A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) (35 page)

After the dough finished resting, I rolled it into long tubes and sliced it, and then formed it into orecchiette with my fingers.

The word
orecchiette
means “little ears” in Italian, but to me the pasta often looked like tiny cupped hands—hands to hold sauce, hold flavor, hold love.

My mind wandered as I repeated the motion over and over, rolling each piece of dough with my fingers until it reached the shape I wanted. I thought about Neil. I thought about how much I’d learned about him, about how much I’d come to care for him in the short time we’d spent together.

I tried not to think about how much I would miss him, and failed miserably. My heart ached, and I quickly learned I had to improve my mood lest my orecchiette become flattened.

So instead of thinking of Neil leaving, I thought about our dinner and how the food that I created with my hands had the power to bind us together in a shared experience.

When I’d formed the last little ear, I set the lot of them aside on a baking sheet to dry.

I prepped the rest of the dinner ingredients and set the chocolate cake to bake before stopping to primp.

My mother always looked tidy and fashionable even if she’d been cooking all day, but my clothes were covered in little bits of food debris, even though I’d been wearing an apron.

I slipped into an easy black knit dress with a scooped neckline and full skirt. Around my waist I fastened a ballet-pink leather belt and slipped my feet into ballet flats just a shade pinker. The look was sophisticated and romantic.

My hair had grown wavy from the day’s humidity, and I let it stay that way. I dusted a bit of gray eye shadow on my lids, lined my eyes with black liquid eyeliner, and finished my face with some pink blush and lip gloss.

I studied myself in the mirror.

Tonight, I would relax. I would enjoy my time with Neil. I wouldn’t worry about the future, about our relationship, about my family, about my job. About life.

I looked deeply into the reflection of my own eyes.

Who was I kidding?

There were so many butterflies in my stomach I feared I might fly away.

Because the pasta wouldn’t keep well, I refrained from doing any of the actual cooking until Neil arrived. The pasta pot simmered rather than boiled, and the bowl of whisked eggs waited. The cake was done. I’d toasted the almonds and tossed them with olive oil, salt, and herbs. The broccolini waited to be placed under the broiler. The wine chilled in the fridge.

Everything was ready. All I needed was Neil himself.

I straightened the kitchen. Rearranged the place settings at the table. Moved the throw pillows on the slipper chair to the settee and back. Fanned out the coffee-table books so they unfurled clockwise, rather than counterclockwise.

Neil called ten minutes later.

“There’s a giant traffic snarl on I-5,” he said. “I’m so sorry I’m late.”

“That’s all right,” I said, clutching the phone with one hand and adding
water to a flowerpot with the other. “Do you have a time estimate? I can have dinner going so it’s ready when you arrive.”

“It looks bad,” Neil said. “I couldn’t begin to guess when I’m getting out of here.”

“Oh.” My chest tightened. “What exit is next? What if I met you somewhere?”

“I’m on the on-ramp to one of the bridges, so I don’t think I’ll have any options anytime soon. Don’t worry. Just hold on tight, and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I sighed as I hung up. But rather than stay and twiddle my toes, I refrigerated the eggs, grabbed Gigi’s leash, and took her for a brisk jaunt around the neighborhood. If my face glowed a little, well, at least it made my makeup blend a little better. Or something.

Still nothing from Neil.

I prayed that the Lord would choose to encourage the traffic into motion.

My stomach rumbled.

Resignedly, I retrieved a tub of hummus and some baby carrots from the fridge and dug in. I found myself sagging against the countertop in exhaustion. I’d been so busy preparing everything that I’d worn myself out. Without the adrenaline rush that Neil would have brought with him the second he’d stepped through the door, I felt my muscles complain and my spirit droop.

I needed a nap. Just a short nap and I would perk up like daisies in fresh water. With that thought in mind, I curled up on the couch, rested my head on a throw pillow, and draped the knit throw over myself. Gigi seemed to agree with my plan and jumped up immediately, settling with her head resting on my ankles.

I awoke to a stream of drool sliding from the left corner of my mouth and a man’s finger tracing a line down my cheekbone. My eyes flew open, and I saw Neil smiling into them. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I said, wiping my chin self-consciously.

“The door was unlocked. You’re cute when you’re sleeping.”

My eyes squeezed shut. “I’m so embarrassed,” I said, holding my hand over my face. Come to think of it, my mascara had probably smudged onto my cheek.

“Don’t be. I’m the one that showed up”—he checked his watch—“more than an hour late. There were four cars and a police cruiser in a wreck.”

“No wonder.”

Neil shrugged. “I’m from Memphis, where most drivers don’t realize they’re mortal. Car crashes happen; I’m used to it. Just glad to be here.”

I sat forward and straightened my spine. “So, dinner. Are you hungry?”

“Starved,” he said, but he seemed less interested in food than in staring at my lips.

I tilted my face toward his, smiling as he brushed a kiss against my mouth. “You taste like … orange,” I murmured.

“Orange candies,” he whispered into my ear as he stroked my neck. “They were all I had in the car.”

I snorted. “Okay. I’m making you dinner. And for starters,” I said, picking up the plate I’d put on the coffee table, “would you like some almonds?”

“That was an amazing dinner,” Neil said afterward as he ran his fingers through my hair.

I smiled as I leaned against his chest. “Glad you liked it.”

The two of us had polished off an impressive amount of dinner. Neil ate his chocolate cake with enthusiasm; half of mine lingered on the plate near an unfinished glass of wine.

“I’ve had a wonderful trip,” he said. “You should know I thought very highly of you before I came. But now—”

My head rose and fell against Neil’s chest as he sighed.

“Now?” I prompted.

“I don’t want to leave you.”

“I have a trip to Europe planned soon,” I said, holding his hand in mine. “Maybe afterward—maybe I could visit you in Memphis?”

His hand squeezed mine. “I would like that. When are you leaving for Europe?”

“Third week of June. I’ll be in Provence, in Montagnac first. Paris for a little while, and then Italy for my nonno’s birthday party.” I paused, turning to look into Neil’s eyes. “I want to talk to my great aunt,” I said. “I want to find out if she remembers anything that could explain the photo or the things I found in the trunk.”

“Really?”

I nodded. “My
grand-tante
Cécile. Younger sister, which you probably guessed. I’ve heard she has Alzheimer’s or some sort of dementia, so who knows how much information I’ll be able to get.” I shrugged. “That sounds heartless. I’m looking forward to seeing her and my French cousins. And they run the family château as a bed-and-breakfast, as well as a honey business. Lavender honey. I’m hoping to use some at the restaurant. Maybe in a dessert and in an entrée as a signature.”

“Sounds delicious.”

“Thanks. Anyway, I’m looking forward to seeing Grand-tante Cécile—though the story for the family is that I’ll also be sourcing some ingredients, visiting vineyards. Which I will, but Nonno and Grand-tante Cécile are my first priority. We’ll see,” I said. “We’ll see what she’s able to remember.”

Neil massaged the base of my neck. “A lot of dementia patients will remember their youth the longest.”

“I’ve heard the same,” I said, leaning into his hand. “I’m hopeful. I’ll take the photo with me.”

“I’m surprised you’re going alone,” Neil noted. “I would have thought Nico would have tried to go with you. I imagine he would have been happy to source ingredients.”

“He’s too busy,” I answered.

“He didn’t try to get Adrian to go with you?”

I cleared my throat. “He tried.”

“Oh?”

“I reassured my brother that my palate is quite reliable.”