A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) (18 page)
Read A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) Online
Authors: Hillary Manton Lodge
All great deeds and all great thoughts have a ridiculous beginning. Great works are often born on a street corner or in a restaurant’s revolving door.
—A
LBERT
C
AMUS
True to their word,
Portland Sunrise
made contact within a few hours. The assistant producer e-mailed, I e-mailed back, and within a couple of hours, we’d nailed down a date for my appearance on the show. I entered the event on my calendar with a knot in my stomach.
“You look as white as a sheet,” Linn commented, peering over the cubicle divide.
“I’m not charming on camera,” I answered. “I can fake it through radio, but the camera doesn’t lie.”
“The camera lies sometimes—it can’t be that bad.”
“Oh, it is,” I assured her. “My sister Caterina’s wedding? Videographer decided to get up close and personal with the bridesmaids during the ceremony. I made a series of faces—entirely by accident—that became Cat’s favorite part of the video.”
“Not her favorite part, I’m sure.”
“She told me it’s the part she watches when she’s depressed, because it gets a laugh every time.”
“Oh.” Linn reached over and patted my shoulder. “Well … morning TV should be better. Different. No one’s getting married.”
“Yes,” I said drily. “I’m sure it’ll help to be talking at 7 a.m. Because I’m so good at stringing sentences together that early.”
“I’ve heard you talk at seven in the morning.”
“Did it make any sense?”
Linn thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think it did.”
“That’s all right. The show will either go fine, or it won’t.” I looked up at Linn with a straight face. “My next task is to figure out what part of the country to flee to if it goes poorly.”
“Pick a place with sun and I’ll come visit you.”
“Noted,” I said, and we each returned to work.
When I left the newsroom for the day, I stopped at Whole Foods for groceries before returning home. I knew my parents had enough prepared food to last for a month or two, but my own larder had grown empty. Once at home, I rolled up my sleeves, slipped an apron over my head, and got comfortable in the kitchen. There was something about the rhythm of chopping vegetables, of seasoning food, of watching it transform that helped me relax.
Maybe I was barely succeeding at work or as a daughter, but if I roasted asparagus for twenty minutes, it would become bright and toothsome. My world had become unpredictable, but at least I could rely on the goodness of the Lord and the consistency of green vegetables.
Once I had dinner on the table, I wrote a short note to Neil, apologizing for my lack of correspondence and bringing him up to date with my mom’s surgery, Cat’s visit, and my upcoming TV appearance.
Afterward, I drove to the patisserie and took measurements of the space before writing a list of updates. We needed to get bids on the remodeling, and that kind of follow-through just wasn’t in Nico’s wheelhouse.
I repeated the process—or some variation—over the next week, working, cooking, and driving back and forth between my apartment and the patisserie. Late Friday night, while the rest of Portland was just beginning to celebrate the weekend, I unlocked the upstairs apartment and took a look around.
It took me all of thirty seconds to make the decision.
“I need the apartment over the patisserie,” I told Nico while he was on break at Elle later that night. “My job is only getting busier, and I can get more done if I’m only walking downstairs to get to the restaurant rather than driving three miles in inconsistent traffic.”
Nico opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off with a raised hand.
“You wanted me to do the restaurant; I’m doing the restaurant. This is my price. And no, we don’t need the upstairs for seating just yet. Better to launch with the existing downstairs and expand from there.” I gave a curt nod. “I think that’s it. I’ve got to get back to work and finish my list of contractors to call in the morning.” I paused, smiling. “I also thought I’d ask Clementine if she wanted to room with me.”
Nico may have wanted to say something, but I didn’t stick around to find out, striding instead for the door as quickly as my ballet flats could carry me.
But Nico was, in truth, smarter than I gave him credit for. He didn’t even try to outrun me; he picked up his phone instead.
“Yes?” I said, feeling sheepish when I answered. I sat in my car, keys not yet in the ignition.
“I’m not moving that prep table again. Alex can help you move that table. I will give you money to hire movers to move the table. But me? Not happening. Not doing that again.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, then.” He cleared his throat. “And Clementine’s all right.”
“I know. That’s why we hired her.”
He grunted his good-bye. I hung up with a smile. I smiled even larger when my phone beeped, announcing a new arrival in my inbox from Neil.
Dear Juliette,
Glad to hear your mom came through surgery fine, but sorry to hear your job’s gotten more complicated. You’ll have to let me know how the TV thing goes; that sounds interesting. I was happy to see a note from you in my inbox. I also won’t pretend that I’m not glad I make you happy. To be honest, it kind of scares me too. Does that make us even?
My siblings—I’ve got a much older sister and a younger brother. We’re not as much in one another’s business as your siblings, but reading between the lines, it sounds as though your siblings win the gold cup when it comes to nosiness. My sister keeps to herself—she’s an investment banker in Atlanta. My brother and I see each other more often. He’s slogging his way through law school at Tulane. Medical school’s not easy, but I’d sooner relive my residency than do what he’s doing.
However, that might be because I’d rather be in a lab than a library, writing about decisions people made in Wyoming, twenty years ago. To each his own. My brother wants to go on to work for nonprofits; he’s a cool guy.
As much as I enjoy hearing from you, you were honest from the beginning—you’ve got a lot going on in your life. If I don’t hear from you, I assume you have other things to do than e-mail a stranger in Tennessee. Do me a favor, though? If you decide not to continue to write, let me know. I’m the kind of guy who likes to have everything out in the open. If I wanted to be playing awkward relationship games, I’d audition for
The Bachelorette
.
I hope you don’t watch
The Bachelorette
. My sister watches it (although she pretends she doesn’t), and it makes no sense to me.
Top Gear
—that’s a show I can get behind.
Neil
Dear Neil,
I may be flaky and distracted, but I promise I wouldn’t stop e-mailing without some sort of communication first. I’m horrified you’d have to ask, but I can’t pretend it’s not justified.
What is
Top Gear
? I looked it up and found both an American and British version. Which do you enjoy? What’s the appeal? I’m not much into cars, but my dad and oldest brother are obsessed with Alfa Romeos. In the long run, this works out for me—when mine breaks down, I usually have someone to fix it. I used to have a Jetta, but it was too reliable. What kind of car do you drive?
Well, it’s official—I’m moving. It seemed like a good idea until I remembered how much I hate packing.
My grandmother had a patisserie (i.e., bakery, for the uninitiated) with an apartment above it. When she passed away, the building became my mother’s. My brother and I are using the patisserie space for our restaurant, and I’m moving into the apartment. It makes a lot of practical sense on paper, but in reality, quite a few of her things are still there. I don’t want to clear it out—there are a lot of memories there, you know? But I’ve spent too much time driving between the restaurant and my place, and life will become simpler when I can shorten one of my commutes.
My official moving date is Monday. Monday, because that’s when the men in my family can get off work to help. It’s worth taking the day off in order to get the manpower.
Agreed about
The Bachelorette
. I don’t understand how people might imagine picking a spouse based on how well a diving-with-dolphins or dining-in-Spain date went. I’m not married (obviously), but I’ve always been under the impression that marriage involves, you know, work. And life. And not a great deal of glamour.
Those are my thoughts. Some of them, at least. Is it strange to say I miss you, when we haven’t exactly met?
J
When my alarm chimed on Monday morning, my senses snapped to awareness in record time.
Moving day.
As I moved through my morning routine, I felt acutely aware of the fact that this was my last day in my apartment. The last time I’d accidentally clank the glass door in my shower, last time I’d brush my teeth at that sink, last time I’d make coffee in that kitchen—my sentimental Italian genes wouldn’t shut up. I dressed for the day in jeans, a bright pink tee, and a gray cozy hoodie, then pulled my hair back into a ponytail. At the last minute, unable to deny my Italian heritage, I threw on a multistrand necklace.
Who says you can’t accessorize when you’re moving?
Light makeup, a swipe of lip gloss, and I felt ready to face the day.
Ready until I looked out my front window and saw the approaching figures below.
Nico. Alex.
And Adrian.
I ducked away from the window and wiped the gloss off with the back of my hand. Don’t know why I bothered—I had a feeling Adrian would flirt with
any woman, provided she was wearing a little mascara and was still breathing. Seconds later, one of the men knocked on the door.
Oh well. At least it was free labor, even if it was costly to my mental health.
“Are you ready?” Nico asked, hands on hips as he surveyed the packed and taped boxes stacked throughout my living room.
“As much as I’ll ever be.” I hugged Alex and turned to Adrian to wave hello. “Thanks for giving me a hand.”
“Anytime,” Adrian replied, giving me an appreciative once-over as he shrugged out of his leather jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “You look good.”
“Hmm,” I said, less than wittily.
Over the next several hours, we made countless trips up and down the steps, packing away my life into the moving van below. For once, the Portland skies opted to cooperate, the clouds gray but not damp.
Adrian—and his snug black tee—seemed to revel in the opportunity to show off his upper arms. He kept a running count of how many boxes he’d carried, egging Nico to keep his own tally.
Alex just rolled his eyes and carried my bronze floor lamp down the stairs. Later, Alex and Adrian moved the prep table. Without complaining.
Once the moving van and all the cars were full and my apartment wasn’t, everyone piled into vehicles to make the trip to the patisserie, my new home.
Nico took the keys to my car. I slid into the passenger seat of my parents’ truck, next to Alex. I watched as my car pulled out of the driveway. I had just buckled my seat belt when Adrian rapped against the window.
“Nico left without me,” he said when I rolled down the window. “Can I catch a ride with you?”
“Of course,” Alex said, before I could suggest that Adrian could hitch a ride on the trailer and keep my couch steady.
