A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) (39 page)

For a tiny moment, I considered feeling guilty about using Clementine in my plot for revenge. I considered and then dismissed my reservations; the fact of the matter was that my brother was clearly drawn to the petite pastry chef. He needed a shove, my brother.

And me? I was happy to provide that shove.

“I was just thinking,” I mentioned to Clementine late Friday night, in the most causal tone I could muster, “would you like to come to this week’s dinner with me?”

“Well …”

“My dad’s cooking is not to be missed.”

“It wouldn’t be awkward? I hate to intrude.”

“Not at all. Guests come all the time.”

Clementine shrugged. “Sure. Sunday night?”

“Sunday night.”

“Good.” I gave my bravest smile. “I’m off to bed, then. And I think I’ll take Gigi with me.”

“Oh, she’ll hate that.” Clementine nodded toward Gigi, who was already halfway down the hall to my room, tail wagging in anticipation of pillows and blankets at her disposal.

“Is there anything I should bring tomorrow?” Clementine asked on Saturday morning, as we both prepared for the day.

“My mom is a sucker for a good hostess gift,” I answered, toothbrush in mouth. “I can give you a few ideas, if you’re in need.”

“I found a couple antique handkerchiefs at a flea market the other day.” She squeezed toothpaste onto her own toothbrush. “I don’t have specific plans for them—thought your mom might like them.”

“That sounds perfect.” I spat into the sink. “I’m impressed.”

Clementine shrugged. “Your gran would have liked them, and she mentioned your mom’s good taste a few times.”

She was right—my mother did enjoy the handkerchiefs, though not nearly as much as I enjoyed Nico’s expression when he saw Clementine on Sunday.

Nico’s eyes were wide, his jaw slack. Best of all, he couldn’t speak—a first, since the tender age of nineteen months.

Clementine, of course, was so focused on my mother and meeting the rest of the family that she either didn’t notice Nico or ignored him altogether.

For dinner, my father had prepared a robust pot of cioppino, serving it with a green salad and miniature baguettes of bread.

It was a simple meal, but the shadows beneath my parents’ eyes were their own explanation. My heart ached. I knew that all of us were pitching in—Alex with maintenance around the house, Sophie with coordinating doctors’ visits and treatments, Nico with food, and Caterina—Caterina sent care packages full of silly novels, loose-leaf tea, and scented candles.

As the last born, I was the official pinch-hitter, filling in where needed. Sure, I felt like the fifth wheel, but that was part of the gig as a fifth child.

We sat down at the dinner table, and to my dismay Sophie practically elbowed her way to the seat on my right, while Clementine took the chair to my left.

Nico, I noted, was at the opposite end of the table. Not that it stopped him
from staring at her. At some point, I needed to have words with my brother. He had to stop acting like a thirteen-year-old boy.

Within moments, it became clear Sophie was on a mission. “You must go and get genetically tested,” she said, leaning toward me. “I finally went two weeks ago.”

“Oh.” I draped my napkin in my lap. “So … what precipitated that idea?”

“Mom’s cancer, of course. Ovarian cancer often has a genetic component, and I wanted to find out if I had any of the markers.”

“Makes sense,” I said.

“Well, apparently, I am a carrier. I’m going to have Chloé tested too. It doesn’t mean we’ll get it, just that we could, you know?”

“Right,” I said. It was a depressing enough thought and not what I would have considered dinner conversation, but Sophie would not be deterred.

“I had them run a general test and look for any other diseases, while I was in. Better to know and to be prepared. Do you know what they found? I’m a carrier for Tay-Sachs disease. Can you believe it?”

I shook my head. “I think I’ve heard of it, but I don’t remember what it is.”

“It’s a genetic disease. It’s usually associated with Jews, but according to my reading, it occurs in other small gene pools, like the Acadians. But you should get yourself tested. It’s best to know for sure. Now is a good time to be taking lots of antioxidants.”

“I will … have to get on that,” I said, my mind whirling but not settling as I passed Clementine’s soup bowl to my father, who stood at the head of the table, ladle in hand.

The dinner passed easily, with Clementine slipping seamlessly into the conversations that churned across the table. Everyone seemed to adjust to Clementine far more effortlessly than to Neil, but wasn’t that to be expected? She was a pastry chef, a breed my family understood. With the exception of Nico—whose inclusion of Adrian was simply bad behavior—I didn’t begrudge the uneasiness I’d seen during Neil’s visit.

I stole a glance at Nico. He’d moved on from staring at Clementine to
conversing more heartily with Nelson than any of us had ever seen, or were likely to see again.

After dinner, at a moment when Clementine was safely out of earshot, I edged over to my older brother and leaned toward his ear. “When are you going to ask her out?”

He stood up straighter. “What?”

“You like her. I think you’d be good together. You should ask her out.”

“Why don’t you go out with Adrian?”

I rolled my eyes. “First off, he never asked. Second, I’m seeing Neil. And third—and most important—we work together.”

“Well, I’ll be working with Clementine. Actually, she’ll be working
for
me.”

“But you like her.”

He didn’t answer.

“Just think about it,” I said, giving his arm a squeeze. “Because if you don’t make a move, sooner or later someone else will.”

Nico frowned, his gaze never leaving Clementine’s animated face.

“She’s good here,” I said. “Think about it.”

“Do you think”—he fiddled with his pockets—“she would?”