A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) (44 page)

“I was looking through some of Grand-mère’s photos,” I said, trying to sound as casual as possible. My heart beat hard inside my chest. “Not all of them are labeled. Do you think you could tell me,” I said, pulling the photo from my purse, “who this is?”

Grand-tante Cécile plucked the photo from my hands.
“Oh lá lá.”
She shook her head. “
C’était si triste
. I have not seen this face for many, many years.”

I didn’t dare to breathe.

“His name was Gabriel Roussard.” She studied the photo. “Your mother—
she was named for him,
naturellement
. Gabriel was … very handsome. To Mireille, he was the sun and the moon.” She smiled. “And all the stars in the heavens.”

“Were they together?
Des amoureux?
”

“
Oui oui, c’est vrai
—and they were married! Papa was so angry. She never told you?”

“She did not speak much of the past,” I said. “But I wondered.”

“Such a scandal!” She clucked her tongue.

“Was he my mother’s father?”

“Oh yes, of course. Your grand-mère didn’t marry Gilles until your mother was nearly two.” Cécile shook her head. “Gabriel was a Jew, you know. But you saw—he was handsome. And Mireille adored him. So sad. Unlucky, my sister.”

“What happened?”

Cécile sipped her tea and then made a face. “The tea is cold. I will go make more.”

I stood up quickly. “I can make it.”

“Non non,”
Cécile insisted. “I will go. You’re the guest. I’ll be right back.”

“D’accord.”
I sat back down and watched Grand-tante Cécile as she made slow, careful steps down the short hall to the kitchenette.

I was right.

They were married, and Gabriel was my true grandfather. After all this time, to know—I could hardly take it all in.

A moment later the teakettle whistled, and I could hear the clinking of a teapot lid being removed and replaced. Seconds later, Grand-tante Cécile returned.
“Ah, bon. J’ai de la compagnie. Quelle fête pour une vieille dame comme moi.”

Oh no. “Grand-tante Cécile? It’s me. Juliette.” I leaned forward. “Mireille’s granddaughter, remember?”

“Très bien, très bien. Vous êtes ainsi belle comme votre grand-mère. Mais, je parle qu’un petit peu d’anglais. Parlez-vous français?”
She smiled a beatific smile.

“Oui,”
I said, trying not to cry.

Just that quickly, she was gone. I drank the tea and conversed in French, trying to be jovial and light, rather than bitterly disappointed.

After tea, I walked along the edge of the east lavender field. I knew it could be like this, but having it happen broke my heart.

But rather than dwell on the disappointments in life, I listened to the hum of the bees.

Afterward, Sandrine and I discussed the visit. She told me that Cécile’s good days were becoming fewer and further between.

Maybe I would get lucky again. I had a few days. And Sandrine told me that Cécile loved a long phone conversation—though she might forget to whom she was speaking halfway through.

I still had so many questions. Did Gabriel have family? Did any of them survive the war? Did I have cousins somewhere, cousins like Sandrine?

I didn’t have the answers now. And that didn’t mean I
wouldn’t
have the answers later, only that I was to wait, to be patient, to listen.

There was a life lesson in there, somewhere.

I sighed.

There were some areas of my life where I could only wait. Others?

I could also take action. Up ahead on the path, I spied a bench, situated at the corner of the field, angled to face the lavender.

Phone in hand, I took a seat. Dialed Neil’s number. Listened to it ring and then listened as his recorded voice promised to get back to me within a business day.

I carried on, undeterred.

“Hi, Neil. It’s Juliette,” I began. “And I’m in France right now. I’m sitting outside the château where Grand-mère grew up, and I’m looking at her lavender. I don’t know that it’s the same lavender, but it may be clones of the original
lavender plants. Sorry. Anyway, I just wanted to call and tell you”—I paused to breathe in—“that you were right.” Then I breathed out. “I didn’t know what I wanted. Well, I’ve had some time to think about it, and here’s the thing—I really love restaurants. Always have. But I also want you in my life. I don’t know that I’ll get to have both. But you asked what I wanted, and that’s it. I want to work in a restaurant, and I want to be with you. And I hope—”

My phone beeped.

I pressed on. “I hope that maybe you’ll forgive me and that we can figure out a way to try again.”

Another beep.

“Even if it means me flying out to Memphis. But I want you to know, I have dreams. I haven’t figured them all out yet, but I have them.”

A third beep. I moved my phone from my ear.

I had an incoming call.

From Neil. With shaking hands, I transferred over. “Hi,” I said, my voice wobbly.

“Hi, Juliette.” Neil’s voice soothed like warm maple syrup. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” I told him.

Looking out onto the lavender, I realized I didn’t know what our future held, but I couldn’t wait to find out.

The year this book was written turned out to be profoundly eventful and difficult. Writing is hard enough, but writing under less than ideal circumstances is its own kind of heroic.

So too—arguably
more
so—is being the agent, editor, friend, and spouse to that author.

My agent, Sandra Bishop, is the kind of agent every writer ought to have in her corner—persistent, patient, tough, and encouraging.

Many thanks to my editor, Shannon Marchese, who brought me to WaterBrook Multnomah. She patiently waited on the manuscript and then helped me turn the story I’d submitted into the story it was meant to be. It is
so much better
, I can’t even tell you.

Thank you to my line editor, Susan Tjaden, who was so supportive through the process of finding all the rough spots and making sure they were buffed out.

Thanks to Laura Wright and the copyeditors (good band name, no?). I could not do what you do, but I’m glad you can.

In the past, I’ve worked with a slew of early readers, but this book I kept very close (partly for practical reasons—it got rewritten a lot). Love and tea to Kara Christensen and Rachel Lulich, whose thoughtful responses and encouragement were so helpful during the writing process.

Thanks and curry to Maureen McQuerry and Stephen Wallenfels for their readings and critique as I shaped that doozy of a first act. Gratitude and molasses cookies to Joanne Bischoff for her encouragement as I wrapped my head around the rewrites. Thanks also to Jania Hatfield, who lent her legal expertise for a plotline that’s no longer with us but was still much appreciated. And to my dear friends who will be reading this for the first time once it hits print (and e-book), thank you for your patience and grace.

Thanks and croissants to Carolyn McCready, who generously helped to develop the Mireille plotline.

Love and Tillamook Mudslide to my family for their love, support, and prayers through the submission, contracting, writing, and production process of this project.

Lastly, devotion and crème brûlée to my husband, Danny, who picked up Thai takeout, talked through plot points, and listened to (near) endless waffling as I named and renamed most of the characters. Seven years ago, though, he was the man I met online, the one I stayed up late e-mailing, despite the fact we’d never met in person. He was the man who didn’t flinch when I told him I wanted to write books. From inspiration to process, this book wouldn’t exist without him.

H
ILLARY
M
ANTON
L
ODGE
is a storyteller at heart. She is the author of
Plain Jayne
, a Carol Award finalist, and
Simply Sara
, an ECPA best-selling book. A graduate of the University of Oregon’s School of Journalism, Hillary discovered the world of cuisine during an internship at
Northwest Palate
magazine. In her free time she enjoys experimenting in the kitchen, watching foreign films, and exploring her most recent hometown of Portland, Oregon. She shares her home with her husband, Danny, and their Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, Shiloh.