A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) (10 page)

“Gotcha,” he said. “I would say that my faith in God is strong because my love for God is so strong. I read my Bible every day. I go to church every Sunday. Well, not last Sunday. Or this week, because I’ll be out of town.”

“It happens.” I paused. “Well, I need to be going.” I waved my freshly manicured hand in the air to encourage it to dry. “It’s been nice getting to know you, Martin.”

“Let’s do it again soon,” Martin said.

I made some noncommittal noise before hanging up.

Unsettled after my phone call with Martin, I retreated to the kitchen. I retrieved the farm-fresh apples I’d bought earlier in the day and began to peel them.

Maybe Martin wasn’t the kind of guy who was very good at expressing himself with words. My cousin Letizia wasn’t much for phone conversations or
e-mails, but in person she was a lot of fun to be with. Martin could be similar.

I placed the peeled and chopped apples in a bowl and prepped the dry ingredients. It was important to remember, too, that Martin had grown up in the family’s orange grove. The culture had to be very different. Less communicative.

And, I thought as I whipped the eggs, it was important not to make a snap decision based on a single conversation.

I finished with the cake steps, adding the melted butter and flour to the batter and pouring the whole thing into the springform pan.

Reality settled in the moment the pan hit the oven.

Martin was a moron.

There was no getting around it.

As the cake baked, I settled at my computer and looked over the men in my life.

I wasn’t interested in any of them, not seriously. Maybe I was at the wrong matchmaking site. The man I wanted was clearly not here. In a moment of decisiveness, I clicked through my account options to remove my profile for good.

My finger clicked the final button, and my heart swelled with hope that I’d never have to speak to Martin again.

A split second later, silence fell and everything turned black in my apartment.

By the time the power came back on, I’d lit candles and spent ten whole minutes reading a paperback book. After my apartment flickered back to life, I checked on the apple cake, reset the oven, and tidied up the kitchen. Once the cake was ready, I sliced into it and continued my book, letting my laptop remain in repose for the rest of the night.

Marti called me into her office the next morning.

“Write the profile about your grandmother,” she said. “I won’t promise to run it, but I do want to read it.”

“That’s fine,” I said, my heart beating faster as I thought about the piece, how I would write it, and which recipes I would include. “Thank you.”

At lunchtime, Linn peeked over our shared cubicle wall, insisted that on this—the worst of Fridays—we needed to find something divine for lunch.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“My sources aren’t calling me back, I misplaced my notes on the restaurant I’m covering, and my husband has to work late, even though we had a date planned for tonight.”

“Ugh, I’m sorry. I’ll see what I can do.”

I picked up my phone and made a few calls, and after dropping my surname (a technique I tried to use only for the forces of good), I managed to snag two spots for tea service at the Heathman Hotel.

“Do you mind a late lunch?” I asked Linn, elbows propped on the cubicle wall. “The Heathman can’t seat us until two, but if you want a lift, this will do it.”

“Tea? You want to go to tea? I heard you talking to them, but I figured it was for you and your niece.”

“Tea. You’ve never had tea at the Heathman?”

“I’m Asian. I know tea.”

“But at the Heathman?”

“I’m not eight. Let’s go to Bluehour instead.”

“Oh come on. It’ll be fun.” Usually these conversations with Linn went the other way around, with her egging me to try something more daring. It was fun to reverse roles this once. “Eat a snack now,” I said, “and meet me in the foyer at a quarter to two.”

An hour and half later, I stopped by the ladies’ room to freshen my lipstick and add a bit of grooming cream to my hair. Already wearing Grand-mère’s pearls with my sweater, plaid skirt, and boots, I was glad I had accessorized for an afternoon out.

“I need to borrow some lipstick,” Linn told me the moment she saw me in the foyer. “Next time I say we need something divine, read between the lines and understand I was referring to a food truck or one of the restaurants on the
Diner
list.”

“Hush,” I said, fishing in my purse until I found a lipstick for her. “You’ll like it.”

Linn squared her shoulders. “My mother made sure I knew how to perform a proper tea service by the time I was six. I’m not tea simple.”

“I never said you were. You’ve been to English-style teas, though, haven’t you?”

“My dad’s Irish American,” she replied dryly. “I don’t even know how to answer that question.”

“Fair enough. Just give it a whirl, okay? It’ll be a tea party. Tea parties are cool.”

“I’m going to make
Downton Abbey
references.”

“Whatever floats your boat.”

She swiped the lipstick onto her mouth, then smooshed her lips together. “I’m going to call you Violet.”

“Lucky me. I’m a Maggie Smith fan. Let’s go!”

Linn dragged her feet the entire way, but we still made it in time. Since I’d used my real name for the reservations, we received attentive service from the start.

“I’ll have the Earl Grey,” I told the waiter, not bothering to consult Linn. “She’ll have the Citrus Nectar.”

“I don’t even get to choose my tea?” Linn complained, exasperated.

“You’ll like it.”

“I don’t like herbal tea.”

“What are you, four? You’ll like this one.”

“You’re so bossy. Did Marti get back to you on the profile you wanted to write?”

I brightened. “She did! And she’s letting me write it, though she said she wouldn’t promise to print it.”

“That sounds exciting, I think.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” I said, leaning backward as our tea arrived. “Grand-mère was a fascinating woman. Really ahead of her time. It’ll make a great piece—I’m not worried.”

“She seemed cool when I met her at the bakery that one time.”

I nodded, remembering. “She liked you. She loved your hair—thought it was very chic.”

“Your gran had good taste, then. What’s your angle for the article?”

“A woman ahead of her time. She attended pastry school before she married my grandfather. Did I ever tell you that?”

“When was that, the forties?”

“Late thirties, I think.” I poured Linn’s tea into a cup for her and sweetened it with sugar. “Her father didn’t want her to go, but the woman had a
passion for baking. She was the favorite daughter, apparently, so he let her go. She was seeing my grandfather at the time, but they didn’t get married for another few years.”

“Shocking.”

“It really was. They loved each other,” I said, “but she gave up baking outside the home after they married. When he died, though, that’s when she came to the States and opened the patisserie. How’s your tea?”