A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) (16 page)

After coffee with Clementine, I couldn’t fight the desire to take a more detailed look around Grand-mère’s apartment. I stood in her living room and looked around for something, anything, that might illuminate Grand-mère’s past in general, the photo in particular.

Not that I had any idea what I was looking for.

I’d already found the photo. A part of me saw the space but didn’t
see
it—running it through the familiar filter of a hundred Monday afternoons. Mondays, because the patisserie was closed on Mondays. Grand-mère made us milky tea to drink with the pastries she’d baked fresh for us on her day off.

If I was going to find answers, though, I would have to look past my memories and see the space for what it was.

Relics of past relationships—what physical objects survived? Keepsakes if the romance ended sweetly, but what if things ended bitterly? In many ways, my relationship with Éric had defined the last half decade of my life, but I had very few items with ties to him; no one else would know their origins but the two of us. How could I glance around my grandmother’s space and think I’d be able to unearth anything?

I sat down on the ivory velvet divan and mentally cataloged the things I had because of Éric. A cookbook, a silk wrap. A few photographs on my computer and phone, but nothing ever printed. A set of olive-wood salad tongs. Oh, and the slip of paper with his “fortune” on it that read: “Only love lets us see normal things in an extraordinary way.” Sappy, yes. But he gave it to me after dinner at his favorite Chinese restaurant, Shandong, and I still kept it, half-crumpled, inside my coin purse.

Of these things, only a few notes in the cookbook might tip someone off, but that someone would have to know both of us well. No one would look at the silk wrap, in its shades of red and gold, and think of Éric.

No one but me.

Another strike against the modern age; I had no pressed flowers, no initialed handkerchief. No letters tied with a silk ribbon, not even a lock of hair.

As for Grand-mère, there might be photographs. There could be all sorts of things, but I wouldn’t know unless I looked.

The closets seemed the best place to start. It felt so invasive, searching through a dead woman’s belongings. Would she mind? Or would she want to keep her secrets to herself?

I had no idea. But my curiosity overrode my sensitivity.

In her bedroom, I found the old dresses my sisters and I had played with as children, and even more dresses in garment bags, with sachets of lavender on each hanger. She had a lovely shoe collection, including several pairs of Ferragamo flats all wrapped in silver tissue. There were handbags, of course. Tiny ones.

From a wardrobe perspective, she led a wonderful life. Wonderful and mysterious. There were party dresses and day dresses, cocktail dresses and holiday dresses—but who was she with when she wore them? Was she happy?

No voices jumped out to tell me one way or the other.

For the next hour I explored the apartment, wishing I knew what I was really looking for.

That Tuesday, I picked up my sister Caterina from the airport.

“Darling!” she cried when she saw me, her arms outstretched, fingers waggling.

People looked, as they always did. Caterina attracted plenty of attention, with her Nigella-meets-Giada good looks and her oversized personality.

We hugged and exchanged Continental-style kisses, which Cat had told me once we could get away with without being tacky, since we were clearly of European descent.

“How’s Mom?” she asked as we strode purposefully out of the building. “I’ve chatted with her over the phone, but it’s hard to get a read.”

“She’s Mom,” I answered. “She looks worn and tired, but good luck getting her to slow down long enough to pry information out of her.”

“All right, then. I’ll admit that was partly why I wanted to come out for her appointment—I figured I had a better chance of finding something out if I happened to be in the same room as the doctor.”

“You are very good at getting information out of people,” I observed.

“HIPAA fears me.”

“Just so you know, Sophie’s coming to the appointment too.”

“I figured. Even packed an extra air canister in case she sucked up all the air in the room.” She made a face. “I’m sorry. That was mean.”

I resisted the urge to laugh. “But possibly pragmatic. How were the boys when you left?”

“Growing again! It’s unreal.” Caterina looked over at me, smiled, and threw her arm around my shoulders. “Terrible circumstances, but I love getting to see you.”

I rested my head against her shoulder. “I need to come out and visit you next, I know.”

“Who said anything about visit? Say the word and I’ll find you a job and a place to live. We’ll even throw in one of those Edible Arrangements things.”

“I do like fruit in pretty shapes, so that’s a strong offer,” I answered gamely. “But I couldn’t leave, not now.”

“Of course not. But someday. And I’m not just saying that because I could use the occasional bit of childcare.”

“Of course not,” I said, pointing ahead. “There’s the car, to the right.”

“I can’t believe that car’s still running. Alex is a wizard.”

“He’s an accomplished tinkerer,” I agreed.

“How’s he doing?”

“Pretty good. He works a lot—more than he used to, I think. But he’s more relaxed now that Stephanie’s moved on.”

Caterina snorted in disgust. “I could kick her.”

I couldn’t disagree. “He’s done an amazing job with the apartment over the garage. Did you see it when you were here last?”

“Didn’t get a chance, but he was telling me about it.”

“Lots of updates. His goal is to make it zero energy, totally self-sustaining. I suspect there are some psychological reasons for it, but he seems to be enjoying the work.”

Cat shook her head. “I wish I could be here more. I miss you guys.”

During the drive to our parents’ house, Cat caught me up on her classes, the boys, and Damian’s job as a caterer. I told her what I knew about Mom’s cancer, which turned out to be the same as what she knew, with the exception of the fact that Mom thought her oncologist looked like an older Vanessa Paradis.

The entire family met together for dinner at D’Alisa & Elle. While there were plenty of patrons dining and milling, eating at the restaurant felt almost as familiar as eating at my parents’ home. The tables, the art, even the carpet under my feet—I knew it all by heart.

We ate from huge platters, family style. Cat showed off pictures of her twin boys, and we marveled over Luca’s death-defying antics and Christian’s finger-painted artwork. We laughed and argued and stuffed ourselves full of
food, none of us brave enough to speak of the appointment the following morning.

When Sophie had heard about the preop appointment, she’d invited herself; Cat had followed suit. Maman had asked me to join the party, and I rearranged my workday to accommodate the trip.

But when I arrived at the house to meet her on Wednesday, the sight of Sophie’s car parked on the street made me wish I’d picked up a second cup of coffee.

“Oh good, you’re here,” Sophie said when she opened the door. “I wanted to get on the road soon. Traffic.”

“I … um … sure.” I looked at my watch. I was really, really early, because the traffic was so thin.

Mom stood behind Sophie, where she could shrug and shake her head without Sophie noticing.

“Hey!” Cat strolled down the hall, looking tousled, tired, and fashionable all at once. She was the only person I knew who could make jet lag chic. “Are we heading out? Which car are we taking?”

“Let’s take mine,” Sophie said decisively. “Safety rating, you know.”

No, I didn’t. I bit back a retort about a car being as safe as its driver, but when it came to Sophie, snipy comebacks never solved anything.

Sophie drove. Mom sat in the front seat. Cat and I sat in the back, with a pile of library books and a Trader Joe’s bag full of Chloé’s outgrown clothes shoved in the middle.

I flipped absently through one of the books while Sophie maintained a one-sided conversation with Mom about her diet in general and flaxseed and green tea in particular. Cat texted her husband for updates on the boys.

By the time we arrived at the hospital, I’d made it to the third chapter in a novel about a dystopian society. The society seemed easier to manage than my oldest sister.

Sophie tried to get Mom to let her carry her purse; Mom declined.

Cat retaliated by offering to carry Sophie’s purse, as well as mine.

Out of self-defense, I stayed two paces behind the three of them. There were no good reasons for me to get caught in their cross hairs—Mom could fend for herself.

Sophie let the receptionist know we’d arrived; she tried to fill out the requisite paperwork, but Mom reclaimed (or wrenched—I couldn’t tell) the clipboard away.

I exhaled in relief. Sophie could be fearsome with a clipboard.

Cat started to sift through the purse she held, ostensibly for prescription tranquilizers with Sophie’s name on them.

We settled on a bench facing the bank of windows, and I had just started to flip through an outdated issue of
Sunset
when my phone beeped.