Adrian squeezed my hand, and I had hope.
Maybe we’d get through this.
We passed our plates around; gatherings like this were seldom organized. Caterina served the lamb, while Sophie oversaw the brussels sprouts. Other dishes were passed around—it was culinary mayhem, and nobody cared.
Soon enough, the serving ended and the real eating began. Chloé shared about her role in the school play, and Nelson updated us with his job shift from one accounting firm to another.
I couldn’t lose sight of the fact that it was the first Thanksgiving without my mother, but the food, easy conversation, and time spent with family soothed my spirit.
That is, until Luca leaned forward and locked eyes with me.
“Are you going to marry Mr. Adrian, Aunt Juliette?”
My mouth dropped open as a dozen potential answers flooded my mind. I could feel Adrian stiffen next to me.
Caterina turned to her son. “That’s a very personal question, Luca. Remember how we talked about personal questions?”
“Yes, but it’s not personal!” Luca countered emphatically. “Because they were talking about it at the party in front of everyone.”
Damian reached for the rolls. “Do you want a roll, buddy?”
Luca shook his head.
“More tartiflette?” Damian tried again.
“I’m full.” He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t want to be a ring bearer.”
“Cole from school was a ring bearer,” Christian added. “He threw up.”
Chloé leaned forward. “Wait, he threw up during the wedding?”
“This isn’t appropriate dinner conversation…,” Sophie started.
“No, he threw up in class. He just got really bored as a ring bearer, and his shirt was itchy.”
Caterina put her napkin down. “Okay, it’s time for a time-out from the table, boys.”
“But we didn’t throw up!” Christian insisted, his voice raising in fervor. “It was Cole!”
“We don’t talk about throw-up or personal questions at the dinner table. Come on.”
Damian turned to Adrian and me and winced. “I’m sorry, you guys.”
“They have futures as investigative journalists,” Adrian joked, but I could hear the edge in his voice.
I volunteered to wash dishes after the meal, mainly to have something to do with my hands. Adrian joined me, and we worked methodically through the dinner plates in silence. “Thanks for coming tonight,” I said as I reached for a serving platter.
“What did you tell your family about us?”
“What?”
“What did you tell your family? About us,” he repeated.
“I—I told them that I wasn’t ready to get married yet, but that we were still together.”
“That’s all?”
“What else is there?”
He took the washed platter from my hands and set it down hard. “Hardly anyone will look me in the eye, and the ones who do, they look at me like an old dog they feel sorry for.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just a weird situation.”
“Are you serious about us, Juliette? Or are you just passing the time?”
I reached for a towel to dry my hands. “When we first started dating, I was very up front about how I knew I wasn’t ready for a serious relationship. I can’t tell you how serious I am because I don’t know.”
“You were serious with Neil, and you two had hardly spent time together.”
“And then we broke up,” I said flatly. “I wouldn’t use that as a measure.”
“But you knew how you felt about him.”
“Why are you pushing this? You’re not Neil. And I’m not the person he dated, not anymore.”
There was a cough behind us; Caterina entered the kitchen, her gaze shifting from me to Adrian. “Don’t mind me. Just needed to get some milk for the boys.”
Adrian didn’t say anything. He just looked at me and raised an eyebrow.
I waited until Caterina left. “What?”
“See? It’s weird with your family.”
“We’re half Italian,” I said, picking up an oversized bowl and scrubbing at it. “Arguing is…It’s a thing. I wouldn’t equate it with breathing, but…something else common. Sneezing or something. I don’t know. It’s been a long day.”
“So you’re telling me that if Neil suddenly showed up and told you he’d moved here, he wanted to marry you, and he wanted to make nerdy science babies with you, you’d tell him what you’re telling me?”
“Probably not, because we’re not discussing scientifically inclined children, which is a good thing.”
“Be serious, Juliette.”
I set the bowl down. “I don’t know what to tell you, because what you’re talking about has no basis in reality. I broke up with Neil, remember? And he might be in town—temporarily—but he’s seeing someone else, and he’s moving to Atlanta soon. We’ve parted ways, and our lives are only continuing to move apart.”
“You’re avoiding my question,” he said softly.
“Yes, I would still tell him that I’m not ready to be serious.”
Adrian picked the bowl up from the sink and rewashed it before running it under the water to rinse.
“I believe you think so,” he said. “I just wish I believed it were true.”
“If that’s the case,” I said, my voice wobbling, “I think we need to break up. Keeping on like this—it’s not pleasant for either of us.”
He set the bowl down beside the sink. “You may be right.”
“I wish I wasn’t,” I said, my voice thick. Tears welled behind my eyes.
Adrian glanced toward the kitchen door.
I followed his thoughts. “It’s okay,” I said. “You don’t have to stick around. I can get a ride.”
He stepped close and wrapped an arm around my waist, his cheek brushing against mine. For a moment I thought he might tell me I was wrong, that we’d be fine, that we’d both overreacted.
“I’ll see you around, Juliette,” he said instead, and left.
~ PEAR CARDAMOM GALETTE ~
Juliette likes to make her puff pastry by hand—and you’re welcome to—but store-bought dough makes quick work of this free-form tart. If you can locate all-butter puff pastry, so much the better. You can look for puff pastry in the freezer section of most grocery stores, near the frozen pies and dessert toppings.
1 sheet puff-pastry dough (if using frozen, thaw according to package directions)
4 tablespoons butter (preferably salted, but if not, add scant ¼ teaspoon salt)
¼ cup maple syrup
½ teaspoon cardamom
1 teaspoon vanilla-bean paste
1½ pounds ripe pears, peeled, cored, and sliced thin
Zest of 1 lemon
2 tablespoons cornstarch
1 egg, beaten
Preheat the oven to 400°F. Line an edged baking sheet with parchment paper.
Roll the puff pastry out to ⅙-inch thickness. Using a paring knife, round off the corners to create an oval.
In a large sauté pan, melt butter over medium-low heat. Add maple syrup and stir, allowing to simmer for a moment, before adding the cardamom and vanilla. Add the pears and cook, stirring gently, until pears just begin to soften. Add the lemon zest. Sprinkle the cornstarch over the pear mixture, and stir to combine, being careful not to break the pears. Remove mixture from heat.
Lightly score the inside of the pastry dough about 2–3 inches from the edge. With a fork, gently mark the inside of the circle, avoiding puncturing the pastry. This will prevent the pastry from creating an air bubble in the center.
With a slotted spoon, place the pears into the center of the pastry. Fold the dough over the edge of the filling, using the score mark as a guide. Pleat the dough as necessary to contain the pear mixture neatly.
Brush the exposed top of the dough with the beaten egg, and bake for 25–30 minutes, or until the pastry is golden and the filling has browned. Allow to co
ol 10 minutes before serving. Serve with whipped cream or vanilla ice cream.
Serves 6.
After violent emotion most people and all boys demand food.
—RUDYARD KIPLING
I watched Adrian’s back as he left, detached, as if I were watching the scene unfold as an audience member, rather than a participant. The front door opened and closed; I heard the car engine turn over.
He was gone.
Sophie stepped into the kitchen. “We were thinking about serving up dessert and coffee soon. How does that sound?”
“Fine. That sounds fine,” I heard myself say.
“Did Adrian leave something in his car? I thought I saw him walk outside just now.”
“He…Adrian left.”
Caterina rounded the corner. “Adrian left?”
I nodded. “He, um, left. Can someone give me a ride home?”
“Now?” Sophie asked.
“No, after dessert. Later. Are we playing a game later?”
Caterina put her hands on my arms. “Juliette, honey, what just happened?”
“Um—we broke up. I think. Yes, we did. Adrian and I broke up.”
Nico entered the kitchen from the dining-room doorway. “You and Adrian broke up? Are you okay?”
I squinted. “What is going on? Were all of you…Were you all listening in?”
“No!” Sophie protested, her face contorted in horror. “No, we were in the family room, talking about dessert.”
“And I heard Sophie talking,” Caterina added. “And I thought I heard Adrian leave too.”
Nico shrugged. “I was listening in the dining room.”
“Nico!” I said, and was surprised to hear my sisters chorusing in.
“What?” He held out his hands. “If they broke up—which they did—I’d probably need a new sous-chef. And I texted a guy tonight who can fill in, just in case. We’re booked solid this week.”
I frowned. “Who did you get?”
“Tony Cantalano. Who, by the way, is not interested in women. So he will not want to date you.”
Sophie put her hands on her hips. “You’re unbelievable.”
Caterina covered her face with her hands. “It’s not like any of this is Juliette’s fault. Adrian was flirting with her the night you hired him—and you hired him anyway.”
Nico looked from me to Caterina. “Adrian was flirting with Juliette that night?”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or yell. I chose neither. “My feet hurt,” I said. “I’m going to go sit down.”
And with that, I left the kitchen—and the continuing argument—for the relative quiet of the family room, where I took a seat beside Alex.
“Is Sophie bringing back dessert?” he asked.
“It’s anyone’s guess,” I said. “Can you give me a ride home later?”
“Sure.”
I sighed and rested my head against his shoulder. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”
Fifteen minutes later, Caterina, Sophie, and a sheepish-looking Nico returned bearing dessert, dessert plates, and silverware. They set everything on the sideboard, and we served ourselves before resettling on the overstuffed furniture.
Damian and Caterina put the boys to bed after dessert, returning from the second floor nearly an hour later.
“Books were read,” Caterina said, flopping onto the couch, “songs were sung, water was drunk, and there were two extra trips to the bathroom. All things considered, not bad.”
Sophie nodded. “Traveling.”
“Yep.” She turned to me. “You doing okay? The boys feel bad about asking about a wedding, for what it’s worth.”
I shook my head. “It’s fine. If it wasn’t tonight, it would have been a different night.”
“It’s still sucky. I’m sorry, hon.”
“What a mess,” I said with a groan.
My father rose from his spot and took a seat next to me. “Do not be worried, Giulietta.”
I wrapped my arms around him. “Was it stupid that I dated him so soon after Neil, while Mom was sick?”
“No, you should never regret caring for someone. And you did care for him. I know that, all of us know that. Not every love is meant to last forever.”
I looked toward Caterina. “I’m glad I’m leaving with you tomorrow.”
Caterina brightened. “Me too! And not just because I’m excited to have an extra hand during the flights. And I did have a conversation with the boys, so hopefully they’ll keep their personal questions to themselves.”
“They’ll be fine,” I said. “They’re good kids.” I yawned and looked at the clock. “I don’t want to go home.”
“You could stay here tonight,” my father said, his arm around my shoulders tightening in a reassuring squeeze.
“I might do that.”
Caterina squealed and clapped her hands together, which would have struck me as funny if it had been any other thirty-something woman.
“I’m glad you’re happy. Can I borrow some of your face wash?”
“Of course.”
Alex loaned me a phone charger, and I found an old college sweatshirt in the hall closet, which served as a makeshift nightgown.
Gigi curled up and slept by my feet, and I enjoyed a deep, dreamless sleep. The next morning, I showered, dressed in the previous night’s outfit, and raided Cat’s makeup bag. We enjoyed leftover galette and pumpkin pie for breakfast, served with coffee so strong I felt I could run a mile while juggling.
Alex drove me home, settling on my couch to read a book while I packed.
I raided my closet for my favorite cold-weather wear, items I seldom wore anymore since work took over my life—cozy sweater coats, soft cotton tees with long sleeves, cardigans with embroidered flowers—all in jewel tones. On top I packed the two cookbooks I’d picked up at Powell’s but hadn’t had a chance to test.
After I packed up Gigi’s necessities, Alex drove me back to Dad’s. I left Gigi with Alex, and Dad drove us to the airport.
“Have a good time,” Dad told me as we hugged at the departures drop-off. “Sleep. Cook. Meet a man in Chicago, if it brings you joy.”
“I couldn’t leave Portland,” I answered.
“Oh, if you met the right man, I think you could. Be well, Giulietta. And bring me back a bottle of pickles from that shop by Caterina’s.”
“I will,” I promised, and with that, we were off.
At Caterina’s, the boys helped me “unpack” by shoving piles of clothes into the half-empty dresser. Caterina chased them into the bathtub, and soon enough the boys were in bed, with Caterina and Damian following shortly after.
My head buzzed with too many questions for sleep. And despite my happiness to be away from home, I found I missed Gigi’s presence on my bed.
I pulled out my netbook and opened my web browser. Weeks ago, I’d attempted a search for my biological grandfather’s younger brother, Benjamin Roussard, but without any luck. There was a Cajun musician by the name of Ben Roussard, but I was fairly certain he wasn’t my great-uncle.
My heartbeat picked up, the way it always did when I set my mind on untangling my grandmother’s past. I’d missed this.
Though I hadn’t missed the disappointment of dead ends. Once again, the search turned up without any helpful hits. I pressed my palms together and thought, studying the screen.
I knew from Mireille’s letters and the wedding ring I’d found that Benjamin had worked for a time with Van Cleef & Arpels. If he and his wife had immigrated to America, would he have continued to work in fine jewelry? I knew plenty of people left professional positions in their home countries and formed entirely different lives afterward. Would Benjamin have been one of them, or would he have made a name for himself as a jeweler in America?
So I started with the basics: “Benjamin Roussard jeweler” and variations thereof. Nothing, again.
I wrinkled my nose and set the netbook aside. Enough of that—I began to reach for a cookbook before another thought distract
ed me.
After reopening the machine, I opened my e-mail and began to type.
Over the next few days, I let myself be carried away by the chaotic happiness of Caterina’s home. Caterina kept the boys busy when they weren’t at school. When they were home, I joined in the festivities, making trips to the park and the library. When the boys went to school and Cat went to work, I used the time at the house alone to cook. Caterina’s townhouse sat a couple of blocks from a well-stocked grocery store. At about ten each morning, I bundled up, walked down, and purchased whatever ingredients amused me. Back in Caterina’s kitchen, I baked chocolate babkas with quinoa flour, tartlets with cream and lychee fruit, roasted vegetables with poached eggs on top.
One morning, I decided on homemade pasta, much to Caterina’s delight.
“I haven’t had fresh tagliatelle in ages! I’ll join you; let me grab an apron.”
Together we made wells of flour and cracked eggs inside. Caterina slipped her wedding ring off before we began the mixing process, slowly working the eggs and fine flour together with our fingers.
Slowly but surely, two matching batches of shaggy dough emerged. Caterina set a timer, and we set to work kneading. Folding, pressing, turning, folding, pressing, turning—the regular rhythm quieted my mind.
“I tried looking up Benjamin again,” I said as we worked. “I’m just not getting anywhere. Which makes sense, I guess—I mean, he can’t be a spring chicken if he’s still alive.”
Caterina pressed down on her dough. “True. Did you try one of those ancestry sites?”
I shoved my dough down. “I did. I found their immigration to the States during the war—which I already knew about. I guess knowing they didn’t change their names is theoretically helpful.”
“What’s the wife’s name?”
“Alice. Same name as Mom’s missing sister.”
“Right. Have you tried searching for her, specifically? Benjamin’s wife?”
I blinked at her. “No, I haven’t. I’ve just been focused on Benjamin. Seriously, I’ve searched every which way, in hopes that some enterprising journalist decided to profile him as a human-interest story.”
Cat shrugged. “It’s worth a try.”
Together at the Table Page 9
