I loaded the boys into Dad’s Volvo, buckling them into the car seats that my parents had kept at their house for Caterina’s visits.
“I’ll sit in the back with the boys,” Damian offered. “You ladies catch up.”
“That’s very sweet of you.” Caterina gave her husband a peck on the cheek.
“You were about to call shotgun anyway.”
She shrugged. “It’s true.”
He kissed her. “Have fun. We’re going to be discussing the finer points of Despicable Me versus Megamind.”
“Pff. Megamind, no contest.”
We loaded the rest of the luggage into the trunk before loading ourselves. I’d hardly put the car into reverse before Caterina leaned toward me. “Nico said Neil came to the restaurant.”
I finished backing out of my narrow parking space before rolling my eyes. “He did, yes.”
“And?”
I gave Cat the highlights—OHSU, Atlanta, his dating relationship with a work colleague.
“Did he say dating?”
“I don’t know. ‘Seeing’?”
“Hmm.”
“It doesn’t matter. Neil is an old chapter.”
“You guys had a lot of history together, though.”
“So do Adrian and I,” I answered, hating how defensive I sounded.
Caterina nodded. “That’s true. How are things there? He sounded a little squirrelly last time we talked.”
“Eh.” I shrugged. “He’s having a grand old time planning my birthday.”
“That’s sweet.”
“It is.”
“But you don’t much want a birthday.”
I winced. “Not much.”
“Tell him to dial back. We can do whatever you want. Dickie Jo’s for burgers. Dar Essalam for tagine.”
“I do like tagine. He’s having a good time, and I hate to get in the way of that.”
“Your choice. But you’re, like, full-body wincing, and that’s not good.”
“It’ll be fine. It’ll make Dad happy.”
“I’m bringing him grand-boys. He’ll be perfectly contented building train tracks with them.”
“That’s true. So do you have any hopes and dreams for this trip?” I asked, changing the subject. “Anywhere in Portland you want to visit while you’re here?”
“I’d like to go to Powell’s. The boys could use some more picture books, and it’s cheaper here without the sales tax.”
“True.”
“And it’s a thin yet socially acceptable excuse to go hang out at a bookstore.”
“Since when do you need an excuse?”
Cat sighed. “Mom guilt. Pass it on.”
“Gotcha. Well, I’m off tomorrow night. Want to make a trip?”
“Yes!”
“Want to bring the boys?”
“Let’s go after they’re in bed. Powell’s is open late, isn’t it? I love my boys very much,” Cat said, the sentence punctuated by Christian kicking her seat “like a ninja” and Damian admonishing him to stop, “but I feel at peace leaving them at home to look at books.”
“Fair enough,” I said, even as Luca caught on and started kicking mine.
Soon enough, we reached our parents’ house—Dad’s house, I corrected myself in my head. I helped unload and carry the luggage while the boys ran up the stairway to the front door and their grandfather’s waiting arms.
And trains.
Caterina slung a duffel bag over her shoulder. “Let me know about the birthday stuff. If there’s anything I can do to make it easier, you just tell me, ’kay?”
“I will,” I promised. “There might not be anything, though. It might just be hard.”
“I know,” Caterina said softly.
“I’m really glad you’re here.”
She grinned. “Me too.”
“There’s something about the smell of books,” Caterina said the following night, taking a deep breath as we stepped through the doors at Eleventh and Burnside.
“Paper and binding agents, printer’s ink…”
“…and words,” Caterina finished.
“And words,” I agreed. “Words are the best.” I looked around, taking in the tall shelves. “Where to first? Which floor?”
“I want to look for books for the boys, so maybe do that last? So I’m not carrying picture books up three flights of stairs?”
“Better to carry cookbooks?”
“Exactly.”
I looped my arm around her elbow, and we strode toward the aisles of books. That lasted for about fifteen seconds—Caterina wandered down one aisle while I got distracted by another. We worked our way through the store that way, occasionally engaging in a game of Marco Polo, never straying too far from each other.
At least, not until she decided to hit the children’s books. I discovered I could entertain myself looking at the vintage copies of Anne of Green Gables for a significant period of time, but both of us had underestimated Caterina’s capacity for looking at books for the boys.
“Am I a terrible aunt if I’m thinking about heading upstairs to see if the Rare Book Room is open?”
Caterina laughed and shook her head. “Go in peace. I’ll catch up with you in a little bit.”
I dashed away with a grateful wave, weaving my way out of the children’s department and up the stairs, down the mezzanine, and up the two additional flights of stairs to the Pearl Room.
After jogging up the three flights of stairs, I felt glad for the exercise but a little winded. I turned toward the Rare Book Room, only to be met with a deeply unexpected sight.
Neil McLaren, leaning casually against the information desk. So casual, he might have been in the midst of a James Dean impersonation.
He saw me about a half instant after I spotted him; he straightened, a bemused smile stretching across his face. “Of all the gin joints.”
“We seem to keep running into each other,” I said, or at least tried to. It sounded more like an asthmatic wheeze to my ears.
“Well, where else is a person going to buy a book in this town?”
“There are, technically, other options.”
“But not as spacious—or as confusing—as this one.”
I gave a rueful shrug. “It does help to be local. Did you get a map?”
He pulled it from the back pocket of his pants. “I did. Got me here—I’ve heard the Rare Book Room is really something.”
“Is it open? I’d planned to poke my head in if it was.”
“I asked. Someone’s out looking for the right person with the right key.”
“Oh.” My face flushed with pleasure. Or maybe it was just the exercise. I couldn’t much tell.
“So what are you up to?” He gestured to my pile of cookbooks. “Personal shopping?”
“A little. Cat’s here in town; she wanted to make a trip.”
“Cat’s here?”
“I lost her to the children’s section, but yes. You never met Cat, did you?”
“Just Sophie and your brothers. And most of the rest of your family, I think.”
I snorted out an awkward chuckle. “You really have met most of my family. Not too many people can say that.”
A stereotypically pierced and tattooed employee approached with a kindly smile, and within minutes Neil and I followed her inside the Rare Book Room.
“This is really something,” Neil said, with an appreciative glance over the room’s contents.
I turned to my left and pointed to a familiar spine. “This is the one you have to see. Well, you can’t see it so much as appreciate the photo rendering. It’s the Lewis and Clark book.”
“History of the Expedition Under the Command of Captains Lewis and Clark to the Sources of the Missouri, Thence Across the Rocky Mountains and Down the River Columbia to the Pacific Ocean,” Neil read reverently, his soft southern accent more pronounced. “Oh my.”
“It’s the most valuable book in the collection. They don’t even keep it here. It’s in a vau
lt or something. It’s listed for $350,000.”
Neil nodded. “Fair enough.”
“And it’s on the website too. I looked once. There was only one review, but I thought it would be a funny one for those crank reviews—you know the ones I’m talking about? Like the Amazon reviews for the banana slicer?”
“And the uranium in a tin? They are funny.”
“I feel like someone should leave a funny review, talk about how the plot meandered and the author doesn’t seem to have firsthand knowledge, and the romance isn’t compelling. Something silly like that.”
“No good explosions?”
I gave a soft laugh. “Yeah. Like that.”
“Why don’t you write it?”
“Me? It’d be the only one. I’d be the strange crank. You never know on any given day whether someone in this town has a sense of humor or not.”
Neil gave a rueful chuckle. “I have noticed that. So—tell me about Cat. Is she here for the fun of it or coming out for something specific?”
I sighed and rubbed my neck. “My birthday.”
“I feel like I should have known that.” He studied me, raising a ginger eyebrow. “I’d wish you happy birthday, but your face is saying no.”
“It’s…not the same without my mom. So really, I’d just as soon skip the whole thing.”
“But Cat’s here, so you don’t get to skip?”
“Cat would pretend it’s Halloween and go trick-or-treating with me dressed as the reindeer from Frozen if I asked her. Adrian is…enthusiastic about throwing a party. What can ya do?”
“You could boycott.”
“He’s a good guy, and his intentions are in the right place. I’ll manage. If the worst I have to deal with are the good intentions of other people, things can’t be so bad.”
Neil opened his mouth as if to disagree but seemed to think better of it. “Well, I hope you find yourself enjoying the day, somehow.”
“That’s kind of you. But really, I’d rather just pretend it’s not happening.”
“Then it’s not. I don’t mind pretending with you.”
“Thanks.”
Our gazes caught and held in that moment. It seemed every time we saw each other—three times now—that each encounter led to such a moment. A current of unspoken words flowed between us, enough that I could almost see them, so many I couldn’t hope to untangle even a handful.
What I knew most was that I didn’t want the moment to end.
In the end, I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.
“Hey, Etta, I finally pulled myself away from the picture books” came my sister’s very distinct voice. “I forgot how good the selection is here. I—um, hi.”
I tore my gaze away. “Cat. Hi.”
“Hi,” she answered back. I couldn’t read her face.
“This is—this is Neil. Neil, this is Caterina. My sister.”
Cat extended a hand toward Neil. “It’s nice to meet you. I heard you’re in Portland for the short term.”
“I am,” Neil said. “It’s a great city, I’ve enjoyed my time.”
“My husband and I live in Chicago, but in its own way Portland still feels like home.” Cat turned back to me. “Well, I’m going to the art-history section—”
“I’ll go with you,” I said quickly. If I stayed longer, I didn’t know what would happen. And I didn’t need to know. I was happy as I was, happy with Adrian. Neil would leave Portland eventually, and no amount of mooning at him in a bookstore would change that.
I turned to Neil, carefully schooling my features. “It was good to see you,” I said. “I hope you find a good book.”
“I hope you have a quiet weekend,” Neil answered.
We waved awkward good-byes, and I stepped out with Cat, my hand on her arm for stability.
“Okay—art history,” I said, looking around. “Where is that again?”
“No idea. It was the first subject that came to mind—you looked like you were in the middle of something. I was going to give you more time.”
“I think more time is the last thing we need.”
“So that’s Neil. I’ve seen the pictures you showed me, but wow. He’s got a good face. Like, a Masterpiece Theater face.”
“I don’t even know what that means. Shall we check out? If you’re not actually interested in nineteenth-century art, and if you’re done with the rest of your shopping, I think I’d like to go home.”
“We can check out. Are you—wow. I mean, I couldn’t tell that you were with someone until I came in.” Caterina pulled me into one of the tall, thankfully empty aisles. “Seriously, you looked like you were seconds away from a From Here to Eternity moment. Less the beach, I suppose…I should probably pick a different movie. But is there something I, ah, need to know?”
“We weren’t about to make out, if that’s what you’re trying to say,” I said, pulling away.
She pressed the books in her hands close to her chest. “I’m a married lady, Etta. I know make-out face.”
“Is that a thing? And a qualification?”
“I think you’re deflecting.”
“And you’re misconstruing a moment.”
Cat sighed. “I’m sorry. You just…You looked like you really missed him.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. There were only questions in my head where answers used to be.
Bear in mind that you should conduct yourself in life as at a feast.
—EPICTETUS
“This is dialed down?” I asked Cat, surveying the birthday scene from the safety of the entryway of my father’s restaurant, D’Alisa & Elle.
“This is dialed down,” she assured me. “You wouldn’t believe the things I talked him out of.”
I squinted at the sight. “Do I want to know?”
Cat paused. “No…,” she said after a moment’s reflection. “I don’t think so.”
I groaned.
“It’s cute,” she said. “He likes you.”
“If you think it’s so adorable, I’ll send him your way for your birthday.”
Cat laughed. “I think it’s all for you, darlin’.”
I knew she was right, but I couldn’t do anything but shake my head. The crowd consisted of my family, Clementine, my friend Linn, and her husband. Surrounding them was enough food to stock all of our freezers for the next three months.
If the dining-room tables hadn’t been so stable, they would have sagged from the weight of the food. There were antipasti platters, a butternut-squash strata with sage, and a casserole dish of baked ziti. On the sweet side there were pear tartlets, an apple cake, fresh figs with mascarpone and honey. At the end waited a towering croquembouche—a pyramid of cream-filled choux puffs encased in a glamorous tangle of spun sugar.
It was a lovely party, but it didn’t matter how much food waited and how many loved ones milled about, half of whom I hadn’t seen since the memorial.
It was too fresh. There were too many people. I wasn’t ready.
The amount of effort Adrian had gone to—it was sweet. Romantic, from some angles. Many angles. But I also felt a knot of frustration that I’d told him so many times I wanted a quiet day.
I watched as Gigi danced from partygoer to partygoer, enjoying the attention. At least someone was having a grand time. In truth, it looked as though everyone else was. I took a deep breath and pasted a smile on my face. If I could carry on through the last few months, I could certainly carry on through my own birthday party.
I worked from left to right, greeting my guests. I started with my father, using his hug to bolster me through the rest of the room. Before long, I’d exchanged pleasantries with nearly everyone, and I found Sophie in the corner, waving me down.
“Happy birthday!” Sophie, my oldest sister, gave me a warm hug. “This is such a beautiful party.”
“I can’t at all take credit for it.”
“It’s your birthday, of course you can.”
“Fair point,” I said with a smile.
Sophie and I had endured our relational ups and downs over the years, owing partly to our age gap—eight years—and partly to the differences in our personalities. Sophie liked certainty, efficiency, and routine with an intensity more typically observed in the military. She’d married her accountant husband, Nelson, at twenty-four and proceeded to live out the suburban dream in a way that felt distinctly foreign to me. But the past months had brought us closer together; we’d gotten better at listening to each other and being gracious about differences in opinion.
Not perfect, but better.
“We need to talk about Thanksgiving,” Sophie said. “I’d like us all to make plans before it gets much later.”
“Thanksgiving? Already?” Granted it was only a week away, but Thanksgiving meant Christmas, followed by New Year’s and Epiphany—all holidays we’d be celebrating without our mother.
Nonetheless, Sophie remained resolute. “It’s important for us to be together.”
“You’re right. We should be together. And it does take scheduling.”
“It doesn’t have to be elaborate. Speaking of, this is quite the shindig.”
“Yes. Yes it is.”
“Chloé was looking for you, by the way.”
“Oh? I haven’t seen her yet—I think Luca and Christian got her first.”
“I think there’s a boy at school.”
I turned and stared at my sister. “Oh?”
Sophie shrugged. “Kid’s thirteen. It happens.”
“Oh my goodness.”
“And I’m the mom—I’m not cool.” Sophie shrugged. “Not that I was cool before motherhood, either. But Chloé was very intent on talking to you in person.”
“Gotcha.”
“Just remind her she can’t date until she’s sixteen, please? That’s the official policy and I’m sticking to it.”
“I won’t tell her to elope, don’t worry.”
This time Sophie turned to me. “We do not joke about the e word.”
“Noted.”
“She’s getting married in a church. With air conditioning. None of this hipster barn business.”
“I’m sure that by the time she gets married, barns will be out of style.”
“Here’s hoping.”
“I’m sure grain silos will be the next big thing.”
Together at the Table Page 6
