A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) (27 page)

Between all my work at the newspaper and work at the restaurant, the weeks flew by. The producer at
Portland Sunrise
called to thank me for my appearance and asked if we could schedule another appearance.

The date she asked for turned out to be the Friday when Neil would be in town.

I couldn’t turn it down—with all the publicity from the appearance bolstering my column and the rest of the department, Marti would be livid if I pleaded anxiety and backed out.

My nerves were not calm when the producer informed me that the Friday episodes were filmed before a live audience. But I agreed to the appearance on the condition that I could procure an audience ticket for Neil.

Maybe he wouldn’t use it. Maybe we wouldn’t hit it off. As his visit approached, so did my apprehension. What if he didn’t like me? What if I didn’t like him?

What would I do if we didn’t like each other in real life? Because the uncomfortable reality remained: I had grown very attached to the version of Neil who arrived in my e-mail inbox.

I wanted to go shopping, wanted to find something new that I felt fabulous in, but time I used shopping would have been time not working, and I
intended to have as much writing saved up as possible to maximize my time with Neil.

Instead, I searched my closet for a navy swiss-dotted sundress and paired it with one of Grand-mère’s cotton cardigans, a raspberry-hued number with beading at the neck. The sleeves were too short, but I figured folding them up would make them three-quarter length enough to pass muster. I also found a set of beaded hair combs the same shade as the sweater and set those aside to use.

The Wednesday he flew in, he sent me a text.

My fingers shook slightly as I texted a reply.

When Thursday rolled around, I was undeniably jittery. At around T minus four hours, Clementine fixed me with her gaze.

“Okay, what is going on?”

I stopped mid–nail polish swipe. “Nothing. Just needed a fresh coat.”

Clementine sat down beside me. “Uh-huh. So you finally agreed to go out with Adrian?”

“No! And what do you mean,
finally
? He’s never actually asked.”

“Probably because you’ve worked very hard to make sure he knows you’re not interested.”

I straightened my shoulders. “It has been a lot of work, thank you.”

“You could stop that work and just go out with him.”

“No.” I shook my head hard. “Not happening.”

“So if it’s not Adrian, who is it?”

“Just a guy.”

“Just a guy,” Clementine repeated dubiously.

“Yup.”

“Just a guy you met …”

I averted my eyes.

Clementine narrowed hers and leaned in closer.

I swatted her away. “What are you doing?”

Clementine leaned still closer, until her nose was a thumb’s width from my own.

“Fine!” I squirmed away. “I met him on the Internet.”

“Huh, it works then.”

“I guess.”

“I was referring to the nose trick—my mom did that when I was a teenager and she wanted to get me to talk. I never knew if it was the trick or just
her
that got me to crack.”

“It works, because that was really disturbing.”

“Thanks.” Clementine shoved a length of her dark brown hair over her ear. “So. You met a guy online? Cool. You’re sure he’s not an ax murderer and all that?”

“I should probably check that before the date, shouldn’t I?” I said, finishing off the nail polish on my right hand. “You think the FBI has a background-check app I could download?”

Clementine pulled her phone from her pocket. “I could find out.”

I couldn’t stop my grin. “He’s kind of great, though. Funny. Smart. Good looking, from what I can tell.”

“Where’s he from?”

“He’s living in Memphis, currently,” I said, aware that my nose seemed to wrinkle of its own volition.

“Have you been to the South?”

“Not really. Texas, once.”

Clementine lifted her eyebrows. “It’s a whole ’nother world down there. Different from Texas. Very, very different from Portland. The whole Pacific Northwest, for that matter.”

“Lots of places are different from the Pacific Northwest. France is different. I like France.”

“The South is its own brand of different. And there are parts of the South that don’t really like France.”

“That’s probably true.”

Clementine gave a knowing smile. “I’m sure he’s nice, and I’m sure you’ll have a good time tonight.”

“You think?”

“I do. And it’s mainly because of the nail polish.”

I swatted her arm—carefully, so as not to smudge the varnish—as we laughed together.

Twilight hung over the city, but I couldn’t convince myself to get out of the car, not yet. What if I didn’t like him? My heart clutched at the thought.

After a deep breath and a Cambridge & Thames lemon drop, I adjusted my hair combs, grabbed my purse, and climbed out of the car. I walked inside and scanned the room—busy, even for a Thursday—but didn’t see anyone who looked like Neil’s photo. After a moment passed and he didn’t turn a corner holding, say, a red rose, I approached the maître d’s podium. “I’m meeting someone,” I said, hoping against hope not to be recognized.

The maître d’s expression remained impassive. He consulted a hidden sheet of paper. “Are you Juliette, to meet with Neil?”

“Yes.”

The maître d’ gave a vague smile. “One moment.”

My heart dropped.

I could have scripted the following minutes; it had happened often enough over the years. The maître d’ made a phone call; hushed words were exchanged. From my vantage point in the foyer, I could see two members of the waitstaff emerge from the kitchen. They sought out a man, a nice-looking man with ginger hair, seated near the kitchen doors, and through the pantomime gesturing and broad smiles, I could tell that Neil was being offered a different table, a better table.

A table out of my personal visual range, but I didn’t need to be able to see to know what was happening.

Thirty seconds later, the maître d’ sought me out, accompanied by waiter number one. “Mr. McLaren is here,” he said with a glowing smile, as if Neil hadn’t been there earlier, had slipped out the back for a smoke and recently returned. “And this is Kurt. He’ll be taking care of you this evening.”

I followed Kurt to the new, improved table. Neil—it had to be Neil—stood when he saw us approach. As I walked toward him, I took him in—he was tall, even taller than I thought. There were laugh lines by his eyes, and his ginger hair caught the light and turned gold.

I couldn’t help but smile as I realized he was looking at me the same way, taking me in.

“Hi,” he said once I stood in front of him.

“Hi back,” I said, grinning like an idiot.

Our waiter babbled about how he was going to take great care of us and would return shortly to take our drink order, unless we knew what we wanted now, but if we needed time to decide, that would be fine too, and that he would be back, like he said, shortly.

Neither of us spared him a glance.

“Friendly staff,” Neil said, a twinkle in his eye. “I’m not naive enough to think they care about impressing me.”

“They should, you know,” I said teasingly, sounding more authentically flirtatious than I’d ever managed before. “I’ve heard you’re a seriously tough critic.”

“You’ve heard, have you? Well, you’re right. I’m very particular about my macaroni and cheese.”

I grinned. “It’s good to see you.”

“You look even better in real life than you do in my inbox.”

My flirtatious bravado wavered. I wanted to tell him I felt the same, but I smiled instead and unrolled my silverware, draping the napkin over my lap.

The table came complete with a candle, which didn’t look like it had been burning all night, and a plate of fresh bread near a saucer of olive oil and vinegar.

So much for anonymity.

“You know what I like about this place,” I said, reaching for the bread, “is that they use such high quality oil and vinegar for dipping. The oil’s from this tiny town in Sicily—much spicier, much greener than oils you’ll find here. They don’t make oil like this in the States.”

“Really?” he said, and for a horrible split second, I wondered if I should have just shut up about the stupid green olive oil.

“I wonder if it’s the soil profile or the processing,” he continued, and I felt my entire body relax. “Probably both. I know they talk about terroir and all of that, a geographic location’s soil and microclimate, and the bacteria and microorganisms specific to that region. Of course,” he said, “I can get more excited about the bacteria end of things. But I think it’s cool how it can mean that stuff tastes better.”

A goofy smile threatened to stretch off my face. “I think so too,” I said.

The restaurant did its best to impress us, bringing course after course of beautifully plated dishes out for our enjoyment, one of them “compliments of the chef.”

Neither of us paid much attention.

We’d talked about his research, about the paper he was working to publish, and about his colleagues at Oregon Health and Science University—OHSU to the locals. He asked after my restaurant, how Gigi was adjusting to life back at the apartment, and about my appearance on
Portland Sunrise
.

“You were so nervous I was concerned for you,” Neil said. “But you looked so relaxed and natural, and you sounded so knowledgeable. I’m sure it’s because you
are
knowledgeable,” he hastened to add. “I was glad it turned out so well.”

I rested my forehead in my hand. “I don’t understand, not for the life of me. I was so nervous, and I barely remember what happened when the camera was rolling.”

“Really?”

“I keep hearing it was great, and either my loved ones are the world’s nicest liars, or somehow me being terrified makes for quality television. I don’t get it.”

Neil clasped my hand. “But you made it.”

I couldn’t help but smile at him. “Just barely, yes. And I’m going to be
doing it again tomorrow. I don’t know what your schedule is, but I got you an audience ticket, if you want to come.”

“Of course I want to come. It’s first thing in the morning, isn’t it?”

“It is. And no pressure, if you have other things …”

“I’ll be there. How’s your other piece coming? The one about your grandmother and the chocolate cake?”

“It’s coming. I was hoping for a little more information about her early life, though at some point I’ll lose the timeliness factor and I’ll just have to write with the facts at hand.”

“Makes sense.” Neil sipped his water. “My grandmother had a chocolate pudding cake that I remember. You inspired me to try making it for myself.”