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I can see from the look on Micki’s face that she wants to tell Maman Triscuits are American. But she bites her tongue. “We eat them all the time. They’re my mother’s favorite.”
“Tiens! Amazing. Your mother is a woman of good taste. Is she from Canada?”
Micki chokes and Maman doesn’t pursue it. I don’t know Alice Press’ ancestry, but I’m sure she’s not French Canadian. I’m just relieved Maman and Micki have something in common, even if it is only a cracker.
“What’s this?” Micki points to the slice of creton.
“It’s the creton.”
“When you mentioned it before, I tried to guess what it was. Never thought of this.” She spreads a bit on a cracker and pops it into her mouth, crunching the biscuit happily. “Yum. Did you make this, Madame?”
“Louisette,” Maman says stiffly. “Yes, I made it. Homemade is always better.”
“Would you like something to drink?” I gesture toward a console table where bottles of red and white wine sit.
When Micki nods, I pour a good amount of Nota Bene from Black Hills Estate Winery into a balloon glass. She always chooses red over white. Maman sips Alibi, a white from the same vineyard.
“We visited the winery and brought back a couple of cases after the wine tasting,” Maman tells her.
“I’d love to go. Vineyards are one of my favorite things,” Angélique speaks, her voice loud and rapid, showing a little spirit, although her words are not too convincing since she’s clutching a glass of water.
“That part of BC is very interesting—desert and interesting microclimates. Perfect for wine cultivation. You’d like it, ma chouette.” I catch Micki’s gaze and her face lights up.
Angélique puts the glass down with a shaking hand, ready to protest.
I circumvent her. “Maman, did you ever hear me call Angélique ma chouette?”
She purses her lips. After a few moments, she shakes her head. “No. I don’t think I ever heard you use that at all.”
I beam in triumph while Angélique squeezes her pink, swollen eyes shut. Then, recovering, she picks up the glass, takes a sip, grimaces. She no longer sits primly, rather, she huddles in the armchair. Despite her fierce announcement in the bedroom, she seems defeated. The water finished, she puts down the glass with exaggerated care. Her gaze fixes firmly on her hands, picking at her cuticles.
Pine, cherry, and oak scent the air as a healthy blaze chases away the late afternoon chill. The soothing sound of gentle rain patters on the roof and against the windows. November and December may be the wettest months, but April definitely has its fair share of precipitation.
Besides the crackle and pop of the fire, the only other sounds are the crunching of Triscuits and high-pitched boyish giggles that waft in from the kitchen.
ChapterEighteen
Chapter 18
All you have to do is say, ‘I’m going home,’ and you're the most popular girl at the party.—Elaine Stritch
Micki
Pea soupwith dumplings known as doughboys is the first course. The large yellow peas in broth with diced leeks, celery, carrots, and pork belly look appetizing, but all I taste is salt. The tourtière and poutine smell wonderful. But the ground meat in the tourtière has a grainy, fatty, unpleasant feel and the poutine gravy has a metallic taste. The salad seems crunchy in all the wrong ways, and the vinaigrette is unpleasantly sharp.
JL enjoys every morsel, mopping everything up with bread, making his mother smile broadly, but I can barely manage more than a few forkfuls of dinner after a small spoonful of soup. Louisette’s baleful looks at my plate don’t improve my appetite or my taste buds.
“Not to your taste?” she remarks scornfully.
“Sometimes new tastes need to be assimilated,” JL says. “I’ll eat some of yours, ma chouette.” He tips everything onto his plate and quickly makes it all disappear. The boys follow suit, but Angélique also eats tiny portions.
By the time we’re finished with the salad, JL is antsy. His uncle hasn’t turned up. He keeps looking away, as if he can actually see the front door, and even gets up a few times to look out the living room window.
“Sit still, mon chou. If your uncle comes, fine. If he is with his friends, playing cards, that’s fine too.”
“But Maman…” JL says.
“Don’t say anything. Your uncle is a grown man and can make his own decisions.”
