A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) (30 page)

“What are these?” Neil asked, fingering the cuff links. “I mean, I know they’re cuff links, but—”

“One’s a whisk, and one’s a pastry cutter. I think Monsieur Roussard was
a baker and his wife gave him the cuff links. What I want to know is—was my grandmother his wife? Well,” I said, “there are several other things I’d like to know. But that one’s a start.”

“It’s too bad the hair sample is a cutting. If you had some roots, you might be able to perform some tests.”

“That would have been nice. If only it were fashionable,” I said dryly, “to yank your hair out instead of cut it for loved ones.”

“I’m just saying—a little DNA and you’d have some concrete answers. Though it would be a small miracle for the hair follicles to survive this long undamaged. Now, if there were any dried blood spots”—Neil opened the handkerchief and examined it—“from cutting himself shaving, for instance …”

Our eyes zeroed in on the stain at the same time.

“Does that look like—”

“Yes, it does,” Neil said, casting a critical eye over the spot.

It wasn’t large, by any means—no more than a few millimeters in each direction. It did look very much like the kind of stain that might have been left after a shaving nick or small scrape.

“I wonder if Grand-mère knew about it. She was so particular about laundry and cleanliness … So, is there enough?”

“Enough to run a genetic test? Maybe, but only if it’s not been washed. Laundering would likely remove the white blood cells, and those are the ones that actually carry DNA. If they were present, you certainly wouldn’t be able to get the information you’d otherwise get from, say, fresh blood or bone, but enough to prove a relation? Maybe. But that’s a lot of ifs.”

“That sounds like a crazy long shot.”

He gave a wry smile. “Most likely. Sorry—I’m a doctor. I can’t offer too many absolutes.”

“I understand. Do you know what that would mean, though? I’d know. I’d know for sure that we were related. That our grandfather wasn’t actually our grandfather.”

“Do you want to know for sure?”

“Yes,” I said finally.

“Maybe your grandmother kept it because of the blood. Some people get sentimental over bodily fluids.”

I snorted.

“Hey, people do weird things. That’s practically the first thing they teach you in medical school.”

“I believe it.”

We smiled at each other, and suddenly I was reminded of the fact that, first, Neil had a killer smile, and second, we were sitting on my bedroom floor, only inches apart.

Smiling at each other like idiots.

“Thank you,” I said. “You have no idea how much it means to me to finally show somebody this stuff, to talk about it.”

“My pleasure.”

“So,” I said, folding my hands around my knees, “what do you want to do next?”

Instead of answering, Neil leaned forward, swept my hair from my face and tucked it behind my ear. He leaned in, searching my face.

His eyes held mine. I couldn’t look away.

I sighed as his hand slipped behind my head, into my hair. In a single smooth motion, he gently pulled me close.

Our lips touched.

I thought of Éric, but only for the tiniest moment. Neil’s caress was gentle and sweet, giving me the opportunity to end it if I wanted to.

I didn’t. I deepened the kiss, my free hand finding his back, his neck, his ginger hair.

He kissed me back with the same enthusiasm, his other hand running down my arm, our fingers twining.

The kiss ended naturally, once we were both breathless.

I wanted to hug him. I wanted to cry.

I didn’t want him to ever leave.

After what I decided was possibly the Best First Kiss Ever, we left the apartment to go to Powell’s City of Books, with plans for lunch afterward.

But now that the kissing barrier had been broken, we walked down the exterior apartment stairs, hand in hand, fingers laced together.

Which was how Adrian saw us, at the bottom of the stairs.

“Hi,” I said, my face flushing a bright pomegranate red.

“Hey,” he said, taking in the scene.

There was plenty to take in, I supposed. Neil and I, hand in hand, my lips swollen from our recent kiss.

“I brought the tax forms,” Adrian said. Sure enough, he had several pieces of paper in his hand, folded once down the center.

I cleared my throat. “Oh. Good.”

My mind whirled. I knew I should probably take the forms. But what to do with them? The responsible thing would be to take them to the filing cabinet in my office, but that would mean—most likely—letting go of Neil’s hand.

I didn’t want to let go of Neil’s hand.

“You look like you’re going out,” said Adrian, which I figured was true in more than one sense.

“Yes,” I answered, confirming both interpretations.

“Want me to drop them in the mail slot?”

“That would be perfect,” I said, nodding like a bobblehead doll.

Adrian didn’t move.

“I … uh … Neil, this is Adrian. Adrian,” I said, my hand flailing between the two, “this is Neil. Neil is my … friend.” I winced at my word choice but carried on. “Adrian’s the sous-chef for the new restaurant.”

“Good to meet you.” Neil extended his right hand, while hanging on to my hand with his left.

Adrian shook it with a shadow of his familiar bravado.

“We’re off to Powell’s,” I said, my voice awkwardly bright. “See you later.”

“Later,” Adrian echoed, chin lifted.

We got in the car and drove away. Once we were about a block away, I scrunched up my face and exhaled. “That … was not ideal.”

“Adrian? Why?”

“He’s my brother’s new best friend. And I can’t imagine—,” I started to say, but stopped. Stopped because my phone had already started to ring.

“You don’t have to answer that,” Neil pointed out. “Not if you think it’s your brother.”

“No,” I agreed. “But the phone is only the beginning.”

With my phone turned off—all the way off, not just to vibrate—we finished out the drive to Powell’s on Burnside. We wandered through the floors and explored the nooks and crannies of the gigantic bookstore. Neil found a novel and I found a cookbook, which he insisted on paying for.

“So you remember the weekend,” he said, patting the cookbook.

I lifted an eyebrow. “Trust me,” I said. “I’ll remember.”

“If you’re interested,” he said as we walked back outside, “I’m giving a lecture tomorrow. It’s not a big deal …”

“I’m still impressed.”

“If you’d like to come, you’re very welcome. I can reserve a space for you.”

“I’d love to,” I said. “What’s the topic?”

“Genetic engineering and bacterial drug resistance.”

I gave a sage nod. “You know, I was just wondering about that.”

“I thought so,” he said, eyes twinkling. “That’s why I asked.”

“Seriously”—I beamed up at him—“I’d love to.”

We said good-bye at the end of the day with the kind of reluctance usually reserved for small children leaving Disneyland.

“I’ll pick you up in the morning,” he said, pulling me close for another breathless kiss.

I squeezed his hand just before releasing it and going inside, our romantic lingering cut short by a fresh sprinkling of rain.

“Morning?”

“Morning,” he promised before walking away.

I sighed and let myself into the apartment. Chilled, I shed my jacket but left my scarf on, then set to work making myself a mug of cocoa.

As I stirred the milk on the stove, I switched my phone back on.

Granted, I’d turned it on briefly earlier to verify that Clementine would be able to puppy-sit Gigi for the rest of the day. By then I had a small collection of voice mails and text messages that I’d studiously ignored.

And now? I lifted my phone to listen to my voice mails.

Of which I had nine.

Five from Nico, which wasn’t any surprise.

Two from Cat.

One from Sophie.

And … one from my mom.

Asking if Neil wanted to come for Sunday-night dinner.