A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) (11 page)

“I don’t hate it,” she said, eying her empty cup. “Could you pass the teapot?”

“Of course. Ooh, look—there’s the food!”

Linn sat up a little straighter when the first course arrived, smoked salmon profiteroles.

By the time we’d moved from the panini and tea sandwiches and on to the Parisian Opera Cake and devil’s food teacakes, Linn had downed almost everything set in front of her, as well as an entire pot of tea.

“It’s all so good!” she said, wiping her hands on her cloth napkin. “I love the tiny portions. And they just keep bringing food! I love this. We should do this every day.”

“I completely agree.”

“So do you think writing about your gran will be healing? Or difficult because she hasn’t been gone very long?”

I leaned back in my chair. “Probably both. I picked up my phone to call her yesterday. I’ve always heard of people saying they did that after losing someone, but it never occurred to me I might do the same without thinking.”

“I’m so sorry. I hope writing the article turns out to be a positive thing. Did you decide what to do about the restaurant?”

“Yes and no,” I said with a sly smile. “I’ve decided to do both.”

Linn’s eyes widened. “How’s that going to work?”

“Well, both, until the restaurant actually opens. And then I’ll decide if I’ll stay on or if I’ll hire someone else to manage it.”

“That sounds … both gutsy and indecisive. I like it.” Linn lifted her teacup. “To success!”

“To success!” I echoed, grinning broadly as our teacups clinked.

Nico called two days later while I was looking in vain for my shoes. “I think we need to talk to Mom and Dad tonight,” he said. “Before family dinner. Tell them about the restaurant. If I’m going to start asking around, looking for a sous-chef, I should probably tell them what we’re up to first.”

“That sounds very wise,” I told him. “I would be there early, but my shoes have gone AWOL.”

“And, Etta, I’m serious about the patisserie space.”

I opened and closed the closet door before responding. “How are you planning on approaching that?”

“Simple—we’ll offer to lease or buy it. The property stays in the family. Mom will like that.”

“True. But Mom might also want to get market value for it. Have you looked at comparable properties?”

“I have.”

“We can’t afford them.”

“Well …”

“You can certainly ask, Nico.” I checked beneath my bed. “Just be prepared if she decides to be practical.”

“So tonight, then?”

“I don’t know. My shoes might not turn up.”

“Then you’ll just have to go barefoot,” he said, chuckling as he hung up.

My shoes finally appeared—one beneath the couch, the other under a fallen throw pillow—and I set off for my parents’ house. Nico waited for me beside his car, a black version of my own red Alfa.

“Have you been waiting long?” I asked, glad the morning’s rain had cleared off.

“Nah, just got here. Are you ready?”

“I’m having a fit of nerves, to be honest.” I forced a smile on my face. “It’ll be good.”

Nico clapped me on the back. “It’ll be great. Keep your chin up, Etta.”

The scent of cooking food greeted us even before our parents made it to the entryway.

“Ah!
Bonjour
,” Maman said when she saw me. “I found another box of papers at the apartment. There were some photos as well. I brought it in our car, if you’re interested for the article.”

“I am. Thank you. How are you?” I asked.

Both of my parents looked wearier than usual.
“Comme ci, comme ça,”
Maman replied, though her answer certainly clarified nothing. My father offered me a glass of water. I took a sip and tried not to worry.

Nico held out the platter he’d brought with him. “I have some focaccia,” he said. “I thought we could sit down for a little while before dinner and chat.”

My parents and I sat down at the table, while Nico pulled a small stack of plates out of the cupboard.

My brother does make serious focaccia. He tops them with figs, shallots, and blue cheese, or red-pepper bruschetta with feta—it’s divine, every time.

I watched as my mother lifted a slice of focaccia to her plate and took the tiniest nibble.

Not good.

Nico sat down with a goofy smile on his face and proceeded to tell my parents all about his crippling heartbreak when L’uccello Blu closed its doors (as if they didn’t know), his gratitude for the position at D’Alisa & Elle (a nice touch), and our new and brilliant plans to open another restaurant (the finale, for now).

My parents took it all in very calmly—even my father, from whom my brother inherited his flair for drama.

“It is very good,” my father said, with a nod of approval. “Very good for you to make these plans. I knew you would not always be at this restaurant.”

Nico’s shoulders relaxed. “You are not upset?”

“My father wanted me to stay at the family restaurant. I didn’t want to, so I left the country.” Our father gave one of his patented shrugs. “I understand. I would prefer if you were able to open your own restaurant in this country, though.”

Nico beamed. Having earned approval from the parental faction for the restaurant, he moved in to finish off his pitch.

“I was thinking about spaces,” Nico said, casting a significant glance in my direction. “
We
were thinking—”

Thanks, Nico
, I thought.
Thanks for unilaterally pulling me into this
.

“We’d love to use Grand-mère’s patisserie space. Remodel it and bring it back to its former glory. Keep it in the family. We’d want to lease or buy it, of course,” he said, holding up a hand, “but it has such wonderful memories. We think it would be perfect.”

Obviously, if the restaurant failed, Nico could rely on a lucrative career in sales.

To my surprise, my mother nodded. “
Bon
. Maman would have liked that.”

Nico grinned and clasped her hands, thanking her profusely and spinning tales of how wonderful the restaurant would be, laying on his gratitude as thick as French butter. Dad found a bottle of wine and poured glasses for each of us, and Nico proposed a toast to our new endeavor.

My mother took the tiniest sip from her glass.

I put mine down. “What’s wrong?” I asked, looking from one parent to the other.

They exchanged glances.

“There are some things to talk about,” Maman answered. “But they will wait for now.”

“But—,” I protested.

She shook her head firmly. “They will wait.”

Sophie, Nelson, and Chloé arrived minutes later. “What’s going on?” Sophie asked when she saw the wine poured and the half-eaten focaccia.

“I’m opening a new restaurant,” Nico announced. He swept Sophie into a hug and then twirled a giggling Chloé around the room before returning to give Nelson a staid, manly handshake.

I smiled as I watched, but my eyes darted over to my mother. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

We sat down to dinner moments later, a meal of veal scaloppine that my father had prepared, paired with sautéed escarole and stuffed artichokes. My father prayed for the meal in Italian, the lyrical vowels and consonants soothing my nerves.

I prayed as we passed plates around, prayed that the ominous vibe I picked up was just the result of an overactive imagination.

My mother was quiet until we began to eat. “I feel so … so blessed,” she began, “that you were all able to be here today. I know Caterina wanted to be here, but she is taking care of her own family.

“I saw my doctor,” my mother continued, her voice small but steady. “It’s cancer. Ovarian. They’re sure.”

I felt the whole of my breath leave my body.

“I have a treatment plan, which I plan on following,” she continued. “The doctor has spoken about aggressive treatment.”

“What stage?” I asked, feeling dizzy.

She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Three.”

The rest of the dinner passed in a blur. We spoke awkwardly about chemotherapy, radiation, doctors’ appointments, and the wig maker who made her friend Evelyne a divine Brigitte Bardot-esque wig.

At home, I picked up my phone to call Cat, put it down, then picked it up again.

“Hi, hon,” she said when she answered the phone. Her voice sounded hoarse. “She told you?”

“Over dinner.”

Cat cleared her throat. “I’ll be flying out in two weeks, so I’ll be there for her surgery. She told me not to, of course, but I’m doing it anyway.”

“Oh,” I said. “Are you bringing the boys?”

“They’ll stay home and have Daddy time with Damian. I’ll bring them out on another trip when it’s not so … so fresh.”

“That makes sense.”

“Are you doing okay?”

“I’m hanging in there,” I said, not knowing exactly what to say. I didn’t want to add to my sister’s stress—after all, it was her mother too. “Go to bed,” I said. “It’s late.”

“I won’t be able to sleep.”

“Test recipes,” I advised. “That’s what I’ve been doing since Grand-mère died.”

Caterina swore in Italian, then French, and then Italian again. “I’m glad Grand-mère is missing this, but I can’t wrap my head around the fact that Mom’s facing cancer so soon after losing Grand-mère. We worship a good God, but I am well and truly dismayed right now.”

I could only murmur in agreement. I didn’t know how to talk about it with her, not yet. “I hope you get a little sleep,” I said at last. “Let me know if you want me to pick you up at the airport.”

We said our good-byes, and I hung up. Still reeling, I opened my laptop and opened my web browser.

One e-mail in my inbox.

From a man. From the dating site.

How on earth could that have happened? I had canceled my subscription,
hadn’t I? Despite my confusion, I couldn’t stop myself from opening the e-mail and reading it.

Without really knowing what I was doing, I found myself typing a response with increasingly furious speed.