A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) (37 page)
Read A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) Online
Authors: Hillary Manton Lodge
“You’re not sure?”
“Who can know? And you”—she slid a glance at me—“had your Éric.”
My mouth fell open. “How—”
“How did I know?” She threw me a reproachful look. “
Ma biche
, I am your mother. I know everything.”
“Does Nico—”
“Your brother has many talents, but observation has never been one of them. Not subtlety either. If he knew, we would know.”
I relaxed, but only a little. “I suppose that’s true.”
“Éric is doing well at his restaurant,” she said gently.
“So he did open one?”
Her brows furrowed. “I thought all you young people kept track of one another on the Google.”
I opened my mouth and closed it. “Um … sometimes. But I didn’t, not with Éric. I … I couldn’t.”
“He opened a Moroccan fusion restaurant in Seattle.”
“Oh.”
“Tahmira, it is called. It’s small, but doing well.”
“I’m glad. I’m really, really glad.”
She patted my cheek. “He wasn’t going to stay at Nico’s restaurant forever. I am sorry that he broke your heart, though.”
“He didn’t break my heart, Mom.”
“Non?”
I shrugged. “Maybe. At least at the time it seemed worse that Nico’s restaurant closed.”
“Nico learned things from L’uccello Blu, things he needed to learn. Any experience that ends in knowledge is not a waste. And now he has the new restaurant, and you have your Neil.”
A smile stretched across my face at the thought.
My Neil
. He and I had been texting before his flight from Portland to Atlanta; I hoped to hear from him before he made his connection to Memphis.
I missed him terribly.
“Did Grand-mère ever tell you anything else about her sweetheart?”
Maman thought for a moment. “I remember thinking they must have cooked together. I know there was one of her cooking instructors she was very close to. I don’t know if it was the same man or not.”
I ventured another question. “Did she say a name?”
Another moment of reflection. “I do not remember a name. But she spoke of him fondly. Why the interest?”
“It’s romantic, don’t you think?”
“Good girl. You take after the French side. Italians are so bad at secrets affairs. Bad at secrets altogether—they’re terribly indiscreet.”
“The Mafia seemed to figure it out well enough for a while.”
She glared at me. “If they were so good at keeping secrets, they wouldn’t have had to kill people.”
I conceded the point.
“And the newspaper?” she continued. “You are glad to be done?”
“I am … I think. It was time.”
She shook her head. “You looked so elegant on television.”
“Thank you. I felt sick the whole time.”
“Oh, I could tell.” She patted my hand. “Will you be happy at Nico’s restaurant?”
“I hope so,” I said, and I meant it.
Dear Juliette,
Thank you for a wonderful time in Portland. It’s early in the morning and I know you’re asleep, but I wanted to write to you
since I couldn’t pick up the phone (at least not without waking you up).
I’m home, but it feels even less like home than ever. I miss you. I miss your smile and the way you held my hand. I miss talking to you.
(I miss kissing you too, but is it ungentlemanly to say so?)
Sorry if that sounds weird and mushy. I’m not great at romance, unless it involves introducing one strain of bacteria to another. That, I’m good at (though it’s been a while, so I might be rusty).
I wish I had more to say, but after a day of flying, I came home, watched a few recorded episodes of
Top Gear
, and went to bed. At the office, I will be expected to be able to string sentences together—or at least socially correct greetings. (Though in truth, people often have very low expectations toward the social abilities of doctors. The show
ER
perpetuated that, unfortunately.)
Do you have time to chat tonight—eight your time? I look forward to hearing your voice.
Neil
Dear Neil,
Thank you for such a lovely note—certainly worth waking up for. I miss kissing you too—is that unladylike? Probably. But it’s true. I also miss cooking with you, walking with you, getting to see you face to face. As much as I love your words, I love your presence most of all.
As far as long-distance relationships go—well, there are moments when I don’t know what I was thinking. Those are the same moments when I feel so desperately thankful for meeting you, for having you in my life. But can I say/write something cynical? Here’s my observation about long-distance relationships—they’re basically an interpersonal game of chicken.
Granted, I don’t say this from personal experience, but do you see what I mean? You keep driving, driving, and driving until someone flinches. And either you flinch right, and someone moves and you’re together. Or you flinch left and someone calls it quits.
Where does that leave us? I really don’t know. Do we ease up on the gas? Do I stop using driving metaphors???
To be fair, the driving metaphors are possibly your fault. I found myself watching some
Top Gear
on Netflix. I laughed and enjoyed it, just as much as you said I would. So am I a true “petrolhead” because I drive an Alfa Romeo? You tell me. That car spends so much time falling apart that I have no idea how it could be true, but if the experts say so …
As much as I want to hear your voice, I invited Linn and Clementine (my roommate, whom you met) over for a movie tonight to distract me from my sorrow. Can we chat earlier, maybe? Linn’s headed over between 6:30 and 7. Is 8 your time possible? Can we just switch the time zones?
(A last thought—if anything,
Grey’s Anatomy
may have convinced America that doctors are in fact rather verbose. Do you think the two shows have canceled each other out?)
Juliette
Dear Juliette,
Chat tomorrow? I’ll let you enjoy your night with your friends.
Just don’t be too sorrowful—everything’s going to be okay.
Neil
I had a wonderful time that night with Clementine and Linn.
Linn arrived glowing with the reality of her newly reinstated job. “I don’t have to blog!” she said. “I can’t even imagine explaining the point of that to my mother.”
Clementine made Bavarian sugar cookies, and then we watched
Stranger than Fiction
. After the movie, we sat around and chatted, feet up on the furniture, plates and glasses everywhere. Gigi lay asleep on the floor, having long given up on the prospect of a proper tug-of-war session.
When there was a break in conversation, I told Linn about Neil, and we all giggled together even as I wished he was nearer.
Clementine told stories about working for Grand-mère, and Linn caught me up on the last twenty-four hours of office gossip.
Around nine o’clock, my phone dinged with a text from Neil.
Thinking about you. Hope you’re not too sorrowful.
Chat with you tomorrow—have a good night, Jules :-)
I smiled and texted him back.
Not too sorrowful. Having a lovely time eating cookies, actually.
By the time you see me next, I’ll look even more like Nigella Lawson.
Another ding.
Googled Nigella Lawson. Not concerned.
I giggled and put the phone down again; when I looked up, I found Linn and Clementine staring at me.
“Don’t worry about us,” Clementine drawled. “We’re still here. Watching you text your boyfriend.”
I blushed at the word but couldn’t argue. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I was a second away from texting my husband anyway,” Linn said.
Clementine shook her head. “You ladies and your relationships,” she said.
I didn’t say anything. If Nico was smart at all, Clementine wouldn’t be single for long.
B
AVARIAN
S
UGAR
C
OOKIES
Here’s the thing—there’s not exactly any such cookie as a Bavarian sugar cookie. But it’s such a charming part of the movie that I’ve gone along with it—we’ll consider them Bavarian inspired. In any case, these cookies are more flavorful than most sugar cookies you’ll get your hands on.
For the cookies:
½ cup unsalted butter (pasture butter is nice if you can get your hands on it)
1 cup sugar
1 egg
1 tablespoon cream
1 teaspoon vanilla extract or vanilla bean paste
2 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon sea salt
For the icing:
1 pound powdered sugar
¼ cup salted butter
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Enough cream to reach desired consistency
Sift flour, baking powder, and salt together.
Cream butter with sugar for 5 minutes, until butter is pale and fluffy. With the mixer running on medium speed, add egg, cream, and vanilla.
Add flour mixture slowly, blending until fully incorporated.
Allow dough to chill overnight.
Preheat oven to 350°F. Roll dough out a little at a time on a lightly floured pastry cloth. With cookie cutters, cut dough into shapes. Bake on a parchment paper–lined baking sheet for 5 minutes or until the edges just become golden.
For the frosting, beat butter until fluffy. Add the sugar in small amounts, and use the cream to adjust the texture as necessary.
Frost with a wide spatula once the cookies are cool. Once the frosting has set, store cookies between sheets of waxed paper.
Makes about 36 cookies.