What would Christmas without my mother be like? I knew she’d want us to carry on. I knew she wouldn’t want me weeping over elves.
But it was a holiday for which I was supposed to feel happy. Instead, I felt several tidings short of comfort or joy.
I lay down on my back, stretching out on the rug with Gigi beside me, and tried to picture my mother in heaven. Was she happy? Did they decorate for Christmas? Did she see me, or was she too busy doing heavenly things to look?
I wished I had more time with her. I wished I had used our time better.
Gigi snuggled against me, and I rubbed her belly as fresh, salty tears slid sideways down my face and onto the woolen rug.
Whether I liked it or not, the holidays would come. Life would carry on.
I just wished I knew how to carry on too.
Footsteps sounded on the exterior stairs; Gigi leaped for the door. I sat up and swiped at my eyes.
The door opened, and my brother stepped through without knocking. “Hey, Juliette, I—” Nico stopped and took in the piles of decorations around me and my tear-stained face. “Rough afternoon?”
I sniffed and nodded.
He closed the door after himself, lowered his tall frame, and took a seat next to me, taking in the holiday detritus.
“Remember how we served the seven-hour leg of lamb last month?” Nico asked after a quiet moment. “I adapted it from Mom’s recipe. I didn’t realize how much of her it was.” He ran a hand over his hair. “I kept having to slip away to the walk-in. I hid a box of tissue behind the butter. And don’t worry—I washed in constantly. No health-code violations. But every time I smelled that lamb…”
I nodded. “I get it. Obviously.” I pulled my knees up to my torso and clasped my hands around them. “We need to think of something to do. I don’t know. Something—something to take our minds off…things.”
“Good old-fashioned distraction?”
“It’s Christmas. There ought to be something. Something to look forward to.”
“We’ll think of something,” Nico said. “I promise.”
“I got a role,” Braeden the operatic server told me, his face flushed with excitement and anxiety the next morning.
“Did you?” I answered cautiously.
“It’s for A Christmas Carol—I’m the second understudy for Scrooge. The lead was deported and the first understudy has mono. I’m so lucky!”
“I’m pleased for you,” I said, and I really did mean it. “So tell me what your theater schedule means for us at the restaurant.”
He winced. It was the kind of perfectly executed wince that gave me the impression that he’d worked on it with his acting group. “I’ll have performances every weekend,” he said. “From now until Christmas. So I’ll need to change my hours.”
I nodded and thought fast. With younger wait staff, I knew that there would be a certain amount of unreliability—few servers chose to stay in the position forever. Braeden was good at his job, so I’d try to keep him as long as I could.
During the days to come, though, I’d need all the help I could get, and without Braeden…“Ask around,” I told him. “I can switch Jade or Stan to cover your shifts, but that means moving someone off lunch and onto dinner, which means I need another server. So if any of your friends who can carry a tray are looking for a job, let me know.”
Braeden promised to ask around, saying he’d texted a couple friends and hadn’t heard back.
He left my office, and I immediately pulled up my calendar to examine the existing schedule.
Well, I’d wanted a distraction from the holidays, and here I had it.
By Sunday, two of Braeden’s contacts called me about the position. No doubt he’d told them our customers tipped well, on average, making the position an attractive one.
I had them in for interviews, working the lunch and dinner shifts, running orders while still making sure that food and communication flowed well between the front and back of the house.
The first interviewee was…not great. He knew Braeden from the acting community, but his lank posture and lack of eye contact told me that he wouldn’t make it as an actor or a waiter.
The second held more promise. Hannah told me she was new to the area, had a serving job at a trattoria downtown, but needed more hours. I hired her on the spot, pulling a W-9 form from my desk for her to fill out while I scanned her ID into the computer.
After work that evening I pulled out my phone to text Neil. We’d exchanged a few short texts since I’d gotten back on my feet, but I knew I owed him more.
He’d brought me soup, walked Gigi—I still couldn’t get that moment before he’d left out of my head. Before I could lose myself in those memories, I typed out a quick text inviting him to lunch at the restaurant.
Five minutes later, my phone dinged.
“Glad you’re feeling better. Tuesday for lunch?”
“Tuesday, 1 p.m.?” I texted back.
“I’ll be there,” he replied.
I knew he meant lunch. I knew it. But that was the trick—my silly, sentimental brain read his message as a promise.
Tuesday arrived in a snap of a ginger cookie. I dressed with care that day, wearing one of my nicer black dresses with a black wrap cardigan that made my waist look particularly petite. I chose my makeup carefully as well, choosing a shimmery and sheer berry lipstick that made my skin glow and my eyes pop.
I considered eyeliner but decided against it. We weren’t dating, after all. There were limits.
There were already a few diners waiting when we opened for lunch. I seated them right away. Mallory had arrived and tied on her work apron, but Hannah was already twenty minutes late.
After Mallory and I took the drink orders, I stepped away to try Hannah’s cell.
No answer, and no time to stew about it—more guests arrived at the front. The hairs on the back of my neck lifted.
This wasn’t going to be an easy lunch shift.
I sent texts to Jade and Stan, to see if they could come in at the last minute. Stan replied that he was teaching lessons; Jade didn’t respond.
Our ordinary lunch shifts were well handled by two servers. Sitting it out with Neil wouldn’t have been difficult at all. But today? It was as if everyone had woken up that morning craving our butternut-squash soup.
Not that I blamed them. I woke up craving that soup myself.
I clipped my hair back and knotted an apron around my waist before washing in and grabbing one of the mini-tablets we used for orders.
For the next hour and a half, I poured drinks, carried plates, fixed mistaken orders, and talked guests into boxing a slice of pie to go. I carried bowl after bowl of butternut-squash soup without sloshing it over the edge of the bowl.
By the time Neil arrived, I didn’t have to look into a mirror to know that my face was flushed with activity and that strands of hair had escaped from my clip. I finished helping a guest choose a glass of wine to go with the cassoulet before meeting him at the front.
“My newest hire didn’t show up. And I thought that things might slow down, but—” I looked around. The only open table was the one I’d reserved in the corner for the two of us once it became clear that seating would be at a premium. “I’m so sorry. I should have called you to reschedule.”
He glanced around the room and gave a half smile that made my heart skip. “Call me with what free moment?”
“Are you hungry? I set aside a table, and I can bring you food at least. Company I can provide another time. Please?” I cringed at the thought of sending him away on an empty stomach.
“I’d never turn down lunch, you know that.”
“Oh good,” I said, exhaling the breath I realized I’d been holding. “The table’s right over here. Can I bring you something hot to drink? Coffee?”
“Coffee,” he answered, shrugging out of his overcoat to reveal dark-brown chinos paired with a chunky fisherman’s sweater knit in an ivory yarn. It was a good look for him, but I
had to stay focused.
“Coffee,” I repeated. “I’ll be right back.”
“I feel silly making you fetch and carry for me.”
“Don’t!” I answered with a laugh. “I’m the one who knows where the industrial-sized coffee maker is.”
He leaned back against his chair, but I could tell that the thought of being waited on—by me, at least—bothered him.
At the beverage station, I set up a coffee tray with one of our oversized mugs, a hearty pour of coffee, and a small pitcher of cream next to one of the crystallized sugar stirrers we supplied to our guests.
Neil the Scientist enjoyed examining the sugar-crystal formation on the wooden stir stick, and I left him to look over the menu while I dropped checks at two tables.
I checked in on the kitchen, Nico in particular. “You holding up?”
“Like champs,” Nico answered, his face flushed and triumphant. “Is it as full out there as I think it is, or is everyone extra hungry?”
“Both.”
“Hannah never showed?”
“Nope.”
“That might be the end of that one.”
“It might,” I agreed. I’d gotten lucky—I hadn’t had to fire anyone so far. But staying employed meant showing up. Hannah had broken rule number one.
I grabbed my orders from the bar the moment Nico set them down: two of our panini and soup combos for the two-top by the window, delivering them to the waiting diners while the food was fresh and hot. We had pull-down heat lamps to keep food hot on the bar, but not for much longer than a few minutes, and only for plates that needed to be uniformly warm.
After delivering those plates, I stopped back to check on Neil. “Anything look good?”
He looked up at me, his expression guilty. “This still feels weird.”
“Didn’t you ever visit friends in school who waited tables?”
“Not really,” he said, and I remembered that he’d kept to himself after the death of his best friend. “This is new territory for me.”
“Well, what sounds good?”
He pointed at the menu. “Your spiced macaroni and cheese—it’s not very spicy?”
“It’s got a kick, but kids like it. It’s what Chloé asks to eat for her birthday dinner every year.”
He smiled. “I’ll do that, then. And the—insalata mista? That’s pretty much just a green salad, right?”
“Italian for ‘mixed greens,’ ” I said with a smile. “We just make it tasty with a good balsamic dressing, blue-cheese crumbles, pine nuts, and some delicious cherry tomatoes.”
A sheepish grin. “I trust you.”
I grinned back. “You’ll like it. And if you don’t, I’ll bring you something else. And it looks like it’s slowing down a touch,” I added, looking around, “so I might be able to join you.”
I put the order in and stepped back into the dining room, only to find a party of…one, two, three, four, five, six, seven?
We certainly wouldn’t have to worry about the day’s take, that was for sure. I looked over my shoulder at Neil with regret—our lunch today really, really wasn’t going to happen.
I let the party know I’d be right with them, and with Mallory’s help, cleared and then pushed together our two four-top tables to create enough seating. The dining room really wasn’t designed for large parties. Even Yelp proclaimed that we were not “Good for Groups.” But I wasn’t going to turn away hungry people looking for a place to lunch.
With the table ready, I seated the party, set out the water carafes, and handed out our menus—single pages printed front and back onto cardstock. I took drink orders and left to pour a glass of Chardonnay, a taste of the Pinot Gris, two iced teas, and three coffees.
I carried those back, nearly knocking into Mallory in the process.
Two other tables held up hands, asking for their checks. I left the seven-top to peruse the menu before ringing the other tables up and then swinging by the kitchen to find Neil’s meal on the bar.
“Just in time,” Nico said. “I was about to take this one out myself.”
“Party of seven walked in,” I said. “What a zoo.”
And really, if Nico stayed put and didn’t quite figure out who sat at table five, I was okay with that. Not that it was the deepest secret—I’d invited Neil to the restaurant, after all—but if it escaped Nico’s notice, I wouldn’t have minded.
I returned to Neil’s table to find Neil…elsewhere. I set the plate down and looked around.
He leaned over the table that had just emptied, stacking plates and gathering discarded napkins and placing them into a bus bin.
I crossed the small dining room. “Let me give you a hand with that.”
“You looked busy. I wanted to help,” he said.
“Your food’s ready,” I said, pointing toward his table. “Where did you get the bin?”
“Mallory. I suppose a tray is nicer, but I didn’t trust myself.”
The urge to kiss him hit hard. I resisted, of course. Because we were in the dining room, and I was working, and he had a bin full of dishes in his hands, and seven people needed their orders taken.
I wanted to tell him to stop being helpful. But I knew that he was simply being himself—a guy that took care of people, who felt more comfortable diving in with a bus bin than watching everyone take care of things without him.
“Thanks,” I said. “Don’t forget to eat, ’kay?”
He looked at me, his gaze flickering from my eyes to my lips and back. “ ’Kay,” he echoed.
“I should go take orders,” I said, more to myself than to him.
“Do your thing, Juliette,” he answered with a nod to his table. “I’ll be over there.” A shy smile. “When I’m done with the tables, at least.”
I nodded and walked toward the seven-top with unstable legs.
In the end, Neil had to leave for campus before my shift finished.
“I’m so, so sorry,” I said as he slipped his arms into his overcoat. “I’m firing Hannah. Of all days…”
He shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. Gives us an excuse to do this again, right?”
I nodded, breathless.
He smiled that warm smile of his. “Next time, my treat.”
There were so many reasons we’d broken up, reasons I’d recited to myself over and over to remind myself why Neil and I had no future.
As I watched Neil leave Two Blue Doors, I wondered about those reasons.
I wondered if they were real or if they were simply a list of facts that I’d used as a fence around my heart.
~ BUTTERNUT-SQUASH SOUP ~
1 tablespoon grapeseed oil
1 large butternut squash, cut in half, seeds removed
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 large onion, diced
2 carrots, diced
2 stalks celery, diced
1 teaspoon salt
Cracked black pepper to taste
2 Granny Smith apples, peeled, cored, and diced
2 cups chicken stock
¼ cup maple syrup
1 cup cream
Parmesan cheese, grated, for serving
Line a baking sheet with foil, and heat the oven to 400°F. Pour a little grapeseed oil onto the lined baking sheet, and place the squash cut-side down. Roast for 25–40 minutes, or until a fork pierces through with ease. Allow the squash to cool enough to handle; remove and discard the skin before cubing.
In a large soup pot, heat the olive oil over medium heat. Add the onion and sauté, stirring occasionally, until the onion becomes translucent. Add the carrots, celery, salt, and several cracks of fresh ground pepper, and cook until the veggies are soft. Add the apple, and continue to cook until the pieces break down and lose some of their moisture, about 2 minutes.
Add the roasted squash and chicken stock, and bring to a boil. Lower to a simmer, and allow to cook for 30 minutes before removing from heat.
Purée the soup in batches in a blender, or right in the
pot with an immersion blender. Purée until very smooth. Add the maple syrup and cream. Taste, and adjust seasonings as needed.
Serve hot, with a drizzle of cream and a sprinkle of parmesan cheese across the top.
Serves 6.
If the home is a body, the table is the heart, the beating center, the sustainer of life and health.
—SHAUNA NIEQUIST
The call came in while we were seated around the table together, during an informal family dinner.
Dad rose to look at the incoming number on the house phone. “It’s Sandrine’s number at the chateau,” he said. “I should take this.”
“Bonjour, Sandrine,” he said in his Italian-accented French. “Ça va?” A pause. “Oh…c’est triste, c’est triste…Ah…oui, Juliette est ici. Un moment, s’il te plait.”
My heart clenched within my chest. I took the phone and raised it to my ear. “Bonjour, Sandrine,” I said.
“My dear Juliette,” she said. “I am sorry to tell you that my maman, she has passed away in her sleep.”
“Oh,” I said. “Oh, Sandrine, I’m so sorry.” I could hear my father explain it to the others softly beside me.
“She didn’t suffer, I don’t believe,” Sandrine said. “I’m sorry. I know you were hoping she’d be able to tell you more about your grandmother.”
“It wasn’t meant to be,” I said. “Don’t even think about me. I’m so sorry for your loss.” I ran a hand through my hair.
“Thank you,” she said. “She had a good life, I think. She married a good man, had children who visited.”
“A daughter who took care of her while running an inn. That means a lot.”
“I did what I could,” Sandrine said. “I will let you get back to your dinner. Auguste sends his love.”
“I know we’re quite far,” I said, “but if there’s anything I can do, from here, let me know, d’accord?”
“Merci, Juliette.”
“If it were easier for you, we can reschedule the Epiphany trip,” I began, but Sandrine interrupted me.
Together at the Table Page 16
