I rested my head against her shoulder. “I need to come out and visit you next, I know.”
“Who said anything about visit? Say the word and I’ll find you a job and a place to live. We’ll even throw in one of those Edible Arrangements things.”
“I do like fruit in pretty shapes, so that’s a strong offer,” I answered gamely. “But I couldn’t leave, not now.”
“Of course not. But someday. And I’m not just saying that because I could use the occasional bit of childcare.”
“Of course not,” I said, pointing ahead. “There’s the car, to the right.”
“I can’t believe that car’s still running. Alex is a wizard.”
“He’s an accomplished tinkerer,” I agreed.
“How’s he doing?”
“Pretty good. He works a lot—more than he used to, I think. But he’s more relaxed now that Stephanie’s moved on.”
Caterina snorted in disgust. “I could kick her.”
I couldn’t disagree. “He’s done an amazing job with the apartment over the garage. Did you see it when you were here last?”
“Didn’t get a chance, but he was telling me about it.”
“Lots of updates. His goal is to make it zero energy, totally self-sustaining. I suspect there are some psychological reasons for it, but he seems to be enjoying the work.”
Cat shook her head. “I wish I could be here more. I miss you guys.”
During the drive to our parents’ house, Cat caught me up on her classes, the boys, and Damian’s job as a caterer. I told her what I knew about Mom’s cancer, which turned out to be the same as what she knew, with the exception of the fact that Mom thought her oncologist looked like an older Vanessa Paradis.
The entire family met together for dinner at D’Alisa & Elle. While there were plenty of patrons dining and milling, eating at the restaurant felt almost as familiar as eating at my parents’ home. The tables, the art, even the carpet under my feet—I knew it all by heart.
We ate from huge platters, family style. Cat showed off pictures of her twin boys, and we marveled over Luca’s death-defying antics and Christian’s finger-painted artwork. We laughed and argued and stuffed ourselves full of food, none of us brave enough to speak of the appointment the following morning.
When Sophie had heard about the preop appointment, she’d invited herself; Cat had followed suit. Maman had asked me to join the party, and I rearranged my workday to accommodate the trip.
But when I arrived at the house to meet her on Wednesday, the sight of Sophie’s car parked on the street made me wish I’d picked up a second cup of coffee.
“Oh good, you’re here,” Sophie said when she opened the door. “I wanted to get on the road soon. Traffic.”
“I … um … sure.” I looked at my watch. I was really, really early, because the traffic was so thin.
Mom stood behind Sophie, where she could shrug and shake her head without Sophie noticing.
“Hey!” Cat strolled down the hall, looking tousled, tired, and fashionable all at once. She was the only person I knew who could make jet lag chic. “Are we heading out? Which car are we taking?”
“Let’s take mine,” Sophie said decisively. “Safety rating, you know.”
No, I didn’t. I bit back a retort about a car being as safe as its driver, but when it came to Sophie, snipy comebacks never solved anything.
Sophie drove. Mom sat in the front seat. Cat and I sat in the back, with a pile of library books and a Trader Joe’s bag full of Chloé’s outgrown clothes shoved in the middle.
I flipped absently through one of the books while Sophie maintained a one-sided conversation with Mom about her diet in general and flaxseed and green tea in particular. Cat texted her husband for updates on the boys.
By the time we arrived at the hospital, I’d made it to the third chapter in a novel about a dystopian society. The society seemed easier to manage than my oldest sister.
Sophie tried to get Mom to let her carry her purse; Mom declined.
Cat retaliated by offering to carry Sophie’s purse, as well as mine.
Out of self-defense, I stayed two paces behind the three of them. There were no good reasons for me to get caught in their cross hairs—Mom could fend for herself.
Sophie let the receptionist know we’d arrived; she tried to fill out the requisite paperwork, but Mom reclaimed (or wrenched—I couldn’t tell) the clipboard away.
I exhaled in relief. Sophie could be fearsome with a clipboard.
Cat started to sift through the purse she held, ostensibly for prescription tranquilizers with Sophie’s name on them.
We settled on a bench facing the bank of windows, and I had just started to flip through an outdated issue of Sunset when my phone beeped.
Sophie glared at me.
I ignored her. The e-mail icon appeared in my corner of my screen. Before I could pause to think about the ramifications, I paged to my inbox.
Neil. It was an e-mail from Neil.
Dear Juliette,
Sorry it’s been a while. There was a weeklong immunology conference in Miami; I was on several panels, and I gave a couple lectures, and now I feel like I’m giving excuses.
I got busy, but here’s the thing—I thought about you the whole time.
My face flushed—he was thinking about me? I felt fifteen all over again.
Took a tour through the Everglades. Saw some gators. A couple of them looked like coworkers.
I laughed.
Sophie leaned over my shoulder. “What is that? What are you laughing at?”
“Nothing.” I felt my face flush a deeper red.
“Nothing?” Cat echoed.
“Nothing that would interest either of you.” I tried to return to my reading casually.
“I doubt that,” said Cat.
Sophie leaned closer.
I elbowed her in the ribs. “Seriously!”
“Ow!”
“Filles!” Mom cut in.
“Gabrielle?” the nurse called from the doorway.
I flushed deeper. How embarrassing, to be caught squabbling with my sister in the oncology waiting room.
Over an e-mail from a boy, no less.
Sophie didn’t seem the least bit chastened.
Suddenly, I wanted to scream. All I could think about was how much I didn’t want to go through my mother’s closet, the way I was going through Grand-mère’s. But here we were, at an appointment for cancer surgery. The cancer felt real, for the first time.
And for the first time, I was truly scared.
“Juliette, let’s go!”
I looked up to see Mom following the nurse and Sophie waiting for me, exasperated.
“This is bad, Soph,” I said, just out of Mom’s earshot.
“Of course it’s bad,” she retorted, hiking her purse higher on her shoulder. “Why do you think we’re here?”
The appointment went about as well as it could. Mom sat on the exam table, Sophie sat in the first chair, and Cat offered me the second. The nurse exclaimed over how small the room was before she strapped an ID bracelet onto my mother’s tiny wrist and gave brusque instructions about fluids and fasting before the surgery. When the doctor asked if she had any questions, my mother demurred. Sophie, though, came with a list of questions she’d compiled with the help of WebMD. Cat made jokes and teased Sophie, trying to lighten the mood and further incensing Sophie in the process.
I wished I’d asked Neil for questions. Instead, I just sat quietly, feeling like the kid at the grownups’ table. I clutched Maman’s purse, holding it on my lap so it wouldn’t have to sit on the floor.
Afterward, I returned home to my apartment, numb. A stack of work needed my attention, but I couldn’t will myself to sit at my computer.
Without being fully aware of what I was doing, I flipped the lights on in my kitchen and began to measure out chicken stock and arborio rice.
The butternut squash in my pantry found itself quartered and set to roast i
n the oven. I plucked a few leaves of sage from my kitchen herb garden and minced them fine. Butter, shallots, rice, and herbs. Roasted squash and parmesan. The risotto took shape, its savory scent filling my apartment.
When it was done, I looked down at the work of my hands. Sure, I couldn’t fix anything. Some things—okay a lot of things—had to remain in the hands of God. But food?
That I could take care of.
With steadier hands, I packed risotto into lidded glass containers and placed them in a foil-lined bag to take to my parents.
I didn’t remember Neil’s e-mail until I went to bed. In the dark, I reached for my phone and read the last few paragraphs.
There were just a few more lines about the conference, some notes on the food (because he knew I’d wonder), and sweet words at the end.
I’d told him I had too much going on, that my life was too complicated. Somehow he’d snuck into my thoughts and my life, all without having met face to face.
He made me happy.
With my mother sick, I felt guilty taking that time to be happy.
I wanted to write him back, but I didn’t know what to say. Instead, I put my phone away, rolled over, and tried not to think about how cold my feet felt.
The next two weeks sailed by. My mom made it through surgery without complications, other than a poor response to the anesthesia. Cat stayed on for three more days, and between the two of us, we filled the freezer with easy meals. I knew Cat was glad she’d come out, but I could read the strain on her face as she tried to keep up with her family in Chicago while helping tend to our mom. By the time Damian called to tell her about his most recent trip to the ER—Luca had had an unfortunate incident with a waffle iron—I could tell she was ready to break.
Still she pressed on, helping me sort through the back bedroom at Grand-mère’s apartment.
I thought about Neil every night. Still couldn’t figure out what to say.
Even as my family life demanded an increasing amount of thought and attention, my workload increased as well. I wrote about fondue—fondue and barbecues and taco bars—and continued to work on the piece about Grand-mère on the side.
Marti called me into her office a week after Maman’s surgery. “Good news!” she said, eyes dancing. “I’m sure you’ve guessed from your reader feedback, but your new column has been very popular.”
“Oh good,” I said, both pleased and disappointed. If we’d had poor reader feedback, I might have been able to convince Marti to let me pursue other source material.
“I wanted you to know that we’ve been discussing syndication with other print and Internet news outlets. Also, Portland Sunrise is very interested in having you appear on the show.”
My eyes widened. “Television?”
“I’ll put you in touch with the producer, of course, but they’re particularly interested in having you do a demo of the fondue party.”
“But what’s to demo?” I asked, trying and failing to picture it in my head. “Do people not know how to dip things in warm sauce anymore?”
Marti leveled her gaze at me. “How to set it up, how to keep temperatures stable. Just mime the existing piece—no need to reinvent it. Let me know once you’re in touch with Sunrise, and put your thinking cap on for your next installment. I think this could be very successful, Juliette.”
I nodded, thanked her, and walked back to my desk. Television? The idea frightened me. I wasn’t Cat—I wasn’t smooth and charming in front of people. In front of an audience, every ounce of poise I possessed tended to sweat itself out.
For twenty minutes, I sat at my desk, trying to wrap my head around the situation and think of solutions.
Twenty minutes later, I was no further than when I’d begun.
BUTTERNUT SQUASH RISOTTO
2 cups chicken stock
1½ to 2⅓ cups water
1 cup dry white wine—sparkling is fine
3 tablespoons butter
1 clove garlic, minced fine
1 large shallot, minced fine
2 cups arborio rice
4 tablespoons minced fresh sage
1½ cups roasted butternut squash
⅓ cup freshly grated parmesan cheese
Cracked black pepper
Preheat oven to 425°F. Cut squash into quarters, place onto a foil-lined baking sheet, and roast for 35 to 45 minutes, until squash is soft and fork tender. Measure out 1½ cups and set aside.
Set the broth and water to boil in a medium saucepan. Reduce heat to a simmer.
Over medium heat, melt butter in large saucepan or enameled cast-iron dutch oven. Add shallots and cook until soft; add garlic. Once the garlic is soft, add the arborio rice. Stir mixture until rice begins to turn golden. Add sage.
Add the wine to the rice, stirring constantly until liquid is absorbed. Add chicken stock mixture ½ cup at a time, stirring until liquid is absorbed each time; continue until rice is al dente and mixture becomes creamy. Be patient!
Stir in squash and parmesan. If the risotto is too thick, add additional stock.
Serve hot with generous amounts of cracked black pepper, and enjoy with a green salad. Refrigerate leftovers.
Serves 4 to 6.
All great deeds and all great thoughts have a ridiculous beginning. Great works are often born on a street corner or in a restaurant’s revolving door.
—ALBERT CAMUS
True to their word, Portland Sunrise made contact within a few hours. The assistant producer e-mailed, I e-mailed back, and within a couple of hours, we’d nailed down a date for my appearance on the show. I entered the event on my calendar with a knot in my stomach.
“You look as white as a sheet,” Linn commented, peering over the cubicle divide.
“I’m not charming on camera,” I answered. “I can fake it through radio, but the camera doesn’t lie.”
“The camera lies sometimes—it can’t be that bad.”
“Oh, it is,” I assured her. “My sister Caterina’s wedding? Videographer decided to get up close and personal with the bridesmaids during the ceremony. I made a series of faces—entirely by accident—that became Cat’s favorite part of the video.”
“Not her favorite part, I’m sure.”
“She told me it’s the part she watches when she’s depressed, because it gets a laugh every time.”
“Oh.” Linn reached over and patted my shoulder. “Well … morning TV should be better. Different. No one’s getting married.”
“Yes,” I said drily. “I’m sure it’ll help to be talking at 7 a.m. Because I’m so good at stringing sentences together that early.”
“I’ve heard you talk at seven in the morning.”
“Did it make any sense?”
Linn thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think it did.”
“That’s all right. The show will either go fine, or it won’t.” I looked up at Linn with a straight face. “My next task is to figure out what part of the country to flee to if it goes poorly.”
“Pick a place with sun and I’ll come visit you.”
“Noted,” I said, and we each returned to work.
When I left the newsroom for the day, I stopped at Whole Foods for groceries before returning home. I knew my parents had enough prepared food to last for a month or two, but my own larder had grown empty. Once at home, I rolled up my sleeves, slipped an apron over my head, and got comfortable in the kitchen. There was something about the rhythm of chopping vegetables, of seasoning food, of watching it transform that helped me relax.
Maybe I was barely succeeding at work or as a daughter, but if I roasted asparagus for twenty minutes, it would become bright and toothsome. My world had become unpredictable, but at least I could rely on the goodness of the Lord and the consistency of green vegetables.
Once I had dinner on the table, I wrote a short note to Neil, apologizing for my lack of correspondence and bringing him up to date with my mom’s surgery, Cat’s visit, and my upcoming TV appearance.
Aft
erward, I drove to the patisserie and took measurements of the space before writing a list of updates. We needed to get bids on the remodeling, and that kind of follow-through just wasn’t in Nico’s wheelhouse.
I repeated the process—or some variation—over the next week, working, cooking, and driving back and forth between my apartment and the patisserie. Late Friday night, while the rest of Portland was just beginning to celebrate the weekend, I unlocked the upstairs apartment and took a look around.
It took me all of thirty seconds to make the decision.
“I need the apartment over the patisserie,” I told Nico while he was on break at Elle later that night. “My job is only getting busier, and I can get more done if I’m only walking downstairs to get to the restaurant rather than driving three miles in inconsistent traffic.”
Nico opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off with a raised hand.
“You wanted me to do the restaurant; I’m doing the restaurant. This is my price. And no, we don’t need the upstairs for seating just yet. Better to launch with the existing downstairs and expand from there.” I gave a curt nod. “I think that’s it. I’ve got to get back to work and finish my list of contractors to call in the morning.” I paused, smiling. “I also thought I’d ask Clementine if she wanted to room with me.”
Nico may have wanted to say something, but I didn’t stick around to find out, striding instead for the door as quickly as my ballet flats could carry me.
But Nico was, in truth, smarter than I gave him credit for. He didn’t even try to outrun me; he picked up his phone instead.
“Yes?” I said, feeling sheepish when I answered. I sat in my car, keys not yet in the ignition.
“I’m not moving that prep table again. Alex can help you move that table. I will give you money to hire movers to move the table. But me? Not happening. Not doing that again.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, then.” He cleared his throat. “And Clementine’s all right.”
“I know. That’s why we hired her.”
He grunted his good-bye. I hung up with a smile. I smiled even larger when my phone beeped, announcing a new arrival in my inbox from Neil.
A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) Page 11
