A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) (15 page)

The following week, on Saturday, I woke up bright and early. This was partly because I wanted to browse the farmers’ market downtown. Also, I still wasn’t sleeping well, so when morning came, I’d been ready for it for at least an hour or two.

I examined the bags under my eyes in the bathroom mirror. Either I needed to buy a new eye cream, or I needed to solve this sleep issue soon. I wanted to sleep, but once my head hit the pillow, the stillness allowed plenty of space for my thoughts to roam. I thought about my mother’s diagnosis and ran variations of best- and worst-case scenarios through my head. I thought about Grand-mère, how much I missed her, and how much I wanted to ask her advice. I thought about the photo.

I thought about Neil—those were my least worrisome moments. And while I tried to pray in the darkness, asking the Lord for peace and sleep, rest only ever visited with reluctance.

But now, with my sleepless night behind me, I focused on the task ahead. The morning was bright and crisp, the ground damp with dew, the sky dotted with scant clouds. Basically, the perfect Portland spring morning. I threw my trench coat over my outfit, grabbed my canvas bag, and set off for the market.

The clear skies had half of Portland’s residents out at the market. I wove through the crowds, enjoying the eclectic music and stall offerings. I found asparagus, rhubarb, sorrel, and some beautiful, earthy wild mushrooms.

After picking up the produce I’d set out for, I wandered through the stalls of prepared foods. There were artisan cheeses, sweet and savory tartlets, kettle corn. Other stalls boasted Nepalese cuisine, Polish cabbage rolls, and Greek gyros. The scents I followed, though, were the sweet ones. I spotted a booth full of pastry and headed right toward it. There was something about the shape of the
kouign amann
and the particular shade of the almond croissants that looked familiar.

Once I got closer to the booth, I understood why.

“Clementine!” I called out, waving like a madwoman.

The dark-haired woman looked up at me, her face brightening. “Juliette!”

I reached the table with a few long strides. “It’s been ages!” I exclaimed, clasping her hand over the table. “How are you?”

“Terrific,” she said, bangles clanging as she propped a hand on her hip. “And out of work.”

“You’re kidding! I thought you were at Vinery.”

“I was, but I left for an opportunity at La Pastiche.”

I grimaced. “Ooh.”

The restaurant had risen quickly to great acclaim, but had been mismanaged and closed its doors after a year.

Clementine shrugged. “I’ve got my fans who visit me here every week, and I’m thinking of a food cart soon.” She tucked a strand of hair behind a multi-pierced ear. “I saw in the paper that Mireille passed away. I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks,” I said simply. “She’s missed.”

“She was an institution. I learned so much from her. She made me make everything over until it came out the way she wanted. I was so mad at first—and then I tasted what she made.”

“She was special.”

“I got it all right, in the end. Everything but
canelé
—I could never get the centers as soft and the outsides as crisp.” She shrugged. “The advantage to being in the States, though, is hardly anyone knows what good pastry is supposed to taste like.”

“Not that it really changes anything.”

“Nope. What are you up to these days?”

I filled her in on my work at the paper before segueing into the new restaurant. “We’re planning on using the patisserie space,” I said. “It’ll need some remodeling, of course, but I think it’ll be really nice in the end.”

“Have you hired your pastry chef yet?”

“I know Nico’s been talking to Mario Angioli, but nothing’s final.”

“You should hire me.” Clementine restocked her tabletop pastry case with
several swoon-worthy confections. “I can make a pâte à choux you’d swear was French. I’m great at candies and chocolate, and I make great ice cream.”

I hugged my arms to myself, trying to contain the excitement blossoming in my chest. “That’d be great, wouldn’t it? Grand-mère would have loved it.”

“I think so. After telling me to use a gentler touch with my laminated doughs.”

“Let me take your card. I’ll talk to Nico and see what I can do.”

“Absolutely not,” Nico said as we sat inside La Petite Chouquette Sunday afternoon. “I’ve already settled it with Mario.”

“But he hasn’t left his job, and he’s got a couple kids, doesn’t he? I’d feel bad pulling him away from something stable to join a start-up. Clementine’s between jobs as it is.”

“That can’t be a good sign.”

“Her work received a good deal of acclaim at La Pastiche—the fact that the place was mismanaged by the owners was out of her hands.”

Nico didn’t respond, so I continued. “She interned under Grand-mère, so her work is flawless. Just consider it. I think she’d be an impressive feather in the restaurant’s cap.”

“I’ll think about it. For now, let’s take a look at the space.”

“Keep thinking about it,” I said. “I called Clementine and asked if she’d come and audition for us.”

“Here?”

“She interned here, she’s familiar with the kitchen—why not?”

Nico scowled.

“Look at it this way—it’s free dessert.”

“I took an economics class, Etta. There is no such thing as a free dessert.”

“Please? For me?”

“Fine.” Nico’s frown didn’t change, but we turned our attention to the
inside of the patisserie. The truth was, it looked sad and lonely without customers bustling about and Grand-mère behind the counter—like a walnut shell without the meat nestled inside. For the first time, I felt truly at peace about using the patisserie. It needed the scents of food being prepared and enjoyed, the movement of people coming together to share meals.

“We can put tables around here, like this,” Nico said, his arms gesturing as he drew in the air. “Maybe put a bar here—”

I shook my head. “No bar. We don’t want to be a sixty-forty place.”

“A what?”

“Where sixty-year-old divorcés go to meet forty-year-old divorcées. Come on. Do you want a middle-aged man sitting up there, twirling his scotch and hitting on a woman while a jazz combo plays? I’m getting hives just saying it out loud.”

“The bar will make money.”

I had to concede the point, at least for the time being. “We’ll talk about it later. Let’s talk about what we’re going to call this place.”

Nico chuckled. “You know, I hadn’t even thought about it.”

“Really?” I walked outside, and he followed me. We stood together, taking in the building.”

“My last place was L’uccello Blu,” he said. “I liked that.”

A smile curled on my lips. “You know, the two front doors here—we could paint them.”

“I don’t really care. That’s up to you.”

“I’m just saying, we could paint them blue. L’uccello Blu, Two Blue Doors—”

“Two Blue Doors.” Nico rolled the words around in his mouth, testing them. “I like it.” He clapped his hands together. “That was easy. Do you want to take a look at the apartment?”

Moving on, then. “Probably should,” I said, wrapping my arms around myself. I hated the idea of being in Grand-mère’s home without Grand-mère, but the apartment couldn’t sit empty forever.

We had a couple of options—we could remodel and use it as extended seating. It did have a lovely little balcony, which would be nice during the summer dining season.

The renovations would, of course, take money. We’d have to knock out walls, remove bathtubs—pretty much gut the thing.

But as a living space, the apartment itself wasn’t in terrible condition. It was clean, having been attended to weekly by a housekeeper. Spacious by Portland standards, the space boasted two bedrooms and two complete bathrooms.

All that living space, however, was buried under decades of bric-a-brac and tchotchke. I wished Maman would take me up on my offer to come in with her to parse through the rest of it. But I respected her grieving process. Maman knew how to get things done, and when she was ready, we’d take care of it soon enough.

The kitchen, though—I loved that kitchen. Always had. It boasted a deep farmhouse-style porcelain sink, with lovely old fixtures that read “hot” and “cold” in French. It had a south-facing window that overlooked the patio garden—a perfect little slice of Provence.

“What do you think?” Nico asked, ruffling his hair as he looked around.

“It’d be a shame to change too much, I think,” I said slowly.

Nico turned, his gaze sweeping the interior. “You may be right,” he said.

By the time we came downstairs, I could tell Nico had forgotten about Clementine Grey’s dessert challenge.

But she, clearly, had not.

I’d left the soon-to-be-blue doors open, and Clementine had let herself in. As we entered the kitchen, I could see her putting the finishing touches on two bowls of something chocolaty.

“What is that?” I asked, taking a closer look.

Clementine finished her plating and stepped back. “Nutella mousse with hazelnut liqueur, served with chocolate-dipped hazelnut shortbread.”

She was good; I had to give her that. Nico and I shared a deep, genetic affinity for the chocolate-hazelnut spread. Without hesitation, I picked up the spoon and dug in.

An intense, perfectly complex Nutella taste met my tongue. My eyes slid shut. “That is so good.”

“Try it with the shortbread,” Clementine instructed.

I dipped the chocolaty-end of the shortbread into the mousse. The crunch of the cookie set off the rich mousse like a dream. A chocolaty, hazelnutty, Nutella-y dream.

Dragging my attention away from dessert, I looked to Nico to see his reaction.

He stood staring at me, spoon in hand, mousse untouched.

I frowned at him. “What on earth are you waiting for? Eat!”

Nico scowled but dug his spoon into the mousse. He took a bite; his face froze.

“Seriously,” I said, working two more spoonfuls, “I might lick the bowl.”

Nico shrugged. “It’s pretty good.”

Clementine squared her shoulders. “Pretty good?”

“You want the job?”

“Yes, I do,” she answered.

“I’ll think about it,” he told her, his expression guarded.

“Thank you,” Clementine replied, unfazed.

I scooped another bite of mousse. “This shortbread? It’s perfect.”

“It’s the French butter. I get it from your grandmother’s supplier—he gives us, I mean, me, a good deal. I bake croissants for him. He imports French butter but can’t bake. Isn’t that sad?”

I nodded, nibbling at the shortbread. “The butter certainly imports a richness of flavor that’s quite special.”

“You should hire me.” Clementine wiped down her work surface with
brisk efficiency. “Your grandmother trained me. I’m CIA certified. Graduated at the top of my class, which is not”—she poked the air with her index finger—“common. At all. Pastry—real pastry—is a man’s world. Cupcakes,” she said, rolling her eyes, “don’t count. My laminated pastries are flawless, and I have excellent chocolate technique. My macaroons taste French, and I’m excellent at custards—”

“You’re good,” Nico interrupted. “And you can have the job. I’ll talk to Mario.”

Clementine inclined her head. “Fair enough.”

Nico turned to me. “She’s bossy.”

I patted his arm. “Think of the mousse, Nico. Just think of the mousse.”