Reservations for Two

by Hillary Manton Lodge

  “That’s not the word I would pick,” Neil said, locking the car behind us. “But I’m glad you like it.”

  The inside felt bright and breezy, with large windows bathing the interior with light. The décor could be described as sparse modern, but it suited him.

  He gave me the tour, and we settled in the kitchen over glasses of iced tea, sitting next to each other on the stools by his kitchen island. “Fair warning,” he said. “This tea started out life as powder.”

  “I’m brave,” I said. “Mind if I step outside to try to call my parents?”

  “By all means,” Neil answered, “but you’re welcome to stay inside the house. My office is just down the hall—it’s air-conditioned in here.”

  “Good point.” I followed him down the hall to his office, which faced the backyard with large windows. “This’ll be perfect,” I said, taking in the couch.

  “Take your time.”

  I pulled out my phone and dialed my parents’ house number. “Hello, Giulietta,” my father said when he picked up the phone.

  “Hi, Dad.” I hated how tired he sounded. “I heard about your ordeal last night. How’s Mom doing?”

  “She’s awake,” he said. “She ate some breakfast. The doctors gave her new medicines. Would you like to talk to her?”

  “Sure, in a minute.” I sank onto Neil’s office couch. “Are you okay?”

  “It was a long night. Tomorrow will be better.”

  I found his optimism, while very much in character, sweet and more than a little heartbreaking.

  “I hope so,” I said.

  “Me too. Are you enjoying the South?”

  “It’s different. I’ve eaten well.”

  “That’s something,” he said.

  “I ate cheese fritters,” I added, grinning.

  “What are cheese fritters?” he asked, as if I’d just told him I’d eaten boogers.

  Once I’d finished my description, he seemed more or less on board. “We shall try them when you’re back. I’m curious. Okay,” he said, his voice louder, “here is your mother.”

  “Bonjour, cherie,” Maman said when she answered the phone. “How is Tennessee?”

  “I’m eating cheese fritters and barbecue. I’m good. How are you feeling?”

  “Comme ci, comme ça. They gave me very good medicine, the staff were very kind to me. One of the nurses even spoke French.”

  “I heard that. Alex told me.”

  “Alex told you, eh? That is very interesting.”

  “He admitted she was pretty too.”

  “Ah, oui, très belle. We could use a nurse in the family.”

  “Agreed. Anything I can do for you?”

  “Juliette, ma cherie, enjoy your beau and have a good time,” she said forcefully. “Do not worry about me.”

  She’d raised me to be obedient, to respect her words, but I didn’t know how to not worry, not when she was battling cancer, not when she was visiting the ER in the middle of the night.

  “I’ll try,” I said at last.

  “Non. That is not good enough. You must promise, ma petite, that you will enjoy your time with your young man.”

  “I will, Maman.” I sighed. “Can I at least bring you home some jam?”

  “Of course. Bring me jam.”

  “I love you, Maman.”

  “Je t’aime, Juliette. You are loved. You are a special young woman. Now go show Neil how special you are.”

  “I think he knows.”

  “Go remind him, dearest,” she said. Her wording reminded me of Mireille and Cécile’s letters.

  “Yes, Maman. Hug Papa for me, please.”

  “Mais oui, ma petite, mais oui. Au revoir, cherie.”

  I hung up and wiped at my tears with the back of my hand. She was fine, I knew she was fine, and yet my worry pressed against my chest so tightly I could barely breathe. I tried to breathe, tried to pray. Little by little, my heart began to slow, my breathing deepened.

  When I felt I could speak without warbling, I grabbed my iced tea and rejoined Neil in the kitchen.

  “Hi,” I said, giving a bright, if unfocused smile. “Sorry, I’m back.”

  Neil met me halfway and wrapped his arms around my waist. “Your parents? They’re okay?”

  “As okay as can be expected.” I rested my hands around his shoulders and tilted my head up to him. We probably looked like two high schoolers during a slow dance. I decided to change the subject. “So…what about your parents? We’re having dinner with them tomorrow, right?”

  Neil studied my face before answering. “Yes.” He stroked my hair. “They’ll be here tomorrow early evening, and they’ll join us for dinner. It’s a quick flight in and out for them.”

  “They flew?” My eyes widened.

  “It’s a ten- to eleven-hour drive otherwise.”

  “But…I don’t know, airfare…” I took a quarter-step backward; words bubbled up inside of me, and I swallowed them down deep.

  Neil closed the distance between us. “Hey. They’re a little intense, but I figured you’d understand.”

  “I get intense, but—”

  “And from here they’re going on to Nashville to visit my dad’s best friend and visit the Grand Ole Opry. They love the Grand Ole Opry.” Neil shrugged. “So you and me, we’re just a stop to them.”

  “Just a stop,” I repeated.

  “I know it sounds like a big deal, but it’s not. They’ll come, they’ll meet you, they’ll stay the night at my place and then head out the next morning because my dad has golf plans.”

  “Your dad golfs? Good to know.” I squinted at him. “Do you golf?”

  “I don’t, but not for my dad’s lack of trying. Why?” Neil laughed. “Is that important?”

  I waved a hand. “I have theories about men and golf, but it’s neither here nor there. I just…” I disengaged myself from his hold and seated myself back on the kitchen stool. I tried once more to keep the words inside, but they wouldn’t be stopped. “How serious do your parents think we are? How serious are we?”

  “I love you. You love me.” He shrugged, taking the seat next to me. “We’re long distance for now, but we’ll figure it out.”

  How? How would we figure it out? I wanted to throw my questions at him, but if growing up in my family had taught me anything, it was how to avoid a fight. I had a terrible feeling that too many questions too soon would bring our delicate, lovely little relationship tumbling to the ground.

  And the truth was, as much as I wanted to ask the hard questions, I wasn’t ready to hear the answers. So for now, I would wait. I would wait until I couldn’t wait any longer.

  “I’m really glad we’re here, together,” I said, clutching his hand.

  He dismounted from his stool, stepping close. In one swift motion, his arm swept behind my back, his hand disengaged from mine long enough to lift my face to his.

  It was a surprisingly smooth move from a guy who spent most of his time in a lab. My body began to tingle in anticipation even before his kiss landed.

  And the kiss—how did he do it? How did he use his lips, his scent, his closeness, to make me believe that as long as we were together, everything would be all right? My eyes fell shut and my hands wrapped around his torso. We kissed until my body felt boneless and pliant. “You’re really good at that,” I said when I could speak.

  Neil chuckled. “I have a good muse.”

  I looked into his eyes—and then the largest yawn I’d ever experienced escaped without permission. I clapped my hand over my mouth, but there was no hiding it.

  Neil laughed out loud. “So I’m a boring kisser, then?”

  “Oh, gosh. No. I’m just…” Another yawn.

  “Want to go sit down on the couch? Watch something?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Just don’t expect me to stay awake.”

  “I can take you back to Callan and Tarissa’s, if you want.”

  “No,” I said, with a shake of my head. “We don’t have mu
ch time.”

  “I know,” he said. So we sat on the couch, our hands woven together, my head against his shoulder. This time, I made it a whole episode before things got hazy and I fell asleep.

  There is no technique, there is just the way to do it. Now, are we going to measure or are we going to cook?

  —FRANCES MAYES

  I’d intended to make dinner for Callan and Tarissa, but Tarissa had plans of her own. “It’s not every day I have a chef in my kitchen, and I’m gonna learn something from you,” she said.

  “Now I wish I’d picked something a little more sophisticated,” I said, looking over my ingredients. I’d planned on a simple pasta primavera with grilled vegetables and shrimp—nothing that required a great deal of skill.

  “That sounds good. Don’t worry. I’m sure you know more than you think you know.”

  So I set to work. I set a pot of water to boil for the pasta before moving on to the vegetables. I chopped the red peppers, zucchini, and eggplant, showing Tarissa how I liked to cut them in order for them to grill properly. “You want them large enough to get grill marks and not fall through the grates. You should also pat them dry—you want as little water in the grill as possible.”

  Tarissa nodded. “That makes sense. I should take notes.”

  “If you like. Did Neil ever tell you that I gave a couple of cooking demos on our local morning television show, back in Portland?”

  “No, he never breathed a word of that,” she replied, affronted.

  “That’s nice of him. It went over well, but I was so nervous I threw up before the last one. I quit my job shortly after. It was the right thing to do. Now my co-worker Linn is in the spotlight, and she’s great at it.”

  “Am I making you nervous?”

  “Not yet,” I answered with a cheeky smile. “Want to devein the shrimp?”

  “That I can do. You couldn’t grow up in my mama’s house and not know shrimp.”

  “Perfect. Once they’re deveined, we’ll salt and pepper them, then toss them with some olive oil, salt, and pepper.”

  Once Tarissa settled in with the shrimp, I focused on cutting the zucchini and eggplant, getting meaty cuts with skin and cutting out the soft, seeded centers. Once they were ready, I threw them in a bowl with a splash of olive oil and stirred them around. Tarissa and I skewered the shrimp and vegetables with long bamboo skewers and took them outside to where Neil and Callan waited by the hot grill.

  “The shrimp cooks just until it turns pink,” I said as we laid the veggie skewers out. “Because it cooks quickly, we’ll do the vegetables first.”

  While the men manned the skewers, I checked on the pasta water. Sure enough, the water bubbled away at a strong boil. “Perfect,” I said, throwing a small handful of salt into the pot.

  “I like salt as much as the next girl,” Tarissa said, “but that looked like a lot.”

  “Oh, it is. But you want your pasta water salty—salty like the sea. You’ll get more flavorful pasta in the end—it won’t taste too salty, promise.”

  I dropped in the penne and gave it a stir. Over the next ten minutes I wore a path between the kitchen and the deck, checking on the pasta and looking over the vegetables.

  Once the veggies were nearly done, I heated a skillet with some butter on the stove, then walked Tarissa through the steps of building a simple white sauce. “You don’t want too much flour,” I told her as I stirred the concoction with a whisk. “The flour will absorb too much flavor if you overdo it.”

  A splash of lemon juice, and the sauce was ready to go. I chopped up a generous amount of parsley and checked on the men.

  Sure enough, the veggies had beautiful grill marks and the shrimp looked perfectly pink.

  We carried everything inside, and I gave the veggies a quick chop before draining the pasta and throwing all of it together into the skillet. I finished with plenty of grated parmesan cheese, and we were ready to eat.

  “You made that look easy,” Tarissa said. “I could do that. You watch out,” she told Callan. “I’m gonna make this again.”

  “I’m fine with that,” he said, planting a sweet kiss on his wife’s cheek.

  We stayed out until well after dark, watching the fireflies dance.

  Neil and I had agreed upon the wisdom of sleeping in the next morning. I took a light breakfast with Callan and Tarissa, then Neil arrived for coffee after. Tarissa encouraged him to take me to the Saddle Creek shops to walk and window-shop; afterward we drove to Poplar and spent the heat of the day in a cool movie theater.

  At five Neil deposited me back at Callan and Tarissa’s to change for dinner. I wore my navy sundress, pairing it with my green stone necklace and emerald-green heels.

  I looked cute and sophisticated, but not too dressed up. I pulled the front of my hair back with bobby pins, and curled the ends of my hair.

  As a last step, I borrowed some of Tarissa’s nail polish, turning my nails a shiny pale pink.

  “Have you met Neil’s parents?” I asked Tarissa, once I’d decided I wasn’t above a little digging.

  “I did, once,” she said. “Didn’t spend much time with them.”

  No further elucidation. I was on my own.

  Neil picked me up shortly after six, and we drove to the Macaroni Grill on Poplar Avenue.

  He squeezed my hand as we crossed the parking lot. “Don’t worry. They’ll love you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He gave a soft chuckle. “I mean you’re squeezing my hand to the point that it’s getting tingly.”

  I forced myself to relax my grip and tossed him a saucy smile. “Maybe that’s just our chemistry.”

  “Yes,” he said, smiling. “I’m sure that’s it.”

  We laughed together, but I couldn’t relax—not really.

  Four steps into the foyer and Neil made eye contact with a couple waiting inside, lifting a hand in a wave.

  Showtime.

  The closer we got, the more I could see the resemblance. Neil had inherited his dad’s hair and height, but his mom’s bone structure and eyes.

  Neil greeted them both with hugs before stepping back and introducing me. “This is Juliette,” he said, in a voice filled with pride. “Juliette, meet my parents—Bill and Vivianne McLaren.”

  “Nice to meet you, Bill,” I said, shaking his hand when he offered. “Vivianne—such a pretty name.”

  Vivianne pressed a hand to her heart. “Aw, thank you, sweet pea. You can have a hug.”

  “Okay,” I began to say, but the entire word didn’t make it out before I was on the receiving end of the tightest hug I’d ever had.

  “Table’s ready,” Neil announced before the breath returned to my body. We followed the waitress to one of the booths that overlooked the lower dining room.

  Neil held my hand as we walked. “Everything will be fine,” he whispered into my ear the instant before we slid into the booth.

  I smiled into his eyes—I wanted him to be right.

  To: Caterina, cdesanto@beneculinary.com

  From: Me, jdalisa@twobluedoors.com

  Well, I met the parents tonight. Just got back.

  It went okay. Well, pretty much okay. I don’t know. I’ll write this out, and we can talk about it and figure out where things are on the okay-or-not scale.

  We went to the Macaroni Grill, which isn’t Dad’s place by any means, but it’s fine. I ordered a mixed green salad, and it was not so much a mixed green salad as much as it was a romaine salad with a sprig of frisée for décor. ONE SPRIG OF FRISÉE.

  I thought maybe this was some kind of kitchen mishap. In hindsight that was very, very stupid. But my head was still in Portland, where if you get a mixed green salad, you can get up to five different kinds of leaves. I couldn’t wrap my brain around anyone serving romaine with a SINGLE FRISÉE LEAF as a mixed green salad with a straight face.

  So I asked the waitress if it was in fact the mixed green salad, and she said that yes, it was. And I couldn’t help myself, I ask
ed if the mixed greens usually included only the two greens. Call it morbid curiosity. And again, she said yes, it was.

  I thanked her and she left me staring at my lone piece of frisée. I didn’t even know what to do with it—eat it first? Save it for last? And that’s when Neil’s dad, Bill, announced that when he was a kid, he ate everything on his plate and never complained, but that it was a different time.

  So yes, he basically called me an entitled millennial. I can’t even imagine how Dad would have responded if someone had served him this salad—probably would have insinuated himself into the kitchen to have a conversation with the chef. Mom? Oh boy. She would have left altogether, because if the kitchen couldn’t make salad, how could they handle chicken? All of this would be sprinkled with a choice insult or two—in French.

  But me? Yes, I’m the spoiled millennial.

  Neil tried to save the moment by explaining that I came from a restaurant family, that my father owned and ran a celebrated Italian restaurant in Portland, that I had a culinary degree and used to be a food writer and was now managing the new restaurant.

  So then they asked what my management duties included, and Neil’s mom, Vivianne, asked with wide eyes how that would work when I had a family.

  OH YES. SHE DID.

  When I explained how we grew up—fending for ourselves at home if we weren’t running around the restaurant—well, let’s just say they got quiet. And then Bill asked when I was planning to move to Tennessee.

  That was the awkward moment when Neil and I stuttered in tandem that we were still figuring things out, that there were no plans yet to move. And then they talked about how Neil couldn’t leave his job, how good of an opportunity he had in Memphis.

  Neil talked about how important my job was in Portland, and how we weren’t trying to make any permanent decisions right now, we were just enjoying spending time together.

  The rest of the night was an awkward mixture of small talk and politics (suffice it to say, Bill and I do not agree on much, and Vivianne just agrees with whatever her husband says).

  I mean, they’re not terrible people. And frankly, it’s not their fault they asked the questions that I’ve been wrestling with…though perhaps I would have been more content if they were questions they addressed privately with Neil, and not during a meet-and-greet dinner.