A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) (43 page)

I had a lot of time to think on the plane. Ten hours and fifty-five minutes, to be exact. With Ellie Holcomb’s sweet music piped into my ears via earbuds, I stared out the window and tried to process the last twenty-four hours. And while I was at it, there seemed to be good reason to take stock of more than the last three months.

The truth was, I’d made a truly epic mess of my life.

Sure, I wasn’t in prison or anything. But somehow I’d let guilt and perceived expectations dictate my life. When I hadn’t gotten what I’d wanted—Éric and a career in a restaurant kitchen—I’d let myself fall into my life choices, rather than make them myself.

I’d allowed my guilt to keep me from being honest with Nico, and honest with myself. I’d allowed my fear to keep me from a healthy relationship with Neil.

Deep shame washed over me.

This wasn’t who I wanted to be. It wasn’t who God wanted me to be, but I’d been so busy feeling some strange combination of frightened and responsible that I’d stopped listening to him. Instead, I’d let the strong tide that was my family and Marti carry me along.

I thought of Grand-mère and her table. I remembered what I’d told Nico about it, those months ago.

She willed the table to me
.

Had it been intentional? Had she left her secrets behind, loosely hidden, for me to find? I’d never know, of course, at least not in this lifetime. But in my gut I knew that Grand-mère’s secret story held wisdom that was meant for me.

Was that why I’d chosen not to tell my family? Maybe it wasn’t really to protect my mother. Maybe it was because I knew I needed to discover grand-mère’s story and to hold its truth close to my heart before sharing it with others.

I landed at Charles de Gaulle airport at 11:25 in the morning, around the time that Parisian minds begin to turn to lunch. I picked up my little rental car—a sunny little Fiat—and called Sandrine to check in.

Rather than make the six and a half-hour drive fresh off the plane, I told her I planned to get a hotel room, stay the night in Paris, and leave in the morning after a fortifying night’s sleep.

Sandrine agreed wholeheartedly, offering to call a friend of hers with a hotel in the 4th arrondissement to see if she had room for me, before recommending a handful of restaurants, shops, and markets to visit before heading her way.

First, I would attend to lunch. I negotiated my way southwest on the A3 toward the 4th, just in case Sandrine’s lead did pay off. Once I’d reached the 4th, I pulled off onto the side streets, parked, and walked until I found something that appealed for lunch.

Sandrine called me back while I was, admittedly, plowing through my second buckwheat crepe. “My friend had no room, but
her
friend, across the street did. So go to le Petit Hôtel, ask for Inès, and tell her Léa sent you.”

I agreed, but not before eating a dessert crepe and walking down the street.

I did spare a moment to stop at a spice shop for a couple of items to add to my pantry collection.

Somehow, walking down the street in Paris made me feel as though I understood Grand-mère just a little better. I imagined her as a young woman,
attending culinary school, away from the family château for the first time and loving her taste of freedom.

The funny thing was, I came from a long line of women who wrote their own stories. Grand-mère attended pastry school. My mother left France to go to America and married an Italian in the process.

And then there was my father, who left his brothers in Italy to open a restaurant of his own in the Pacific Northwest.

Why was I so afraid of forging my own path?

Le Petit Hôtel turned out to be only a short distance away, but I reparked my car all the same. Inès greeted me with enthusiastic kisses on the cheek, welcoming me to Paris, wishing me all the best in Montagnac, and inviting me to stay with her upon my return.

“If you bring me some of Sandrine’s honey, I will discount your room. Léa has lorded that honey over me for too long!”

I finally conceded to my travel weariness and napped in my hotel room. Upon waking, I showered off the travel grime I’d accumulated over the last twenty-four hours.

Looking out the window, I could see Parisians walking home from work. They wouldn’t consider dinner for at least another two hours—it was only six o’clock, after all. I ticked back the hours.

Around nine. Nico would be awake, so I called.

“How’s France?” he asked, sounding almost casual enough to make me think he’d forgotten that we’d parted in anger.

“French,” I answered. “We need to talk.”

Nico yawned. “I haven’t had any coffee yet.”

I rolled my eyes. “Too bad. Here’s the thing. Mom and Dad met on an airplane. While emigrating from separate countries. It was crazy, and Mom’s dad hated it. But they loved each other, and they made it work.”

“Jules—”

“You’re my brother,” I said gently. “And I love you. But I have to make my own choices and choose my own mistakes, and I need you to respect that. I’m
not asking you to agree; I’m asking you to give me room to figure myself out. As it happens, I think I’m more of a late bloomer than I ever realized.

“Secondly,” I continued, “you should know that Éric and I dated for a year when he was your sous-chef.”

I stayed silent for a moment to allow Nico time to absorb that tidbit.

“I felt guilty for a long time because we broke up … and he left. I felt like it was my fault that L’uccello Blu failed—”

“No, Jules,” Nico interrupted. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I’m still processing that. I saw Éric in Seattle, between flights.”

“How is he?”

“Good. He wanted to know if you were dating your female pastry chef.”

Nico snorted. “You’re making that up.”

“I swear on my signed edition of
The French Laundry Cookbook
I did not.”

“I should go visit him.”

“He’d like that. Thirdly, I might go off and move away. Maybe to Memphis, although Neil and I broke up. Maybe somewhere else. I might even move to Paris. I need you to be okay with the fact that I might leave.”

Nico sighed. “What would I do without you?”

“For the love of all that is holy, how many times do I have to tell you to take Clementine out on a date?”

“You’re really stuck on that,” he said dryly.

“I am.”

“You’re stubborn.”

“So are you,” I answered lightly. “Are we okay?”

He sighed. “You really liked that Neil guy?”

“He was the one who suggested I reevaluate my work life, when my work life was causing me to vomit in the greenroom at the
Portland Sunrise
studio.”

“Huh? All right, then.”

“We’re okay?” I repeated.

“You’re my sister, Jules. We’re always okay. You stay safe over there.”

I drove south to Montagnac the next morning. I took in the house, surrounded by oaks down the drive and fields of lavender all around. Château de L’Abeille, where my grandmother had grown up.

The sound of the bees filled my ears the second I stepped out of the car. It was the sound of pollination, of new life, of change. I loved it.

A woman stepped out from the front door and waved at me with a dishtowel in hand. She looked a lot like Sophie, with her fine blond hair and pale eyes.

“Bonjour, Juliette! Ça va?”
Sandrine wrapped me in a hug, complete with double kisses. “How was your drive? How was the room at Inès’s hotel? The jet lag—do you need coffee? Come, come inside. Welcome to Château de L’Abeille. We are so excited to have you, Maman and me.”

“I am so glad to be here.” I looked all around, taking in the views. “I forget how beautiful it is.”

“Yes, it is beautiful,
non
?” Sandrine agreed, looking around with her hands on her hips, the picture of a satisfied proprietress. “You were quite small when you were here last.”

“I’m happy to pay for a room,” I said as we walked inside together. “I know this is peak season for you.”

“
Non non, jamais
. There is plenty of room in the family wing. There is room—you will see. The farm makes enough money that we don’t have to use the entire château as an inn to make ends meet. Also, I am a very good cook. So I never allow more than six guests at a time. I charge a great deal for my cooking,” Sandrine stated, with a dramatic amount of eyebrow waggling, “and nobody complains.
Bon
. I will take you to your room, and then you must see Maman. She will be glad to see you. Hearing of Mireille’s death saddened her,
naturellement
.”

“I would love to ask her questions about my grandmother,” I said, clutching my suitcase. “About her youth.”

“
Oui oui
. You must know that she has
la maladie d’Alzheimer
. How do you
say it? The Alzheimer’s disease. Some days are good, but other days she thinks I’m the new kitchen maid.” Sandrine shook her head. “I am lucky she was always kind to the kitchen maids.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Sandrine lifted her shoulder in a very French shrug. “
C’est la vie. Voilà—
here are the family rooms. The toilet and bath are down the hall.” We stopped at the first room, finished with yellow toile wallpaper and accented with a vase full of lavender buds.

“It’s lovely,” I said, wheeling my suitcase inside.

Once I was situated, Sandrine took me to see Grand-tante Cécile.

“Coucou,”
Sandrine called as she rapped on the door with her knuckle.
“Maman! Juliette est arrivée, la petite-fille de ta soeur, Mireille.”

I looked over Sandrine’s shoulder at Cécile. She held court in her sitting room, which overlooked the lavender fields from south-facing windows. When Grand-tante Cécile turned, she took my breath away. Her resemblance to Grand-mère was undeniable. Cécile’s hair was soft and downy white. Though her face was wrinkled, her delicate bone structure still showed through.

The genes in my family certainly ran strong—which was, of course, one of the reasons I was there. If I was lucky, Cécile might remember.

“She and my father spoke English together,” Sandrine said as we entered the room. “So they could say things without me understanding when I was young. Some days she still has English, sometimes not. It is the same with everything. And her hearing—it is best to speak up.”

“Sandrine!”
Grand-tante Cécile’s face lit up when she saw us enter the room.
“Entrez, entrez! Asseyez-vous ici avec moi! Venez et partager un morceau de gâteau avec une vieille dame.”

I smiled. “You’re not old,” I said. “
Vous êtes très, très jeune, Grand-tante Cécile
. I’m Juliette, Mireille’s granddaughter,” I continued, testing out her English. To my relief, Cécile nodded.

“Yes—you look just like her.” She patted my hand. “So pretty. You have the same eyes.”

My eyes had to be the only similarity—I was tall, curvy, and dark, where Mireille had been fair, lithe, and petite. But the eyes, well, I wasn’t about to argue.

“Très bien,”
Sandrine said, clasping her hands to her waist. “I must return to the inn. The kitchenette is just around the corner, if you’d like tea or anything else to eat.
À plus tard
.” She gave a small wave and left.

“I’ll be here for a few days,” I said, reaching into my bag. “I would love to chat with you about my grand-mère Mireille.”

“Ah, Mireille.” Cécile shook her head. “Unlucky, that one.”

I froze. “Oh?”

“Would you like cake? It’s very good, made with lavender and honey from the château. Our eggs, as well. Not everybody can make a perfect cake, but Sandrine can. Your grandmother could also. She could put something in the oven, leave, and we would be sitting and talking. And then all of a sudden, she would jump up”—Cécile raised her hands in the air—“and she would go and take whatever it was out of the oven. It would always be perfect. She was a very good baker.”

I gave a bittersweet smile. “Yes, she was.”

“Oh, she made Papa so furious when she insisted on going to pastry school in the city. It wasn’t done, you know, at least not for a woman of good family. But she was stubborn, and Papa loved her best. So”—Cécile shrugged—“she went. Changed everything—just like Papa said it would.” She turned away and looked out the window before sipping her tea.