A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) (36 page)

We were both quiet, allowing us to hear the full range of Gigi’s snores.

“Your family likes him.”

“They do.”

Another pause. “Do you?”

“He’s not my type,” I answered honestly.

“What is your type?” The words were whispered near my ear.

I shivered.

“Oh, you know,” I tried to say airily, but sounded hopelessly out of breath. “Clever. Educated. Gives talks on bacteria.”

Neil gave a soft chuckle. “Oh yeah?”

“My parents have a restaurant marriage,” I continued, more seriously. “I decided a long time ago it wasn’t for me.”

“A restaurant marriage?”

“Their lives revolve around D’Alisa & Elle. And it works for them, the kind of partnership that they have, and they enjoy working together. Well,” I shrugged. “I take that back. They fight—a lot—and they always have, but they make up every time.” I cleared my throat. “There’s a reason, you know, that I have four siblings.”

“I did notice it was a large family.”

I shrugged. “They were never much for family planning. My mother told me as much once, which was … awkward. All that to say, the restaurant is like a third person in their marriage. And that life, it’s not for me.” I looked away. “I once … I once dated a chef. Well, a sous-chef. He was Nico’s last sous. He and Nico were like brothers, even more than Nico and Adrian are now. And … we dated.”

“You don’t have to tell me your dating history, if you don’t want to,” Neil said, putting a gentle hand on my arm. “At least not tonight.”

“No, it’s okay.” I took a deep breath. “His name was Éric. I was young,
really young. Not that young,” I qualified when I saw his face. “I was out of college, but just barely. He was older, a wonderful cook. Mostly, he fed me. Anyway, we were together for a year before we had a terrible argument and he quit the restaurant. Left town. Nico was devastated. And”—I moved a stray piece of hair from my face—“his restaurant began to fail shortly after.”

“You never told Nico,” Neil guessed. “And you feel guilty.”

“Maybe.”

Neil tilted his head.

“Okay, yes, I have often felt guilty about Éric leaving. And I never told anyone about our relationship.”

“That’s a long time to keep that kind of secret.”

I gave him a slanted look. “I’m very good. And the last thing I wanted was my entire family nose-deep in my business, because that’s what would have happened.”

Neil gave a wry smile. “I believe that. I would worry that you’re participating with the restaurant out of guilt,” Neil said, “but I can tell you love it.”

“I do,” I agreed. “I don’t know that I’ll do it forever, but I’m very happy right now. But the point of my sharing the story is that I learned to never date my brother’s sous-chef.”

“You know, I think Confucius said something about that.”

I gave his arm a soft punch. “You’re funny.”

“It’s the pasta.”

“Pasta makes you funny?”

“It’s the refined carbohydrates.”

“I see.” I wrapped my arms around my torso. “Well, you asked me my type. And the truest answer is ‘not my brother’s sous-chef.’ ”

“He probably won’t be your brother’s sous-chef forever.”

“Even if he weren’t, he’s too”—I wrinkled my nose—“smarmy. Like, I’m not sure he washes his socks regularly or not.”

“That is often a failing among many men,” Neil observed. “And some women. My sister only washes her clothes quarterly.”

“What? How does she—”

“I believe she just goes out and buys more underwear. And socks.”

I stared at him in disbelief. “That’s crazy.”

He shrugged. “Don’t look at me like that. Those are the facts—I just report them. But I appreciate your being honest with me. In the spirit of truth, you should know I was engaged, three years ago.”

“Oh?”

“Meredith and I had been dating for a couple years. I never dated much, so my parents were happy. But I was finishing my doctorate …”

“You were busy.”

“I was busy,” he agreed, “but in all fairness, it was more than that.”

Neil took my hand, rubbing my fingers and knuckles methodically. “When I was eleven years old, my best friend, Felicia, was diagnosed with spinocerebellar ataxia. It’s a genetic disease, and some forms of it are less severe. Felicia’s wasn’t.”

“I’m so sorry. I can’t—can’t even imagine.”

“Felicia and I had grown up together—her family lived two doors down. In all reality, she’d begun to present symptoms the year before, but her parents thought it was typical adolescent clumsiness.

“Spinocerebellar ataxia,” he explained, “is degenerative, and it was very severe in Felicia’s case. She went from being a normal bike-riding, tree-climbing kid to a girl who had difficulty walking, all within the space of a year. Diagnosing it—there were lots of tests, I remember that. I remember spending an entire Saturday with her watching movies after her spinal tap. We watched
Big
. And
Star Wars
.”

He sipped from his water glass. “Fee lost her motor coordination. Her eyes,” he said, pointing at his own, “would move back and forth sporadically. Some of the kids at school were very kind. Others weren’t. Her parents pulled her out. But we still spent most afternoons together. And then one day—”

I watched as Neil’s face became very still.

“It’s okay,” he said, his hold tightening and then relaxing around my hand
as he exhaled. “Fee had an accident the summer before ninth grade. There was a tree house in the backyard. It was our clubhouse when we were younger. Felicia must have decided to climb up by herself.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. “Oh, Neil …”

“She fell,” he said. “And as far as anyone would tell me, she died instantly.” Tears swelled in my eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

“I knew she was a believer”—his voice became husky—“and I knew she had a better, more perfect body in heaven. But I was a kid. I’d never lost anyone before, and I took it hard. I don’t remember much about my freshman year of high school. For those four years, I buried myself in academics. In college, I started to make real friends again, and I found myself studying genetics. To understand.”

He shrugged. “I veered from genetics to immunology after a while. But what I learned after Meredith broke off the engagement was that I was still struggling to connect with people on an emotional level.” He cleared his throat. “I couldn’t be the fiancé that Meredith needed me to be, and after all that time, she gave up on me spontaneously becoming the emotionally involved man that she wanted me to be. After we broke up, I did what southerners tend not to do, which is admit I had real problems, and I went to see a therapist.”

“That was brave,” I said.

“I did the work—saw my therapist once a week for two years. Learned about emotions and how to have them.” He squeezed my hand. “After that, I decided I was ready move on. And I met you.”

“Wow.” I found myself leaning against his chest again. “I’m glad we met,” I said.

“Me too.” He pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “And I’ve had just enough therapy to feel miserable about leaving here.”

I thought about how similar the scene felt to the time when Éric cooked for me, before we argued, before he left.

“I have to be honest,” I said. “I’m not sure I’m cut out for long-distance relationships.”

“Have you ever been in one?”

“No,” I admitted. “But I hate the fact that you’re leaving.”

“What made you cast your dating net as far as Tennessee?” Neil asked. “I’m curious.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Sheer desperation? What about you?”

Neil’s shoulders shook as he laughed. “Oh, probably the same.”

“And now—what’s to become of us?” I droned, both intoning and paraphrasing a distraught Eliza Doolittle.

“We’ll write letters,” Neil said calmly. “We’ll fly on airplanes. We’ll talk on the phone. We’ll get to know each other now and make big decisions later.”

“You’re so sensible. I’m hungry.”

“You can finish your dessert.”

“True.” I sat up and reached for the plate.

“I should probably go soon,” Neil said. “Though I don’t want to. My flight’s an early one.”

“You don’t want to pull an all-nighter?”

He shook his head ruefully. “I’m not twenty-four anymore. If I wanted to be awake in the middle of the night, I would have chosen emergency medicine.”

“So you chose research for the sleep? That sounds sensible.” I sighed. “I’d send you with snacks for the plane if I knew they wouldn’t be confiscated.”

“I’ll be fine.” He squeezed my hand. “Let me help you with the dishes.”

We both stood, and I gave him a teasing bump of the hip. “I already told you I liked you. Don’t you think dish duty is laying it on a little thick?”

“My mother raised me to be a gentleman,” he said, his accent comically pronounced.

The dishes weren’t much since I’d tidied most of the cookware while waiting for him to arrive. We loaded the dishwasher and hand-washed the pots and pans.

“You’re making yourself indispensable,” I said. “It’s only going to make this harder.”

Neil gave the counter a final swipe with a dishcloth. “Would you rather I stop?”

“No.”

“I’m done anyway.” He put the cloth down, faced me, and encircled my waist with his hands.

I leaned into the kiss. Neil held me tight, a hand on my waist, the other cupping my cheek. I tasted salt and knew that at least one tear had escaped.

Neil pulled away and dried my eyes, wiping the tear from my face tenderly. “No crying,” he said gently. “Do you want to pray?”

“Sure,” I said. And we spent a few quiet moments asking the Lord for his guidance, for patience, for peace.

At the end, I simply hugged him and let his shirt absorb any wetness. He stroked my hair, whispering soothing southern endearments into my ear.

Several such embraces later, Neil walked out my front door.

I retreated to my bed, shoulders shaking with sobs. I prayed for peace, but I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t devastated.

I watched as my mom settled into her chair, like a queen settling into a throne, and allowed the chemo drip to be set up around her.

Sophie had been banned from the clinic the week before; she had bullied one of the nurses to tears. We had already scheduled the session to coordinate with my lunch schedule that Tuesday, without knowing that my lunch schedule was about to get more flexible.

But I was glad to be there, keeping Mom company as she allowed the poison to drip into her veins, making her both more and less sick as the days wore on.

This also meant that she had me all to herself for an extended period of time, and she meant to be resourceful with her allotment.

“We will talk about your leaving your job, but first tell me about this man Neil,
ma biche
,” she said. “He seemed very fond of you.”

“He’s a good man, Maman. He’s on the plane home now.”

She patted my hand. “You never enjoyed absences.”

“No.”

“But what is he like, this Neil?”

“He’s kind and smart. Very smart. And he … he sees people, really notices them, gets them. He sees me. And Gigi likes him,” I added.

“Bah.” She waved a hand. “Gigi likes everyone.”

“Not Sophie so much.”

“True. But then, it was mutual,
non
?”

“How did you decide you wanted to be with Papa?”

She gave an unladylike snort. “I think the women in our family tend to fall in love with very strange men.”

“Caterina and Damian are a natural fit,” I said.

“She got that from her father’s side of the family. Or a fluke—
je ne sais pas
. Sophie chose Nelson”—she shrugged—“and you have your Neil. And I have your father—oh how we argued when we first met!”

“Different than now?”

She considered this. “About the same. But I was not used to it,
naturellement
. At home, all the boys agreed with me because I was beautiful.
Mais oui—c’est vrai
. I was beautiful, and I met your father on the plane to America. And he argued with me the whole flight.”

“Are you sure you weren’t arguing with him?”

“Quite sure.”

“Ah.” I restrained a smile.

“I left France to work in America, and I fell in love with an Italian in the process. My papa was not happy, not at all. Maman made him come and visit and meet your father. I would have married him either way, of course. But it was nice for my papa to come and pretend to be pleased.”

“But Grand-père came around, didn’t he?”

“Eh,” she said with a shrug. “He liked that your father made me happy.”

“When you weren’t arguing.”

“Oh, even then,” she said, her eyes twinkling.

“So when you say the women in our family—did Grand-mère fall in love with a man her family disapproved of?”

“She told me once there was a man before my father, a man she loved very
much. I was in my twenties and wanted to know more, but she had her secrets. I assume her family did not approve—they were very proper. But she was happy, I think, in the end.”