A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) (21 page)

Chloé came bounding toward my car when she saw me. “This is so cool! Mom texted me to say you were coming. I like your car. Can we go somewhere? I need to go somewhere for a school assignment, so could we go together?”

“Ah—repeat that?”

“I have this creative writing assignment. My teacher wants us to go to a secondhand store or antique shop, find an object, and write about the origins of that object.”

“That sounds like a good project.”

“Everybody was complaining about it, but I thought it was kinda cool. So, can we go?”

I checked my watch and then shifted my Alfa into gear. “Yes. I know just the place. But first? I need lunch.”

“If you hadn’t gotten out early,” I said as we pulled up to R. Spencer’s in the Sellwood District, “this might not have worked. As it is, they close at five, but time shouldn’t be an issue today.”

Chloé nodded. “Have you been here before?”

“I have,” I said, unbuckling my seat belt. “I have a soft spot for antique china and table linens.”

“My mom hates antiques.”

“True. What do you think?”

Chloé shrugged. “I don’t know. Can we go in?”

“Sure.”

We walked beneath the blue awning and entered the store. Chloé sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”

“Time,” I said, winking at her. “Want to look around?”

A female store associate appeared from behind a mahogany highboy. “Anything I can help you with?”

I shook my head just as Chloé took off in the opposite direction. “Look at this! You have to see this—it looks just like Grand-mère Mimi’s!”

Both the associate and I followed her enthusiasm. Chloé stood, pointing, right next to a steamer trunk that did look just like Grand-mère’s.

“Oh,” the associate said pleasantly, “you’ve got a wonderful eye. This isn’t just any trunk either.”

Chloé and I watched as the woman lifted the lid to reveal the beautiful interior.

“This trunk was made by Goyard—you can see the label here. E. Goyard Aîné—that’s the name that Edmond Goyard gave to the business when he took over the company from his father. The distinctive red ribbons beneath the lid are one of their signature details, as well as the brass fittings. Goyard, the brand, is one of the oldest French makers of luxury luggage. They’re a sought-after item as it is, but this one has some special details.

“Some trunks,” she continued, “have secret places to store special belongings. The Victorians liked their secrets, especially. A lot of desks from that era have hidden areas, usually for private correspondence. In this trunk, there’s a hidden panel behind the decorative painting—see?”

We watched as her fingers slid the painting to the side, revealing a small cubby.

“Cool,” Chloé breathed. She looked up at me, eyes gleaming. “Is there a secret hiding place in Grand-mère’s trunk? Have you looked?”

“I’ve looked inside,” I said, choosing my words carefully. Just because one Goyard trunk had a special hiding place didn’t mean Grand-mère’s did as well. Except …

I had a gut feeling that, this time, I would find something. Something more than old clothes. I would look again, but the last thing I wanted was my niece looking over my shoulder, ready to tell Sophie everything.

“I’ll tell you what,” I said at last. “I’ve got to go home and get some work done, and you’ve got a project to work on. How about we take a look at it tomorrow night, when you come over with your parents for dinner?”

Chloé’s dimples flashed. “Perfect!”

It was—as long as I made sure to check out the trunk first.

Sophie’s car shaded the driveway when I pulled up to her house. Chloé un-snapped her belt. “Thanks so much for taking me to R. Spencer’s. It was supercool—I can’t wait to work on my project.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m such a geek.”

“The best sorts of people are,” I told her, unbuckling myself. “I’ll walk you in.”

Gigi greeted us at the door. “What are you doing here?” I asked, bending over to give her a pat.

“We’re keeping her for now,” Chloé said, shrugging out of her coat.

We found Sophie inside, paler and more worn than usual. Sophie greeted her daughter, planting a kiss on her forehead, smoothing her hair, and asking after her day before sending her down the hall to begin her homework.

“So—you’re taking care of Gigi?” I asked, trying to make conversation.

“The dog required more energy than Maman could give her,” Sophie answered before looking away.

I didn’t get the feeling that Sophie would devote much more herself. Maybe Chloé would become a devoted dog walker. “Is everything okay? You seem more … tense than usual.”

Sophie crumpled. “They ran tests at the doctor’s!”

I took her arm and led her to the sofa. “Yes?”

Cancer. It had to be cancer. It made perfect sense—Mom got diagnosed, Sophie got scared, and sure enough the doctors found something.

“I made them check twice to be sure.” She held her hands out. “I don’t know what I’m going to do!”

“We’ll figure it out,” I said, clasping one of her hands. “What did the doctor say?”

Tears ran down Sophie’s face. I hadn’t seen her this upset since Todd Bianchi broke up with her right before her senior prom.

“The doctor said I’m allergic to
dairy
,” she spat out. “Dairy! No milk, no cream, no butter, no cheese …” A sob escaped. “What am I going to do?”

“Aw,” I said, relief flooding over me as I comforted my sister—my high-maintenance, high-strung, much-loved sister. “I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”

Back at home, I walked straight to Grand-mère’s trunk.

Just to see. Just to find out.

I lifted the lid and examined the top panel, which did look just like the one at the shop. When it moved beneath my fingers, my heart stopped.

A hidden panel.

A hidden panel with a box tucked inside.

It was a small box, but then again, secrets didn’t necessarily require much square footage.

My face flushed and my fingers shook, ever so slightly, as I opened the painted tin box.

A gentleman’s handkerchief with the initials “GR” embroidered on the corner. A man’s wristwatch. Gold cuff links, cleverly shaped like tiny pastry cutters. A lock of dark hair in a yellowed envelope. A narrow engagement ring with a row of tiny inset diamonds.

I fingered the ring.

I guessed the handkerchief—and the initials—belonged to the man in the photo. My grandfather Gilles’s surname had been Durand—and he had been blond.

Did the hair belong to the mystery man? It seemed to have more curl than the man in the photo, but it was hard to tell.

The pastry-cutter cuff links were particularly clever. Was he a pastry chef? a craftsman of pastry tools? simply fond of pastry-related men’s accessories? I suspected the first, but would remain open minded.

I looked at my finds.

There was no room to question whether Grand-mère had been involved with another man or not. I couldn’t think of any other explanation—she had one sister, so it couldn’t have been a brother’s belongings. Most telling were the cuff links—her father hadn’t been thrilled about her going to pastry school in the city, so they certainly weren’t his.

And then there was the ring. Had she been married before Grand-père Durand?

My mind continued to process the secret in the trunk even as I began to prep the tagine in the kitchen.

Why would Grand-mère hide a previous marriage, if that’s what it was? Had Grand-père Durand known? How could he not? How did the romance I grew up hearing about work into the story?

I ached to confide in someone. Since my last reply to Neil, I’d heard nothing. Sure, it had only been a couple of days, but as night fell and the silence stretched, I began to wonder how long our relationship would last.

Feeling maudlin, I set to work chopping carrots.

When my marinating lamb hit its eight-hour mark, I assembled the rest of
the stew and set it to simmer on the stove, swimming in saffron-spiked beef stock and jewel-like carrots. The smell was already intoxicating, and soon that scent would fill the apartment.

Some girls would rather smell like sandalwood or jasmine than stewed lamb, but as long as it was really
good
lamb, I didn’t mind one bit.

Since my dinner would be late, I made myself a plate of antipasti and poured a glass of Pinot Noir. I also checked my e-mail—nothing.

I bit my lip. Ego bruised, I took my food and drink into my new living room, built a fire in the fireplace to dispel the spring chill, and relaxed by looking at cookbooks and Grand-mère’s recipe cards. Ingredients, edible chemistry—these things made sense to me, even if my life didn’t.

A road map, anytime, Lord
, I prayed.

As the tagine simmered away on the stove, my apartment smelled increasingly delicious. I couldn’t help but think of Éric, the first time he’d made me tagine—which, not coincidentally, was also the night we shared our first kiss.

My first kiss.

When we dated, I daydreamed about marrying Éric, being half of a restaurant couple like my parents. They were the daydreams of a very young woman, but I’d enjoyed them. Everybody knew what a talented chef Éric was, and unlike the rest of my family, he was genuinely interested in my thoughts and input. He was the first man I’d ever met who wanted me to taste his food and listened to my comments.

In fact, Éric’s trust in my palate was one of the reasons I had the confidence to move into food journalism.

I continued to page through recipes, marking ones I wanted to test and possibly write about on my blog. My stomach began to growl; the timer couldn’t sound soon enough. When the lamb was nearly ready, I assembled the couscous.

To prep dessert, I peeled an orange, sliced it, and plated the slices. In a separate bowl, I mixed a bit of lemon juice with some sugar and cinnamon. When everything was finished and the lamb was done, I ladled the tagine over
the couscous and carried my bowl to the couch. With my feet tucked under a blanket, I ate my dinner alone, contented.

Sometimes not having to share has its benefits.