“That’s what you want?”
“He’s what I want,” I said, as gently as I could.
Adrian winced anyway.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I told him, “though we have enough history that I’ll probably succeed without trying. I just—I just wanted to say that I want you to have good things.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched, and I knew he was physically holding words back.
“I want you to have good things too,” he said finally. “I just thought we were one of them.”
There wasn’t anything I could say to make it better. No amount of platitudes or kind words.
So I gave him a kind smile. “You’re a good guy, Adrian. See you at the opening?”
He ran a hand through his thick curls. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see you then.”
I said good-bye and left, wishing that his words hadn’t found a sensitive place in my heart.
At my dad’s place, Gigi and I snuggled up on the couch along with my laptop, and I caught up on work. I shared pictures of the new dining room on social media, followed up with guests who promised to come to the opening.
And then I opened up a new document and began writing notes. I wrote about accounting, our social-media management, and the restaurant policy for handling guest complaints, both in person and in online reviews.
Because in just a few weeks, I’d be handing off my job. I’d need to start interviewing. While Mallory made a great assistant manager, she wasn’t ready for the accounting and paperwork part of my job. Nico would need someone who could do it all.
I’d be passing my job off to a stranger, and the thought threw me; I distracted myself by e-mailing Caterina.
To: Caterina, cdesanto@beneculinary.com
From: Me, jdalisa@twobluedoors.com
Adrian did not take the news particularly well. Don’t know who told him, but my gut says to blame Kenny.
J
To: Me, jdalisa@twobluedoors.com
From: Caterina, cdesanto@beneculinary.com
Poor Adrian. Poor Kenny.
Are you doing a color scheme for your chateau wedding? And cake? And a dress?
(You’re having ring bearers, so I thought I’d check about the rest. It’s a slippery slope.)
Love, C
To: Caterina, cdesanto@beneculinary.com
From: Me, jdalisa@twobluedoors.com
Colors are…um…butternut squash and pear.
Cake: same.
Dress: TBD
Sorry. I’m…nervous about the reopening. And Adrian’s words got to me in a way that I’m embarrassed about.
J
To: Me, jdalisa@twobluedoors.com
From: Caterina, cdesanto@beneculinary.com
Aww! Sending love and hugs from Chicago. You’ve got this. And while you have, of course, forgiven Adrian, don’t forget he’s also the guy who didn’t listen to you and threw you the birthday party you never asked for and never wanted. He’s a nice guy but doesn’t know everything. Even if he does have good hair.
(I will probably never get over those curls. BUT Neil’s hair is kinda gingery, right? Gingers are super en vogue right now.)
Are you moving into Neil’s tonight??
Love, C
To: Caterina, cdesanto@beneculinary.com
From: Me, jdalisa@twobluedoors.com
Moving in tonight! Moving from my dad’s place to my husband’s, like we’re in the old country (at least he doesn’t live with his parents). Most of my stuff is going into storage, his is already there—it’s a furnished apartment. We’ll make our Atlanta place a bit more “us” when we get there.
The following days flew by. I moved my clothes and toiletries into Neil’s. We enjoyed a late family dinner at D’Alisa to welcome Neil to the family. Neil charmed them all with his easy southern manners and exuberant love for every dish that came out of the kitchen. At the end of the night, we drove back to his place together, hands entwined.
Christmas Eve morning, I found myself awake well before dawn, my stomach already in knots. Before I knew it, I was back in my favorite work dress and ballet flats, giving the servers last-minute tips before our first diners arrived.
Soon enough, a steady stream of guests arrived, and I bounced from table to table, greeting people, explaining specials, accepting praise for our creative reopening. I brought out platters of our cranberry-and-pistachio-crusted goat cheese to thank diners for visiting us at our new location. Though the evening had barely begun, things were moving even more smoothly than I could have hoped.
Still, I kept an eye on the front for Neil, who’d promised to come after a meeting with colleagues.
The more I watched the front entrance, the more I realized why I’d been extra jittery.
The last time we’d opened, Neil and I had broken up.
My rational mind knew that this time was different. We were married. We lived in the same city—the same apartment.
But my irrational mind? My irrational mind wanted to see him in the entryway. My irrational mind hadn’t yet wrapped around the fact that just a week ago, Neil and I hadn’t been together, much less married.
I stepped into the kitchen to the drinks station, pouring a drink order for a two-top in the window, my thoughts whirling.
Mallory touched my arm, interrupting the flow. “Last-minute reservation. I know we don’t normally take them, but I made an exception.”
“Oh?”
“Six-top.”
“Six?”
“They asked for the seven o’clock slot. We’ll have a full house!”
“That’s good,” I said. “We don’t usually take last-minute reservations,” I added.
“The caller offered a credit-card number,” Mallory said. “To hold it. Said to charge it if they were late.”
I shrugged. “We’ll see how it goes. Change the policy if it works out, but if they don’t show or it doesn’t, no last-minute reservations after, m’kay?”
I delivered the drinks and carried on. At 6:15, my phone buzzed with a text. A text from Neil. “On my way,” he said. “I love you.”
He loved me. He was coming.
I needed to get a grip. Phone in hand, I stepped out to the fire escape and pressed the button to call him back.
“Hi, love,” he answered.
“I just want you to know,” I said, “that I love you. And I trust that you love me. And if you don’t come, or can’t come, I trust that you still love me.”
“I’m going to come,” he said, sounding baffled. “You got my text, right?”
“I did.”
“Is this…? We’ve had our bumps, Jules. And some of them have been ugly. But we’re good. And I’m going to see you soon.”
“I trust you.”
Neil chuckled. “That’s good. Hang tight, Juliette, I’m on my way.”
I smiled despite myself. “Okay. You’re very charming, you know.”
“It’s the accent. I’ll see you soon.”
I was in the kitchen picking up the food for a four-top when Mallory found me again. “The party of six arrived,” she said. “I’ll run these if you want to seat them. They look like VIPs, so you should probably handle them.”
“Thanks for the heads-up.” I gave her a rundown on which dish went to each diner before walking back out to the front of the house.
Neil stood by the maître d’s station, grinning from ear to ear, flanked by one, two, three—five people in work attire.
It was him all along. He was the mystery caller.
I tipped my head and walked toward him. “Hi there. Table for six, I presume?”
He grasped my hands and planted a kiss on my cheek. “Juliette, there are some people I’d like you to meet. These are my colleagues. And this”—he gestured to me—“is my talented wife, who’s responsible for this place.”
He introduced me around, and I shook hands and learned names before walking them to the long grouping of tables w
e’d set up especially for the six of them. I gestured to the menus at each place setting and took drink orders. I bent to kiss Neil on the cheek before returning to the kitchen. “Thank you,” I whispered in his ear.
“I’m so proud of you,” he answered softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m proud of you and I’m proud to be here.”
I had no words left; I pressed a kiss onto the corner of his mouth and left to make the drinks, my heart overflowing.
He hadn’t just shown up; he’d brought new patrons. That was the guy I’d married. And with that, the shadow in my thoughts melted away.
Everything would be fine. The restaurant would survive. And Neil and I?
On our way to Provence, in the blink of an eye.
~ GOAT CHEESE WITH PISTACHIOS AND CRANBERRIES ~
¼ cup unsalted, hulled pistachios, rough chopped
¼ cup dried cranberries, rough chopped
4 ounces soft goat cheese, such as chèvre
Allow cheese to warm on the countertop, about 30–60 minutes. Mix the pistachios and cranberries together in a wide, shallow bowl. Roll the cheese into the mixture, pressing gently to help the mixture stick to the soft cheese.
Wrap in a square of waxed paper, and refrigerate until set. Serve with crackers, baguette slices, apples, or pears.
Makes about 6 servings.
Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.
—EDITH SITWELL
“It looks completely different in the winter,” Neil commented from behind the wheel. “Still pretty, just different.”
I gazed out the window at Chateau de l’Abeille, where my grandmother had grown up. “It looks like something from a Victorian novel.” I looked over my shoulder. “We’re here, you guys!”
We’d rented two Citroen Grand C4 Picassos after our flight. There had been much debate, previously, about taking the train versus driving, but Alex and Neil wanted to drive, and Caterina didn’t trust the boys’ ability to remain civil for a train ride in public after a transatlantic flight.
As it was, they’d had a number of squabbles because Christian had leaned on Luca, and Christian’s hair on Luca’s arm had caused Luca’s arm to itch, and so on, until they’d fallen asleep for lack of better options.
Alex’s van, carrying my dad, Nico, Sophie, Nelson, and Chloé, pulled up beside us as we parked in the circular driveway in front of the chateau.
Caterina sighed. “They’ve probably been discussing politics and current affairs, like the Kennedys at the dinner table.” She turned around to the boys in the third row of seating. “Wake up! We’re here!”
We poured out of the vans just as Sandrine and Auguste emerged to greet us, coats pulled tight to protect them from the wind. There were hugs to be had all around, double kisses on cheeks—for Neil in particular. We carried the luggage inside, following Sandrine through the halls as she assigned rooms. Sandrine gave Neil and me the room she’d given him the summer before, all dark woods and drapery.
Accommodations settled, we drifted to the kitchen, where Sandrine presented a spread of fruits, vegetables, and cheeses. Auguste took the boys to the barn to run off energy, promising a stack of hay to jump into.
A thread of daylight remained, but Sandrine had the place surprisingly well lit—lights we hadn’t needed over the summer were switched on and casting their rays with the help of antique mirrors. The chateau should have been dreary but instead felt snug and cozy—as cozy as possible for 4,500 square feet.
The adults caught up, the conversation bouncing with alacrity. In short order, we covered Cécile’s passing and memorial, the birth of Sandrine’s second grandchild in Toronto, and Christmas Day at the chateau.
And with an “Et toi?” the conversation topic flipped back to the American contingent.
As usual, our Christmas was simple. I’d never known the kind of extravagant celebrations my classmates’ families often enjoyed. Instead, our family took advantage of the postholiday quiet to celebrate on the Twelfth Day of Christmas, Epiphany.
Neil and I had exchanged simple gifts in front of his table-top tree, but in truth I’d been dead tired after our hectic Christmas Eve. We’d Skyped with his parents, who made overtures of joy and guilt about not witnessing our marriage or our Christmas.
There were plans for us to visit North Carolina, once we got back to the States.
“We’ll stay with my sister,” Neil had promised. “And we’ll go skiing. Nothing distracts my parents like skiing.”
I kissed him and told him I’d be fine. My own family could be a handful; it would be shortsighted of me to resent his relations.
Auguste returned two tired and hay-dusted boys to the kitchen, where Caterina made sandwiches with peanut butter she’d brought in her suitcase. She’d just set the plates in front of them as the headlights of a taxi flashed in the driveway outside.
We rushed outside—all of us but Caterina and the boys, who would not be parted from their taste of home—to greet the Italians spilling from the oversized taxi. Letizia, her husband, Riccardo, Nonno, Zio Alessio, and Zia Matilde.
There were even more kisses and exclamations of joy than before. Nonno took my face in his hands as he kissed my cheeks, and repeated with Neil, exclaiming all the while about his happiness over our marriage and his hopes for our future.
Once inside, we laughed and caught up in a mix of languages, learning quickly that we all spoke food fluently. Within the space of twenty minutes, we had a fresh feast to enjoy around the kitchen’s oversized farm table.
Once the boys had been bathed and put to bed with a baby monitor, yet another item Caterina had wisely schlepped across the Atlantic, the adults and Chloé retired to the great room where a fire blazed behind the grate. Auguste served coffee and Sandrine brought the cheese plate, and we talked about the Epiphany plans for the following evening and what to do during the day.
Neil gave me a gentle nudge.
I nudged him back before standing and finding a place next to Sandrine.
“I have the key,” I said. “The key that might fit into the third-floor closet.”
“Yes!” Sandrine brightened. “First thing tomorrow. Unless you would like to look tonight?”
“Really?” My gaze bounced from Sandrine to Neil and back.
“We are here,” Sandrine pointed out. “The key is here.”
I laughed. “I don’t see why not.”
We made quite the procession to the third floor; Sandrine led the way, followed by Auguste, myself, Neil, and the rest of my immediate family.
“It sounds like fun,” Letizia said, eying the hallways, “but I think we will go to sleep. It was a long day, you know. Tell us about the mystery in the morning, tutto bene?”
We climbed the stairs to the third floor while Sandrine narrated, turning on lights as we ascended and entered new rooms. “Someone—very likely my grandmother—facilitated a remodel during the twenties or thirties. Some of the servant rooms were turned into storage closets, once they started using a smaller house staff. She worked to modernize the house, you see. She could be very practical.” We came to the end of the hallway. “This closet has resisted my efforts to open the door. Perhaps your key works, perhaps not. It’s for the house to decide if she would like to give up her secrets. There are pipes nearby. I thought to add a bathroom up here, for guests, but I would have to access the wall behind this closet, and the house said non.” She shrugged. “C’est la vie.”
Neil placed a hand at the small of my back. “Want to do the honors?”
I took a deep breath and reached into my cardigan pocket for the key.
Throughout the journey, I’d been so afraid of losing the key, fearing it might become misplaced somehow. But we were finally here—the closet lock and the key separated by a span of inches.
I straightened my shoulders; I could either look at the door all night, or find out if the key actually wo
rked or not. So I placed the key inside the lock, releasing my breath as the key fit smoothly inside, finding myself without breath as it turned, the bolt sliding away.
Sandrine crossed herself. “So it is. It is the key.”
I placed the key back within the woolen confines of my pocket before trying the handle.
However, many decades had caused the door to shrink and warp several times. I pulled hard, feeling a little give, and harder a second time, this time with both hands on the handle.
The door gave way, opening with complaint but without catastrophe. We stepped forward together, as if choreographed.
The closet’s contents were covered in dust, not surprisingly, and more spider webs than I found strictly comforting. Shelves lined the space, with boxes and clutter filling each one, with additional boxes and a trunk on the floor.
Over the space of the next two hours, we removed each item, dusting when necessary, and giving the contents a cursory check in case of rodent nests or insect infestations.
Only one box looked to have fallen prey to pests, but the pests were nowhere to be seen and were likely several decades departed.
My eyes fell on a faded carpetbag on a center shelf. I lifted it carefully, but clouds of dust filled the air anyway.
I set it on the floor and sat down next to it, my legs crossed.
“What did you find?” Caterina asked, putting down a lamp to look at the bag.
“Not sure yet,” I said, carefully working it open. The hinges gave way, and the opening folded away from the center.
“It’s—clothes?” I said, opening the bag wider. I worked my fingers around the textile, being careful not to damage the fabric—or disturb any critters.
After a moment I lifted the top item from the bag, and everyone stopped to look.
“What a lovely jacket,” Caterina exclaimed, looking closer, fingering the fabric. “That’s definitely silk.”
I held it up, the pale ivory silk glowing in the light; it felt alive in my hands. And then recognition struck.
“This is from her wedding suit. Remember the wedding photo? With Grand-père Gilles? The cut of the lapel—I remember this.” I handed it off to Sophie and looked in the bag again. Sure enough, the skirt lay below.
Together at the Table Page 21
