Reservations for Two

by Hillary Manton Lodge

  After locating the knives and a cutting board, I made quick work of the onions, potatoes, and red peppers. Next I cracked the eggs into a small bowl and gave them a brief whisk.

  In the spice cabinet I found dried thyme and parsley; I set the bottles aside.

  I didn’t hear anything from upstairs or from the den, so assumed everyone else was asleep, and cooked away. And really, it was easier that way—I’d adjusted to being on my own in the kitchen.

  I sautéed the onions in butter, relishing the smell. Once they were nice and translucent, I added the potatoes and let them brown, and then placed the lid over the top to steam them soft. Fat, heat, and root vegetables—I loved the smells they released, the shade of gold they turned, the universality of their appeal.

  Once the potatoes were done, I added the peppers and tossed them around the pan until they dried off. Next came the shower of salt, pepper, and herbs, a moment to let them toast, followed by the eggs.

  I felt my spirits lift as I sprinkled cheese over the top. A frittata really was the perfect breakfast to serve when you had no idea when it was going to be eaten—traditionally they were meant to be served at room temperature. Tarissa and Callan had been so kind; making breakfast gave me a way to give back.

  Once the eggs began to set and curl at the edges, I set the skillet into the oven and began to hand wash everything I’d used.

  Neil shuffled into the kitchen while I rinsed the cutting board. “Hey, you,” he said, wrapping his arms around my waist and kissing my cheek. “You were supposed to sleep in this morning.”

  “I woke up. There was light coming through the windows. And really, I’ve been keeping such strange hours with everything going on that I’m not as good at sleeping through the night as I used to be.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I shrugged. “Glad to see you. Thanks for coming over last night.”

  “Of course. I finally got to see you in the middle of the night, rather than listen from far away.” He stroked my hair. “You fell asleep fast.”

  “As it turns out, your chest is very comfortable,” I answered with a prim lift to my chin.

  He grinned. “Glad you got some rest, really. Especially since you’re back here in your mothership.”

  I shrugged. “Everybody likes breakfast. The frittata will be done in about five minutes.”

  “No argument there.” He glanced upstairs. “I can leave, you know, before Callan and Tarissa wake up.”

  I flushed. “Are you…embarrassed?”

  “No, not at all—”

  “This isn’t Victorian England. I’m not ‘compromised.’ You don’t have to marry me to protect me from social exile.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I just figured it was a situation that would need to be explained some, and if you didn’t want to explain, that would be fine. I wouldn’t want you to feel embarrassed in any way.”

  “I don’t mind. Really. And I’d like your company. So if telling the whole story protects your virtue,” I said, patting his arm, “I’m okay with it. And embarrassed? Are you serious? You met my family. I’m impervious. I’m a brick wall of nonembarrassment.”

  “Fine. You want coffee?”

  “People keep asking me that. The answer is always, always going to be yes.”

  “Then I’ll make you coffee.” He planted another kiss on my cheek. “Want to go see the ducks this morning?”

  “The ducks at the hotel you were telling me about? Sure. I’m always game for ducks. I’m from Oregon, I have Duck-ish loyalties.”

  “Perfect.”

  I gazed at Neil as he found the coffee beans, ground them down, and set the coffee maker. “This is nice,” I said.

  He looked up, our eyes meeting. “Yes, it is,” he said.

  I looked away before I said something I’d regret. I loved our time together and wanted to cherish every moment—no matter how short it turned out to be.

  Footsteps sounded down the stairs. “I smell coffee,” Callan said when he entered the kitchen.

  “Oh! I’ve got to get the frittata out.” I raced to the oven, grabbed the first mitt I found and hauled the pan onto the stovetop. “Gosh, that’s gorgeous.”

  “Yes, it is,” Callan agreed, before turning to study Neil’s lounge attire. “Nice pants, bro.”

  “Neil spent most of the night,” I said. “I ravished him. He’s too embarrassed to admit it.”

  Neil covered his eyes with his hand. “I am never going to live this down.”

  Callan managed a straight face. “Ravished, huh?”

  “Do you mind?” Neil asked, before telling the entire story.

  I sighed once he’d made it through. “I liked my version better. Less tragic sounding.”

  “Have you heard anything from your family?” Callan asked.

  “Clementine texted me when Chloé fell asleep, but otherwise no. They’re either still there or all asleep. I’m functioning on the ‘no news is good news’ philosophy. If something happened, I would have heard about it,” I said, praying deep in my heart that I spoke the truth.

  “I’m sure you would have,” Neil assured me.

  I pasted a bright smile on my face, a skill that was fast becoming my most reliable superpower. “I’m sure everything’s fine. Who’s hungry for breakfast?”

  ~ LAST-MINUTE FRITTATA ~

  The great thing about a frittata is that you can kind of clean out the fridge with it. While some kind of onion and starch is always a good idea, any kind of stray vegetables and ends of cheese can be thrown in as well. They’re traditionally served at room temperature, but they’re very good still warm from the oven.

  1–2 tablespoons butter

  1 onion or 2–3 shallots, diced fine

  6–8 small fingerling potatoes, peels on, diced

  1½ roasted red peppers, patted dry with paper towels and diced

  2 handfuls of fresh spinach, washed, dried, and rough chopped

  1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves, or ½ teaspoon dried Pinch red pepper flakes

  8 eggs, lightly beaten with ⅓ cup whole milk

  5 ounces mild cheese, such as fontina, grated

  Salt and freshly ground pepper

  Preheat the oven to 400°F.

  Melt the butter in an oven-safe sauté pan or cast-iron skillet, using medium heat. Once the butter has melted, add the onions and sauté until translucent. Add the potatoes and season with salt and freshly ground pepper, stirring until the potatoes have browned. Cover and reduce heat to medium-low, and allow potatoes to steam until just cooked through, for about 5–7 minutes.

  Add the roasted red peppers, tossing them with the onions and potatoes until they’ve dried. Add the red pepper flakes, thyme, and spinach, allowing them a moment to blend with the vegetables and butter.

  Pour the egg mixture into the pan, and stir just enough to evenly distribute the vegetables. Sprinkle cheese on top.

  Allow to cook for 3–5 minutes, until the frittata is set along the bottom and sides but is still liquid at the center.

  Place the pan in the oven and bake for 5–10 minutes (time will depend on the amount of moisture remaining in the vegetables). The frittata is done when the eggs have set across the top and the edges have pulled away from the sides of the pan. Allow the frittata to set for five minutes.

  Serve with a salad and rustic bread if you’re partaking for lunch or dinner. For breakfast, serve with fruit and toast. Leftover frittata can be reheated or served cold.

  Serves 6.

  After violent emotion most people and all boys demand food.

  —RUDYARD KIPLING

  After the frittata breakfast, I went upstairs to shower and get ready for the day, and Neil went home to do the same. By nine o’clock, the text messages started.

  From Sophie: “Mom at ER for kidney infection pain and fever. They changed her antibiotic to treat the kidney infection. Thanks for sending Clementine to watch Chloé. We’ll talk when you’re awake.”

  From Clementine: “Your niece is
really good at Bananagrams. She went back to bed after about an hour, I stayed the night. Your sister is really intense but that woman knows how to pick a couch—best night’s sleep I’ve ever had.”

  From Nico: “Mom’s okay, hope you didn’t get too worried last night. Clementine told me about it. Good idea to send her over. Talked to Chloé, she’s cool.”

  From Alex: “Sorry you can’t vacation successfully. Hope you got some sleep.”

  Nothing from my parents, which wasn’t surprising since neither parent had embraced texting as a form of communication. They both had cell phones, not that either saw much use.

  I started with a call to Alex. “Mom and Dad up? I didn’t want to call and wake them up if they’re still asleep.”

  “I think they’re asleep. I just walked through the main house to drop off fresh coffee beans, and everything is still quiet.”

  “Glad they’re sleeping at least. Is Mom…okay?”

  “She’s in pain. She was swearing in French at the nurses.”

  “That sounds funny and terrible at the same time.”

  He sighed. “It was. One of them spoke French back to her, told her she was sorry but doing the best she could, and if she wanted to she could call the doctor whatever name she wanted.”

  “I kind of love that.”

  “She turned out to be the best nurse.”

  Something in his voice piqued my curiosity. “Was she pretty?”

  “Juliette. Seriously.”

  “She was,” I said, amazed and disbelieving at the same time. “The pretty nurse at the ER speaks French and isn’t intimidated by Mom.”

  “Juliette—”

  “That’s all. I’m done.”

  “It’s not a good time for me to date, Jules. The divorce feels like it happened five minutes ago, and Mom’s sick, and…it’s a tough time.”

  My turn to sigh. “Don’t I know it. I’m sorry—new topic.”

  “I’m out,” he said, “unless you want to tell me about your trip.”

  “Oh, you know. The weather is bad, the company is good.”

  “Are you going to marry him?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Not you too.”

  “Turnabout is fair play.”

  “I didn’t say you should marry French-speaking nurse,” I tossed back, my voice defensive. Secretly, though, my heart swelled at the opportunity to spar with my brother. After his divorce he’d gone from quiet to near silent. I’d missed him.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he retorted, sounding very mature. “It was implied.”

  We discussed his work for a couple of minutes, the catering jobs he’d managed to snag for the restaurant. Right as we began to say our good-byes, my phone beeped to indicate another call coming in.

  Sophie.

  “Soph’s on the other line,” I told Alex.

  “I’ll say a novena for you.”

  “You’re funny. Not Catholic, but funny.”

  “Give Sophie my best.”

  “I will,” I said, before saying good-bye and flipping the call over. “Hey, Soph. How are ya?”

  “Fine. Tired. Fine.” She exhaled hard. “These middle-of-the-night ER trips are tough.”

  “I’m so sorry, Soph. Is there anything I can do from here? I can order a pizza delivery for you in, you know, ten hours.”

  “Every time I meet her at the hospital,” Sophie said, voice ragged, “I’m afraid we’re going to lose her.”

  My heart cracked a little. “She’s made it this far.”

  “People don’t get over ovarian cancer, Etta. It’s like diabetes, it becomes chronic.”

  “I know.” I sat down on my bed. “I remember that oncology appointment. I’ll be home soon, Soph.”

  “It’s not like your being here will change things that much, though. I’ll still be up and at the hospital every time Mom is.”

  I took a deep breath, doing my best not to bristle at her words. “Sometimes it’s comforting to have someone to share the load with, though, and I’m happy to do that.”

  “You’re right,” Sophie said, her voice softer, contrite. “I’m sorry.”

  “And you’re tired. It’s okay. I’ll see you when I get back.”

  By the time we hung up, I had a text from Caterina: “Talked to Alex. Having fun with the family medical emergencies while in another time zone?”

  I snorted and texted her back. “And how.”

  My phone dinged a moment later. “Sorry, babe. Hugs.”

  I felt wrung out by the time Neil returned to pick me up. “You okay?” he asked, handing me a very large, very iced Starbucks to-go cup.

  “Oh, thank you,” I said, clutching the cold cup in my hands as if the cool condensation could sustain my soul. “I’m fine, I’ve just been on a phone-call and text binge with the family.” I gave him the rundown. “So basically everybody’s stable but stressed. Haven’t talked to my mom yet, hoping to do that this afternoon.”

  He kissed my temple. “You’re a good person.”

  “You’re sweet. Are you ready to go?”

  “I am—you?”

  I held up my coffee. “I’ve got this. I can do anything.”

  Neil laughed and helped me into his car, and by ten fifteen we were speeding toward the Peabody hotel in downtown Memphis. We parked and walked inside, finding the foyer to be swarming with people.

  “Oh good,” Neil said. “It’s not that crowded yet.”

  “No?” I asked incredulously.

  “Just wait,” he said.

  At the center of the spacious lobby stood a large fountain, adorned at the top with an exuberant flower arrangement. We ordered mimosas and desserts at the lobby bar and carried them to a table with a view of the fountain.

  Neil and I carried on a lively conversation about his work and the remodeling project at his house. As the minutes ticked by, the number of people only increased.

  “Okay, you’ve got to tell me what’s going on,” I said, as adults with small children began to take seats near my feet. “Where are the ducks?”

  “I can tell you,” he said, “or it can be a surprise.”

  “The kids can’t stop talking about ducks.” I raised an eyebrow. “Are they in, like a…no, I have no ideas. I guess I’ll just wait.”

  “You are so wise.”

  I grinned at him. “Thank you.”

  By the time the clock struck eleven, I felt certain half of Memphis had crowded inside the hotel in anticipation. And they were not disappointed.

  A reveille played over the speakers, followed by a recording announcing that the famous Memphis Peabody ducks were on their way. The elevator opened, and a man in a formal uniform stepped forward, followed by…ducks.

  “There are real ducks over there,” I told Neil, pointing.

  “Yup.”

  “That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

  Neil winked. “You catch on quick.”

  I watched in fascination as the uniformed gentleman gently herded five ducks—one male and four females—down the red carpet and up a small set of stairs at the base of the fountain. One by one, the ducks traveled up the stairs and jumped into the fountain. After landing, each duck began to paddle through the fountain water.

  Flashes flashed. Children cried out in delight. Elderly ladies leaned over to one another and stage-whispered “Well, isn’t that sweet” to each other.

  After the majority of the crowd dispersed, Neil and I strolled over for a closer look.

  “So they just swim around in the fountain all day?” I asked.

  “The Duckmaster will come back for them at five.”

  I shot him an incredulous “The Duckmaster?”

  “The guy in the uniform? That’s his title.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  “And sometimes people will come and be the guest Duckmaster.”

  “Oh my gosh. Have they ever had the Ducks football team come and be Duckmasters?”

  “Considering that this is SEC territory, I would doubt it.”
>
  “Well…still. Ducks. If they wanted to be purely SEC about it they could have stuck some razorbacks into the fountain. Pigs swim too.”

  Neil threw back his head and laughed. “They do. You’re right. Good job with the mascot memory.”

  “Well, it’s impossible to miss the Razorback paraphernalia on the cars around here.”

  “Good point.”

  “And,” I admitted, “my brother is really into football.”

  “Nico?”

  “Alex, actually. Although in my parents’ house, it’s seriously still referred to as ‘American football.’ My dad’s a huge soccer fan.” I smiled in remembrance. “During the World Cup, Dad put a mini TV into the restaurant kitchen while he worked. If his team won, you could hear the cheering.” I gave a half smile. “Those were the good days. Oh well.” I straightened my shoulders. “Everything changes.”

  Neil gave my hand a squeeze. “I thought we could grab some lunch while we’re out, maybe swing by the lab if you’re interested, then stop by my house.”

  “I’d love that,” I said, nodding. “And I’d love to visit your house.”

  So we did. After barbecue for lunch at Rendezvous, just a short walk from the Peabody, we drove to the wing of the hospital where Neil spent his days. I met co-workers and said hello to Callan, who ribbed Neil for playing hooky. The smiles were genuine, and from the subtext of each conversation I gathered that Neil’s world revolved around his work and research.

  What that research meant involved terminology and concepts above my pay grade, but I admired the passion he brought to his work. I understood it, even if our worlds were completely different. He loved his work the way that I loved restaurants, the way I loved working with food and seeing people enjoy what they tasted.

  And if I were honest, truly honest with myself, he loved his work with a lack of reserve that I didn’t see in my own work with the restaurant. Not that it meant that it wasn’t worthwhile, or that it wouldn’t change—after all, the restaurant hadn’t even opened yet.

  We drove to his home next—he was right, he lived minutes away from Callan and Tarissa’s.

  His home stood situated to the left on a large lot, surrounded by poplars. Built of brick, his house looked classic and cozy at the same time. “It’s adorable,” I said once we stepped out of the car.