Dear Juliette,
Glad to hear your mom came through surgery fine, but sorry to hear your job’s gotten more complicated. You’ll have to let me know how the TV thing goes; that sounds interesting. I was happy to see a note from you in my inbox. I also won’t pretend that I’m not glad I make you happy. To be honest, it kind of scares me too. Does that make us even?
My siblings—I’ve got a much older sister and a younger brother. We’re not as much in one another’s business as your siblings, but reading between the lines, it sounds as though your siblings win the gold cup when it comes to nosiness. My sister keeps to herself—she’s an investment banker in Atlanta. My brother and I see each other more often. He’s slogging his way through law school at Tulane. Medical school’s not easy, but I’d sooner relive my residency than do what he’s doing.
However, that might be because I’d rather be in a lab than a library, writing about decisions people made in Wyoming, twenty years ago. To each his own. My brother wants to go on to work for nonprofits; he’s a cool guy.
As much as I enjoy hearing from you, you were honest from the beginning—you’ve got a lot going on in your life. If I don’t hear from you, I assume you have other things to do than e-mail a stranger in Tennessee. Do me a favor, though? If you decide not to continue to write, let me know. I’m the kind of guy who likes to have everything out in the open. If I wanted to be playing awkward relationship games, I’d audition for The Bachelorette.
I hope you don’t watch The Bachelorette. My sister watches it (although she pretends she doesn’t), and it makes no sense to me.
Top Gear—that’s a show I can get behind.
Neil
Dear Neil,
I may be flaky and distracted, but I promise I wouldn’t stop e-mailing without some sort of communication first. I’m horrified you’d have to ask, but I can’t pretend it’s not justified.
What is Top Gear? I looked it up and found both an American and British version. Which do you enjoy? What’s the appeal? I’m not much into cars, but my dad and oldest brother are obsessed with Alfa Romeos. In the long run, this works out for me—when mine breaks down, I usually have someone to fix it. I used to have a Jetta, but it was too reliable. What kind of car do you drive?
Well, it’s official—I’m moving. It seemed like a good idea until I remembered how much I hate packing.
My grandmother had a patisserie (i.e., bakery, for the uninitiated) with an apartment above it. When she passed away, the building became my mother’s. My brother and I are using the patisserie space for our restaurant, and I’m moving into the apartment. It makes a lot of practical sense on paper, but in reality, quite a few of her things are still there. I don’t want to clear it out—there are a lot of memories there, you know? But I’ve spent too much time driving between the restaurant and my place, and life will become simpler when I can shorten one of my commutes.
My official moving date is Monday. Monday, because that’s when the men in my family can get off work to help. It’s worth taking the day off in order to get the manpower.
Agreed about The Bachelorette. I don’t understand how people might imagine picking a spouse based on how well a diving-with-dolphins or dining-in-Spain date went. I’m not married (obviously), but I’ve always been under the impression that marriage involves, you know, work. And life. And not a great deal of glamour.
Those are my thoughts. Some of them, at least. Is it strange to say I miss you, when we haven’t exactly met?
J
When my alarm chimed on Monday morning, my senses snapped to awareness in record time.
Moving day.
As I moved through my morning routine, I felt acutely aware of the fact that this was my last day in my apartment. The last time I’d accidentally clank the glass door in my shower, last time I’d brush my teeth at that sink, last time I’d make coffee in that kitchen—my sentimental Italian genes wouldn’t shut up. I dressed for the day in jeans, a bright pink tee, and a gray cozy hoodie, then pulled my hair back into a ponytail. At the last minute, unable to deny my Italian heritage, I threw on a multistrand necklace.
Who says you can’t accessorize when you’re moving?
Light makeup, a swipe of lip gloss, and I felt ready to face the day.
Ready until I looked out my front window and saw the approaching figures below.
Nico. Alex.
And Adrian.
I ducked away from the window and wiped the gloss off with the back of my hand. Don’t know why I bothered—I had a feeling Adrian would flirt with any woman, provided she was wearing a little mascara and was still breathing. Seconds later, one of the men knocked on the door.
Oh well. At least it was free labor, even if it was costly to my mental health.
“Are you ready?” Nico asked, hands on hips as he surveyed the packed and taped boxes stacked throughout my living room.
“As much as I’ll ever be.” I hugged Alex and turned to Adrian to wave hello. “Thanks for giving me a hand.”
“Anytime,” Adrian replied, giving me an appreciative once-over as he shrugged out of his leather jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “You look good.”
“Hmm,” I said, less than wittily.
Over the next several hours, we made countless trips up and down the steps, packing away my life into the moving van below. For once, the Portland skies opted to cooperate, the clouds gray but not damp.
Adrian—and his snug black tee—seemed to revel in the opportunity to show off his upper arms. He kept a running count of how many boxes he’d carried, egging Nico to keep his own tally.
Alex just rolled his eyes and carried my bronze floor lamp down the stairs. Later, Alex and Adrian moved the prep table. Without complaining.
Once the moving van and all the cars were full and my apartment wasn’t, everyone piled into vehicles to make the trip to the patisserie, my new home.
Nico took the keys to my car. I slid into the passenger seat of my parents’ truck, next to Alex. I watched as my car pulled out of the driveway. I had just buckled my seat belt when Adrian rapped against the window.
“Nico left without me,” he said when I rolled down the window. “Can I catch a ride with you?”
“Of course,” Alex said, before I could suggest that Adrian could hitch a ride on the trailer and keep my couch steady.
There was no help for it. I unbuckled and scooted over into the middle to make room for Adrian.
He winked.
I had sincere doubts about the series of events that led to Adrian being left behind, especially once the two of us had buckled our seat belts and found ourselves in a kind of awkward truck cuddle.
“Do you have enough room?” I asked Adrian, wide eyed, and scooted farther away, to the point that I was practically in my oldest brother’s lap.
For all that, Adrian practically ignored me during the drive, instead asking Alex about his job managing Elle’s catering business.
At the apartment, I busied myself with the kitchen supplies, getting stuff ready enough to have things to eat off for lunch. While Nico and Adrian continued to move everything in, Alex offered to make the trip to Elephants Deli to pick up lunch for everyone.
Maman had offered to have Alex take things to Goodwill, but I’d demurred for some reason or other that I made up on the spot. Really, I didn’t want to accidentally donate something that might provide answers, even if it was just a sewing box.
I had my reasons, none of which lent to a seamless move. With every new box and chair, finding places for everything became increasingly difficult. Nico and Alex dismantled Grand-mère’s bed while Adrian unloaded my own bed from the trailer.
“Where do you want that trunk to be once we’re done?” Nico asked, pointing at Grand-mère’s huge gray steamer trunk, the one that had always been at the foot of her bed.
“Right there,” I told him.
“Are you sure? It’s old.”
“It’s vintage,” I clarified. “It can stay.”
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Once the space had been cleared, the difficulties only increased.
Nico squinted at the headboard as if it were a loaf of bread gone stale. “So … how does this go together?”
“Where’s the hardware from when you disassembled it?” I asked.
Nico shrugged. “Alex did it.”
Of course Alex wasn’t there, having fled to the deli.
Coward.
Adrian eyed the pieces. “So there’s, like, nails somewhere? Do you have a hammer?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Nico said, hands on his hips. “There are screws and bolts and washings and stuff.”
“Washers,” Adrian corrected.
“Whatever.” Nico waved a hand. “I’m a chef, not a construction worker.”
I patted his arm. “But you do make beautiful composed salads. Where are the tools, anyway?” I asked.
Nico frowned. “Alex had them last.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d think Alex had hidden them and fled the scene on purpose.
Rather than try to be helpful, I followed suit and retreated to the kitchen. Telling Nico to give up on the assembly would only make him more determined. I figured that as long as the tools were AWOL, the likelihood of my bed sustaining serious damage remained low.
I was halfway through the crudités prep when I heard it.
The electric screwdriver.
Darn it.
In the end, all the boxes and furniture made their way into the new apartment. And between the four us of, there wasn’t a leftover from the deli to be found. Alex fixed my bed (he had to undo what the guys did in his absence), and all was right in the world. I hugged my brothers good-bye.
Adrian gave me a warm smile and a hand on my arm. “I’ll see you later,” he said, his eyes flickering over my face. His gaze rested on my lips before returning to my eyes. “Good night.”
I stood frozen as he walked out the door.
Nico appeared not to have noticed, excusing himself to use the bathroom.
“I think Adrian may have a thing for you,” Alex said dryly.
I sank onto the couch, my head in my hands. “Don’t say it.”
Alex chuckled. “Don’t have to—he certainly wasn’t hiding it—the guy’s interested. It was impossible to miss.”
“Unless you’re Nico.”
“True.” Alex patted my shoulder. “Have fun with that.”
No one who cooks, cooks alone. Even at her most solitary, a cook in the kitchen is surrounded by generations of cooks past, the advice and menus of cooks present, the wisdom of cookbook writers.
—LAURIE COLWIN
Neil e-mailed me the next morning.
Dear Juliette,
Where to begin? First, the only Top Gear worth watching is the British version. They really love the Alfa Romeos too. It’s three middle-aged English guys driving some great cars and some not-so-great cars and getting into various kinds of trouble. I highly recommend, even if you’re not into cars yourself. There’s enough human comedy that the show is universally accessible.
But then, I’m a car guy. Who knows how trustworthy I am on that subject.
I hope your move went smoothly and better than expected. Were you able to get everything in the way you wanted? I hate moving myself, though when I was in medical school, I had a system that worked out pretty well. Did your siblings behave?
Work is a pain lately. Running lots of assays, having trouble getting the data that I’m looking for. I feel confident in my suppositions, but getting the science to cooperate is the hard part. In the meantime, I run lab tests and hope that one of these days I’ll find out I really might be right, after all.
So here’s a conversation starter—what brought you to online dating?
Neil
I read the e-mail twice, my face turning pink without my permission, for all the worst reasons.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t answer my questions about missing him.
I pressed my lips together and closed out of my e-mail window.
Had I completely, utterly, and literally misread him? Had I read him correctly, but he changed his mind?
My computer screen offered no answers.
Frustrated and not a little embarrassed, I closed my laptop, put away my breakfast dishes, and redirected my attentions to Grand-mère’s vintage cookbook.
After work Tuesday, I returned to a home that needed a lot of work. I put on my yoga pants and zipped a hoodie over my tee, setting Stacey Kent to play on the stereo before I set to work. After making a call for the carpets to be shampooed, I vacuumed as much carpet as I could reach with my machine. With a soft cloth, I washed the pale blue walls, erasing years of fingerprints and scuffs.
The kitchen—I fit my things in where I could. The tile needed the love of a good bleach pen, and mine had dried up.
In the bedroom, I moved Grand-mère’s things out of the closet and into the spare room, temporarily. In reality, my mom and Sophie needed to go through and decide what to keep and what to donate. Until then, I made just enough space to be able to hang the things I needed to hang.
As the hours wore on, the last of the sun faded, but the work had kept me warm. I shed my hoodie and surveyed my progress.
My eyes fell on the steamer trunk by my bed. More of Grand-mère’s treasures or attractive storage space for my own things? As much as I wanted to explore, I needed to stay on task, which meant getting cleaned up and going to City Market for groceries. My work had paid off, though. The apartment smelled of fresh air and cleaning products. I could see my kitchen table. Some of my own décor hung on the walls.
Grand-mère would have approved.
Dear Neil,
You asked an interesting question. Why did I try online dating? I imagine the reason most people do—I was lonely.
And it wasn’t for lack of people around me. There is a special kind of loneliness for the single and the busy, people with friends and jobs and family and the gnawing awareness that as I get older and more responsible, I’m still alone.
Now, I know some career singles who don’t mind. But I do, even now that everything is busier and crazier than ever.
In the meantime, I’m in the market for a roomate. Looking, mostly for the sake of being practical, but also for the company. Do you have a roommate? I remember in college when living alone seemed like an unattainable luxury, but now, I don’t know. Maybe privacy is overrated.
(Not all privacy. Do you know how hard I have to work to keep my entire life from being common family knowledge? Very hard. And I only succeed part of the time.)
That’s me. What about you?
J
On Wednesday, my father called and asked if I would come by D’Alisa & Elle in the morning, before opening. When it came to reasons, he was mysterious.
I showed up on my way to work, not knowing exactly what I was in for. When I arrived, he’d clearly been there for hours, greeting me with a warm hug and kisses on both cheeks.
“Ciao, bella,” he said, his hands grasping my shoulders. “I am so proud of you. This new restaurant? It is very exciting. I love my restaurant. I want you to love yours.”
We turned to face the dining room, taking in the space that had supported our family for so many years.
It was ornate without being fussy, fancy without being cluttered or dated. The furniture had a lovely patina.
“I have been thinking,” he said. “Your nonno’s ninetieth birthday is this summer. Your mother and I were going to go and celebrate with the rest of the family, you know, but with the surgery …”
“I’m sure they understand,” I said.
His lip twitched. “Perhaps. But perhaps they will understand better if I send you to Italy in our stead.”
“Me?”
“You haven’t been in a while, and your aunts and uncles have been asking after you. We’ve canceled our own tickets and would like to pay for yours. Think about it.”
My eyes widened. “You had me at ‘send you to Italy
’—of course I’d go!”
He grinned. “Bene, I am glad,” he said, enfolding me in a familiar hug. “I hoped you’d agree—it is such beautiful land, and I want my family to know you better. There was one more thing, as well.”
“Oh?”
He looked out onto the dining room. “I am thinking,” he said, “of updating some of the tables and chairs. They’ve been here for many years and are starting to show their age.”
“They’re so lovely, though,” I said, reaching out to stroke the back of one chair. “They’re good quality pieces.”
“Best not to keep things the same for too long,” he said. “But some of the furniture, of course, could still find some use, especially with a little restoration.”
I couldn’t help but smile at the twinkle in his eyes.
“Well, if you’re just getting rid of it,” I said, “we could probably find a use for it.”
“Oh?”
“If you don’t mind.”
He slung his arm around my shoulders. “Oh, not at all.”
On Thursday morning, I called in a personal day. My immediate pieces were turned in, and I needed some time to myself. I decided to use the day to cook, rest, and get organized. I moved the last of Grand-mère’s clothes carefully into the guest room, making a mental note to ask my mom to help me parse through them. Like a true Frenchwoman, she had very high quality clothes, many of them still fashionable.
For the thousandth time, I regretted that, at five feet eight, I was far too tall and large all over for Grand-mère’s clothes. Not that I was huge by any means, but Grand-mère was not only petite but more devoted to her girdle than I could ever be. Sophie could probably wear some; Chloé others. Even her shoes were far too tiny.
Once I’d cleared the closet and hauled my own things inside, I moved on to the steamer trunk. It creaked as I opened the lid, as all good steamer trunks should. A vague memory passed through my mind—me sitting on the trunk and Grand-mère telling me about how she’d brought it from France. Though she’d come to America in the seventies, the trunk had to be far older.
A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) Page 12
