A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) (32 page)

“Twitchy?”

“Like a bunny rabbit.”

“Bunny rabbit?”
I repeated, incredulous. “Who says ‘bunny rabbit’?”

Neil took his seat and crossed his arms. “I guess I do.”

“It’s just … my family and I usually come to the later service. It’s restaurant business,” I explained. “Most everyone tends to work late on Saturday nights.”

“And we’re here at the early service to avoid them.”

“Not avoid,” I said, trying not to feel defensive. Trouble was, I couldn’t think of a better word for it. “Just … temporarily evade them.”

“That sounds a lot like avoidance,” Neil replied dryly.

“You’re going to meet them tonight,” I said.

“You’re worried.”

“I am not.”

Somehow, I got through the rest of the service without looking over my shoulder. I even managed to take sentient sermon notes. “Want to see if there are any good cookies out?” I asked afterward.

Neil searched my face for signs of stress—or maybe mental illness—before giving his assent. We threaded our way through the crowd and into the foyer where two eight-foot tables stood laden with baked goods.

“People bring things voluntarily,” I explained, picking up a paper cocktail napkin. “Some weeks it can be a little thin, but—”

My words stopped when my eyes landed on a familiar platter and an unmistakable pile of cookies. “Oh no.”

“What?”

“Those.” I pointed. “Those there.”

“They look like cookies.”

“My mother made them. Which means—”

“Do I smell bad?”

I turned to face Neil. “What?”

“Do I have terrible people skills?”

Where was this going? “No …”

“You find me interesting company.”

“You know I do.”

He rested his hands on my shoulders. “So is there anything you need to tell me about your family? about me?”

I stepped away from the table, into a corner behind a pillar. “They’re intense.”

“I’ve encountered intense people.”

“They have no sense of boundaries.”

Neil shook his head at me ruefully. “I’m from the South.”

“I’m just saying they’re loud and they have expectations.”

“I see.” Neil took a half step back. “Expectations of me? Or of you?”

I looked away. “Both, probably.”

“I don’t have to go, Juliette.”

My stomach twisted into a series of unpleasant knots.

I wanted to keep Neil to myself. I wanted him to be my little secret. Was that the adult thing to want?

Probably not. I forced a smile. “It’ll be fine.”

Neil studied my face, clearly unsure as to whether he believed me or not. I couldn’t blame him.

I forced my shoulders to relax, stepped back to the cookie table, and reached for a polenta cookie. “You really should try one,” I said, trying to sound breezy and relaxed, even though I felt anything but.

Neil tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “I’m sure they’re wonderful.”

“Tell me about your siblings,” Neil suggested as he drove the two of us to Sunday dinner. “Which ones will be there?”

“Almost all,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Caterina’s in Chicago with her husband and little boys; otherwise she’d be in the kitchen trying to boss my dad and elbow Nico out of the way. She’s great. She goes by Cat, and half of the time, she tells people she was named for Cat in
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
.”

“So she’s funny.”

“She is. She’s the sibling second-closest in age, six years older than me. Sophie’s the oldest. She and Cat couldn’t be more different. Sophie’s very cautious and conservative, whereas Cat’s more free-spirited. Sophie is married to Nelson—the CPA—and their daughter is Chloé. Chloé is twelve and awesome. Really a good kid. Nico is a lot like Cat, and they tend to fuss at each other because of it. He’s a big personality, likes to get his own way. Alex is more studious. He and his wife divorced six months ago, so that’s been rough.” I peered out the window as we crossed Morrison Bridge. “And then there’s me.”

“The baby of the family.”

I made a face at him. “I hate that term.”

“Sorry.”

“Being the youngest of five is a heavy mantle to wear sometimes.” I brushed my hair from my face.

One of these days, I needed to invest in a good hair spray.

For the occasion, I’d dressed in very careful layers. I wore a pencil skirt with a sleeveless chiffon shell, a cardigan, and a scarf.

If I got warm—or very, very nervous—I could shed layers before sweat started to become a problem.

Hopefully.

When we pulled up to the house, I noted with no little horror that each sibling’s car was parked nearby.

Clearly, everyone was inside, lying in wait.

“Mmm,” I said mildly, trying to sound casual. “Looks like the gang’s all here.”

“Relax,” Neil said as we made our way up the walk. “And don’t forget I have siblings too.”

I didn’t have time to process that reminder. Chloé threw open the door. “You’re here!” she squealed. “She’s here,” Chloé repeated over her shoulder.

“Hello, sweetie,” I said. Neil chuckled behind me, but I didn’t ask why. I was too busy trying to process the tableau of awkward domesticity in front of me.

Sophie sat on the sofa, crocheting, of all things. My father and Alex were engaged in a game of chess, using the board usually reserved for décor.

Maman sat next to Sophie, a slim cookbook in her hands.

Nico had perched himself on the edge of the leather chair, a tower of Jenga blocks in a stack in front of him.

Nelson seemed truly oblivious, his thumbs busy on his cell phone.

Cell phone aside, I felt like I’d just walked into a Jane Austen adaptation.

“Hi, everybody,” I said, forcing a smile. “This is Neil.”

Neil greeted my mother first, giving her the tub of pure shea butter he’d brought as a hostess gift. I assumed he didn’t miss her near-translucent skin, her penciled-in eyebrows, and the contrasting full head of hair she sported, thanks to her wig. He gave her a warm smile and complimented her scarf, which I knew to be an Hermès.

My father stood to shake Neil’s hand. A sort of receiving line seemed to
form. I watched with a mix of pride and horror as Neil shook each hand graciously, his grip appearing firm.

A momentary silence struck after everyone exchanged greetings and identities, and in that moment, I heard a flush from the hall bath.

My eyes scanned the room. No, everyone was here.

And then my sixth sense tingled.

My eyes swung to Nico, who had the grace to look—just maybe—almost guilty. When Adrian emerged from the bathroom, I wasn’t surprised. I could read Nico’s face like a book. He didn’t like that I’d brought an outsider over, a man so completely separate from the world of cuisine. He brought Adrian to meet the family, thinking I’d come to my senses.

Deep disappointment with my brother flooded my chest.

“We’re so blessed to have special guests tonight,” my mother said. “Adrian brought some lovely hors d’oeuvre with him.”

Sophie and I exchanged glances. Adrian had brought food to
add
to our mother’s dinner? And she was happy about it? I’d tried to bring a saffron-spiked dip once and my mother declared that—while it was lovely—it didn’t match the balance of the menu that she’d achieved. Cheese, chocolate, and wine were allowed.

Foods requiring assembling or preparation were not. Until now.

No one mentioned this fact, even Nico, who’d had a wilted chard and pancetta dish turned away. No, Nico looked about ready for his victory lap.

Neil and Adrian shook hands. This time, Adrian’s shoulders were squared, his chin high, his eyes taking measure of Neil.

To his credit, Neil either didn’t notice or did an excellent job pretending, merely shaking his hand without the encounter turning into a chest-beating session.

At least not yet.

I realized as we walked to the dining room that Neil didn’t have to do or say anything to Adrian; instead, he merely walked beside me with a gentle hand located at the small of my back.

My father had outdone himself. We started with seared scallops on a bed of kale, moved on to risotto, and continued to osso buco.

“It’s veal,” my father told Neil in his outdoor voice. “
Osso buco
means ‘bone with a hole.’ See?” he said, pointing at the round hole at the center of the veal shank. “There’s a hole in it.”

“It looks delicious,” Neil said, nodding. “I’ve never eaten veal before.”