A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) (17 page)

Sophie glared at me.

I ignored her. The e-mail icon appeared in my corner of my screen. Before I could pause to think about the ramifications, I paged to my inbox.

Neil. It was an e-mail from Neil.

My face flushed—he was thinking about me? I felt fifteen all over again.

I laughed.

Sophie leaned over my shoulder. “What is that? What are you laughing at?”

“Nothing.” I felt my face flush a deeper red.

“Nothing?” Cat echoed.

“Nothing that would interest either of you.” I tried to return to my reading casually.

“I doubt that,” said Cat.

Sophie leaned closer.

I elbowed her in the ribs. “Seriously!”

“Ow!”

“Filles!”
Mom cut in.

“Gabrielle?” the nurse called from the doorway.

I flushed deeper. How embarrassing, to be caught squabbling with my sister in the oncology waiting room.

Over an e-mail from a boy, no less.

Sophie didn’t seem the least bit chastened.

Suddenly, I wanted to scream. All I could think about was how much I didn’t want to go through my mother’s closet, the way I was going through Grand-mère’s. But here we were, at an appointment for cancer surgery. The cancer felt real, for the first time.

And for the first time, I was truly scared.

“Juliette, let’s go!”

I looked up to see Mom following the nurse and Sophie waiting for me, exasperated.

“This is bad, Soph,” I said, just out of Mom’s earshot.

“Of course it’s bad,” she retorted, hiking her purse higher on her shoulder. “Why do you think we’re here?”

The appointment went about as well as it could. Mom sat on the exam table, Sophie sat in the first chair, and Cat offered me the second. The nurse exclaimed
over how small the room was before she strapped an ID bracelet onto my mother’s tiny wrist and gave brusque instructions about fluids and fasting before the surgery. When the doctor asked if she had any questions, my mother demurred. Sophie, though, came with a list of questions she’d compiled with the help of WebMD. Cat made jokes and teased Sophie, trying to lighten the mood and further incensing Sophie in the process.

I wished I’d asked Neil for questions. Instead, I just sat quietly, feeling like the kid at the grownups’ table. I clutched Maman’s purse, holding it on my lap so it wouldn’t have to sit on the floor.

Afterward, I returned home to my apartment, numb. A stack of work needed my attention, but I couldn’t will myself to sit at my computer.

Without being fully aware of what I was doing, I flipped the lights on in my kitchen and began to measure out chicken stock and arborio rice.

The butternut squash in my pantry found itself quartered and set to roast in the oven. I plucked a few leaves of sage from my kitchen herb garden and minced them fine. Butter, shallots, rice, and herbs. Roasted squash and parmesan. The risotto took shape, its savory scent filling my apartment.

When it was done, I looked down at the work of my hands. Sure, I couldn’t fix anything. Some things—okay a lot of things—had to remain in the hands of God. But food?

That I could take care of.

With steadier hands, I packed risotto into lidded glass containers and placed them in a foil-lined bag to take to my parents.

I didn’t remember Neil’s e-mail until I went to bed. In the dark, I reached for my phone and read the last few paragraphs.

There were just a few more lines about the conference, some notes on the food (because he knew I’d wonder), and sweet words at the end.

I’d told him I had too much going on, that my life was too complicated.
Somehow he’d snuck into my thoughts and my life, all without having met face to face.

He made me happy.

With my mother sick, I felt guilty taking that time to be happy.

I wanted to write him back, but I didn’t know what to say. Instead, I put my phone away, rolled over, and tried not to think about how cold my feet felt.

The next two weeks sailed by. My mom made it through surgery without complications, other than a poor response to the anesthesia. Cat stayed on for three more days, and between the two of us, we filled the freezer with easy meals. I knew Cat was glad she’d come out, but I could read the strain on her face as she tried to keep up with her family in Chicago while helping tend to our mom. By the time Damian called to tell her about his most recent trip to the ER—Luca had had an unfortunate incident with a waffle iron—I could tell she was ready to break.

Still she pressed on, helping me sort through the back bedroom at Grand-mère’s apartment.

I thought about Neil every night. Still couldn’t figure out what to say.

Even as my family life demanded an increasing amount of thought and attention, my workload increased as well. I wrote about fondue—fondue and barbecues and taco bars—and continued to work on the piece about Grand-mère on the side.

Marti called me into her office a week after Maman’s surgery. “Good news!” she said, eyes dancing. “I’m sure you’ve guessed from your reader feedback, but your new column has been very popular.”

“Oh good,” I said, both pleased and disappointed. If we’d had poor reader feedback, I might have been able to convince Marti to let me pursue other source material.

“I wanted you to know that we’ve been discussing syndication with other
print and Internet news outlets. Also,
Portland Sunrise
is very interested in having you appear on the show.”

My eyes widened. “Television?”

“I’ll put you in touch with the producer, of course, but they’re particularly interested in having you do a demo of the fondue party.”

“But what’s to demo?” I asked, trying and failing to picture it in my head. “Do people not know how to dip things in warm sauce anymore?”

Marti leveled her gaze at me. “How to set it up, how to keep temperatures stable. Just mime the existing piece—no need to reinvent it. Let me know once you’re in touch with
Sunrise
, and put your thinking cap on for your next installment. I think this could be very successful, Juliette.”

I nodded, thanked her, and walked back to my desk. Television? The idea frightened me. I wasn’t Cat—I wasn’t smooth and charming in front of people. In front of an audience, every ounce of poise I possessed tended to sweat itself out.

For twenty minutes, I sat at my desk, trying to wrap my head around the situation and think of solutions.

Twenty minutes later, I was no further than when I’d begun.