her nose to. She knows Henri is at the boulangerie, covered in sweat and flour; knows that he has propped open the back door to let in some air, no matter the scent of it, to feel its cool caress on his prickling pink skin. Juliette knows he will be having an espresso, dark and sugarless, relishing it like it is a kiss and telling any staff who comes near him, Foutre le camp! until he is finished, until he is revived. Juliette is welcomed, of course; they talk of flour and yeast and life without cigarettes and Henri’s dog, who is his world and has a bad leg. If she weren’t running late she would join him now, pull up a plastic crate and sit with him to mourn the cigarettes and praise the dog. But not today.

Juliette moves past stallholders setting up for the market, some calling out to her, some simply nodding their heads. Boxes are being opened and vans idle with loads of fish and crab, early spring berries, bunches of sweet lemony sorrel, chocolates, cheeses, oils and vinegars in thin green bottles, flowers with sweet-smelling heads the colors of confectionary. Juliette sidesteps a groggy tourist with a camera strapped around his neck.

It is only a short walk to the Place Monge Métro station, a block and a half. Juliette retrieves her ticket well before she reaches the entrance marked by the curved metalwork sign, the letters curled like tendrils, the stairs below it sprayed with spiked black curses and insults. Juliette presses her bag closer to her side out of instinct. This is the Fifth Arrondissement. This is Paris. A person can never be too sure. Juliette is the only one on the platform when the train rushes in with a sickly, warm wind. She boards and sits, suddenly feeling the pinch of her new boots. She had not worn them in properly. When she bought them she had wanted something pretty, something fresh for today. New boots to make her feel new—new and special and worth writing about, even if her hair is not perfect, or her nails, or the lines on her face, which declare that she is past forty now and so very tired.

A man on the seat opposite lifts his head from his paper and smiles at her. Juliette!

His hair is thick and silver, his lips full and twitching.

Leon…, Juliette replies, trying to sound cheerful.

Leon is chef and owner of La Porte Blanche, formerly Le Sel, a restaurant in the First Arrondissement. He rises and slips across the aisle to settle into the seat next to her. A woman in a bright-colored headscarf watches them, her face blank. Her dress is covered in flowers and leaves—orange, brown, black, and yellow—vivid but silent. Juliette wishes she were sitting across the aisle and next to her instead.

I knew it was you, Leon says, tipping his head proudly. "You look nice. Très jolie."

"Merci, Leon," Juliette replies.

Leon folds up his newspaper and places it in his bag. Early start?

Juliette nods.

You work too hard.

Juliette knows it is strategic discouragement rather than concern. Leon is not Juliette’s friend; he is her competition.

Ah! Today is a big day, no? Leon remarks.

How…?

Leon taps his forehead. I know. I hear these things. Interview with…? He grins, knowing.

Gault et Millau, Juliette mutters. She had been avoiding saying the name of the famous restaurant guide aloud, as though it might bring bad luck. Leon’s smile is broad and satisfied.

Dusollier?

"Oui, Dusollier," Juliette confesses.

Hmm, Leon says. She’s a tough nut to crack.

Yes, I heard, Juliette replies, suddenly feeling less than jolie, wishing she’d had that haircut, which she had booked for last week. Juliette missed a lot of appointments lately: dates with friends and doctor visits; she hadn’t been to the dentist in eighteen months and knew she needed a tooth filled.

You’ve met her? Juliette asks, although she’s not sure she wants to know more.

Leon says, breezily, Of course.

They stop at a station, the train filling, passengers rushing to seats. The shuffle of feet and jackets and bags, the smell of sweat and perfume both. A pregnant woman is left standing and those in seats avoid her gaze. The aisle between Juliette and the woman in the floral dress is filled by another woman peering into a handheld compact and applying lipstick, purse tucked under her arm, and a young man with a skateboard. He glares at Juliette.

You’ll be fine, Leon offers, patting Juliette’s knee, his hand lingering a moment too long. He leans toward her and murmurs, Dusollier’s bark is worse than her bite. They’re all like that, aren’t they? The critics. They just want to feel important.

Juliette nods.

You know what the trick is? Leon whispers.

Juliette doesn’t reply. His face is too close to hers and he smells strongly of aftershave. Bumping into Leon like this is far from ideal; she tries to avoid him at every opportunity: industry events, openings, when he comes to her restaurant, Delphine, to try her menu. It isn’t just that he is a competitor; it is much more than that. Around Leon, Juliette feels secrets, like snakes, in her stomach—feels them squirming in that sideways way that snakes move.

You’ve just got to make them feel special. See?

Juliette glances at Leon’s hand on her knee, at the gold band and then at him sharply. His hand is gone by the time she meets his eyes, but it is enough. The train jolts and passengers stagger. The woman with the floral dress looks through the gap at her. It is comforting to Juliette that she is there, watching.

"I see. Merci," Juliette replies tersely.

You’ll be fine, Leon says again, smooth as melted chocolate spread out to be tempered on a counter.

Juliette straightens, emboldened by the headscarfed woman, by Leon’s unwelcome touch, the warmth of which she can still feel on the top of her knee.

How is your Celine? she asks coolly, the name somehow slick and silver. And the girls?

Leon’s smile is tight. They are well.

You must say hello to them all for me.

Yes, Leon replies carefully.

Juliette looks to the window, the train slowing and her station coming into view. Brakes yowl in protest.

This is my stop, she explains, gesturing with insincere apology.

Of course. Leon is stiff in his seat.

Juliette blinks twice at the woman across the aisle as though she can read Juliette’s mind, as though she can understand her unuttered gratitude, though for what Juliette is not exactly sure. She stands as the train brakes too fast and swings toward the lady with the purse, lipstick now applied.

Bonne chance, Leon says sleekly. For the interview.

I’m sure I’ll be fine, Juliette replies quickly.

The fork-tongued snakes inside of her hiss and spit venom.

AMELIE DUSOLLIER CONTACTED Delphine one month ago. She had spoken first to Louis. He had covered the mouthpiece and jumped up and down in excitement. He was sprightly, Louis, thin, with dark circles under his eyes and a long, straight nose. Gault et Millau! he had mouthed before Juliette took the phone.

Juliette’s head had been awash with new words and ideas, ingredients to be pieced together like a jigsaw. Juliette felt more like a matchmaker than a chef at times. She could never be completely sure what would marry together and what would not. Of course Jean-Paul—the man who first took her to bed, who first kissed her pressed up against a counter and took her hands and showed her how to cook and make love both, the two activities now firmly intertwined in Juliette’s psyche—would not have made such a fuss of it. He would have said, What grows together goes together. But Jean-Paul was not a chef; he did not have a restaurant to run, the likes of Leon to compete against, or a point to prove. Jean-Paul had simply caught fish and women, his two occupations.

Wakame. Kombucha. Umami.

These were the words peppering Juliette’s thoughts the morning Amelie Dusollier called. Juliette had been experimenting with Asian flavors—sweet and sour and pickled and crispy fried—ingredients Jean-Paul would never have heard of.

—

Dusollier, the woman had said on the other end of the phone, her first name superfluous to explanations.

Bonjour, Juliette answered sweetly. Juliette. Of Delphine.

Oui, Amelie Dusollier replied crisply. Leon was right. Critics and reviewers did like to feel important. They made nothing tangible of their own other than words. They poured no money into ventures that could thrive or shrivel to nothing. They took no risks. Yet they could make or break a restaurateur with a single review. And they knew it.

Amelie Dusollier’s schedule and deadlines were set well in advance. She’d booked the interview, the tasting, and the photographer with Juliette many weeks ago. It had seemed like a long time to prepare, to get the new menu set and tested, to buy new boots and get a haircut. But Delphine still had to be run and time flew—like Juliette, up the stairs of Le Métro, into the brightening Paris morning.

—

Juliette pauses briefly to check her phone and there is a reply from Louis: Sans probleme. She glances to the sky and gives thanks for Louis, as though he might have fallen out of it. Perhaps he had. The two of them are a good pair. Though Louis manages the front of house, he has an intuition for the kitchen that is rare; Juliette has him taste every dish she adds to the menu. Plus, he is good at hiring staff, he is good with numbers, he is sweet with customers but not too sweet. He is organized and discreet. Comfortable, tactful, and diplomatic with employees, he never loses his temper or drinks too much or too late with the team. His personal life is as quiet and organized as he is: one boyfriend, one cat, one small apartment, and penchants for Japanese whiskey, British gin, and the American ceramicist and decorator Jonathan Adler. He could be as discerning and stern with his opinions too:

Never wear a black scarf (it drains your complexion).

Don’t rent if you can buy.

No drinking before noon.

Be wary of a person who sells insurance.

Never date a politician. They are worse than those who sell insurance.

Juliette wonders if Louis invents his life-rules based on doing the opposite of whatever she does. His neat life makes hers look disheveled, just like her flat, and crowded with problems.

—

Juliette’s boots step over the cobblestones, pinching, as she reviews the things she needs to do before Amelie Dusollier arrives. She has given her chefs handwritten lists and they should be well rehearsed. She hopes their whites are truly white and pressed and that her best waitress, Fleur, did not argue with her boyfriend last night, since that leaves her face sour. She hopes the peonies she bought have opened a little more. She hopes the cutlery is speck- and spotless and the tablecloths are creased crisply, most of which Louis should have handled before she gets there.

—

Unlike Louis, Juliette does sometimes lose her temper and drink too much and too late with the team. Perhaps because she is a chef in her heart and these are things that chefs do. Or perhaps because she is her parents’ only child, or because she is a woman and feels she has much to prove. Or perhaps because she works excessively, obsessively, and it is easier to stay at Delphine and drink than go home to her apartment with the browning roses and the clothes left on the floor and the bed that is so half-empty it feels vast and cold to touch.

—

A cyclist almost crashes into Juliette. His head is turned and looking the wrong way. He screams at Juliette as though it is all her fault.

Putain! Fils de salope!

Juliette opens her mouth to return the insults. She grips the phone in her hand, dying to throw it at him. Then the phone in her hand rings. She slows to stare at the screen. It reads Dad. She lets it ring twice more. Slowing. Deciding. Stopping. She is so close to Delphine.

Papa?

Juliette!

Hi, Dad.

Morning, love. How are you? Where are you?

Almost at the restaurant, Juliette replies. Frustration prickles at her.

Oh, good. Good… He sounds distracted. Juliette shifts her weight from one boot to the other, regretting not getting them stretched, but mainly regretting answering the call. Are you okay, Dad? Is it Mum?

Her father’s voice comes back clear and present now. Oh no, darling, I’m fine. We’re fine. He clears his throat. Juliette hears a voice in the background; she presses the phone closer to her ear.

Her father says, I was calling about you! Your big day!

Of course he had remembered about the Gault et Millau interview. Juliette’s father remembered everything. He had been at every ballet recital, every school play, and every prize giving. Not that it was hard to win a prize in Douarnenez. It was a fact of such a small population—prizes were statistically probable. But Juliette’s parents never regarded Juliette’s achievements casually. In their eyes Juliette was a star, a beaming light, a source of perpetual pride. Somehow this made Juliette feel terrible instead of wonderful, made her notice and rue her imperfections, her hidden parts, her confusions and errors with even sharper judgment.

Thanks, Dad, Juliette replies. She taps one foot and then steps back to let a person pass her. She moves under the eaves of a jewelry shop, the shutters still closed.

How are you feeling about it? Juliette’s parents had moved from England to Brittany before she was born, but her father’s British accent is strong even over the phone.

Fine, fine. Yeah, lots to do… Juliette says, hearing the pleading in her voice. Let me go. Let me go now. She stares in the direction of Delphine.

Darling? the voice in the background calls. It is reedy and longing. Dislocated.

Juliette’s attention snaps to the phone. Is that Mum?

That’s great. We just wanted to wish you luck—

Darling? Where…? the voice murmurs.

Dad? Juliette frowns. Dad, is that Mum? Where are you?

Don’t you worry about us, sweetheart—

Juliette hears a groan that washes over her like an icy ocean wave. It is full of pain. Everything else seems to vanish. Delphine. Amelie Dusollier. Paris. Juliette grips the phone as though it is a life buoy. There is only her and the phone, the two voices at the other end.

Dad? Are you at the hospital?

Your mother is getting the best care.

What is it, Dad?

It’s nothing to worry—

Tell me what it is, Dad.

Juliette’s father sighs and Juliette suddenly wants to cry. Not today. Not now.

Pneumonia.

Darling? The voice is her mother’s, but it sounds alien. Whispery and urgent. Detached and begging. Like a ghost’s. Juliette squeezes the phone so tightly her hand hurts, as though trying to crush it, as though replicating the feeling in her own chest, the vise around her heart.

Dad? How bad is it?

Juliette hears her father’s breath but he does not reply. At her mother’s age, pneumonia would be bad enough, but added to her cancer it makes an equation that Juliette cannot bear to think about. A woman, walking swiftly with a skinny gray dog on a lead, steps too close to Juliette under the eaves. The proximity brings Paris rushing back. The light, the noises, the smells of the morning and the city assault her. She blinks and draws breath, as if coming up from under a wave. She thinks, urgently, of that other place, of the sea air, the quiet split by gulls’ cries, the awful smallness of her village, and her mother’s face, laid against hospital sheets thick and starched like the tablecloths at Delphine.

I’m coming.

No— her father protests.

I’m coming, Juliette says again.

—

As soon as she hangs up Juliette calls Louis. She’s already walking in the other direction, away from Delphine rather than toward it, jogging across streets in the boots that hurt, narrowly missing traffic.

I’m sorry.

Louis’s voice is quick with concern. What is it?

Maman.

THE DOOR TO Juliette’s parents’ cottage is red and shiny, the color of British postboxes and telephone booths. On either side hang baskets with flowers falling over the edges and green buds that will produce many more. Sweet peas and geraniums and pansies in yellows and purples. All her father’s handiwork. Juliette needs to take her boots off. Her father struggles with the key and then has to lean his shoulder against the door to get it to open.

Inside is a time warp. Juliette’s father climbs the stairs, the walls of which are lined with photographs in wooden frames, mostly of Juliette, colors faded to amber and peach and brown. School photos and family photos in which the three of them make a little trifecta, a pyramid, Juliette in the center of each one. Her first Holy Communion, Juliette looking like a tiny bride with stiff ringlets, her mouth pinched and cross. Her feet throbbing, Juliette pauses to sit on the bottom step and wriggle off her boots.

I’ll put the kettle on, Juliette’s father calls out from the top of the stairs.

Okay, Juliette mumbles in reply.

In Juliette’s parents’ opinion, the solution to every problem lay at the bottom of a teacup. If in doubt, put the kettle on. In an act of rebellion Juliette had started drinking coffee at the age of eleven, the blacker the better. But these days, she