A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) (6 page)

“How are you two?” I asked, greeting Sophie with a hug before giving Nelson one as well.

“Great,” said Sophie. “We’re buying a new car. A crossover SUV. More room.”

“Sounds, um”—I seldom knew how to respond to Sophie—“fun. Nelson, are you excited about that extra room?”

“Yes. Sure.” His head bobbed up and down.

“Are you just going to ignore me?” Nico demanded, pretending to be standoffish before picking me up in a hug. “Have you thought any more about my offer for the prep table?”

I looked at him blankly, once again struck by his resemblance to the man in the photo.

The photo itself practically burned a hole inside my bag; I half expected an errant family member to sift through my purse’s contents and find it.

Maybe it wasn’t an issue. Maybe it wouldn’t rock anyone’s world. But Grand-mère hadn’t been gone very long. I didn’t know the polite length of time to wait before asking the rest of the family if they knew of any excommunicated family members or former flames. For now, I would hold my tongue.

“The table?” Nico reminded me, bringing me back into the present.

“You’re selling the prep table to Nico?” Sophie put her hands on her hips. “You should have told me. I would buy it from you; it’s such a great statement piece.” Gigi tried to greet her, but Sophie shooed her away with the wave of a hand. “I can’t believe you didn’t offer it to me too.”

“I didn’t offer it to anybody,” I said, intent on staying composed. “Like I said before, Grand-mère willed me the table. I like the table. I’m keeping the table. End of story.”

“You don’t have to get upset about it,” Sophie said huffily.

“I’m not upset!” I fired back, despite my attempts to retain my serenity.

Attempt failed.

“Alex?” my mother’s voice cut through the bickering.
“Venez préparer la table. Est-ce que j’entends la voix de ma Juliette?”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “English, Mom, please. Nelson is here.”

My mother walked out of the kitchen looking more elegant than any woman holding a dishtowel had a right to. I noticed signs of stress—losing her mother had added new lines to her eyes and shadows in her face. For the first time, she almost looked her seventy-two years. Her expression revealed nothing, though she appeared a bit more tired than usual. “Sophie, I wasn’t speaking to Nelson, was I? And he should learn French. Honestly. You’ve been married fifteen years. I learned English—”

“Maman!” I cut in before we could get into a linguistics disagreement.

Having a trilingual family can be high maintenance sometimes.

Or all the time.

“Juliette! Ma petite fille! Comment t’allez-vous?”
She proceeded to kiss me on both cheeks, pat my hair, and go through the rounds of French motherly attentions, the better to make sure I was fed, groomed, and loved.

“Everyone!” she said, finally switching to English and addressing the crowd. “There is a creamy leek soup, a frisée and fennel salad with lime vinaigrette,
gigot de sept heures
, and a fig tart with crème fraîche for dessert. Someone go get Chloé—it’s time to eat.”

We all took our seats in the long, spacious dining room. Alex passed plates around, while my mother updated us on our sister Caterina’s latest escapade in Chicago. As we dove into the hearty lamb stew, the conversation turned to Grand-mère.

“Have you decided what to do with the bakery?” Sophie asked, verbalizing the question none of us had dared to pose.

The chatter stilled.

My mother took a small bite of the lamb, chewed, and swallowed. “Your grand-mère willed it to your father and me, as you know. I have started to clean the apartment. The patisserie—I have not yet decided, but I will have to decide soon.”

“You’d earn a fortune leasing it,” Sophie noted.

I looked at her sharply, as did Alex and Nico.

“What? It’s true,” she protested, holding up her hands. “Don’t look at me like that. You were all thinking it.”

My father placed his hand over my mother’s. “We will tell you all about our decision once we have made it. Until then, do not allow the business to distract you from your own affairs.”

I pressed my lips together to suppress a smile. My father wasn’t usually so diplomatic, but I had a suspicion he was as worried about my mother as I was.

I lifted my wineglass. “To La Petite Chouquette,” I said. “No matter what the future brings.”

We clinked glasses all around and returned to the familiar, easy dinner-table chatter. I watched as Nico asked Nelson about his thoughts on the euro, Sophie aired her concerns about triglycerides, Alex ribbed Chloé about a boy at school, and my father slipped a bit of lamb to the dog. I felt the familiar blanket of loneliness wrap around my unwilling shoulders, even as I heard the currents and eddies of conversation swirl around me.

Nonetheless, I straightened the napkin over my lap and continued to eat my dinner with a pasted-on smile.

After dinner I said my good-byes, then turned my Alfa in the direction of my apartment complex.

My temperamental Italian car often raised eyebrows from car aficionados. Granted, it wouldn’t have been my first choice. But my father had a deep love for Alfa Romeos, and Alex enjoyed tinkering with the ones in the family’s fleet. In a way, it was the perfect hobby, since each car required a reliable amount of tinkering. I’d inherited my own car from Cat when she moved to Chicago, keeping it over the years in an effort to avoid car payments.

The car made it home without incident. At my apartment complex, exterior
lights cast a yellowish glow on the steps to my door. I slid the key into the lock and let myself in. This was my home, dark and silent.

I flipped a few lights on, my shoes off, and settled on the sofa with my laptop. I’d spent the last four years telling myself that maybe tomorrow was the day someone new would walk into my life. I was finally acknowledging that this person in my head—the person who wasn’t intimidated by my job or family—wasn’t going to appear in the life I’m living. Not like this.

I had two choices: I could sit at home, feeling sorry for myself, or I could do something about it. I could try yet another singles mixer. But I liked the little privacy I had, and the microcosmic nature of the restaurant industry didn’t lend itself to the keeping of secrets. With online dating, however, at least I wouldn’t necessarily have to use my real name. My family wouldn’t have to know.

The old-world part of me had hoped for the moment when I’d see a man across a crowded room and
know
that he was someone special.

The truth was, Éric wasn’t coming back, and after four years, I still hadn’t had a proper rebound relationship, much less found a life partner.

When I was young and Grand-mère taught me to make croissants, I remember her telling me to find a man who could respect my mind and the things I could make with my hands.

I owed it to her to try.