A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) (23 page)

“Your grand-mère Mimi brought that trunk here from France,” my mother said, taking a delicate bite of chicken. “It was quite old. I didn’t know it was a Goyard, though.”

“It’ll wait until after dinner,” Sophie said, handing Chloé’s plate back to her. “Eat up.”

At last, something Sophie and I agreed about.

“You think Gran had something secret stashed in there?” Nico asked Mom.

Mom lifted a shoulder. “Not that I know. But she was a very private lady. Very French.”

I processed that information. One way or another, I had to get to my room and move the tin out of the secret compartment.

I served up everyone’s dinner before retreating to the kitchen, removing my apron, and walking back out with a bottle of chilled white wine. “Chenin Blanc, anyone?”

Half of the group raised glasses, and I walked around the table to accommodate. By the time I reached for Nico’s glass, he was midstory and gesticulating riotously, per usual. If I timed it just right …

I poured the wine into Nico’s glass, positioning it in the line of fire. And sure enough, his hand hit the glass, sending a slosh of white wine over my blouse and jeans.

“Don’t worry,” my mother said. “It’s white. It’ll wash.”

“It’s so cold!” I said, in a tone I feared sounded too theatrical. “I’ll let you finish your own glass, Nico. I’m going to change into something dry.”

And just like that, I was out.

In the bedroom, I went straight to the trunk, removed the tin, and hid it in a shoebox before sliding the shoebox beneath my bed. In its place I put a few items of jewelry I’d found in the back of one of the bureau drawers, wrapped in a lacy handkerchief.

With the family scandal hidden away—for the time being—I shrugged out of my damp clothes and used the edge of my bathrobe to absorb the last bits of wine from my skin.

I shrieked when the knock sounded at my door.

“It’s just me,” said my mom’s voice. “I just wanted to know if you needed any help setting your clothes to soak.”

My eyes darted to the trunk. Closed.

She’d never know. At least not tonight. “I … um …” I pulled on a pair of dry jeans and a jersey Tracy Reese top before opening the door. “Sorry. I just had to get zipped up.”

I received a blank look. Nudity for a Frenchwoman is less of a deal than nudity to an American. I could have opened the door stark naked and she’d never have batted an eyelid. “Do you think I can just throw the clothes in the wash? It was just white wine, after all.”

“I suppose that’s fine. What’s your blouse made of?”

“Rayon.”

A slight wrinkling of the nose. “Oh well, then, I suppose it’s fine.”

I smothered a smirk. My mother hated synthetic fibers. I doubted if a thread of poly had ever touched her skin.

“You’ve done a very nice job with the apartment,” she said, taking in my bedroom. “I want you to make it your own.”

“I’m not ready for that,” I said plainly. “And besides, Grand-mère had very good taste.”

“She did.”

Maman cast a critical eye on my ensemble, squinted, and then handed me a bracelet from on top of my dresser. “There,” she said, satisfied once it encircled my wrist.

“Thank you.” I clasped her hand as we walked back to the dining room together.

After the meal, Chloé practically bounced from her seat. “Can we go look at the trunk now?”

“Oh, right,” I said casually, as if I’d forgotten. I brought a cheese plate and a carafe of coffee to the table for the men, while Chloé, Sophie, and my mom followed me down the hallway.

“See?” Chloé said when she spied the trunk. “Just like the one at the shop! It’s got the red and everything.”

“You’re right,” I said as she lifted the lid with reverence.

“Be careful,” Sophie told her, stepping forward to help.

My mom placed a gentle hand on Sophie’s shoulder. “Let her open it,” she murmured ever so softly.

If Chloé caught the exchange, she didn’t show it. Her eyes glowed as she carefully slid the panel back and peered inside. “There’s something in here!”

Sophie’s eyebrows flew up in surprise. “Really?”

Chloé’s hand disappeared inside and returned, holding the handkerchief gingerly. When she saw the necklace and earrings inside, she gasped.

“She must have tucked them inside for safekeeping and forgotten,” Mom said.

“They’re so pretty.” Chloé held the necklace up to the light, examining the gold chain and enameled pendant.

“You should keep them,” Mom said, taking the necklace from her hands and opening the clasp. “If you like.”

Chloé nodded, wide-eyed.

Mom fastened the necklace around her granddaughter’s neck and examined the effect.
“C’est belle.”

Chloé glanced up at her mom, still holding the earrings. “If I had pierced ears …,” she said, her voice trailing off.

“Not until you’re thirteen,” Sophie reminded her firmly.

“You can save them,” I suggested. “They’ll keep.”

Chloé beamed, and I basked in the happy family moment, trying not to think what might have happened if they knew the truth.

Mireille’s Chocolate Cake

When I was a little girl, my grandmother made chocolate cake.

It’s a common enough occurrence; most French women have a chocolate cake in their repertoire. But this one was hers, which is what makes it special to me.

I love historical recipes. I love recipes with a past, with meaning. And as much as I love new flavors—whatever pomegranate/sweet potato/quinoa concoction we celebrate now—I love finding recipes that remind us where we’ve been.

Less concerned with fat, that’s one thing, or antioxidants. Whether we’re healthier now than we were at another time … that’s a discussion for another day. But what I love about old recipes is how unselfconscious they are. They’re not trying to be hip, only tasty. I think that singular aim lends itself to more focused food—food without an identity crisis, food that knows its station in life.

This cake is just a chocolate cake. It’s not a Mexican chocolate cake, not a salted caramel chocolate cake, not a fudge cake. It’s just chocolate. Can’t chocolate be enough, sometimes?

Don’t get me wrong—I do
love a complex mix of flavors. But sometimes simple can be just as—if not more—satisfying. Give the recipe a try and see if you don’t agree.