A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) (34 page)

“I’ll reimburse you for the strawberries,” I told Clementine. “Organically grown, locally sourced—they couldn’t have been cheap.”

Clementine shrugged. “I got them from a farmer friend of mine.”

“Still.”

“Consider them a gift. So, you’re making him dinner tomorrow night? What are you going to make?”

“I was thinking of making fresh pasta. Haven’t decided what to do with it yet.”

“What about dessert?”

I toyed with the dishcloth on the countertop. “Don’t know yet.”

“When planning a menu,” Clementine suggested, “start with dessert and work backward.”

“Spoken like a pastry chef. What do you suggest?”

“I’ll think on it.”

I splayed my hands. “After all that?”

“The inspiration for a good dessert comes inexplicably and without method.” She shrugged. “But don’t worry. I always think of something.”

I sat up straight. “I’ll make him dinner,” I said, “and we’ll say good-bye, and if I see him again, I’ll be glad, but if I don’t, we had a wonderful weekend.”

“You think you won’t see him? He seemed pretty … attached, when we met.” She gave me a direct look. “And by ‘attached,’ I mean he was holding your hand or touching your shoulder or just plain looking at you with cow eyes.”

“I don’t know what to think. I don’t know how this can work.”

“To start with, you’re both American citizens. That’s one insurmountable difficulty you don’t have to deal with.”

“True.” I ate another strawberry. “Because love and the INS do not mix well.”

She laughed. “When’s he coming over? I can make myself scarce for the night.”

“I think I told him sixish. Not too late—he’s flying out early the next morning.”

“Something tells me he won’t mind.”

I gave a wan smile. “I appreciate your optimism. I’m spent—thanks for sitting with me.”

Clementine patted my shoulder. “Anytime.”

After two hours in bed, I’d made no progress sleeping. Gigi didn’t seem to mind, simply readjusting her sprawl every time I tossed or turned.

I wanted to talk to someone—my head was too full. I prayed first, hoping a spirit of calm would descend and allow me to drift off.

But the Lord said no.

I considered calling Cat, but I knew she’d been exhausted, and I couldn’t bank on her being awake with the boys yet again.

Clementine had already gotten an earful.

As I flipped over one more time, I found myself reaching for my phone and calling the only person I really wanted to talk to.

He answered on the fourth ring.

“Juliette? Is everything okay?”

Neil’s voice managed to soothe me and send my heart skittering at the same time. “I can’t sleep.”

“Oh?”

I chewed on my lip. “I really like you.”

“That’s good,” Neil said easily. “I like you too.”

“How could it ever work out, though? I don’t … I don’t see how this can end well.”

Neil sighed. “Is this something you were worrying about before Nico brought it up?”

“Not yet, no.”

“I don’t mean to sound rude—”

“Sure you do.”

“Okay, maybe I do. I was going to say that neither of us is dating Nico. So neither of us needs to worry about whether he thinks it’s going to work or not.”

I mulled that thought around in my mind. “True. But what if he made a good point?”

“The poet Robert Browning married Elizabeth Barrett even though she was in poor health and likely an opium addict.”

“So, which of us in this scenario is Robert and which is Elizabeth?”

His chuckle reverberated through the phone. “My point is that sometimes unlikely relationships can thrive.”

“I am shocked you know about Robert and Elizabeth. You didn’t strike me as a poetry man.”

“I’m a man of many interests.” He cleared his throat. “I also attended a lecture on hypokalemic periodic paralysis. The lecturer addressed speculation that Elizabeth Barrett Browning may have suffered from it.”

“I see.”

“It’s a genetic disease.”

“It sounds terrible.”

“But she and Robert Browning married and had a good life together.”

I rested my head on my pillow. “They have a good story.”

“Jules, I don’t know what kind of future the Lord has in store for us. But I want to find out and enjoy spending as much time getting to know you along the way—even if it’s over the phone or over e-mail. I’d rather have an e-mail from you than an in-person date with someone else who lives nearby.”

“I like it when you call me ‘Jules.’ ”

“I like it when you call me ‘Neil.’ ”

I snorted. “That makes no sense.”

“Sorry. I was asleep five minutes ago. Cut me a little slack.”

“Do you have a nickname?”

“None. I have no embarrassing nicknames.”

“Liar.”

“Maybe. That’s a conversation for the middle of another night.”

“Fine.” I sank deeper into the covers. “Thanks for picking up the phone.”

“I always love hearing your voice, Juliette,” he said. “Day or night.”

“Yeah?”

“Preferably day. But I can make night work too.”

I gave a soft laugh. “I’ll let you go back to sleep.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to sleep yourself?”

“I think so,” I said after a moment of reflection. “Thanks.”

We said good night and hung up. I pulled the covers up to my chin, gave Gigi a chance to resettle, and slept until morning.

The morning began bright and sunny. I dressed quickly, walked Gigi, and found Clementine in her natural habitat.

“Mmm—babkas. Those look amazing,” I said, closing my eyes as I took in the scent.

Clementine wiped a floury hand on her apron. “They’re not rising the way I want them too. I think there’s a weather shift coming.”

“Any inspiration for dessert tonight? I’m going to meet Neil for lunch, I think, and then do a bit of light grocery shopping.”

“What are you making?”

“Fresh pasta carbonara with leeks and lemon,” I said, “with broccolini on the side.”

Clementine’s eyes rolled to the tin-tiled ceiling as she thought. “Ordinarily I’d say a sorbet, to offset the heaviness of the egg yolks. But you’re feeding a man.”

“True.”

“And it’s a romantic dinner. I think chocolate.”

“How about my grandmother’s chocolate cake? Her famous one?”

“Perfect.” Clementine’s expression softened. “Mireille would have liked that.”

I waved good-bye to her and Gigi as I left for work.

Today, I would have to talk to Marti. Maybe we could make it work, she and I. If I stayed at the paper, only staying with the restaurant long enough to get it launched, then maybe my schedule would be manageable enough to figure out a trip to Memphis to see Neil.

Maybe we could make it work.

The tenor of the building that morning seemed … off. More scurrying than usual, but somehow fewer people scurrying.

Had something happened that I hadn’t read about? Were a lot of people reporting on scene? I’d find out soon enough.

I set my things down on my desk and leaned over to check in with Linn.

Except she wasn’t there.

And her space was clear. Everything was gone—her books, her photos, her computer.

She’d texted me Friday. Why, oh why, hadn’t I remembered to call her back?

I strode away from my desk, away and into the emptiest hallway as I dialed her cell number and listened to it ring.

“It’s about time I heard from you,” she said when she picked up.

“Are you okay? Your stuff’s gone. What happened?”

“Budget cuts. Marti sacked me.”

“What?”

“Newspaper shrinkage and all that. I shouldn’t be surprised. Sam got let go too. He had quite the
Jerry Maguire
moment; it’s too bad you missed it.”

“Linn, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Her voice softened. “It’s not your fault.”

“Well, I may well be next. Marti wants to see me this morning.”

Linn gave a bitter laugh. “You? The golden girl? That bit with the paper towels—Marti ate it up.”

“That was the worst.”

“I’m sure your job is plenty secure. You’re generating a lot of Internet traffic and ad revenue.”

“I’ll talk to Marti. There’s got to be something you can do.”

“It’s over, Jules. I’ll become a food blogger like the rest of the out-of-work food journalists. I’ll write scorching Yelp reviews. You just wait. It’ll be—”

“Terrible,” I finished for her.

“Hope may not be warranted at this point. I’ll make it work. Have your meeting. I don’t envy you the extra work you’ll pick up.”

“I’ll call you later,” I promised. I shoved my phone in my pocket and strode to Marti’s office.

“There you are!” she said, eyes bright. “You were so great last Friday. Quick thinking! Everyone loved it.”

“I’m glad,” I said, as I sank into the chair opposite Marti’s desk.

“I don’t know if you checked your work e-mail or not while you were out, but corporate cut our staff on Friday,” Marti said, “and that included cutting reporters. Food reporting is essential to the community, to our culture. I
fought for the department as much as I could, but in the end I had to let Linn and Sam go.”

“Linn does so much,” I said. “Isn’t there anything that could be done to be able to retain her?”

“I’ve got enough funds for myself, one additional reporter, and a freelancing fund. Times are tough. There’s a lot of restructuring. People consume their news differently, and our job is to figure out how to make ends meet as we adjust.” She shrugged. “In other news, I had a long conversation with Susan Piecely, the producer at
Portland Sunrise
. She’d like you to do a segment once a week. You’re a hit, Juliette.”

“I wish I could,” I said, with as much confidence as I could scrape from the depths of myself. “But you need Linn. She’s so much better at the spontaneous thing, so great in front of people—and she loves it.”

“You don’t?”

“No.” I shook my head vigorously. “After two tries, I can say no, no I don’t. I’ve been busy with my brother’s new restaurant, and we’ve talked about that. But I’m feeling stretched thin, and I hate not giving one hundred percent of myself either here or there. So, please, cut me. Let Linn come back. She’s your girl.”

“You really don’t want it.” Marti sounded stunned. “This could be big, you know.”

“I threw up after the crepe debacle. I don’t want it.”

“If you go, you’ll have to leave today. I can’t afford to keep you in-office two weeks, but you’ll have medical through the end of the month.”

The idea of life without work benefits should have made me nervous, but it didn’t. Instead, I felt relieved. “That’s fine.”

Marti folded her arms against her chest. “I won’t say I’m not disappointed.”

“It’s time, I think, for something new.”

“I’m coming to eat at your place once it’s open. You know that.”

I smiled. “Looking forward to it.”

And that was it. I’d quit my job.

I walked back to my desk and packed up my things, which didn’t take long. I paused just long enough to text Linn.

Once I was back at my car, I called Neil. “I did it,” I said. “I quit my job.” I explained about the budget cuts and the
Portland Sunrise
producer and Linn.

“So you’re a hero,” he said.

“Just setting things to how they should be. Linn was always better suited to what I was doing anyway.”

“Feel good?”

I breathed in and then out. “Yes. It’s strange to have that chapter closed, but it’s a good thing.”

We said our good-byes, and I left to go grocery shopping. At Trader Joe’s I picked up wine, Marcona almonds, eggs, and a whimsical bundle of fresh flowers for the table. At City Market, I purchased bacon, a bundle of leeks, and a beautiful organic lemon.

Back at home, I organized my kitchen workspace and set to work. I scooped out my flour blend—I preferred two parts semolina to one part all-purpose white—on a pastry cloth and made a deep, round well in the center before cracking the eggs into it.

Even though I’d grown up next to my father, sister, and brothers making pasta by hand, there was always something dangerous to me about placing a mound of flour on the countertop and then cracking eggs into it—as if I were about to make one big mess even worse. But I loved the magic that happened as I worked the eggs into the flour, kneading them together and watching as smooth, elastic dough began to take shape.