“It was first built in 542 to house holy relics,” Uncle Alain told us. “And then it was rebuilt in the eleventh century, the nineteenth, and again in the 1990s.”
“Your uncle should be a tour guide, no?”
“He is just very proud of where he lives,” I said, and Maurice turned around to look at me.
“Voilà! She is truly a special jeune femme, n’est-ce pas?”
“Oui, mais oui. Elle est ma nièce?” Uncle Alain said.
“Such an ego. Giving you credit for being special just because he’s your uncle,” Maurice said in English, and we were all laughing again.
They had what I understood was a very large apartment for Paris. It was on the top floor of a five-floor building that had been constructed before the United States was in existence. Of course, it had been refurbished many times. Their apartment had three bedrooms, a good-size living room, a dining room, and a very updated kitchen, which Uncle Alain called Maurice’s studio.
“After all, a chef like Maurice is a true artist. You two rest up. Then we’ll have cocktails and hors d’oeuvres and one of Maurice’s signature meals. He’s made the dessert, too.”
Maurice stood next to him, looking very proud. We knew he had done much of the planning. The apartment was filled with delicious aromas. Roxy and I looked at each other gleefully and then went to our bedrooms. Just before she got to hers, she turned to Uncle Alain, who escorted us, and thanked him for what he was doing.
“What am I doing? Only what an uncle should do, n’est-ce pas?”
She leaned into him and in hardly more than a whisper said, “Aucun d’autre ferait ce que vous faites.”
She hugged him and went into her room. He glanced at me.
Why was she so emphatic about it? I wondered. She told him that few uncles would do what he was doing. Doing what? Letting us be his guest for our vacation? I wasn’t making little of it, but she made it sound life-saving. Then again, I thought, maybe in a way it was. Things weren’t going so smoothly between Roxy and Mrs. Brittany now. Who knew what awaited her on our return? I put the thought aside and went to rest, shower, and dress for Maurice’s dinner.
They had wonderful wine, and Maurice had made duck à l’orange. It was something Mama made on special occasions, but I had to admit, hers didn’t taste as good as Maurice’s.
“You’re going to make his head explode with these compliments,” Uncle Alain said, but when Maurice brought out his soufflés, it was impossible not to rave.
“Are we going to eat like this every night?” I asked.
I never drank as much wine as I did t
hat night, and after our day of travel and all of the excitement, the bed looked like a cloud. I drifted into one of the most pleasant sleeps I had enjoyed since Mama passed away.
Uncle Alain was up early to go to his office. During breakfast, he told me about some of the work he was doing with international law, mainly involving businesses. From time to time, it took him traveling to China, South America, and other European countries. He had even done work in Russia. I told him how exciting it all sounded to me.
“Travel is wonderful. It fills your life, Emmie. It’s important to be open to other cultures, other ways of thinking. I’m sure you’ll find your way.”
Maurice left shortly after he did. Preparation was critical for his cooking, and we could already see how much of a perfectionist he was. We were invited to his restaurant that evening. He warned us not to eat very much for lunch.
“You’ll be given the chef’s menu,” he said.
“What does that mean?” I asked Roxy.
“You sample everything he’s made for the evening, and with each serving, you get a different wine.”
“How do you know these things, Roxy?”
She laughed. “I was trained like a seal. I’ve had the chef’s menu in some of the finest New York restaurants, but I’m sure this will be extra special for us. Let’s get going,” she told me, and we were off for our touring.
I was jealous of how well Roxy knew her way around Paris. We took the Métro to the Arc de Triomphe and walked the Champs-Èlysées, where Roxy splurged on some new French dresses for both of us. Neither of us used any English the entire time, and then she took me to have lunch at a restaurant not far from the Eiffel Tower. We decided we couldn’t go up the tower right then because the lines were so long.
“Maybe before we leave, we’ll have dinner at the Jules Verne,” she said. “That’s the restaurant on the Eiffel Tower.”
“You’ve been there?”
She laughed. “Once or twice.”