A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) (24 page)

A week after the family exploration of the trunk, I sat back and admired the first part of the article about Grand-mère. There was more to come, but what I had was beautiful—lovely photos, truths about how I felt about food—and I couldn’t be prouder.

As much as I admired my handiwork, my neck cracked when turned and
my limbs felt stiff. I stretched my muscles before noticing everyone else had cleared out of the office for the weekend.

I drove home, thinking over my next task.

After nearly two weeks of living in my new place, I decided I’d had enough and fished Clementine Grey’s card from my purse once I got inside.

I hesitated before dialing.

It felt awkward, calling a near stranger like that. Asking someone to be your roommate—it made me feel eight years old all over again, asking someone to be my friend.

But it was fair and it was logical, so I straightened my spine and dialed.

I didn’t expect her to answer but was pleasantly surprised when she did.

“So, listen,” I said, after completing the usual phone-call pleasantries. “I’ve moved into my grandmother’s old apartment, and I could use a roommate. I figured since the commute would be just as useful to you once the restaurant opens, I’d ask you first.”

“You’re … asking me to room with you?” Clementine cleared her throat. “Um, how much is the rent?”

“Nico and I are leasing the building from my mom,” I said. “Part of the reason I’m living here is because I need to keep living costs down. Let’s say two hundred dollars in rent, plus utilities and all that.”

“Okay, wait,” she said. “Did you say two hundred dollars?”

“I did.”

“And,” she said, her voice sounding oddly wobbly, “you’re talking about Mireille’s apartment over the patisserie?”

“I am,” I said, trying to gauge her response.

“Um, yeah,” she said, sounding distinctly watery. “Sorry. I … I mean, sure. I’ll take it. If you’re sure.”

“Clementine, are you … are you okay?” I asked, pretty sure I heard something that sounded a lot like muffled sobbing on the other end of the line.

“I can’t believe—I mean—you have no idea …” She paused and caught her breath. “I can’t make my rent at my apartment, and I was going to have to sleep
on a friend’s couch or move back in with my parents, and I
cannot
move back in with my parents, and you just called and offered me a place with rent I can afford that’s not a health hazard. And I think I’m more stressed than usual because I’m not usually this emotional,” she finished, the last word catching. “Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” I said firmly. “I should have called you a week ago, but I put it off. That was stupid. Listen, there’s still stuff in the bedroom—Grandmère’s stuff—but there’s a path to the bed. I’ll leave a key for you under the blue flowerpot; you can move in anytime you need to. Today, if you want. Just whenever.”

Four hours later, I had a new roommate. Clementine had packed her things, minimal as they were, and moved into the back bedroom.

While she set up her room, I decided the wisest thing to do was to make room for her in the kitchen. I cleared out three deep drawers and made space in the pantry.

“Oh good,” she said when she saw me clear space next to the oven. In her arms she held a box full of pastry tools. “Thank you again.”

“You can stop thanking me. You’re good.”

Clementine opened her mouth, then closed it. “Cool. I love this kitchen. I used to help Mireille test recipes in here.” She set her box down and began to lay out her tools before organizing them into drawers. “Who’s taking care of Gigi these days?”

“My sister.”

Clementine lifted an eyebrow. “I met her once. Is she a dog person?”

“I don’t believe I’d categorize her as such, no,” I answered diplomatically. “But her daughter is, and I think her husband is kind to small furry beings, so I think Gigi will be okay.”

“You never asked me what I’m like to live with,” Clementine said. “Are you sure you’re not going to regret this?”

“Pretty sure.” I hoisted myself into a seated position on the kitchen counter. “You didn’t ask about me either. I’m not a particularly early riser, but not very late to bed either. I don’t like lots of noise, but I don’t like too much quiet. If I make a mess, it’s usually in the kitchen. My family will probably stop by at awkward times, so I don’t suggest spending a great deal of time in a state of undress. I’m not very adventurous. I only drink socially, and even then not to excess.”

“It’s expensive to be a drunk these days,” Clementine observed.

“Agreed. That’s all I can think of. I don’t have any particular pet peeves, but if I develop any, I will attempt to communicate them in a sensitive, civil manner.” I moved to the stove. “Would you like some tea?”

“Sure.” Clementine closed a drawer and opened a new one. “I tend to get up early, because if I don’t, I’ll have a headache for two weeks once I’m on a pastry schedule. I’m very good at being quiet in the morning. Since I’m up early, I don’t tend to stay up late, but I’m usually so tired that your whole family could come over for a canasta and tap-dance party and I’d never notice. My bedroom tends to be a mess, but I make sure the door will always close. I get grossed out by dirty bathrooms. If I’m bored, I hate-watch the Food Network.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Fair enough.”

“Another thing—do not shorten my name. My name isn’t Clem, Clemmy, or Tiny; it’s Clementine, and if you feel compelled to give me a nickname, I can suggest the names of several respected therapists.”

“Fine,” I said, “as long as you never call me ‘Julie.’ I’m Juliette, Etta, or Jules.”

“You’re just not a Julie?”

“Nope.”

“Deal.”

I reached for a kitchen towel. “How is work going?”

Clementine wrinkled her nose. “I’m doing some freelance pastry work for
a few local caterers, but I’m not getting the hours I need. I have lots of first interviews but not a lot of second interviews, which drives me crazy because I know I’m better than the yahoos they’re hiring who churn out molten chocolate cake after molten chocolate cake. I’ll be relieved when the restaurant is open and I can focus more on pastry and less on promising to make molten cakes for catering gigs.”

“They do sell—those chocolate cakes.”

She lifted a shoulder. “A monkey could make one.”

“That is a viral YouTube video I would enjoy watching.” I tilted my head. “I’m working on a new piece for the paper and my regular column on top of it. If you want to help me test recipes, you’re more than welcome.”

“Do you have a focus?”

“The first is a piece about Grand-mère, so any memories you have of working with her would be great. The second is pulling together entertaining menus. I have to do a demo of one on
Portland Sunrise
next week.”

“That’s cool.”

I made a noncommittal noise and moved the hot water off the burner. “This is fun. It’s nice to have company. What kind of tea do you want?”

“Rooibos, if you’ve got it.”

“Yes, I do.” I dropped one sachet each into two large coffee mugs.

Clementine wrapped her arms around herself. “Does it feel weird being here? Since your grandma died? Because I gotta tell you, I keep waiting for her to walk around a corner.”

I paused, midpour. “Me too.” I looked away and collected myself, and had a bright smile a short second later. “But I think she’d get a kick out of the fact that we’ll be living here together.”

Clementine took her mug and clinked it with mine. “Hear, hear.”

I checked my watch. “Oh, wow. I’ve got to run and meet with Nico about the restaurant. Here’s a key,” I said, handing it over. “Help yourself to whatever you find in the fridge.”

“Thanks. I will.”

“Right. Excellent.” I gathered my keys from the kitchen counter and took off in search of my purse. “See you later!” I called, feeling glad in my heart that when it came to my apartment, I was no longer alone.

I woke up Saturday morning to wonderful, amazing smells. When I emerged from my bedroom, I found Clementine in the kitchen next to a plate of freshly baked pain au chocolat and a carafe of coffee.

“Don’t expect this every morning,” she said, “but consider this a thank-you. For letting me move in.”

“You’d be welcome in any case,” I said, “but extra welcome in this case.” I reached for a croissant and took a large bite. “Oh my goodness,” I said once I’d swallowed. “That’s the best chocolate croissant I’ve ever had.”

“It should be,” she said with a smirk. “Your grandmother rapped my knuckles with a whisk if I overworked the dough.”

“She would.” I took another bite. “What time did you get up this morning?”

“Four, as usual.”

“I didn’t hear you at all.”

“Good. I also tried to clean up some. I noticed you had some bakeware on that counter that I figured you were keeping there for a reason.”

I looked to where she pointed. “Oh yeah. That’s Sophie’s. She brought it over last week, and I need to run it back to her.” Another bite. “Maybe we need to have these at the restaurant for dessert. A kind of breakfast-for-dinner thing.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I make good desserts, and serving pain au chocolat during the dessert course is like serving a Danish.” Clementine tucked a piece of hair behind her
ear, showing off a series of silver hoops. “Anyway, why aren’t you a chef yourself? Obviously you can cook. What made you join the enemy and become a food critic?”

I laughed. “First off, I don’t think of myself as a food critic, rather a food writer. I went to culinary school, but I knew going in that the lifestyle wasn’t for me. Some people—people like Nico, like my dad—thrive on it, but,” I said, shrugging, “not me, I guess. But I really love writing about food. The way I see it, you can spend hours—days, even—preparing a meal. You eat, you enjoy, but ultimately it’s gone and you’re left with the memories. I like to write about food to preserve it, to remember the experience. I think that writing about a meal makes it last forever.”

“Fair enough,” Clementine said.

“Maybe one day we’ll serve brunch. Or start a catering company like D’Alisa & Elle. I’m just saying these croissants need to see the light of day.” I brushed a crumb from my lips. “I wouldn’t want you to lose your touch.”

Clementine rolled her eyes. “Like that could happen.”