A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors)

by Lodge, Hillary Manton

  Bake for 45 minutes, remove, and sprinkle almonds across the top. Bake an additional 5 to 15 minutes or until a knife inserted into the center comes out clean and the almonds are just toasted. Allow the cake to cool on a wire rack for 5 minutes. To remove from the springform, run a sharp knife around the edge to loosen the cake. Lift the base from the baking dish and slide the cake onto the serving plate, minding no apples are lost in the process.

  Note: The cake will last up to 3 days when covered, but if it’s still there 3 days later, invite a friend to help make it through the leftovers.

  Comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love.

  —SONG OF SOLOMON

  By the time the power came back on, I’d lit candles and spent ten whole minutes reading a paperback book. After my apartment flickered back to life, I checked on the apple cake, reset the oven, and tidied up the kitchen. Once the cake was ready, I sliced into it and continued my book, letting my laptop remain in repose for the rest of the night.

  Marti called me into her office the next morning.

  “Write the profile about your grandmother,” she said. “I won’t promise to run it, but I do want to read it.”

  “That’s fine,” I said, my heart beating faster as I thought about the piece, how I would write it, and which recipes I would include. “Thank you.”

  At lunchtime, Linn peeked over our shared cubicle wall, insisted that on this—the worst of Fridays—we needed to find something divine for lunch.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “My sources aren’t calling me back, I misplaced my notes on the restaurant I’m covering, and my husband has to work late, even though we had a date planned for tonight.”

  “Ugh, I’m sorry. I’ll see what I can do.”

  I picked up my phone and made a few calls, and after dropping my surname (a technique I tried to use only for the forces of good), I managed to snag two spots for tea service at the Heathman Hotel.

  “Do you mind a late lunch?” I asked Linn, elbows propped on the cubicle wall. “The Heathman can’t seat us until two, but if you want a lift, this will do it.”

  “Tea? You want to go to tea? I heard you talking to them, but I figured it was for you and your niece.”

  “Tea. You’ve never had tea at the Heathman?”

  “I’m Asian. I know tea.”

  “But at the Heathman?”

  “I’m not eight. Let’s go to Bluehour instead.”

  “Oh come on. It’ll be fun.” Usually these conversations with Linn went the other way around, with her egging me to try something more daring. It was fun to reverse roles this once. “Eat a snack now,” I said, “and meet me in the foyer at a quarter to two.”

  An hour and half later, I stopped by the ladies’ room to freshen my lipstick and add a bit of grooming cream to my hair. Already wearing Grand-mère’s pearls with my sweater, plaid skirt, and boots, I was glad I had accessorized for an afternoon out.

  “I need to borrow some lipstick,” Linn told me the moment she saw me in the foyer. “Next time I say we need something divine, read between the lines and understand I was referring to a food truck or one of the restaurants on the Diner list.”

  “Hush,” I said, fishing in my purse until I found a lipstick for her. “You’ll like it.”

  Linn squared her shoulders. “My mother made sure I knew how to perform a proper tea service by the time I was six. I’m not tea simple.”

  “I never said you were. You’ve been to English-style teas, though, haven’t you?”

  “My dad’s Irish American,” she replied dryly. “I don’t even know how to answer that question.”

  “Fair enough. Just give it a whirl, okay? It’ll be a tea party. Tea parties are cool.”

  “I’m going to make Downton Abbey references.”

  “Whatever floats your boat.”

  She swiped the lipstick onto her mouth, then smooshed her lips together. “I’m going to call you Violet.”

  “Lucky me. I’m a Maggie Smith fan. Let’s go!”

  Linn dragged her feet the entire way, but we still made it in time. Since I’d used my real name for the reservations, we received attentive service from the start.

  “I’ll have the Earl Grey,” I told the waiter, not bothering to consult Linn. “She’ll have the Citrus Nectar.”

  “I don’t even get to choose my tea?” Linn complained, exasperated.

  “You’ll like it.”

  “I don’t like herbal tea.”

  “What are you, four? You’ll like this one.”

  “You’re so bossy. Did Marti get back to you on the profile you wanted to write?”

  I brightened. “She did! And she’s letting me write it, though she said she wouldn’t promise to print it.”

  “That sounds exciting, I think.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” I said, leaning backward as our tea arrived. “Grand-mère was a fascinating woman. Really ahead of her time. It’ll make a great piece—I’m not worried.”

  “She seemed cool when I met her at the bakery that one time.”

  I nodded, remembering. “She liked you. She loved your hair—thought it was very chic.”

  “Your gran had good taste, then. What’s your angle for the article?”

  “A woman ahead of her time. She attended pastry school before she married my grandfather. Did I ever tell you that?”

  “When was that, the forties?”

  “Late thirties, I think.” I poured Linn’s tea into a cup for her and sweetened it with sugar. “Her father didn’t want her to go, but the woman had a passion for baking. She was the favorite daughter, apparently, so he let her go. She was seeing my grandfather at the time, but they didn’t get married for another few years.”

  “Shocking.”

  “It really was. They loved each other,” I said, “but she gave up baking outside the home after they married. When he died, though, that’s when she came to the States and opened the patisserie. How’s your tea?”

  “I don’t hate it,” she said, eying her empty cup. “Could you pass the teapot?”

  “Of course. Ooh, look—there’s the food!”

  Linn sat up a little straighter when the first course arrived, smoked salmon profiteroles.

  By the time we’d moved from the panini and tea sandwiches and on to the Parisian Opera Cake and devil’s food teacakes, Linn had downed almost everything set in front of her, as well as an entire pot of tea.

  “It’s all so good!” she said, wiping her hands on her cloth napkin. “I love the tiny portions. And they just keep bringing food! I love this. We should do this every day.”

  “I completely agree.”

  “So do you think writing about your gran will be healing? Or difficult because she hasn’t been gone very long?”

  I leaned back in my chair. “Probably both. I picked up my phone to call her yesterday. I’ve always heard of people saying they did that after losing someone, but it never occurred to me I might do the same without thinking.”

  “I’m so sorry. I hope writing the article turns out to be a positive thing. Did you decide what to do about the restaurant?”

  “Yes and no,” I said with a sly smile. “I’ve decided to do both.”

  Linn’s eyes widened. “How’s that going to work?”

  “Well, both, until the restaurant actually opens. And then I’ll decide if I’ll stay on or if I’ll hire someone else to manage it.”

  “That sounds … both gutsy and indecisive. I like it.” Linn lifted her teacup. “To success!”

  “To success!” I echoed, grinning broadly as our teacups clinked.

  Nico called two days later while I was looking in vain for my shoes. “I think we need to talk to Mom and Dad tonight,” he said. “Before family dinner. Tell them about the restaurant. If I’m going to start asking around, looking for a sous-chef, I should probably tell them what we’re up to first.”

  “That sounds very wise,” I told him. “I would be there early,
but my shoes have gone AWOL.”

  “And, Etta, I’m serious about the patisserie space.”

  I opened and closed the closet door before responding. “How are you planning on approaching that?”

  “Simple—we’ll offer to lease or buy it. The property stays in the family. Mom will like that.”

  “True. But Mom might also want to get market value for it. Have you looked at comparable properties?”

  “I have.”

  “We can’t afford them.”

  “Well …”

  “You can certainly ask, Nico.” I checked beneath my bed. “Just be prepared if she decides to be practical.”

  “So tonight, then?”

  “I don’t know. My shoes might not turn up.”

  “Then you’ll just have to go barefoot,” he said, chuckling as he hung up.

  My shoes finally appeared—one beneath the couch, the other under a fallen throw pillow—and I set off for my parents’ house. Nico waited for me beside his car, a black version of my own red Alfa.

  “Have you been waiting long?” I asked, glad the morning’s rain had cleared off.

  “Nah, just got here. Are you ready?”

  “I’m having a fit of nerves, to be honest.” I forced a smile on my face. “It’ll be good.”

  Nico clapped me on the back. “It’ll be great. Keep your chin up, Etta.”

  The scent of cooking food greeted us even before our parents made it to the entryway.

  “Ah! Bonjour,” Maman said when she saw me. “I found another box of papers at the apartment. There were some photos as well. I brought it in our car, if you’re interested for the article.”

  “I am. Thank you. How are you?” I asked.

  Both of my parents looked wearier than usual. “Comme ci, comme ça,” Maman replied, though her answer certainly clarified nothing. My father offered me a glass of water. I took a sip and tried not to worry.

  Nico held out the platter he’d brought with him. “I have some focaccia,” he said. “I thought we could sit down for a little while before dinner and chat.”

  My parents and I sat down at the table, while Nico pulled a small stack of plates out of the cupboard.

  My brother does make serious focaccia. He tops them with figs, shallots, and blue cheese, or red-pepper bruschetta with feta—it’s divine, every time.

  I watched as my mother lifted a slice of focaccia to her plate and took the tiniest nibble.

  Not good.

  Nico sat down with a goofy smile on his face and proceeded to tell my parents all about his crippling heartbreak when L’uccello Blu closed its doors (as if they didn’t know), his gratitude for the position at D’Alisa & Elle (a nice touch), and our new and brilliant plans to open another restaurant (the finale, for now).

  My parents took it all in very calmly—even my father, from whom my brother inherited his flair for drama.

  “It is very good,” my father said, with a nod of approval. “Very good for you to make these plans. I knew you would not always be at this restaurant.”

  Nico’s shoulders relaxed. “You are not upset?”

  “My father wanted me to stay at the family restaurant. I didn’t want to, so I left the country.” Our father gave one of his patented shrugs. “I understand. I would prefer if you were able to open your own restaurant in this country, though.”

  Nico beamed. Having earned approval from the parental faction for the restaurant, he moved in to finish off his pitch.

  “I was thinking about spaces,” Nico said, casting a significant glance in my direction. “We were thinking—”

  Thanks, Nico, I thought. Thanks for unilaterally pulling me into this.

  “We’d love to use Grand-mère’s patisserie space. Remodel it and bring it back to its former glory. Keep it in the family. We’d want to lease or buy it, of course,” he said, holding up a hand, “but it has such wonderful memories. We think it would be perfect.”

  Obviously, if the restaurant failed, Nico could rely on a lucrative career in sales.

  To my surprise, my mother nodded. “Bon. Maman would have liked that.”

  Nico grinned and clasped her hands, thanking her profusely and spinning tales of how wonderful the restaurant would be, laying on his gratitude as thick as French butter. Dad found a bottle of wine and poured glasses for each of us, and Nico proposed a toast to our new endeavor.

  My mother took the tiniest sip from her glass.

  I put mine down. “What’s wrong?” I asked, looking from one parent to the other.

  They exchanged glances.

  “There are some things to talk about,” Maman answered. “But they will wait for now.”

  “But—,” I protested.

  She shook her head firmly. “They will wait.”

  Sophie, Nelson, and Chloé arrived minutes later. “What’s going on?” Sophie asked when she saw the wine poured and the half-eaten focaccia.

  “I’m opening a new restaurant,” Nico announced. He swept Sophie into a hug and then twirled a giggling Chloé around the room before returning to give Nelson a staid, manly handshake.

  I smiled as I watched, but my eyes darted over to my mother. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

  We sat down to dinner moments later, a meal of veal scaloppine that my father had prepared, paired with sautéed escarole and stuffed artichokes. My father prayed for the meal in Italian, the lyrical vowels and consonants soothing my nerves.

  I prayed as we passed plates around, prayed that the ominous vibe I picked up was just the result of an overactive imagination.

  My mother was quiet until we began to eat. “I feel so … so blessed,” she began, “that you were all able to be here today. I know Caterina wanted to be here, but she is taking care of her own family.

  “I saw my doctor,” my mother continued, her voice small but steady. “It’s cancer. Ovarian. They’re sure.”

  I felt the whole of my breath leave my body.

  “I have a treatment plan, which I plan on following,” she continued. “The doctor has spoken about aggressive treatment.”

  “What stage?” I asked, feeling dizzy.

  She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Three.”

  The rest of the dinner passed in a blur. We spoke awkwardly about chemotherapy, radiation, doctors’ appointments, and the wig maker who made her friend Evelyne a divine Brigitte Bardot-esque wig.

  At home, I picked up my phone to call Cat, put it down, then picked it up again.

  “Hi, hon,” she said when she answered the phone. Her voice sounded hoarse. “She told you?”

  “Over dinner.”

  Cat cleared her throat. “I’ll be flying out in two weeks, so I’ll be there for her surgery. She told me not to, of course, but I’m doing it anyway.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Are you bringing the boys?”

  “They’ll stay home and have Daddy time with Damian. I’ll bring them out on another trip when it’s not so … so fresh.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “Are you doing okay?”

  “I’m hanging in there,” I said, not knowing exactly what to say. I didn’t want to add to my sister’s stress—after all, it was her mother too. “Go to bed,” I said. “It’s late.”

  “I won’t be able to sleep.”

  “Test recipes,” I advised. “That’s what I’ve been doing since Grand-mère died.”

  Caterina swore in Italian, then French, and then Italian again. “I’m glad Grand-mère is missing this, but I can’t wrap my head around the fact that Mom’s facing cancer so soon after losing Grand-mère. We worship a good God, but I am well and truly dismayed right now.”

  I could only murmur in agreement. I didn’t know how to talk about it with her, not yet. “I hope you get a little sleep,” I said at last. “Let me know if you want me to pick you up at the airport.”

  We said our good-byes, and I hung up. Still reeling, I opened my laptop and opened my web browser.

&
nbsp; One e-mail in my inbox.

  From a man. From the dating site.

  How on earth could that have happened? I had canceled my subscription, hadn’t I? Despite my confusion, I couldn’t stop myself from opening the e-mail and reading it.

  Dear BellaGrazie,

  It seems strange to send a letter to someone whose name I don’t actually know, but I suppose that’s the nature of this beast. All of that said, I enjoyed reading your profile. You sound like a fascinating person to get to know. E-mail me back sometime—I’d like to hear from you.

  Formula1Doc/Neil

  Without really knowing what I was doing, I found myself typing a response with increasingly furious speed.

  Dear Forumla1Doc/Neil,

  I’m really not sure how I managed to receive your e-mail because I thought I canceled my subscription. But my power went out (I still don’t know why), and here you are and here I am, so I guess it didn’t work.

  None of this is your fault—you sound really nice, truly. But you see, my life has become particularly complicated over the last 72 (or so?) hours. Very, very complicated, which is why I’m getting out of this online thing now.

  How complicated, you ask?

  Well, I might leave my job. I’m not sure. It feels wrong—it’s the sort of job that loads of people would really like to have, but I can’t decide if I love it or hate it. And I’m agreeing to open a restaurant with my brother, which might be an even bigger disaster because I accidentally scuttled the last restaurant. (My advice: Never date a coworker in general, your brother’s sous-chef in particular. Just don’t.) But on the other hand, it might be really great.

  I really don’t know. But I do know that my mother was just diagnosed with Stage III ovarian cancer. And I don’t know how to handle that. Not at all.

  Also, (and I can’t believe there’s an “also” on this list) my grandmother passed away. Which is awful enough, but I found a photo among my grandmother’s belongings that is quite old and looks just like my brother. And not at all like my grandfather, whom I surmise, at this point, could very well not actually *be* my grandfather. Maybe he’s a stray great-uncle or something. Who knows? But he meant something to my grandmother, and I don’t know why.