A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) (4 page)

I tried not to collect for collecting’s sake, and I strove to use all the ingredients in a timely fashion. But I’d become so busy at work that my pantry had grown to resemble an elitist food bank. Even my family found it a little nuts. And civilians? I usually chose to draw a veil of discretion over that particular hobby.

Behind one oversized cupboard door, boxes of pasta were piled haphazardly in one section, crowding the spice rack. Farfalle, campanelle, rigatoni, cavatappi, linguine, gemelli, orecchiette. I had to wonder, at what point was it appropriate to step back and admit a pasta problem? Oh, and there was a bag of organic penne hiding in the back.

In another cupboard I kept my tidy packages of heirloom beans and rice varietals; some dried red corn cowered in the back corner. I pulled out the containers and began to alphabetize them, fully aware that I was taking the mess inside my pantry and making it much, much worse.

I organized the pastas from acini di pepe to gemelli before I closed the cupboard, backed away, and turned my attention to my grandmother’s worktable.

My apartment kitchen could barely accommodate the addition, but I would have found a place for it even if it hadn’t. Grand-mère had been gone for only a couple of months. And while we could tell ourselves that at ninety-six we couldn’t expect her to stay with us forever, it felt as though after conquering nearly a hundred years on earth, shouldn’t she be able to conquer another hundred?

But in the end, she was gone, and none of us were ready.

With a heart full of memories, I turned my attention back to the table and the contents of its drawers. I re-sorted the kitchen tools I’d examined
previously, separating the ones I’d use from the ones I’d store elsewhere. Still full of energy, I moved on to the linen drawer.

I filled a large glass bowl with warm water and oxygen bleach and set the linens to soak, knowing they’d return to a truer white after an overnight bath and a spin in the washing machine.

I opened the last drawer and paused. With a deep breath, I scooped the recipe cards and cookbook out of their drawer and carried them on a tea tray to the living room.

Thinking Marti might like a series on family recipes, I sorted through the recipe cards, selecting the ones that our readers would be interested in—soufflés, tarts,
gougères
, galettes, crepes—things that would be accessible to my West Coast readers.

I skipped over the squab recipes. The angry letters from local ornithologists? I could do without them.

The cookbook was well used, with splatters of various sauces and broths marking the pages. There were notes in Grand-mère’s tiny handwriting, all of them in very precise French,
naturellement
.

I looked at the clock.

Three thirty in the morning. With a frustrated sigh, I picked up the phone and called Nico.

He picked up. “It’s late,” he said, “or early. I’m not sure which. What’s wrong?”

“I can’t sleep,” I said, sitting up in my armchair and crossing my legs. “Your restaurant idea. Your fault. So, tell me—what kind of restaurant were you thinking?”

“The kind where people sleep. It’s innovative that way.”

My head tilted in exasperated doubt. “You didn’t have any specific plans?”

“Of course I have specific plans. I have too many plans—that’s why I need you.”

“There’s market research to be done and menus to be designed. We’ll have to hire a graphic designer and get a billion permits from the city. It’s not just me
hanging up curtains in the front and you whipping up a bunch of pasta in the back.”

“Of course I know that. Stop being a brat.”

“Sorry.”

“So you’re in?”

I squared my shoulders. “I’m thinking about it.”

“Listen, stop worrying. We’ll do all the market research your heart desires. Frank’s got friends in city council; he’s done this a half dozen times. We can hire a graphic designer, but Alex is handy with that kind of stuff these days.”

I shook my head. “You can ask, but Alex has his hands full.”

“I’ll take that into consideration. Anyway, I figured that we’ll probably do a bit more than pasta if we’re doing a dinner place.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Something intimate, with its own personality. Not as formal as L’uccello Blu. I have too many ideas, honestly, but that’s something we can talk about. Would you agree to a meeting with me and Frank? We’ll throw some ideas around.”

“I don’t know. It might be too soon to bring him into the planning process. Any planning process.”

“But,” Nico countered, “if he’s in it from the ground up, he’ll feel more involved and will stay interested.”

“Do you remember when Sophie and Nelson were engaged? Sophie kept asking Nelson’s opinions on the wedding planning to keep him involved. He told her she could have whatever she wanted, but that wasn’t enough for Sophie—”

“And this relates how?” Nico interrupted.

“Hear me out. Sophie persisted until Nelson cracked, and lo and behold discovered that he didn’t actually want to register for the Kate Spade dishes and wanted the wedding colors to be red and brown rather than red and yellow. They nearly came to blows. Or at least Sophie almost did. Nelson doesn’t have the genetic predisposition for violence.”

“Why don’t I remember this?”

“No idea. But there’s a moral to the story: don’t ask for input unless you’re willing to receive it.”

“Point taken. I still think it’s a good idea.”

“Fine.”

“Fine,” said Nico, satisfied now that he’d gotten his way.

“I’m going to sleep now. Night!” I hit the End button on my phone and, just in case Nico was feeling vengeful, powered it off.

I decided to make a mug of warm vanilla milk. As I stirred the milk on the stove, my thoughts landed again on Grand-mère’s cookbook.

I fingered through the pages while I sipped my milk, adding a couple more recipes to the ones I thought the paper would find useful. Satisfied that I had plenty of material, I slipped the dust jacket off so I could take the book to work without worrying about potential damage.

As I removed the fragile paper, something caught my eye.

There was a photo. An old, faded photo attached with paste, it seemed, to the inside of the dust jacket. It was a portrait of a man, ordinary enough, but his face, with its strong chin and dark brows, took me completely by surprise.

With a sharp knife, I carefully separated the photo from the dust jacket. Once it was free, I flipped the photo over to see if there were any dates or inscriptions on the back and found nothing.

The photo was old, no doubt about it. The book itself was dated 1936. It was my grandmother’s cookbook—I knew that for sure. I had many memories of her referring to it when she was in the middle of making something throughout my childhood.

The man in the photo wasn’t my grandfather—my grandfather was fair, whereas the man in the photo was dark. My mind swirled with confusion. Why had the photo been hidden in such a strange place?

He had to be significant, whoever he was. Because not only had Grand-mère kept his photo all these years, but the man in the photo looked exactly like my brother Nico.

Throughout my life, I’d faced many confusing situations, but nothing had prepared me for that photo. Obviously, it had to have held some sentimental value for my grandmother or she wouldn’t have felt the need to keep it. From the light stains and gentle fraying around the edges, it had been handled often.

The fellow had to be family. The particular, difficult arch of Nico’s eyebrow, the dimple on the right cheek—he and Nico couldn’t
not
share genes.

I knew about my grandfather, but this man had obviously been a part of my grandmother’s life as well.

Was he a great-uncle I’d never heard about? a second cousin? The resemblance to Nico was so striking I found myself studying the image for differences and found few. Maybe the hairline was a little different, but with Nico’s shaggier hairstyle, it was hard to say.

Or perhaps … it could have been a very different relationship. He could have been a lover.

If that was true, there were two possibilities I could figure out. Either she met him before her marriage, which meant there was a chapter of her life that perhaps the rest of the family knew but had never shared with me, or Grand-mère had been involved with him after her marriage, which meant she’d had an affair.

That wasn’t an uncommon happening in France—or anywhere, for that matter—but that didn’t make it easier to think about.

If this man was related to Nico, it meant he was related to me. And my mother.

And no matter who he was, there had to be a story in it somewhere.

The next morning, I called my second-oldest sister, Caterina, on my way to work.

When she wasn’t chasing after her boys or maintaining a meaningful relationship with her husband, Damian, Caterina taught an Italian language and cuisine program that she’d built from the ground up. Her classes were in high demand among foodies in the Chicago area; heaven knew she was busy, but I knew she’d take my call if she could and call me back if she couldn’t.

“Jules! I’m missing you terribly this morning,” she said when she answered her cell phone. “And not just because the boys’ nanny didn’t show up and I am completely behind on work. I still have to review the curriculum for this month’s series, never mind the menus.”

“Sorry about that. I’d come and play hide-and-seek with the boys if I could get there in a reasonable amount of time. How’s registration?”

“Always hopping, my dear. Always hopping. I’m glad I like my job, because otherwise I’d go crazy.”

I couldn’t help but grin. Cat’s twin boys were three years old and high spirited in a way that surprised none of us—Cat’s childhood high jinks were some of my mother’s favorite stories during family gatherings.

“If you need someone to bounce ideas off of, I’m a phone call away,” I told her. “Hey, listen—I found a photo inside Grand-mère’s prep table.”

“Oh, I forgot you got that table. If I had room for it, I’d consider stealing it from you.”

“You’d have to get in line behind Nico. Anyway, I found this photo, and I
was wondering who it might be. It’s a man,” I said, trying to choose my words carefully. “And he looks like family. Did she have a brother or something?”

“No brothers, as far as I know. I know Great-grandpa Bessette really wanted a son and there was a bit of trickiness for a while over who would inherit the château. What does the guy in the photo look like?”

I waited for a bicyclist to choose his path before driving through the intersection. “Honestly, Cat? He looks like an old-world version of Nico.” I didn’t tell her just how unnerving the resemblance felt to me.

“Oh, really?” Caterina paused and considered that tidbit. “That’s interesting. Most of Grand-mère’s family were pretty fair. I’ve always assumed the darker coloring that you, Nico, and I inherited came from Dad’s side of the family. When in doubt, blame those swarthy Italians, you know?”

“I always think of the Provençal French being a bit darker, themselves.”

“Usually, yes, but not Grand-mère’s family. She told me once that her blond hair was one of the reasons she was considered a famous beauty.”

“I remember that now,” I said, as three skateboarders glided past my front fender.

“Not that she couldn’t have a secret dark-haired brother. Look at us—Alex and Sophie are plenty blond. Sophie didn’t have hair on her head until she was almost two. Her baby pictures are hysterical … Listen, I’ve got to jet, but good luck with the genealogy stuff.”

“Thanks. And good luck with your curriculum.”

“I’ll get it figured out,” Cat said. “I always do.”

We both hung up, and after an admirable job parallel parking, I spent a moment envying my sister’s life. It wasn’t perfect—she and Damian had been through the wringer of fertility treatments before they conceived the boys. But they struggled forward, and they did it together. Damian supported Caterina’s work one hundred percent, and I respected him for that.