A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) (18 page)

True to their word,
Portland Sunrise
made contact within a few hours. The assistant producer e-mailed, I e-mailed back, and within a couple of hours, we’d nailed down a date for my appearance on the show. I entered the event on my calendar with a knot in my stomach.

“You look as white as a sheet,” Linn commented, peering over the cubicle divide.

“I’m not charming on camera,” I answered. “I can fake it through radio, but the camera doesn’t lie.”

“The camera lies sometimes—it can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, it is,” I assured her. “My sister Caterina’s wedding? Videographer decided to get up close and personal with the bridesmaids during the ceremony. I made a series of faces—entirely by accident—that became Cat’s favorite part of the video.”

“Not her favorite part, I’m sure.”

“She told me it’s the part she watches when she’s depressed, because it gets a laugh every time.”

“Oh.” Linn reached over and patted my shoulder. “Well … morning TV should be better. Different. No one’s getting married.”

“Yes,” I said drily. “I’m sure it’ll help to be talking at 7 a.m. Because I’m so good at stringing sentences together that early.”

“I’ve heard you talk at seven in the morning.”

“Did it make any sense?”

Linn thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think it did.”

“That’s all right. The show will either go fine, or it won’t.” I looked up at Linn with a straight face. “My next task is to figure out what part of the country to flee to if it goes poorly.”

“Pick a place with sun and I’ll come visit you.”

“Noted,” I said, and we each returned to work.

When I left the newsroom for the day, I stopped at Whole Foods for groceries before returning home. I knew my parents had enough prepared food to last for a month or two, but my own larder had grown empty. Once at home, I rolled up my sleeves, slipped an apron over my head, and got comfortable in the kitchen. There was something about the rhythm of chopping vegetables, of seasoning food, of watching it transform that helped me relax.

Maybe I was barely succeeding at work or as a daughter, but if I roasted asparagus for twenty minutes, it would become bright and toothsome. My world had become unpredictable, but at least I could rely on the goodness of the Lord and the consistency of green vegetables.

Once I had dinner on the table, I wrote a short note to Neil, apologizing for my lack of correspondence and bringing him up to date with my mom’s surgery, Cat’s visit, and my upcoming TV appearance.

Afterward, I drove to the patisserie and took measurements of the space before writing a list of updates. We needed to get bids on the remodeling, and that kind of follow-through just wasn’t in Nico’s wheelhouse.

I repeated the process—or some variation—over the next week, working, cooking, and driving back and forth between my apartment and the patisserie. Late Friday night, while the rest of Portland was just beginning to celebrate the weekend, I unlocked the upstairs apartment and took a look around.

It took me all of thirty seconds to make the decision.

“I need the apartment over the patisserie,” I told Nico while he was on break at Elle later that night. “My job is only getting busier, and I can get more done if I’m only walking downstairs to get to the restaurant rather than driving three miles in inconsistent traffic.”

Nico opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off with a raised hand.

“You wanted me to do the restaurant; I’m doing the restaurant. This is my price. And no, we don’t need the upstairs for seating just yet. Better to launch with the existing downstairs and expand from there.” I gave a curt nod. “I think that’s it. I’ve got to get back to work and finish my list of contractors to call in the morning.” I paused, smiling. “I also thought I’d ask Clementine if she wanted to room with me.”

Nico may have wanted to say something, but I didn’t stick around to find out, striding instead for the door as quickly as my ballet flats could carry me.

But Nico was, in truth, smarter than I gave him credit for. He didn’t even try to outrun me; he picked up his phone instead.

“Yes?” I said, feeling sheepish when I answered. I sat in my car, keys not yet in the ignition.

“I’m not moving that prep table again. Alex can help you move that table. I will give you money to hire movers to move the table. But me? Not happening. Not doing that again.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, then.” He cleared his throat. “And Clementine’s all right.”

“I know. That’s why we hired her.”

He grunted his good-bye. I hung up with a smile. I smiled even larger when my phone beeped, announcing a new arrival in my inbox from Neil.

When my alarm chimed on Monday morning, my senses snapped to awareness in record time.

Moving day.

As I moved through my morning routine, I felt acutely aware of the fact that this was my last day in my apartment. The last time I’d accidentally clank the glass door in my shower, last time I’d brush my teeth at that sink, last time I’d make coffee in that kitchen—my sentimental Italian genes wouldn’t shut up. I dressed for the day in jeans, a bright pink tee, and a gray cozy hoodie, then pulled my hair back into a ponytail. At the last minute, unable to deny my Italian heritage, I threw on a multistrand necklace.

Who says you can’t accessorize when you’re moving?

Light makeup, a swipe of lip gloss, and I felt ready to face the day.

Ready until I looked out my front window and saw the approaching figures below.

Nico. Alex.

And Adrian.

I ducked away from the window and wiped the gloss off with the back of my hand. Don’t know why I bothered—I had a feeling Adrian would flirt with
any woman, provided she was wearing a little mascara and was still breathing. Seconds later, one of the men knocked on the door.

Oh well. At least it was free labor, even if it was costly to my mental health.

“Are you ready?” Nico asked, hands on hips as he surveyed the packed and taped boxes stacked throughout my living room.

“As much as I’ll ever be.” I hugged Alex and turned to Adrian to wave hello. “Thanks for giving me a hand.”

“Anytime,” Adrian replied, giving me an appreciative once-over as he shrugged out of his leather jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “You look good.”

“Hmm,” I said, less than wittily.

Over the next several hours, we made countless trips up and down the steps, packing away my life into the moving van below. For once, the Portland skies opted to cooperate, the clouds gray but not damp.

Adrian—and his snug black tee—seemed to revel in the opportunity to show off his upper arms. He kept a running count of how many boxes he’d carried, egging Nico to keep his own tally.

Alex just rolled his eyes and carried my bronze floor lamp down the stairs. Later, Alex and Adrian moved the prep table. Without complaining.

Once the moving van and all the cars were full and my apartment wasn’t, everyone piled into vehicles to make the trip to the patisserie, my new home.

Nico took the keys to my car. I slid into the passenger seat of my parents’ truck, next to Alex. I watched as my car pulled out of the driveway. I had just buckled my seat belt when Adrian rapped against the window.

“Nico left without me,” he said when I rolled down the window. “Can I catch a ride with you?”

“Of course,” Alex said, before I could suggest that Adrian could hitch a ride on the trailer and keep my couch steady.