Dead and Ganache by Colette London

Author:Colette London [London, Colette]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2017-08-02T04:00:00+00:00

Eleven

I’d lost track of my financial advisor, I realized, but I’d found Nathalie Vetault. I recognized her voice as though it was yesterday when we’d shared that disparate summer in Saint-Malo.

I turned. The mingling guests parted for a moment.

There she was: Philippe’s only daughter—tall, brunette, and possessed of a rangy figure that now wore fashionable clothes as effectively as it had once made the most of a bikini and suntan.

The sight of her made me tear up helplessly. By the time I reached Nathalie, both of us were sniffling uncontrollably.

I couldn’t help it. Pain is pain. It hurts to witness it.

She recovered first and leaned forward to offer me les bises—those French kisses on (or near) the cheeks. I inhaled Nathalie’s light perfume, redolent of bitter oranges and cloves. She was all grown up now and she was trembling. Poor Nathalie.

I grasped her hands. “It’s been too long. I’m so sorry about your father.” I drew in a shaky breath, then tried to smile. “I can’t stop thinking he’ll come into his atelier and demand that I remake a raspberry ganache any second now.”

“I know.” Nathalie nodded, her eyes teary. “It seems only yesterday that I was up in the attic with Papa, sorting through family heirlooms and arguing about where to find Grand-Mère’s wedding dress.” An unsteady smile. “He found it for me, though.”

“Of course he did. Monsieur was nothing if not helpful.”

I found myself staring at Nathalie’s pretty face, carefully evaluating her features. Did she have Philippe’s nose? His chin? His eyes? Or was that a resemblance to Hubert reflected in her grown-up appearance? I couldn’t be sure. I was too familiar with her to be objective. Frankly, all I saw in her face was sadness.

Well, that and shock. I think we all still felt that.

“I had hoped that the next time we saw each other would be at my wedding,” Nathalie went on. Around us, other conversations had resumed quietly. “Not under sad circumstances like these.”

I agreed. “I’m so, so sorry. I could order flowers for Monsieur’s memorial, or make special chocolates for afterward. Anything,” I offered. “I would love to spend some time with you, too—maybe a walk by the seaside? Whatever you feel ready for.”

I wanted to offer concrete suggestions—ways to help that wouldn’t put undue demands on Nathalie. Is there anything I can do? sounds thoughtful until you’re the grieving recipient of a question you don’t feel prepared to tackle amid everything else.

“That is very kind of you, Hayden.” She wiped away a tear with bejeweled fingers, then gave a self-conscious laugh. “It is very not French of me to cry over cocktails!” She bit her lip. Then, “Maybe we could go shopping in Saint-Malo sometime?”

“I’d like that,” I said sincerely. “Is tomorrow too soon?”

“Not at all.” This time, Nathalie squeezed my hand. “It would do me good to get out of here. Here, I . . . cannot forget.”

I doubted she could forget anywhere, but I knew what she meant. Besides, it wasn’t for me to decide how she mourned.

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