Jennie Goutet's Blog: A Lady in France, page 34

Vlog #2 – How to Scold Your Kids in French

The French method of educating their children is all the rage – clearly a superior method of education. So I thought you’d appreciate learning how to scold your kids in French. At the very least it will stop them from rolling their eyes at you.

They’ll have no idea what you’re saying!

Here are the six expressions we will be learning in this week’s tongue-in-cheek vlog.

1. Gentle Command:

Tu obéis s’il te plaît.

“You’ll obey please.”

And … je compte jusqu’au trois.

“I”ll count to three.”

2. Simple Question:

Mais qu’est ce que c’est que ça?

“What’s this?”

3. Sarcastic Question:

Non, mais … tu veux que je t’aide?

“No … you want me to help you?”

4. Sharp Rebuke:

Ne parle pas à Papa comme ça!

“Don’t speak to your father like that!”

5. Outrage:

Ca va pas la tête?

“Is your head unwell?”

6. Guantlet Thrown (you talkin’ to me?)

Ca suffit maintenant! J’en ai assez!

“Now that’s enough. I’ve had enough.”

And the auxiliary vocabulary for the day is bétise. It means act of mischief.

I hope you enjoyed this week’s important French lesson!

The post Vlog #2 – How to Scold Your Kids in French appeared first on A Lady In France.

The Viscount – Chapter Six

First time here? Why not start with Chapter One!

THE VISCOUNT OF MAISON LAFFITTE

CHAPTER SIX

Paltier walked down the smooth stone steps that led to, what was the ground floor on one half of the property set on a hill, and what was the cellar in the other. The stairway was lined with dim light fixtures, which were ineffective when set against the large windows located at the landing. The stone walls held centuries-old deer heads, mounted on felt-covered wooden bases. The air was chilly.

His shoes echoed on the stone as he walked towards the old kitchen with its brick fireplace that took up one entire wall, and the wine room that was just off to the side. The kitchen was sunny, as it was located on the side that was not underground and contained large windows. He entered the wine room, selected a bottle without hesitation, dusted it off with the chamois cloth he had brought with him, and tucked it under his arm.

At the landing, he hesitated before taking the stairs to go back up, and then following his prompting, continued walking straight ahead through a corridor into another stone room that was a bit darker with small windows high up where the ground was. He looked around to see that everything was in its place, and opened a closet to make sure that nothing had been moved there either. Then he touched his finger on the tabletops and made a mental note to talk to the housekeeping staff about not neglecting the basement.

With one last sweeping glance around the room, he headed back towards the corridor that led to the stairs. Just as he was about to exit the corridor and enter the landing, he heard the sounds of a heavy door being scraped open. The wood had swollen and squeaked as it was shoved against the tiles, but he could hear the door opening in short bursts as someone shoved his body against it.

It occurred to him that no one would hear him if he yelled for help, and that he had no weapon on hand with which to defend himself. But what never occurred to him was to save his own skin and go and hide while the interloper helped himself to whatever treasures the château had. Without waiting any longer, he stepped out into plain view in the alcove that held the door. Standing, and struggling with the door, his back turned, was the gardener – Martin.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, indignantly – and slightly out of breath from a fear he didn’t realize he was feeling. “Your work is outside.

Martin looked embarrassed at being caught, and his mumbled reply was barely audible in the echoing room. “I left my tool in the lower kitchen.

“What were you doing in the kitchen?” Paltier asked, even more severely, suspecting the attraction of the wine cellar.

Martin cleared his throat and spoke more confidently. “The ivy that was growing along the base of the house grew through the cracks in the kitchen windows and I couldn’t access it from the outside because the windows were closed.”

Paltier couldn’t think of anything to respond to that, so he dismissed Martin. “Alright you can go after you shut that door the rest of the way. But I want you to notify me first before you enter the house for any reason.”

“Even when I’m to come in and take care of the houseplants?” Martin asked with an innocence, Paltier suspected, that was false.

“If you enter the house on any day, apart from your set day for caring for the houseplants, please let me know,” Paltier returned unsmilingly. He was no fool.

Martin went to the kitchen, and came back with his tool in hand. Without looking at Paltier, he tugged the heavy door shut behind him as he exited, and Paltier closed the deadbolt from inside. Then he walked into the kitchen to verify Martin’s story. When he looked closely at the kitchen windows, he saw the little pockmarks left behind by ivy recently removed, and he nodded his head at the observation.

Suddenly, he felt his legs give way, and he sat down on the edge of the stone sink that had been used in centuries past. He blew his breath out and looked out the windows that were just on his left side. A cat leapt up to the sill, and picked its way carefully across – on its way to who knew what adventure.

It took him a minute to gather his strength before he picked up the bottle and stood back up again. “I am not getting any younger, he thought.”

* * *

Chastity could see Maude just up ahead – her thin, muscular arms and square shoulders that the thin cardigan didn’t quite cover – her hair pulled back into a large bun that she now knew was an extension, perfectly done. Originally from Martinique, her colleague had been in France ever since junior high; and with her sharp intellect and ready smile, she was quickly becoming a friend.

Maude was barely taller than her students – even in high heels – and Chastity eased past the straggling teenagers so she could catch up to her.

“Hey!” she said with a smile.”

“Ah! Salut toi!” was her answer. Hi yourself! Maude could speak English, but was definitely more comfortable in French, so that’s the language in which they spoke. “I need to stop in my office first,” she said, as she veered off to the side, waving for Chastity to follow.

Chastity imitated her abrupt turn and entered the office, which was warmly decorated with candles, picture frames, and fresh flowers. She made a mental note to work on personalizing her own office space a bit more. “You said you needed to come here ‘first’? Where are you going after that?”

“Oh, you’re coming with me!” Maude said brightly. “Unless you need to get Thomas.”

“No, no,” she responded. “He’s in the after-school program today.”

“Good!” said Maude. “We’re going to save Annie’s job.”

“Wait. Annie … Annie? The art teacher? What’s up with her job? She’s been here for years! And doesn’t she volunteer at the museum as well?”

“No, she works there!” Maude responded, emphasizing the word. “It’s only part-time, but still. I’ve heard she’s getting let go there as well. And I suspect the same person is responsible for both.”

“Who? It must be a personal vendetta!” Chastity cried out. “She is so sweet. There is no way she deserves this. And she’s really good at what she does!”

“I know. That’s why we’re going. A bunch of parents are here to support her, and about half of the teachers as well.” She added, “Some don’t like to go against the Board, though, and they’re staying out of it.”

Chastity shrugged, ever the idealist. “I don’t care about that. Let’s go.”

When they reached the door to the community room, there was already a handful of people waiting on the landing and the part of the stairwell. Maude, tapped the person in front her, and asked, “What are we waiting for? Why don’t we just go in?”

Chastity didn’t recognize the woman, and assumed it must be a parent. “We don’t have the right to interrupt the Board meeting, so we are waiting until it’s finished. We will ask them to reopen the issue and have them hear us out.”

Maude nodded at the plan and then turned back to Chastity. “You heard that?”

Chastity nodded back, and with a glimmer of a smile, answered, “This hints at revolt. I hope they don’t meet us with boiling oil.”

Maude flashed her white teeth as she laughed noiselessly. Then she whispered.

“So. Have you seen Marc again?” waggling her eyebrows.

“Four times since we last talked,” Chastity blushed, pressed her lips together, and shook her head. “I don’t know. Should I be doing this? I mean – even being his friend makes me a little anxious.”

“I can’t answer that for you,” Maude said kindly, shrugging her shoulders. “His parting words were unbelievable. But then again, he was – what – 17? 18? We are all kinds of stupid at that age.”

Chastity laughed at that. But then Maude continued in a more serious voice. “What do you guys talk about? Apart from Thomas and your history together – do you get along?”

Chastity stole a glance at the others who were waiting and saw that they were all involved in conversation, so she answered quietly. “We do – for the most part. We talk about our history, but not about us – you know? About our friends from that time.”

She continued, “And Thomas. We talk about him.” And then, as if she were confessing, “Sometimes, just when I think my son is all my own with no one else to take credit – no other contributing factor - he’ll make an expression that is totally Marc’s, and I will have completely forgotten about it. That’s annoying.”

Maude looked at her quietly, encouraging her to talk. “And, you know, he has this totally menial job, even though he could have done so much better with all the family connections he had. But he doesn’t talk about his job as if he despises it. He shares stories about the people who come in, and the funny things that are on their rolls of film.”

“Oh geez,” Maude interrupted. “It didn’t occur to me that people actually looked at the pictures!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Chastity said, grinning. “Marc might be an exception. He was always a curious guy.

“So you still don’t know where this thing is going?” Maude asked.

“I don’t. We are not romantic right now. I don’t know …” Chastity let out a big breath. “He asked me to come with us on vacation when Tom and I go to Deauville.”

“Oh!” Maude’s surprise was evident.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Chastity said quickly. “I told him ‘no’ – it was too soon. Plus, it’s my first vacation in France with my son, and I want us to go alone.

“I don’t know what I want.” she continued, shrugging her shoulders and letting out a laugh. “No, I do know. I want what you and Michel have.” She smiled at Maude.

“You want matching names?” Maude giggled back. “Let’s see … what matches with Chastity?”

Just then the door to the community room opened, signaling the end of the board meeting. Maude was still looking at Chastity and chuckling quietly, so she whispered, “Nothing! Nothing matches with my name.”

“Christophe!” Maude whispered back. “Chandler!” And then as an afterthought … “Charles!”

Chastity suppressed a smile and rolled her eyes. “Look ahead. The line’s moving,” she said.

As she climbed the stairs, Chastity realised she had no idea what to expect from this encounter; she just knew that it wasn’t fair that the board could get rid of someone for no apparent reason. This small group of supporters – about twenty-five in all – would at least take a stand against this injustice.

When she walked into the room, she was the last one to position herself on one end of the oval table that usually held student backpacks and cans of coke, but which now held espresso cups and an empty plate with crumbs. She looked up at the board members that were still talking with one another, and ignoring the crowd that had formed the minute the door opened.

Chastity drew in a surprised breath. The Viscount was here! Right in the center of the group of board members, she saw him talking and smiling as he shook the hand of a businessman she didn’t know. Her eyes darted to the right and caught those of her director, Elizabeth, who was still sitting at the table, a stack of papers and notes in front of her.

Of course she would have to attend the board meeting! She wondered what her director would have to say about everything when she got her alone – wondered what she could say. Elizabeth smiled at her; and the Viscount, finishing up his conversation, caught the silent interchange, and promptly glanced at Chastity. She thought she saw a flicker of recognition, and she was suddenly conscious of what she was wearing.

She mentally shook herself, and turned to Maude who was looking around to see who was going to begin the dialogue. When no one stepped forward, Maude said, “Excuse me ladies and gentlemen.” The board members slowly stopped talking and turned to face her.

“Thank you for your attention,” she began diplomatically. Gesturing at the people around her, she said, “We’ve come to talk to you about your decision to replace Annie Meurier.” She looked directly at the Viscount, who, Chastity was starting to suspect, had a principal role in the firing.

The Viscount looked at Maude without saying anything, which usually made people want to begin talking, just to fill in the conversation. But Maude just stared right back, waiting. Finally the Viscount sighed and said, “Well. You’ve come to talk. What is it you want to say?”

A couple of the people in the crowd muttered under their breath, and words like “proud” and “stuck-up” could be heard, although Chastity didn’t think that he could hear them. Maude did not take offense at his words, and spoke calmly.

“Mme Meurier is very good at what she does, and she adds value to the school and to the community. We represent staff and parents on this issue, and none of us are in agreement at her being let go. We would like to ask you to reconsider.”

The Viscount looked at her unflinchingly. “Madame …?” His pause indicated a question.

“Madame de Rosier,” Maude answered.

“Madame de Rosier,” the Viscount continued. “I appreciate your support of your colleague, and your interest in the decisions of the Board. But that’s just it. This is not a democracy, and the decisions are the Board’s to make. We’ve ruled on an issue that we feel is best for l’Ermitage, and that is to end Madame Meurier’s contract early. We are not required to justify our decision to anyone.”

The Viscount turned to gather his coat and briefcase. The grumbling in the group got louder, and Maude attempted to speak once again. “Monsieur de Chabot, we are just asking out of common courtesy to provide us with a reason …”

The Viscount cut her off, and said, “This meeting is adjourned.” Then turning to a gentleman on his left, he said, “Christian, will you accompany me to my car?” The gentleman in question gathered his things hurriedly and squeezed past the group of protesters that parted in the Viscount’s wake.

The crowd was now speaking more openly as the rest of the Board filed out. Elizabeth Moore stood up as well, looking self-conscious, if not embarrassed. Chastity decided not to talk to her just then, but made a mental note to approach her when some of the tension had died down. She looked at Maude, who will still staring at the doorframe where the Viscount had just exited.

Maude looked back at Chastity, her mouth open. “Wow,” she mouthed.

“I know,” Chastity mouthed back, nodding slowly.

The post The Viscount – Chapter Six appeared first on A Lady In France.

Photos of Dinan

Dinan is an old, picturesque town in Brittany, and it’s pronounced Dee-non, with only a hint at that last n. Every year we go to Brittany for a 2-week extended family vacation, and every year we have a date in St Malo.

This year we thought we would venture further and go to Dinan, though we had already been there years ago to get the famous Breton bowls that are rimmed in blue and are personalised for everyone in the family. These.

But when we went back this summer, we realised that we completely missed the entire beautiful, interesting part of Dinan. So I’m going to give you a picture tour.

Let’s start with my initials! Cool, huh?

Okay, no seriously. Let’s start with the medieval buildings that are so similar to Tours.

They’re everywhere.

They’re gorgeous.

Now let’s examine the cobblestone streets

and all the pedestrian walkways hosting shops and restaurants

and the tiny wooden doors for delinquent teens to sneak home?

There are tons of artists and artisans.

With completely unique designs.

And there are chocolate shops.

Chocolate flip-flops are all the rage this summer.

We ate at a charming little place that set our meat on fire from a little contraption called the pontence. It means “the gallows.”

Cute factor aside, the food in this restaurant wasn’t very good though.

There’s a nearly 2-mile walkway around the city walls

(called “remparts” – pronounced rom-par (and then you spit in your throat).

On the path leading to it is an overgrown garden.

And an overgrown house

with vines imprisoning the shutters.

France has a rule that if the latest successor on record can no longer be found, the town hall cannot take possession of the land until 25 years have passed. Good stone houses get ruined that way. Although the law makes perfect sense.

When you climb the steps, before you’re on the remparts, there are lots of charming little places.

This one has a private garden

and a garden stone chimney that the owners let remain when the neighbouring house was torn down.

And when you finally get there - on the wall …  there’s the view.

Despite the not-so-great food, we were so glad that we explored Dinan a little further. We were supposed to go to a movie too – to really take advantage of our date night out.

But I was exhausted, and so we went home.

The end.

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Peach Tart with Raspberry-Almond Cream

The word for peach in French is “pêche” and it’s pronounced pesh. The word for peach tree is “pêcher” and is pronounced pesh-ay.

If we are to continue with this lesson, the word for sin is péché, pronounced pretty darn similarly to peach tree. And the verb for fishing is pêcher – once again pronounced the same. So if someone tells you that “C’est un péché de pêcher en dessous le pêcher” (it’s a sin to fish underneath the peach tree), you’ll know right away what they’re saying.

But back to peaches. Les pêches. We had some ripe ones, so I made a tart. I have never made so many desserts with fruit since I moved to France.

Start with a pie crust – mine is made with gluten-free flour. I put 110 grams of cold butter, cut up in pieces – about one stick -along with a cup and 1/4 flour. I added an egg, 1/2 c confectioner sugar, and a teaspoon of large grain sea salt. Knead it and roll it out, and put it in the pre-heated oven (325°) for about 15 minutes.

For the almond cream, mix 2 eggs with a cup of almond flour, 1/2 cup of sugar, 1/4 teaspoon almond extract and 120 grams of melted butter. (Another stick of butter, more or less).

I used raspberry jelly for added flavour. 2 heaping tablespoons, plus a tablespoon of boiling water.

Mix that in gently. It’s okay if it sort of sinks to the bottom and doesn’t blend in.

Cut up 4-5 peaches. Mine were super ripe, which made for a very juicy tart. If that happens, don’t worry. It still tastes amazing.

I left the skin on because peach skin does not get too chewy when cooked, and it makes the dish much prettier. Scallop the pieces around the tart, letting them sink into the almond cream.

Put it in the oven and bake for another 20 minutes or so. Keep checking it, and turn the tart if it starts to brown too quickly on side.

And then you have a masterpiece.

And then you have a piece.

And then you have a piece with a scoop of ice cream.

And then the dog sneaks into the kitchen and has the rest of the pieces.

Sigh.

Peach Tart with Raspberry-Almond Cream   Print Prep time 20 mins Cook time 45 mins Total time 1 hour 5 mins   From: Lady Jennie Recipe type: Dessert Cuisine: French Serves: 8 Ingredients Crust: 110 g cold unsalted butter, cut in pieces. (1 stick) 1 egg 1 t large-grain sea salt ½ c confectioner sugar 1¼ c flour Almond cream: 120 g butter melted (just over a stick) 2 eggs ¼ t almond extract ½ c sugar 1 c ground almonds 2 T raspberry jelly mixed with 1 T boiling water 4-5 peaches Instructions Pre-heat oven to 325° (170° C) Combine crust ingredients, and roll out dough. Lift with spatula onto quiche pan. Bake crust for 15 minutes. Combine ingredients for almond cream, and pour into cooled crust. Mix raspberry jelly with water and spoon into the cream mixture. Cut slices of peaches and scallop around the pan until the pieces are all touching and fill the pan. Bake for 20 minutes. Let it cool before attempting to cut it. 3.2.1311

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Vlog #1 – The Basics of Bonjour

Vlog is still being auto-corrected to blog, which means it’s not yet commonly used in everyday speech. But it basically means video-log, and apparently it’s all the rage.

I must be nuts to do this, but I’m joining the herd, and have added my very first blog vlog! darn-it – on how to get a warm reception in France.

Need I say that I don’t have a perfect accent?

Need I say that I’m nervous?

But tomorrow I’ll be posting an almond-raspberry cream peach tart and all will be well in the world again.

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The Viscount – Chapter Five

First time here? Start with Chapter One!

THE VISCOUNT OF MAISON LAFFITTE

CHAPTER FIVE

Chastity checked her appearance in the mirror. Only the front of her hair was pulled up loosely, and the rest fell freely in the light-brown curls, which turned red in the sunlight. She was wearing Spanish Cimarron jeans and a kelly green Ralph Lauren polo shirt that a friend had given her, who had been unable to take off her pregnancy weight. She put on mascara and lip gloss, but kept the rest of her look natural. She hated herself for wanting to impress him.

But she knew she couldn’t lie to herself either. She had never been seriously interested in anyone else after him. In some ways, it was understandable. She was busy as a single mom, and any remaining energy she had, was spent in teaching. None of the men who had pursued her in college and grad school – and there had been many – had provoked even the slightest desire in her.

She also knew that there was something wrong with her. It wasn’t merely the fact that she didn’t trust men, which was perfectly understandable given her past history. It was the fact that – in spite of what he had done – rather than slamming the door on any potential for a relationship with him, she wanted him to regret what he had missed out on. She wanted him to look at her and see that she had aged well, like a fine wine, and pine away in misery for having thrown it all away. No. Scratch the wine; she already felt old enough. She wanted him to see her as bubbly and festive, and – as out of reach – as the finest champagne.

But she was too mad at how he had treated her to be even falsely festive. For ten long months, he had made her feel treasured. He made her feel like she was perfection itself; and coming from a family that was rather run of the mill – with parents who expressed their affection in discreet, ordinary gestures – this affirmed the deeply buried conviction that she really was special, and that she was not destined for an ordinary life. He lied to her so well, she never once suspected that he was not madly in love with her.

He smiled so charmingly, and his face was boyish and open; there was no way of guessing that it hid anything sinister – that he could feel anything different from what he expressed. But when she became a despicable creature in her own eyes – and probably his – weeping, and begging him in passionate whispers to reconsider, his parting words were, “I only went out with you because your name provided me with a certain challenge.” He then stalked over to the group of friends, for whose benefit he had rehearsed this line, and punched one of them in the arm, grinning.

Chastity blew out the breath she had been holding and picked up the phone. When it was answered, she said, “Hi Mom,” smiling at the sound of such a familiar voice.

“Hi Chassy,” her mom said – a name she only used in rare affectionate moments. “How’s my grandson?”

“He’s good.” There was an awkward pause as Chastity tried to think of how to bring up the reason she was calling. But there wasn’t much time, so she plunged in headlong. “Mom, we’re meeting Marc Bastien in a half-hour.” She waited, her heart beating quickly, to see how her mother would react.

Her mom seemed to debate about the best way to respond to this, before finally saying, “I suppose it’s good for Tommy to meet his dad. It doesn’t mean he has to be a regular part of his life, does it?”

“No,” Chastity replied, smiling again. Trust her mother to say something calm and practical, and bring her back down to earth. “He said that I am the one to call the shots, and I intend to do just that.” She didn’t feel it necessary to mention the lip gloss. “If I feel that it will do any emotional harm to Thomas, I will tell Marc that he’s not allowed to see him anymore.”

“I wish you weren’t living so far away,” her mother said in uncharacteristic wistfulness.

“I’ll be fine Mom, I promise.” Chastity was sure her anxiety was coming through in her voice. She continued brightly. “We have to leave soon but I just wanted to hear your voice. We can skype tomorrow at our usual time, okay?”

After she hung up the phone, she felt the slightest bit better – slightly less alone. And as she pulled her hair off her neck and turned her face this way and that to check her appearance in the mirror, her thoughts turned back to Marc. Now that most of the bitterness had faded away, and she was left with the person who was more important to her than anyone else in the world - her son - she had trouble remembering anything but his charm, as if his parting words were dealt by someone else entirely.

She couldn’t put it off anymore. It was time to go. She peeked into Thomas’ room, who was determinedly buried in a French book, although he was much more comfortable reading in English. “Are you ready to go, sweetie?”

“Yes mom.” He stood up and tried to zip his sweatshirt, but it was old, and the zipper was not easy to get started at the bottom. She came over and knelt down to secure the bottom of the zipper before tugging it all the way up. She looked him in the eyes and smiled.

His expression was worried. “What if I don’t like him?” he asked.

“Well, you never have to see him again,” she said calmly.

After a pause, he said in a smaller voice. “What if he doesn’t like me?”

Chastity breathed in and pressed her lips to crush the wave of feelings that started to rise. She managed a smile, and answered, “That, my dear, would be impossible.”

She started walking towards the door, indicating for him to follow her out of the apartment. The furniture was mostly from Ikea, with a few old, elegant chairs and side tables that she had recuperated from people in the neighborhood, who had thrown them out. With these antique touches, a few large houseplants next to the window, some abstract paintings that she had done during one of her college courses, the place had a less bare-bones feeling to it than when she had first moved in. She had recently added sheer white curtains and a dark burgundy living room rug. It made her happy to look around at what was now her home.

Once in the hallway, she turned the large skeleton key in the lock. It was a newer apartment building, but the keys were modeled in the older styles, which she thought was cute. Resuming their conversation as they walked to the elevator, she put her arm around his shoulder and, pulling him close, said, “Don’t forget that he asked to see you. We are the ones that decide whether we’re going to let him in our lives or not.”

Her son nodded his head once, and then ran ahead to push the elevator button. She smiled to herself. At times he was so perceptive, and even sharp-tongued, she forgot how young he was. At other times, she was reminded of the fact that she had many years ahead of her before her son would be a grown man, and no longer in need of her.

They were meeting right in the town of Maison Laffitte, and since it was a sunny November day, they decided to walk. She had only recently gotten her first car, though she had had her license since she moved to Boston. She always thought it would be good to have one, and she didn’t want to be a student driver on the streets of Manhattan. In the end, she was lucky, because Massachusetts had a reciprocal license exchange with France, whereas the state of New York did not. As a result, she was able to exchange it for a French license and bypass the time-consuming, expensive, and all-around tiresome hassle of passing the driving test in France. Still, she tried to use the car sparingly to save gas, and her son was used to walking everywhere.

They skirted past the Château of Maison Laffitte on their way to the café where they had planned to meet Marc. Chastity had the fleeting thought that they might meet Camille – or even the Viscount! It annoyed her to realize that she wondered what he was doing, and she brushed it off. She already had one irritating French male to do deal with, and that was enough.

As they walked there, Thomas seemed to be fully preoccupied with talking about horses. They saw two riders on the shady streets, which was not strange. The stables were located right across the street from the school, and Maison Laffitte was a horse town through and through. There were even road signs indicating that certain streets were just one way – unless you were a horse.

She would have liked to get him started on horseback riding lessons because this seemed to be more than just a passing interest, but that would have to wait. The lessons did not come cheap and she was still trying to build some kind of savings in case anything should happen to her job. It was strange. When she was growing up, she never worried about her future. She knew her parents were taking good care of her. But now that they were getting older, they would need all of their savings to pay for their retirement. She was on her own.

They were in the busy town now, and they opened the door to the Café Jerôme. Chastity’s heart was beating fast and she felt like she was still a teenager, instead of a teacher with a Master’s Degree and a good mother. She scanned the tables inside the room darkened by red curtains and mahogany tables, and her eyes fell on Marc. She knew at once it must be him, but she couldn’t believe the changes that the past seven years had wrought.

He still dressed well. He wore a hot pink Ralph Lauren dress shirt that looked nice against his olive colored skin and brown hair. He had jeans and Converse sneakers on to complete his look of youthful casual. But he did not at all look young. His face was etched with premature wrinkles, and there was a tiredness to his eyes, or perhaps a hardness. It was difficult to discern which it was. Even the way he sat looked less jaunty somehow. He slouched, and his fingers drummed the table audibly. He looked up, and when he saw them, he got to his feet. He shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled nervously, but made no move to walk towards them.

Chastity was shocked. It actually seemed like he had changed. She couldn’t believe that it could be true, but maybe prison had humbled him. He looked like he wasn’t confident of his reception and didn’t dare to push it. This softened her heart towards him. She put her arm around Thomas and walked towards him, attempting a smile.

“Marc,” she said simply.

“Hi Chastity,” he said in English. Although they spoke both in equal measure when living in New York, he must have felt more comfortable in the language of the country they had both grown up in. He moved to kiss her on the cheek, but she held out her hand, stopping him short. He looked at her hand, and then clasped it in a gentle handshake.

Thomas was studying his father openly, and Marc turned towards him and took a deep breath. “Thomas, do you know who I am?” he asked.

“Of course,” he answered. “My mother told me. You are my father.”

“That’s right,” Marc answered, smiling, but not looking quite at ease. “Here. I got you something.” He reached over to the table, then handed Thomas a small present. It was wrapped neatly in red paper with a ribbon and gold foil sticker, labeling the toy store it came from. Thomas took it with two hands and carefully pulled off the wrapping paper. It was a train engine, elaborately crafted, with a whistle that made noise when you pulled on it.

“I like it,” Thomas said with dignity, and set it down on the table.

“I asked the woman in the toy boutique what a seven-year old boy would like and, she recommended this.”

“Thomas, thank your father,” his mother reminded him gently.

“Merci,” Thomas replied and turned his face up to be kissed.

“Please sit down,” Marc said, gesturing to the two chairs next to him. Chastity took off her coat, helping Thomas with his, and then placed them on the backs of their chairs before sitting down. The waiter came up and took their orders – a hot chocolate and croissant for Thomas, an espresso for Marc and a café crème for Chastity.

“You never could drink your coffee black,” Marc said smiling, and handed her an extra sugar from the glass square in the center of the table when their coffees had arrived.

“What grade are you in, Thomas?” Marc asked as he stirred a sugar into his espresso.

“I’m in CE1,” Thomas said, taking a bite of his croissant. His train sat untouched next to him, but he was casting furtive glances at it as he spooned hot chocolate into his mouth.

“CE1.” Marc turned to Chastity, “What grade is that?”

“It’s equivalent to the first grade,” she said. “Thomas is an advanced reader. He’s already read Harry Potter.”

“Wow! That’s amazing,” Marc said turning to Thomas. “I was never much of a reader myself, but I did see the first movie.”

Thomas nodded his head silently and continued to chew his croissant. He was kicking his leg out rhythmically underneath the table.

Marc looked at Chastity and said, “What have you been doing all these years?” as he simultaneously placed his hand on hers that was lying on the table. She jerked her hand away as if he had burned it.

“Um,” she began nervously, blushing and looking at her son. “Well you know that I got my degree at Columbia University, and then we moved to Boston so I could get my Masters at Harvard. I got the connection to this position from a former professor, and we’ve been here since August.”

“That’s really great,” he said. She didn’t dare to reciprocate the question so an awkward silence fell.

“So, where are you living and working?” Chastity asked, finding her voice.

“I’m living in Puteaux, near La Défense, and for now I’m working at the FNAC in the photography boutique. I develop the film,” he said.

“And your parents?” she asked. “They’re still in New York?”

“Nah, they came back after . . . afterwards. I think they were tired of living in Manhattan.”

“I understand,” Chastity said. She imagined that his demise caused too much embarrassment in their polite circle for them to remain there.

“So they know you’re here and everything … ?” She was hesitant to pry too much, but at the same time she was curious how he was getting along. She had a hard time imagining him just scraping by without his parents’ help. He had always been their golden boy.

“They know.” Marc shrugged. “I can’t say they’re too thrilled with the idea of having me over to see them and I haven’t pushed. I humiliated them.”

“I see,” Chastity said, as she looked down.

Even when she had disappointed her own parents, they would never think about abandoning her. Thomas started to clink his empty chocolate mug in tune to his kicking feet. “Do you mind if we walk as we talk?” she asked. “It’s hard for a boy his age to sit still for long.” She smiled, as she said this, and Marc signaled for the check.

When they left the café, they turned left and started walking toward a playground she knew of that was a little further along. When they entered the fenced-in area, Marc watched as Thomas ran off towards the jungle gym, his feet flinging sand as he went. Chastity used the opportunity to speak more directly about prison.

“I was thinking. Didn’t you have to serve parole at all? Was there no problem for you to leave the country?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I had served my whole sentence so there was no parole. I was allowed to come back because this is my home country. But I came back with a record. I’m no more free here than I was in America. I will never have a career or anything like that.”

“Don’t say never,” Chastity said, pinching her brows.

He was quiet for a minute, then nodded his head towards his son, and asked, “What did you tell him about me?”

“I told him the truth,” she said. “He deserves to know the truth.”

Marc shook his head. “He must hate me. A father who was in prison.”

Seeing him humiliated pained Chastity, even if she was still wary of his potential for inflicting pain. It caused her to speak with more gentleness than she had yet shown. “I have not made you out to be a villain, Marc. He will judge you from what you are to him – not from anything I tell him.”

Marc looked up and flashed her a quick smile before looking down again.

“But I do have to ask what role you hope to have in his life after seven years,” she continued. “I mean, there hasn’t been a word from you in all this time. And I can’t forget what you said to me when I first told you … or your parting words. ”

Marc cut her off. “Please forget about anything I said before. I mean, forget about it as much as you can. That was before I took a few hard turns. I’m sorry – I know I was a jerk.” His voice was sincere and he was looking down, as if he didn’t dare look at her.

“Okay, fine,” Chastity said, not unkindly. She chewed her lip. “But, so what role . . . ” She trailed off, looking at him.

“Whatever role you permit me,” he answered, shrugging his shoulders and looking at her with a hopeful smile. Their eyes caught for a moment, and then they both looked over to Thomas, who had climbed all the way to the top of the jungle gym and who was shyly looking for approbation. The sun formed a halo around his head as he straddled the top of the net. He gave a small wave, and they both smiled and waved back.

Chastity turned back to Marc. “Let’s just play it by ear, okay?” she said.

The post The Viscount – Chapter Five appeared first on A Lady In France.

Six Dishes to Discover the Soul of Paris

Happy Monday everyone! I’ve got a guest post up from Marta Lopez, a travel writer based in London. You’ll love the insider tips she has to share. (And since I don’t get out much, someone’s got to tell you about these things). Please welcome Marta.

Six Dishes to Discover the Soul of Paris

There is much more than moules frites, baguettes and cheeses when it comes to choosing le plat du jour in the French capital. Paris is a beautiful mixture of 20 arrondissements and behind each one, there is a whole world of contrasts and cultures. Forget what you have learnt about French cuisine and prepare yourself to travel around the City of Lights. Here you have six different dishes to get the real image of each quartier.

Image Source

Champs-Elysées: A sophisticated seafood menu

There is no other arrondissement like the 8th when it comes to choosing a chic and expensive Parisian menu. From La Concorde to the Arc de Triomphe, you will be able to find historical and art nouveau-inspired style restaurants. If you want to savour the real taste of this quartier, don’t hesitate to ask for a seafood dish – or what the French call “un plateau de fruits de mer”.

Going to Les Champs-Elysées? Don´t miss your chance to visit an exposition at Le Grand Palais (3, Avenue du Général Eisenhower)

Montmartre: Experience Amélie´s quartier with a crêpe

Montmartre – located in the 18th arrondissement – used to be an independent village in the North of Paris, and it was a breeding ground for artists like Picasso and Dali. Today this little village pleases travellers, with its little cafés and narrow streets during the day, and vibrant clubs at night.

Image: M. López

Going to Montmartre? Don´t miss a bière at Le Café des 2 Moulins, where Amélie Poulain worked as a waitress.

Le Marais: The most exquisite falafel in Paris

It has become one of the most fashionable quartiers in the city at the moment. Le Marais in the 4th arrondissement catches tourists’ attention with its wide variety of cafés, art galleries, and chic boutiques. Le Marais is home to the largest Jewish community in Paris; that’s why you’ll find here the most delicious falafels in the city. After a visit to the beautiful Place des Vosges - where Victor Hugo used to live – pop in at L’ As du Fallafel (34, rue des Rosiers)- You might have to wait, but it’s definitely worth it!

Image: M. López

Going to Le Marais? Stay at Les Jardins du Marais (74, Rue Amelot), very close to the Oberkampf area, which offers a vibrant nightlife.

Quartier Latin: Le poulet de la Rue Mouffetard

La Rue Mouffetard is located in the 5th arrondissement, and was described by Hemingway as a ‘wonderful, narrow crowded market street.’ A former Roman thoroughfare, La Rue Mouffetard hosts a good number of merchants selling fruits, cheeses, and all kind of delicatessen. If you wonder what dish to try, have a go with le poulet á la broche (roast chicken). The delicious smell from the rotisseries will invite you to come in …

Going to Le Quartier Latin? Don´t miss the chance to visit Hemingway´s house (74, Rue du Cardinal Lemoine)

Belleville: Noodles with the best views

La Belleville (“beautiful city”) is the second highest hill in the city, and is considered to be the new Montmartre. Spanning four arrondissements – the 19th, 20th, 10th and 11th - it used to be the Chinese quartier in Paris, and is now home to a large community of immigrants, bohemian artists, and musicians. If you want to embrace the real soul of the streets where Edith Piaf was born, you won’t want to miss Le Marché Belleville, which opens Tuesdays and Saturdays. Don’t hesitate to taste some Asian noodles and Arabic baklavas. And if you fancy some amazing views, follow the hill until you see a green area without tourists.

Image: M. López

Going to La Chapelle? Don’t forget to visit La Maison de L´Air (Parc de Belleville, 47 Rue des Couronnes, 75020 Paris) 

La Chapelle: Couscous at the best price

La Chapelle is located in the 18th arrondissement, and is famous because of its multicultural atmosphere. It’s been chosen by immigrants and young couples looking for a break from the touristic centre. The variety of ethnic restaurants available is just amazing; for those wondering about the real taste of the neighbourhood, don’t hesitate to try the couscous - the star dish here due to the large African community that has settled in the area.

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Going to La Chapelle? If you want to buy local products, visit L’ Epicerie Indienne Exotique (197, Rue Fbg St Denis).

Author Bio

Marta López is a travel writer based in London. She loves travelling, Mediterranean cuisine and French cinema. She is currently working on her first novel, based in the City of Lights. Follow Marta on twitter  @Martazepol.

The post Six Dishes to Discover the Soul of Paris appeared first on A Lady In France.

Love Trumps Doctrine

The first half of this post is a brain dump. The second half (after the picture of the rosemary bush) is the point at hand – a faith post. Feel free to read either - or - or both.

I woke up at 1AM last night, sweaty and tangled in the sheets, having just accepted the starring role of Maria in the English Theatre in Paris’ production of Sound of Music. I sang for them, and apparently I read the parts “just so.” My first panicked thought after hearing the good news was, “when the heck am I going to have time for rehearsals?”

I think this dream is the result of my sub-conscious working through all the opportunities from BlogHer, and all the writing projects the event has sparked in my mind. When the heck am I going to have time for it all? I proceeded to stay awake thinking about this very thing for another two and a half hours.

“I’m not really affected by jet lag anymore,” I had said breezily a week earlier in San José. Now I’m eating my words and just about anything else I can find in the pantry.

I know I mentioned this, but I want to write about race. Yes, even this white girl has something to say on the issue, although I’m on the fence about whether I can put it into the right words. I want to write more faith posts. I want to keep working on my book. I want to do recipes – for me, for another site that wants to feature my recipes, for Queen Latifah …

I want (or I might want) to do sponsored posts for some more income. I’m approached by agencies a lot, but I usually turn them down because the posts would be too contrived and wouldn’t fit my blog. But I did meet one company at BlogHer that could be a good fit. And as I’m about to get charged the annual $130 for blog hosting, if I could offset that and some of the marketing fees I’ve paid for my book, it would be a good thing.

Oh yes, and a foreign rights agent wants to see a book proposal for my memoir. So I need to get on that. And I want to read what other people are writing – what’s going on in the world. I have a lot of to-dos that I want to do.

And that’s not even taking into account the rest of my life. One of the panelists mentioned doing at least one “life affirming” thing a day to offset the huge time-suck that can be social media. Yesterday I weeded a garden bed and hung the clean laundry outdoors. You may think I’m joking, but that was richly life-affirming. Cleaning the house is less so, but it needs to be done. And – after being home for 4 days – I suppose I should unpack and get my huge suitcase off our tiny bedroom floor.

So my plan is to put up a guest post on Monday that features secret tourist spots in Paris. And then Wednesday I’ll get back to Chapter Five of my book. And in the meantime, I’m going to do lots of life-affirming - and not-so-life-affirming tasks. Like cleaning toilets.

When did this rosemary bush get so big??? Is trimming this now part of my life-affirming duties? I mean – activities?

Sometimes I feel like I fall through the cracks as a writer and as a Christian. I mean, who writes about French tourism and recipes, novels and memoirs, mommy stuff, and faith? It’s weird. They don’t belong together. I should pick one topic and focus on it - become an expert on that one thing. I know that somehow the broadness of my content reduces the extent of my audience. There are very few people who want to read about both this and that.

But I’m not searching for affirmation. I’ve written about this topic before and I’m okay with remaining niche-less and retaining my select audience who like both this and that. (Or – who like this enough to put up with that).

I’m simply bringing this up because the BlogHer conference reminded me how much I like mixing with all kinds of people. As much as I love writing about faith, I wouldn’t want only to have Christian readers or only attend Christian conferences. I’ve finally figured out what my label is – what kind of Christian I am.

“Fundamentalist” doesn’t quite fit right, and I’m most definitely not a liberal because I believe in the unerring power of God’s Word. I’ve figured out that I’m an open-minded, non-liberal Christian.

Yes that exists.

I love going to the conference and hugging my lesbian friends (tearfully grateful that they still love me, even after I “came out” as a non-liberal). Like a teenager, I first wrote about it awkwardly in The Reverse Prejudice. I think that was my first faith post ever – way to bungee jump into it – and I was physically sick for two weeks afterwards. It’s so awkwardly written, I didn’t really want to link to it. I feel like I wrote about it a little more eloquently in What is Love.

I love listening to people like A’Driane Nieves, who spoke passionately about the race problem in America. The link is here, but her video is not loading for me. I hope it does for you. I love reading blogs from people like Grace Sandra (Biskie) who writes openly about her own adultery and weakness. And then follows it with a subsequent post that just so beautifully describes the grace we all have access to. I love listening to my Muslim friend Amina talk passionately about the Gaza strip, only to go to the conference and meet a Jewish woman who speaks with equal passion, but from a different perspective. I offer tentative opinions from the other side, but I am mostly there just to listen.

The people I hang out with swear. I don’t because of James 3:9-13. The people I hang out with base their standard for life on a different set of morals than the Bible - either because they are an atheist, or a liberal, or simply not a Christian. The people I hang out with party, and make coarse jokes, and live together unmarried, and struggle with addiction. They are Christians who fall down and walk away from God. They are Christians who fall down and get back up again. These broken people are my people, for I am broken too.

I think, as Christians, intolerance for sin, weakness, and differences comes about largely as a result of fear. We are afraid that if we spend time with people – love people – who are not obeying the Holy Scriptures, that we might backslide. We are afraid that loving these people might indicate that we are in silent agreement with their life’s choices. We feel like we are not honouring God unless we remind them – desperately – again and again, that “those who live like this will not inherit the kingdom of God.” (Galations 5:19-21).

Jesus hung out with sinners. We all know that. He also told them to repent when that’s what they needed to hear. The scriptures teach us that some did – many did! But I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that there were others who also mocked him while he was hanging on the cross. Jesus showered his love liberally on those sinners who repented, and he showered his love liberally on those sinners who would never do so. Nothing would do for Jesus but an all-encompassing, radical love for those who knew and followed the scriptures, and for those who didn’t.

Love trumps doctrine. We Christians might be afraid of dishonouring God by associating with people who are not now disciples of Christ, and with those who will never become one. We’re not far from the early religious leaders of Jesus’ day, who were so terrified or offended by his new teaching that they crucified him. But Jesus’ grace covered them too. A hard conservative, a Judaistic legalist – a murderer – would become an apostle to the gentiles, and who – after a long life of servitude to Christ – would be martyred for him in his last days.

It wasn’t the Saul who was breathing murderous threats against the people he considered to have abandoned Moses’ law that Jesus wanted. It was the humbled disciple who Jesus lifted up - the one who equated his former righteousness and religious works to menstrual cloths .

There are two caveats that I can see. I don’t advocate associating with people who don’t follow God when it entails putting ourselves in harm’s way. If someone is bent on evil, or leads us into a particular temptation, it is better to cut them off rather than falling down a slimy path with no bottom.

As a somewhat-related example (it was not the people, but the situation), I saw a friend at the BlogHer karaoke party down a free shot and I immediately thought, “I’m far from home! I could have free shots too and no one would know.” (I have an alcoholic past).

I quickly left the party. “God would know,” I thought, and I went home to send an e-mail to my husband, pleased at how proud he would be of me for resisting. He was.

So if someone causes us to stumble, then it is not best for us to love them. It is better to get away and save ourselves. And in the same vein (the second caveat), we need to be sure that our entourage is balanced. We need to surround ourselves with people who will lift us up and strengthen our faith because Christianity is not a solitary endeavour. We can’t expect to remain strong when we’re not reading the Word and spending time with people who remind us of it.

I spend a lot of time on social media and I love the diversity I encounter there. It makes my life rich, and the friendships make me very happy. But in order to stay Christ-centred, I also need to make an effort to communicate and share and spend time with the Christian friends who live near me. In fact, I’m going to send this post to five of them to make sure I hold myself accountable.

Those of us who are disciples of Christ need to do whatever it takes to protect our faith, which is of greater worth than gold. Yet apart from those two caveats - and barring any stumbling blocks - I think we are wrong to limit ourselves to people who think just like we do. Being Christ-like is to do whatever it takes to meet people where they’re at instead of where we want them to be - and to love people the way Jesus did.

With an all-encompassing, radical love that trumps all doctrine.

The post Love Trumps Doctrine appeared first on A Lady In France.

Eight Takeaways from BlogHer ’14

I told myself that this would be my last BlogHer. It’s difficult to justify the expense when I am not speaking or serving in any kind of official capacity - even if I’m sharing a hotel room and using my husband’s frequent flyer miles for a free plane ticket to cut costs. Nevertheless, each year I’ve attended has proved invaluable for the things I’ve learned and the connections I’ve made.

In 2012, I learned the basics of self-publishing, as well as how to write a book proposal. I met the Marketing Director for Zondervan, and even though it didn’t work out for me to publish my memoir with them, it was the first time I put my work out there publicly. I also met a contact from the Huffington Post, and my writing has since appeared there a couple of times.

In 2013, I won VOTY again (the first time was in 2011) for A Sense of Security, and also got approached by the Queen Latifah team to submit posts to their website. This led to my writing for QL - usually recipes – whenever I have something good to share. I attended the sessions and furthered some of the friendships that had begun online, in addition to meeting new people.

This year, I didn’t win VOTY, nor did I speak or serve in any way. I went with the intention of hanging out with friends and flying under the radar. I didn’t even make a concerted effort to search for my big ziplock bag of business cards, and just went with the few that were in my wallet. Yet BlogHer surprised me once again - and I not only had a great time, I also left with a few takeaways.

One. At the grammar clinic with Arnebya Herndon and Rita Arens I learned what an M-dash is, that ellipsis are like this: … and not like this: . . . , that you must say “there are myriad ways” and not “there are a myriad of ways,” and I also learned that I probably just put that comma in the wrong place. Also? We laughed a lot. Grammar is fun.

Two. With two conferences under my belt, I no longer cared about how I looked. My favourite afternoon was the one before the conference officially began. A few friends and I hung out poolside in the hot sun, feet in water, an icy diet coke in hand. I did not let some extra flesh get in the way of missing that moment and I am SO GLAD.

Of course … when I was walking to the conference hall by myself two days later – in my cute little swingy top and black legging-tights – and someone sidled up to tell me that she thought I’d want to know that my tights were TOTALLY see-through (to which I replied that of course I wanted to know, and that I was gonna kill my sister, who assured me that they were fine, although all the blinds were closed when she checked) – in that humiliating moment where I still had to go to the breakfast before they removed the food, and then walk all the way BACK to the hotel (actually, even further to the Ross to get a second pair of leggings to put over the first) … in that moment I did care how I looked.

Um. I think need to go back to the grammar clinic.

Three. I met Jenny Lawson (aka The Bloggess for the family members who only read my blog). She blogs at The Bloggess (obvs) and is the #1 NYT Bestselling author of Let’s Pretend This Never Happened. She is so amazingly gracious that when I went to HER book-signing to get her book autographed, and I asked her if she would accept a copy of MY book (“you don’t have to promote it – I don’t want to use you” I said, pathetically) – she did not say that she needs another book thrust upon her like she needs a fork in the eye. Instead she said “sure!” And she took it.

Incidentally, if you like slightly irreverent hilarity, pure genius, and 100% genuineness, then you will love Jenny’s book and you should read it. If you don’t want to read it, but still want to be in the know, the secret word is “fork.”

Here’s us. Picture courtesy of @Lizz_Porter. Jenny is looking adorable. I am looking at the person who is not holding the camera.

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Four. Race talks are still relevant. And essential. This - that racism still exists and what we should do about it – was the discussion that closed out the conference, and I’m embarrassed to say that I didn’t go because I didn’t want to miss out on my dinner plans (no phone with a US SIM card so I kind of had to latch on to people when I saw them). But I am passionate about this issue and I’d like to participate more in those talks going forward.

Five. I’m not a screenwriter, but I play one on TV.

I attended the session on screenwriting, even though I never want to write one (or play one on TV). It was basically so I could raise my hand and say, “I don’t want to write a screenplay. I just kind of wandered in here. But I’m wondering what the likelihood is of someone taking my story and turning it into a movie?”

(By the way, I wasn’t talking about my memoir, but about my current novel, which I’m putting up a chapter at a time, and which I will get back to. Apparently, travel, jet lag and conferences are not conducive to creativity).

Anyway, they didn’t throw me out, and I got to meet the lovely Johanna Stein, whose book I now have. You may have heard about her successful parenting trick of calming her chid on the plane by creating a puppet out of a barf bag? Successful, unless you think, “What’s better than one puppet, but two?”

And it’s only when you stick your hand in the second bag that you find out that this one is used. Introducing How Not to Calm a Child on a Plane, ladies and gentlemen.

Six. I may need to practice wearing shoes other than sneakers throughout the year so my feet don’t go into CSS. Cute-Shoes-Shock.

Seven. I can still “walk this way.” You guys. Run-D.M.C. deejayed our closing party, hosted by McDonalds -outdoors under pink balloons and a California sky. They played all the eighties songs I knew, and –  I. danced. like. crazy. I cannot remember when I had so much fun. It is good for the soul to go dancing with friends and feel young again for the night.

Eight. My family appreciates me so much more when I go away for a week. My husband and I texted happy jokes while I was waiting in the interminable immigration line at CDG. (I really need to get a French passport so I can be a cool kid and go into the zippity fast line).

5 yr old William: “Mom. I like ratatouille now. You can make it for me. And I will eat it here. And I will eat it there. Say! I will eat it anywhere!”

8 yr old Gabriel: “Mom. You are so pretty. And I like your pants … ” (I was wearing yoga pants).

10 yr old Juliet: “I missed you so much” that she actually answered “okay” when I told her to clean her room, instead of rolling her eyes.

And – after being awake for 26 hours – when I scraped together the remaining edible groceries in our house to make a pasta dinner with tomato and ham sauce, and Matthieu said that he had been saving the ham to make sandwiches for the kids (even though there was no bread left to make it with), I simply said, “Well, I’ll go shopping tomorrow and restock the groceries.” He wept.*

*Disclaimer. My husband is afraid people will think he actually cried so I just thought I’d clear that up.

So yes, going to BlogHer makes absolutely no sense at all.

Except (ellipsis) that somehow it does.

The post Eight Takeaways from BlogHer ’14 appeared first on A Lady In France.

The Viscount – Chapter Four

Hi folks! It’s our last day in Brittany, and then we head back home in a whirlwind two days before I leave again (on my own) to visit my sister and go to BlogHer. So I’m not online much these days. I also feel like I should state that I know my little story here needs some work. In my efforts at consistency, I’m losing out in having smooth transitions, well-developed characters and dialogue. All of that will have to be fixed before I publish the book, and in the meantime, it’s a little like walking around in public in nothing but your underwear. But since my biggest problem is plot and seeing the story through from start to finish, I forge ahead, knickers and all.

(If it’s your first time here, why not start at Chapter One?)

THE VISCOUNT OF MAISON LAFFITTE

CHAPTER FOUR

The Viscount stepped off the Eurostar with his hand on Manon’s back in order to guide her through the crowds. He signaled to a porter to come and help with their bags and led the way to get a taxi. Manon was relatively unknown in London and it was a pleasure to be able to move about freely without fear of being recognized.

Nevertheless, she kept her sunglass on and moved furtively, which perhaps drew more attention to her than it might otherwise have had she acted more naturally. They jumped in a taxi and headed to the newly opened Shangri-la hotel on St Thomas Street. The Viscount relaxed on the leather seat, despite the fact that it smelled of body odor, and meditated as they drove past the streets teeming with people.

When they arrived at the hotel, the Viscount looked around at the sparse pieces of artwork, bare marble floors and isolated settees, and decided that the lobby was a bit austere for his taste. He was vaguely aware of the irony in judging it so as he lived in a rambling château that was decorated very similarly. They walked up to the reception desk and asked for their suites. Manon Duprey was booked in the Shangri-la Suite, and the Viscount was staying in the smaller Westminster Suite. As they rode up in the elevator behind two bellhops, she leaned into him and whispered in his ear. “I still don’t know why we can’t stay in the same suite.”

He smiled, showing two dimples, but only patted her arm, draped around his waist, by way of an answer. She was not used to men remaining immune to her charms, and this little gesture made her simultaneously want to seduce him, and scratch his eyes out. He followed one of the bellhop out of the elevator and promised Manon he would be by to pick her up for dinner at eight. They were eating at Berners Tavern and had reservations to dine there at nine o’clock.

The Viscount went into his suite and watched the bellhop place his suitcase on the foldable stand with elastic bands across it. After he had tipped the bellhop, who let himself discreetly out, the Viscount was alone. He walked over to the window

It had begun to rain outside and grow dark, and he watched the people below scurrying for shelter. His spirits sank as the rain fell from the dark, grey skies, and he couldn’t help but wonder why he had bothered to come to London after all. Sometimes it felt like the longer he spent in Manon’s company, the more of a foreign presence she became. Instead of her growing more dear with the increasing time they spent together, he was only more aware of her differences.

A perfect example occurred on the way over. They had bought first class tickets on the train, but through a mix-up, another couple had been assigned the same seats on the fully-booked train. The Viscount was prepared to let it go, but she refused to be downgraded, and he was discomfited as the conductor removed the couple from the seats they had a legitimate right to and ushered him and Manon into their place.

The Viscount had spent his entire life with a family who expected to be honored. More specifically, he had walked in the shadow of a mother who expected to be recognized and given her due. The older he got, the more he wanted to escape that and lead a simpler life. The more Manon Duprey tasted the fame and glamor that was attached to her career, the more she was drawn to a pampered life. The Viscount, naturally elegant, was walking downwards towards simplicity in life; the actress, naturally simple, was climbing towards elegance. Their relationship seemed to be heading towards a draw.

He wasn’t used to indulging in such morose reflections so he shook it off and walked over to his suitcase to take out his suit for the evening. On his way across the room, he suddenly paused, struck by a thought. He picked up his cell phone.

“Bonsoir Sylvie, it’s your uncle,” he said when he heard a young woman answer the phone.

 “Oncle!” she squealed, dropping her heavily accented English for her mother tongue. “Where are you calling me from?”

“I’m in London,” he replied smiling. “Your mother asked me to look in on you to see what mischief you’re getting up to.”

“Je suis sage comme une image,” she retorted pertly. “Innocent as you please.”

“Well, I thought I might come to Cambridge tomorrow afternoon for a visit if you’re free.”

“Oh!” She was clearly taken aback. She stalled for time, “I, um . . . I’m free, but I promised to work in the soup kitchen all afternoon. I don’t suppose you would want to join me for that?

“That sounds like a perfect way to spend the afternoon, my goddaughter. I’m so pleased that you are getting involved in such a noble undertaking. I think I’ll come.” He smiled – waiting for more.

“Oooh. Uncle Charles, you called my bluff,” she said with her usual gaiety. “If you must know, I am going along with a new . . . friend. We know each other from class and he goes every week. He’s invited me to go with him. And to be perfectly frank with you, I don’t wish to scare him off right from the beginning by having my imposing godfather come along.”

“Ah, so I’m imposing, am I?” he said laughing. His niece brought out his playfulness more than anyone else, including his sister. “Don’t worry. I won’t come and frighten him away. So he’s English then, I’m assuming?”

“Actually, um, he’s . . . Nigerian,” she said. It sounded like she was cringing over the phone. “I don’t suppose you approve.”

“Why do you need my approval?” he asked. “You’re a grown woman – or very nearly so – and you can make your own choices. Plus,” he added, “I am not nearly so archaic as you think.”

“You still don’t let me call you Charlie,” she retorted.

“No one is allowed to call me Charlie,” he said calmly.

“Except Maman.” He could hear the mischievous grin in her voice.

The Viscount said, “Well, your mother only thinks she can because she’s older than me, but that doesn’t make it true.”

There was a pause, and then Sylvie’s voice turned serious, “But grand-mère is archaic, isn’t she?”

“Grand-mère is,” he confirmed.

“So you won’t tell her or my mother just yet,” she pleaded, “not until I’m more sure of my feelings?”

“Of course I won’t, silly creature,” her uncle retorted. “When have I ever been a snitch?” He always made her laugh when he used childhood slang. It was so anomalous coming out of his mouth.

“Well, I suppose I should get going,” he continued. “I just wanted to check in with you. I’ll tell Camille you send kisses.

“If you want,” she said. “But we text all the time, you know.” He hadn’t known, and was very surprised, since he and his son never communicated that way. In fact, they rarely communicated at all.

“Alright then. I’ll send grand-mère your kisses then.” He paused, then added dryly. “Unless you text her too.”

Sylvie just giggled.

“And now I can tell your mother that I have faithfully discharged my duty to look in on you,” he said.

“Of course you would never call me on your own volition,” Sylvie said, teasing, but petulant.

“I’m hurt” the Viscount teased back. “How can you accuse me of such a thing when I was willing to come work the soup kitchen with you?” He thought for a minute before saying, “Come to think of it, this must be an exceptional young man to drive you to altruism.

Instead of retorting in jest as he expected, her voice turned pensive. “He is. And, actually . . . before you go, there is a favor I’d like to ask of you . . . if you don’t mind.”

“Sure,” he replied. “Go ahead.” And she started laying out her idea.

After they hung up, the Viscount felt lighter for having talked to Sylvie. He shook his head, thinking how nineteen years ago he had made such a fuss when his sister asked him to stand in as godfather to his niece. He was finishing up his undergrad degree, and was still a bachelor at the time. It was hard to imagine being in fatherly advisor role. But her innocently joyful presence had been one of the things that saved him when Miriam died. His sister came over often – deliberately so, he realized in retrospect – and his niece, who knew nothing of grief and sadness, loved playing with her baby cousin.

He selected a pink and white checked Alain Figaret shirt and a muted purple silk tie, and lay them on the bed. Then he slowly began peeling off his jeans and shirt from the day’s trip, as he considered Sylvie’s request. The phone on the nightstand rang, interrupting his thoughts, and he went over to pick it up.

“Hello chérie,” Manon said brightly. “I just wanted to let you know that Michael is also dining at Berner’s Tavern with the director, and he arranged to have us all seated together. I hope you don’t mind.

“Not at all,” the Viscount answered smoothly. It was widely rumored that British actor Michael Richards had been smitten with Manon ever since he had met her, and it was he who pushed the director to give her this first starring role outside of France. If this was a ploy to get him jealous, it was not going to work. “We can meet them in the Punch Room first.”

“That’s precisely what I told him,” she said. “I knew you wouldn’t mind.” If she had hoped for jealousy, she didn’t show it. She was worldly enough to know which of her sides to show men, and which sides should be kept hidden.

When they arrived at the Punch Room, Michael Richards and Guy Moss, the director, were already seated at the bar. Both of them had a whiskey in front of them. Michael stood up. “Manon!” he cried out, his fair skin already a little flushed from the whiskey. “It’s so great to see you again,” as he kissed her on one cheek.

“Hello Michael. Hello Guy,” she said, smiling as she received their kisses. “I present Charles to you,” translating directly from French.

“It’s an honor,” Michael said, shaking his hand. Guy also reached over and shook his hand with a nod.

“So you’ve made it,” Michael said, turning his attention back to Manon. “I hope you find the Shangri-la Suite to your satisfaction. I haven’t seen it myself yet, but I’m told it’s very comfortable.”

“It’s lovely,” Manon said with a gracious smile. “It will be hard to leave the bed in the morning for our five o’clock tapings.”

“That won’t start until Monday and will only last for two weeks,” Guy interjected briskly with a strong Glaswegian accent. “I find that it’s best to get the difficult scenes over quickly when everyone is still fresh and enthusiastic.” He smiled in his crooked way that was easy to mistake for a grimace. He was not known for being an easy person to work with.

“How long are you staying?” Michael asked the Viscount, lifting his drink back up to his lips.

“Only until Sunday,” Charles answered. “I will have to begin work again.”

“And he has to oversee the upcoming races. He owns the racetrack and the château at Maison Laffitte,” Manon said, tapping lightly her escort’s arm.

“Oh – where’s that then?” Michael asked, his pale eyes still on Manon.

“It’s not far from Paris,” the Viscount answered, taking a sip of his whisky, which had just been set down in front of him. Manon had ordered a newer cocktail with bright colors. She took a sip and said, “Mmm. This is good.

“I will have to come and visit the château sometime,” Michael said, not quite cognizant of the fact that he was inviting himself over to the Viscount’s principal residence.

“Certainly,” the Viscount replied, without missing a beat.

At that moment, the hostess came up to tell them their table was ready, and a fan walked up at the same time to get Michael Richards’ autograph. Manon tensed up a bit when she saw him walking over, but then looked a little comical when she realized that the young gentleman had no idea who she was. The Viscount put his arm around her slender waist and pulled her close. Michael looked up quickly from his autograph and put his brows together, but then immediately handed the signed napkin back to the young gentleman with a large smile.

The dinner did not interest the Viscount very much, and it took all of his good breeding to hide just how bored he was. The talk centered around the industry, actor gossip, details of the scenes in the movie, with Guy giving directions to both Manon and Michael in a sonorous voice, and no one apart from Manon making an attempt to include him in the conversation. When they finally stood up to leave, and the Viscount was signaling for a taxi on the corner, Manon leaned in and said in a small voice, “I’m afraid you found the evening to be terribly boring.”

“Not at all,” he responded politely. But when they reached her Suite at the hotel and she invited him in, he gave her a smile and told her he was tired and would see her in the morning. The pretty blond actress found herself in the unaccustomed position of undressing herself and sliding into bed alone on an evening in which she was sure would turn out differently.

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