Opposites Attack: A Novel with Recipes Provencal
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Authors: Jo Maeder
Opposites Attack
A Novel
with Recipes Provençal
Jo Maeder
Copyright © Jo Maeder 2013, 2014. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. The characters and what happens to them are strictly the creation of the author’s
imagination féconde
.
No part of this publication may be reproduced; stored in a retrieval system; or transmitted in any form or by any means: electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the author.
Cover designed by Ploy Siripant.
Daubière
watercolor by Jay Lindsay. All photos from author’s private collection. Scallop and fennel recipes courtesy of Mary-James Lawrence from her book
Mary James Dishes It Out: Favorite Recipes and Personal Teaching Notes
. Wild boar daube recipe adapted from hers.
ISBN paperback: 978-0-9855482-2-3.
ISBN ebook: 978-0-9855482-3-0
Published by Vivant Press
To reach the publisher, or the author for speaking engagements and interviews:
[email protected]
P.O. Box 696, Oak Ridge, NC 27310 USA.
1. Learning to speak French — Fiction 2. Cultural differences — Fiction. 3. Francophile — Fiction. I. Title: Opposites Attack/A Novel with Recipes Provençal/by Jo Maeder
eBook editions by eBooks By Barb for booknook.biz
For Dennis and Eve,
and our irreplaceable Meg
Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so,
Not for thy faults, but mine.
—Lord Byron
1.
My Nelson
2.
A Better Fit
3.
Scorched Earth and the Baffling Bidet
7.
Dream Cottage. Nightmare Hosts.
8.
The T-Word
9.
A Litter of Loirs. A Gaggle of Girlfriends.
10.
Besotted
11.
The Password
12.
The Bad Boy Nap
13.
La Vie en
Rogues
14.
The Offer
15.
Guns and Grunks
17.
Tears, Fears, and Bouillabaisse
19.
The Talk
20.
Monsieur. The Reality Check, Please.
22.
Siren Song
23.
Hog Heaven
24.
The Summer Feast
25.
Triangles
27.
The Horse
28.
Truth
29.
The Loirs and the Notebook
30.
The Devil and His Paycheck
32.
The Nelly and Carmelita Show
33.
Clustier Fouquoi
34.
Loose Ends
36.
Adieu?
37.
LAGNIAPPES
Also from Jo Maeder,
WHEN I MARRIED MY MOTHER
1
My Nelson
My dear, darling Alyce,
Or shall I call you Sabrina? Soon you’ll be breathlessly transformed and broadened like Audrey Hepburn in that wonderful movie—and back in Nelson’s arms where you belong. Thank heavens that heartless conglomerate let you go. It freed you for this fantastic adventure! I admire your determination to pay your own way but please don’t hesitate to ask for help. No one will think of you as a gold-digger. You-know-who already has that distinction.
I have so much faith in you, Alyce. Now you must believe in yourself. Trust me when I say you are different from all the other women who have tried to capture my Nelson’s heart.
Placing an ocean between you is the true test! Nelson’s father behaved exactly the same wishy-washy way when we were dating. I said “ta-ta” and took off for London. The moment my plane lifted off the tarmac at JFK he couldn’t live without me. Work on you and have a fabulous time. Pretend Nelson barely exists. Just watch. Like father, like son!
Of course, Ronald didn’t have a You-know-who and their son to distract him. It may not be that easy. Which is why I’ll be coming over with my assistant Luther for a little visit. I’m overdue for a shopping spree in Paris. A side trip to the South of France to see you is just what I need after my recovery. I’ll be looking for chic, sensible shoes in Paris, I can assure you. Ah, the French. They know a woman doesn’t have to squeeze into pointy-toed shoes with heels that could double as a weapon to be sexy. I can’t wait to see you covered in that special “je ne sais quoi.”
Alyce, you are so young. But time flies. Before you know it, you’ll be wishing you had settled down in your 20s the way people used to do. I can’t believe my Nelson’s 33 and I still have no grandchildren. (Legitimate ones, that is.) Curses, I must stop saying “my” Nelson, mustn’t I?
Most truly yours,
Glorianna Hope Smythe Mansfield
Scarsdale, New York
2
A Better Fit
April 23rd
Marlaison, France
At last the
“liberté”
bell rang. Alyce hobbled to the classroom door, almost making her escape.
“Al-
ees!
” her instructor called out. “Madame Girard would like to see you in her office.”
Claire never spoke to a student in English. This couldn’t be good.
The French word for foreigner is
étranger
; close to “stranger.” How perfect. Add to that her freshly scraped knee and elbow. At least “ibuprofen” needed no translation.
She nervously entered the
Marlaison Ecole Française
director’s office and saw her battered luggage neatly stacked by the door. In an instant her throat shifted into the tight dryness she felt whenever a teacher asked her a question and she had no idea what she’d been asked, much less how to answer (which was every time).
“Madame Girard, please don’t kick me out. I know I’m a terrible student but—”
“
Non, non,
Al-
ees
, it is much too soon to give up,” the director said almost too sweetly as she motioned for Alyce to sit down. “It is only your first week.”
She smiled as if nothing could possibly be wrong, even as Alyce tenderly lowered herself into the chair.
“We have another place for you to stay,” she said. “A family emergency came up for the Lambournes. And you may call me Liliane.”
The relaxed, sunny room that overlooked a lush courtyard felt like a cold, harsh interrogation chamber as Alyce considered what a disastrous choice her previous hosts had been. A 26-year-old city girl who spoke no French living on a farm with a couple in their 80s who spoke no English and served her the very rabbit she’d been cooing over? If only she hadn’t stroked its soft fur, gazed into its big dewy eyes, and intently watched its nose that moved so rapidly it seemed motorized. It must have known what was coming.
Then she
accidentally
put a hole in the side of their barn that morning when she tried to ride a moped for the first time because she couldn’t—surprise—understand their instructions on how to operate it.
Alyce leaned forward. “I promise I’ll pay for the damage somehow. Can I work in the kitchen here?”
She couldn’t tell if Liliane was on the verge of laughing or taking her over her knee and giving her a spanking.
“I am sure your moped mishap was unintentional,” she answered. “The school has paid for the repair. You are fine, yes?”
It was Liliane’s cautious look that made her realize she was as concerned about having a lawsuit on her hands as Alyce’s well-being, perhaps more so.
Alyce let out a sigh and leaned back in her chair. “Yes, I’m fine. Just a few bruises. Mostly to my ego.”
Alyce studied Liliane, who probably wasn’t that much older than she and was already married with two children. With her exotic looks and long auburn hair pulled up sensually into a loose twist, she looked ready for a photo shoot. How did she do it all so effortlessly?
Aware she was staring at her too long, Alyce bent over to re-tie a loosened lace on one of her running shoes — not that she’d be jogging anytime soon.
Liliane practically purred, “I am sure you will do well with the Devreauxs. They have two young children, and Julien from the father’s previous marriage. He and his father speak excellent English, though you should speak French as much as possible to get the most out of your stay.”
Alyce forced a smile back. “I’d love to speak French, if I could
speak
French.”
There was a playfulness in Liliane’s delivery of “Julien Devreaux is 22. I think you will find our young men mature for their age.”
Alyce’s spirits perked up, especially with not one email from Nelson. But 22?
Non.
“Monsieur Devreaux is coming to get you.” She stood and shook Alyce’s hand while uttering an “I wish you well” that she could have sworn had a dark tone.
A male staff member gathered up the luggage. He and Liliane rattled on in French.
Alyce’s lost look prompted Liliane to say, “You will get better, Al-
ees.
We had a student from China who did not even read letters and was eventually able to converse.”
Was it possible to feel any more stupid?
“Perhaps you would like to sign up for one-on-one tutoring in the afternoon.”
She’d already considered that but the cost stopped her. Plus three hours every morning five days a week was enough agony, thank you.
Alyce waited in front of the school for her new host, breaking into a dumb smile when people passed and spoke to her in French as if she knew what they were saying. Her first insane year in Manhattan, straight out of a Minnesota community college, was a trip to the Mall of America in comparison to this total-immersion nonsense. At least in New York she knew when she was being insulted and could give it right back.
