A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) (40 page)

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “But I bet if you asked, you’d find out.”

When I got home, I took Gigi out, then headed to my room and called Neil.

“How did it go?” he asked.

“Fine,” I said, scratching Gigi’s chin. “Better than fine, actually—Mom adores Clementine. Nico was absolutely miserable, sat and stared at her the whole time. He tried to talk to her at one point, but got completely tongue-tied.”

“Poor guy.”

“I have no sympathy for him.”

“None?”

“Maybe a little, but it doesn’t stick around for very long. I cornered him at the end and told him it was time to ask her out—that was fun. Oh—and I had a fantastically surreal conversation with Sophie. Granted, most of our conversations have their own touches of surrealism. One of these days we’ll be talking and my face is going to melt. Anyway, she’s gotten herself genetically tested for the ovarian-cancer gene and in the process found she’s a carrier for Tay-Sachs disease.” I waggled my fingers on the bedspread to get Gigi’s attention.

“She’s going to have Chloé tested and wants me to get tested as well. I’m honestly not sure what I think about it all.”

There was a momentary silence on the line. “Sophie’s a carrier for Tay-Sachs?” he asked. I could practically hear him thinking. “And your mom’s cancer …” He cleared his throat. “Genetically, I would surmise that one of your genetic contributors includes an Ashkenazi Jew.”

“A what? I’m not Jewish, so I’m not up on my lingo.”

“An ethnic Jew with origins in central and eastern Europe. Because Jews typically only married other Jews, certain genes are especially prominent generations later. The same is true in other communities begun with small gene pools—the Pennsylvania Dutch, for instance. The Acadians are another. Sorry—am I starting to sound too much like a lecturer?”

“It’s interesting,” I promised, my mind whirling with possibilities. “Keep going.”

“Tay-Sachs does appear within other populations with the same frequency—Acadians, for instance. However, if your sister tested positive for a BRCA1 or BRCA2 mutation—”

“BRCA2, is what Sophie said.”

“BRCA2, then—the presence of both of those genes would suggest an Ashkenazi Jew as a genetic source.”

My heart began to beat hard within my chest, and the thoughts that had begun to flutter at dinner now settled into clarity. “That was why she never told anyone,” I breathed as the pieces clicked together. “He was a Jew. The man in the photo was a Jew. She married Grand-père in 1943, so anything much
before then would potentially be in preoccupation France. Mom said there was a man, earlier, that her family didn’t approve of, and that would explain it. She was with him—married him even, if that ring from the trunk means anything—and had my mother.” Gigi nudged my hand with her nose; I stroked her ears absently. “Something must have happened to him, but they had to have been in love if she kept mementos, wouldn’t you think?”

“Makes sense to me.”

“And then she married Gilles, my grandfather, and never told a soul. Does that … does that sound crazy?”

“Plenty of crazy things happened during that time period.”

“I hate to think she wasn’t happy with my grandfather. They grew up together, you know. If only she were still here—I have so many questions to ask her!”

“Didn’t you find out the last name of the person who ordered the engagement ring?”

“Roussard. G. Roussard. Not a Jewish name, but plenty of Jews assimilated in France.” I thought for a moment. “The jeweler was named S. Roussard. It could have been a family member—there’s a long tradition of Jewish craftsmanship in jewelry. It … it could be.”

“Do you think your great-aunt in France might know more?”

“Maybe. I mean, I think I’d remember if Sophie or Caterina married someone, had a child, and then remarried. Mom said the family disapproved, so it couldn’t have been an entirely secret affair.” I chewed on my lower lip. “Come to think of it, the wedding date—the wedding to Gilles—must have been fudged, some, if my mother had a different father. Or my mother’s age, a bit.”

“Or both. Unless she was still pregnant at the time and married your grandfather quickly.”

“True.” I pressed my hand to my cheek. “This is nuts, but it feels like the first thing in a long time to have made sense.”

“There could be other explanations.”

“I know, but something tells me this is the right one. And as far as I know,
my mother has no idea her brother is her half brother and that her dad wasn’t really her dad.”

After going so long with very little attention, Gigi sighed and sprawled across the bed.

“What was their relationship like?” Neil asked.

“Fine, I think. He wasn’t a very affectionate man, from what I’ve heard. He died before I was born, but Alex and Sophie remember him. They said he always had candy in his pockets. Wrapped lemon drops.”

“So he was kind to children, at least.”

“I suppose. I guess I’ll find out more when I’m in France.” I shifted the phone to my other ear. “I wished you could have been there at dinner tonight.”

“I would have liked to be there with you. Did I tell you I have a new system?”

“A new system? No.”

“Every time I miss you, I make plans for what we’ll do when I see you next.” I couldn’t stop my grin.

“Oh, really?”

“It’ll have to be a long trip,” he said. “So far I’ve come up with a lot of plans.”

“We’ll work something out.” I took a deep breath, knowing I needed to sleep but not wanting to let go of the sense of peace I felt when I heard his voice. Neither of us spoke for a long moment.

“I should probably sleep,” I said, finally. “And you too, since you’re two hours ahead.”

“I know,” he said. “I just didn’t want to say it.”

I gave a soft chuckle. “Sleep well, Neil.”

“You too, Juliette. I love you.”

My phone intoned the end of the call, but all I heard were the mental echoes of those last three words.

The words played themselves over and over in my head—
I love you, I love you, I love you
. Maybe I’d heard wrong. Maybe he’d said “dove.” Or “glove.” Maybe “luck”? Or perhaps “live”? But none of those actually made sense unless he was calling me a dove, which would be oddly abstract for an immunologist.

Which meant … maybe I’d heard right the first time.

Maybe he loved me. Or maybe it had just slipped out.

The sounds of Clementine in the kitchen started at four in the morning. I stumbled out three hours later—realizing there was no point in trying to sleep between my conversation with Neil and the kitchen happenings.

At least the air smelled like sugary perfection.

“You’re up early,” Clementine said as I rounded the corner into the kitchen. Gigi raced past me, bounced around Clementine’s feet, and bounded toward the patio door.

I let her out to do her morning business.

“Couldn’t sleep,” I said, eying the array of assembled cream puffs on the prep table.

Clementine winced. “Sorry—my fault?”

I shrugged. “I was awakeable.”

“Sorry,” she repeated. “I woke up inspired.”

“That’s good.” I tilted my head from side to side. “I think I woke up with a crick in my neck.”

“Want some tea?” Clementine asked.

“Sure.”

I settled on a kitchen stool, watching as Clementine set the kettle of water to boil. “You know, it’s funny.”

“What is?”

“For years, I found that within my circle of friends, I was always the one who cooked for and took care of everyone. When I was a kid, it was the same—everyone was so busy doing other things that I did things for myself. It feels funny watching someone do something for me.”

“It’s good practice,” Clementine said. “Let someone do something for you for a change.”

“Feels weird.”

“I promise you can feed me sometime, when you’re not packing to go to Europe.”

“Fair enough.”

Clementine set a tea bag into a mug and poured the water over the leaves. “So what’s got you in a twist?”

“Neil.”

“Mmm,” said Clementine.

I accepted the tea and took a sip. “We might be moving to a different stage of the relationship.”

“You’re not sure?”

“It’s a relationship—is anyone ever sure?”

Clementine conceded the point.

“Anyway, it might be”—I searched for the right word—“shifting. But I’m not sure. And I’m not sure I can ask him to clarify. And I couldn’t sleep much
because of it.” I got up and let Gigi back in. “Do you need a hand with anything? Because I could stand to be distracted.”

“I need you to taste things. I’ve been thinking of a revision to the dessert menu, and this morning it was like everything in my head aligned. I came up with a variation on the molten-chocolate cake that doesn’t make me crazy with how brainless it is. You said the theme was date restaurant, man accessible, right?”

“Right.”

“So I added the Black Butte Porter—the one from Deschutes Brewery—to the chocolate cake. It makes the flavor a little darker, a little more complex. I wanted to do five or six desserts, with at least three of them seasonal. For the standards, I thought the chocolate cake and an Italian-style cream puff.” She nodded toward the cream puffs on the table. “Try one and tell me what you think.”

I wasn’t awake enough for silverware, so I picked up the cream puff and bit straight into it, forming a small cloud of powdered sugar. “That’s so good,” I said.

Clementine continued to watch me.

I dove in for a second bite. And then I found it—cherries. Ripe, real cherries in a fruity filling hidden at the center. “Oh my goodness,” I said, my mouth full. “That is amazing.”

“Glad you think so. I thought it was a clever play on Saint Joseph’s Day zeppole—cherries, but not those awful maraschino cherries.”

I nodded. “Maraschino cherries are the worst.” Another bite. “This cream puff almost tastes like a grown-up doughnut. And I mean that in the best way.”

“Oh, I agree. And while cherries will get difficult after a while, we can swap out the fillings seasonally. Maybe a citrus in the winter, that sort of thing. Though I was also thinking about putting some cherries up for the winter, so we’d have some.”

“No arguments from me. This is the best breakfast I’ve had in ages,” I said,
licking almond-flavored pastry cream from my fingers. “So—what else have you got?”

“I’m working on an updated tiramisu spin. We’ll see. It might be too close to the cream puff, with the pastry cream.”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” I said, considering. “We can let Nico think about that.”

“I’ll be working on it. But tiramisu is popular and not at all seasonal.”

“That’s true. You could do a layer of candied hazelnuts on the top. That wouldn’t be terrible.”

“No, it wouldn’t be. I was also thinking of doing a selection of ice creams and a sorbet special every week, during the summer.”

“I have full trust. Don’t forget about that Nutella mousse you made for Nico and me. That was memorable.”

“Have you decided what you’re going to do about Neil?”