“I’d call it an obsession. It makes it impossible for him to understand that other people might not feel the same way.”
“Did your father?”
He stilled. “He loved Snow Crystal, but he hated the work. The irony was that working here stopped him from enjoying the place. He was too busy keeping it going to make the most of what it offered. He and Gramps clashed over it constantly when we were growing up.”
“Walter loves it with every piece of himself. I understand that because I feel the same way and I have only lived here for two years.”
“I admit I don’t get it.” Sean picked up his glass. “You’re a sexy, clever, confident woman. Why are you burying yourself in a sleepy resort in Vermont when you could be in Paris?”
“Why do the guests of Snow Crystal deserve less than the inhabitants of Paris? In Paris you can find good restaurants on every corner. Here, that is not true. Should people here not eat well?” Her anger flashed fast and intense. “I do not feel buried, and if you keep making stupid statements like that you will be the one who is buried. I will hide your body under the deck and no one will ever know.”
Sean sat still, watching her across the table with eyes that saw too much. “I didn’t mean to make you angry.”
She forced herself to breathe, knowing it was the mention of Paris that had triggered the anger. “If you don’t want to see me angry then don’t ever criticize something or someone I love.”
“Was it a criticism? I described the place as sleepy. In comparison to Paris, Snow Crystal is sleepy, Élise. That’s a fact.”
“If that is the case then I will sleep for the rest of my life.” She put her fork down with a clatter. “You are making me boil inside so now we must talk about something else. Something normal, that doesn’t make me want to kill you. Tell me something else you like about this place apart from the skiing.”
“Swimming in the lake. It was always fun pushing Tyler under water. What about you?” His voice softened. “Tell me more about your mother. She taught you to cook?”
The anger left her in a rush.
“Some mothers don’t let their children in the kitchen because of the mess, but my mother believed the mess was part of creativity. She used to stand me on a chair next to her and let me put my hands in the bowl and mix just like her. It fascinated me, that butter and flour rubbed together could turn into a fine powder. That an egg broken into flour and mixed with milk could make a thick batter. I loved the idea that two different things mixed together like that could produce something that didn’t resemble the original.”
“You said she was a pastry chef?”
“She worked in a bakery. And at home we baked together. There is nothing as comforting as baking. And she taught me to trust my instincts. She never used a recipe book. She cooked by feel and instinct, using her senses. She was very talented. She was the one who taught me that fresh is best. We grew herbs in tubs on our windows and salad in pots in the kitchen. It is one of the things I love about this area. People love using locally grown foods. Here we have farmers and chefs working together and we never had that in Paris. In Paris I could not go to the farm and meet the people and see the food. It is very exciting.”
“Did your mother know you got a job with Pascal Laroche?”
“Yes.” Emotion twisted deep in her gut and she felt her throat thicken. “She knew that.”
The rest of it, she hadn’t known. And that was a relief. Her mother had witnessed plenty of her mistakes, but she hadn’t known about the biggest mistake of all.
“I visited Paris once.”
Grateful for the change of subject, she wondered if he’d guessed how close to the edge she was. “When?”
“I was eighteen. Before medical school. I did a trip to Europe. I spent a month in England with my mother’s family and then traveled around a bit. Florence, Rome, Seville and Paris. I saw the Eiffel Tower.”
“That is for tourists. If you’d come to Paris with me I would not have taken you there.”
“So where would you take me?”
She wouldn’t, because she had no intention of going back to Paris, but this was hypothetical, not reality. “I love the Jardin des Tuileries first thing in the morning before the city wakes up. I love watching the sun rise over the Louvre, and I love the little backstreets in the Marais district.” She thought of the elegance of the buildings, of window boxes stuffed full of tumbling color. “I like to walk around the out-of-the-way streets of Paris and find a little bakery making fresh perfect bread. I love to go to the Musée de l’Orangerie to see Monet. What is your favorite place in Snow Crystal?”
“I don’t have a favorite place.”
“Of course you do. For me it is the lake and the forest. I like to sleep with the windows open so that I can hear the sounds and smell the air.”
“Do I have a favorite place?” He drummed the table with his fingers, thinking. “I suppose it would be the mountains. Have you ever climbed to the top of the ridge? Takes about four hours from here. When we were kids Gramps used to make us pack up a tent, walk up to the ridge and camp overnight. In the morning we’d watch the sun rise over the mountains, wash in the stream and find our way home.”
“You camped?” Thinking about Sean camping made her laugh, sadness and anger forgotten.
“Don’t look so surprised. I could light a fire with nothing more than a hot look.” He was laughing, too. “I admit I haven’t done it for a couple of decades. I might need matches now. And a sprung mattress would be nice. And hot and cold running water and possibly room service.”
“That sounds more like a five-star hotel than camping.”