A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) (20 page)

“Me?”

“You haven’t been in a while, and your aunts and uncles have been asking after you. We’ve canceled our own tickets and would like to pay for yours. Think about it.”

My eyes widened. “You had me at ‘send you to Italy’—of course I’d go!”

He grinned. “
Bene
, I am glad,” he said, enfolding me in a familiar hug. “I hoped you’d agree—it is such beautiful land, and I want my family to know you better. There was one more thing, as well.”

“Oh?”

He looked out onto the dining room. “I am thinking,” he said, “of updating some of the tables and chairs. They’ve been here for many years and are starting to show their age.”

“They’re so lovely, though,” I said, reaching out to stroke the back of one chair. “They’re good quality pieces.”

“Best not to keep things the same for too long,” he said. “But some of the furniture, of course, could still find some use, especially with a little restoration.”

I couldn’t help but smile at the twinkle in his eyes.

“Well, if you’re just getting rid of it,” I said, “we could probably find a use for it.”

“Oh?”

“If you don’t mind.”

He slung his arm around my shoulders. “Oh, not at all.”

On Thursday morning, I called in a personal day. My immediate pieces were turned in, and I needed some time to myself. I decided to use the day to cook, rest, and get organized. I moved the last of Grand-mère’s clothes carefully into the guest room, making a mental note to ask my mom to help me parse through
them. Like a true Frenchwoman, she had very high quality clothes, many of them still fashionable.

For the thousandth time, I regretted that, at five feet eight, I was far too tall and large all over for Grand-mère’s clothes. Not that I was huge by any means, but Grand-mère was not only petite but more devoted to her girdle than I could ever be. Sophie could probably wear some; Chloé others. Even her shoes were far too tiny.

Once I’d cleared the closet and hauled my own things inside, I moved on to the steamer trunk. It creaked as I opened the lid, as all good steamer trunks should. A vague memory passed through my mind—me sitting on the trunk and Grand-mère telling me about how she’d brought it from France. Though she’d come to America in the seventies, the trunk had to be far older.

I found linens folded inside—lace tablecloths, Provençal prints, high-thread-count sheets and pillowcases edged in tatted lace. Sachets of lavender preserved the contents. I sat back and sighed.

The contents were lovely, but ordinary. Where better to hide a good secret than a steamer trunk? I set the linens aside to launder with some oxygen bleach later.

I checked my e-mail. Nothing yet from Neil.

All of a sudden, I missed Éric with a pain that took my breath away. We probably weren’t soul mates, he and I. But I always knew where I stood. I knew he would feed me and it would be delicious.

Maybe I wasn’t cut out for online relationships, in any format but the casual Facebook kind.

I thought of the tagine Éric made for me while we were dating, full of aromatic spices and hearty lamb. I had lamb in my refrigerator, as well as plenty of carrots—I checked my watch. Eleven o’clock.

It would be a late dinner because of the marinating time, but delicious. And if I decided against cooking it up that night, I could always make it for lunch the following day. I grated ginger, chopped garlic, and measured out the
remaining spices for the lamb marinade. When it was done, I set the lamb in the fridge and returned to my computer.

Still nothing from Neil.

Fine. The rumble in my stomach reminded me that while I’d been prepping food for over an hour, I hadn’t actually eaten.

I was rummaging through my fridge when my phone rang.

“Etta? It’s Sophie,” my sister began, as if I couldn’t recognize her voice. “Would you mind picking Chloé up from school today?”

“What’s up, Soph?” I asked, stalling. How did she know I’d taken the day off?

“It’s just that I have a doctor’s appointment that just came up, and I thought I could make it work, but Chloé’s school is getting out early, and I need to make this appointment.”

The panic in her voice gave me pause. “Is everything okay?”

“Fine. Everything’s fine,” she said.

So, basically not, then.

“I can pick her up,” I said. “When does she need me to be there?”

A brief pause. “Twenty minutes?”

I counted to fifteen twice, once in French, once in Italian. “I need to leave now, that’s what you’re saying.”

“Yes?”

I rolled my eyes at the question that wasn’t a question. “Fine. I’ll be out in a moment. Have a good appointment.”

Sophie was still thanking me when I hung up.

Oh well—less time organizing meant more time to see my niece. I hadn’t seen enough of her lately anyway, and being out of the house meant I was less likely to check my e-mail. I shoved aside my collective resentment, gathered my keys and purse, and stepped out into the fragile Portland sunshine.

If I was very lucky, Chloé wouldn’t mind stopping for lunch.