I found linens folded inside—lace tablecloths, Provençal prints, high-thread-count sheets and pillowcases edged in tatted lace. Sachets of lavender preserved the contents. I sat back and sighed.
The contents were lovely, but ordinary. Where better to hide a good secret than a steamer trunk? I set the linens aside to launder with some oxygen bleach later.
I checked my e-mail. Nothing yet from Neil.
All of a sudden, I missed Éric with a pain that took my breath away. We probably weren’t soul mates, he and I. But I always knew where I stood. I knew he would feed me and it would be delicious.
Maybe I wasn’t cut out for online relationships, in any format but the casual Facebook kind.
I thought of the tagine Éric made for me while we were dating, full of aromatic spices and hearty lamb. I had lamb in my refrigerator, as well as plenty of carrots—I checked my watch. Eleven o’clock.
It would be a late dinner because of the marinating time, but delicious. And if I decided against cooking it up that night, I could always make it for lunch the following day. I grated ginger, chopped garlic, and measured out the remaining spices for the lamb marinade. When it was done, I set the lamb in the fridge and returned to my computer.
Still nothing from Neil.
Fine. The rumble in my stomach reminded me that while I’d been prepping food for over an hour, I hadn’t actually eaten.
I was rummaging through my fridge when my phone rang.
“Etta? It’s Sophie,” my sister began, as if I couldn’t recognize her voice. “Would you mind picking Chloé up from school today?”
“What’s up, Soph?” I asked, stalling. How did she know I’d taken the day off?
“It’s just that I have a doctor’s appointment that just came up, and I thought I could make it work, but Chloé’s school is getting out early, and I need to make this appointment.”
The panic in her voice gave me pause. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine. Everything’s fine,” she said.
So, basically not, then.
“I can pick her up,” I said. “When does she need me to be there?”
A brief pause. “Twenty minutes?”
I counted to fifteen twice, once in French, once in Italian. “I need to leave now, that’s what you’re saying.”
“Yes?”
I rolled my eyes at the question that wasn’t a question. “Fine. I’ll be out in a moment. Have a good appointment.”
Sophie was still thanking me when I hung up.
Oh well—less time organizing meant more time to see my niece. I hadn’t seen enough of her lately anyway, and being out of the house meant I was less likely to check my e-mail. I shoved aside my collective resentment, gathered my keys and purse, and stepped out into the fragile Portland sunshine.
If I was very lucky, Chloé wouldn’t mind stopping for lunch.
LAMB TAGINE FOR TWO
Don’t be intimidated by the ingredient list! The scents coming from your kitchen will make the prep work worth it. Be sure to have all your ingredients measured out before starting. You can absolutely double or triple the recipe, if you want to enjoy it with friends.
For the marinade:
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 pound lamb, cut into large cubes
1 clove garlic
1 teaspoon paprika
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon sea salt
¼ teaspoon cardamom
¼ teaspoon fresh ginger, grated
¼ teaspoon turmeric
¼ teaspoon coriander
¼ teaspoon cumin
Pinch of cloves
Pinch of cayenne
For the stew:
1 tablespoon oil
1 medium onion, cubed
3 medium carrots, peeled and cut into sticks
4 dried apricots, halved
2 cloves garlic, minced
1½ teaspoons freshly grated ginger
Zest of ½ lemon
¾ cup beef broth or stock
1 medium-large sundried tomato, minced very fine
1½ teaspoons honey
¼ teaspoon ground caraway
¼ teaspoon allspice
Pinch of saffron
Toasted sliced almonds, for garnish
Blend marinade spices and savories, from garlic to cayenne, in a quart-sized Ziploc bag. Dry lamb pieces, then toss with olive oil in a medium bowl. Add lamb to spice bag and coat the meat thoroughly. Allow lamb to marinate, refrigerated, for 8 hours or overnight.
Heat oil in stew pot, dutch oven, or proper tagine if you have one. Add onions and carrots; cook until onions begin to soften, about 5 minutes. Add garlic and ginger and cook until fragrant. Add lamb, followed by remaining ingredients. Bring liquid to a boil, reduce heat and cover, allowing to simmer for 1½ to 2 hours. Stir occasionally; cook until lamb registers 145°F with a meat thermometer.
Serve hot over couscous, straight from the pot. Garnish with almonds and enjoy.
Note: If the tagine liquid is too thin, you can thicken it with a slurry of 1½ teaspoons cornstarch and 1½ teaspoons water and cook for a few moments longer. Just be careful not to overcook the lamb.
PINE NUT COUSCOUS
1 cup chicken broth
¾ cup couscous
¼ cup toasted pine nuts
1 tablespoon minced fresh parsley
1 teaspoon lemon zest
Teeny pinch of saffron, if you’re feeling generous
Bring broth and saffron to a boil in a small saucepan with a fitted lid. Turn off heat, add couscous, and stir the pot once before covering and allowing the couscous to absorb the liquid—about 5 minutes. Fluff the couscous with a fork and add the pine nuts, parsley, and zest. Serve hot with the tagine.
One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.
—VIRGINIA WOOLF
Chloé came bounding toward my car when she saw me. “This is so cool! Mom texted me to say you were coming. I like your car. Can we go somewhere? I need to go somewhere for a school assignment, so could we go together?”
“Ah—repeat that?”
“I have this creative writing assignment. My teacher wants us to go to a secondhand store or antique shop, find an object, and write about the origins of that object.”
“That sounds like a good project.”
“Everybody was complaining about it, but I thought it was kinda cool. So, can we go?”
I checked my watch and then shifted my Alfa into gear. “Yes. I know just the place. But first? I need lunch.”
“If you hadn’t gotten out early,” I said as we pulled up to R. Spencer’s in the Sellwood District, “this might not have worked. As it is, they close at five, but time shouldn’t be an issue today.”
Chloé nodded. “Have you been here before?”
“I have,” I said, unbuckling my seat belt. “I have a soft spot for antique china and table linens.”
“My mom hates antiques.”
“True. What do you think?”
Chloé shrugged. “I don’t know. Can we go in?”
“Sure.”
We walked beneath the blue awning and entered the store. Chloé sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”
“Time,” I said, winking at her. “Want to look around?”
A female store associate appeared from behind a mahogany highboy. “Anything I can help you with?”
I shook my head just as Chloé took off in the opposite direction. “Look at this! You have to see this—it looks just like Grand-mère Mimi’s!”
Both the associate and I followed her enthusiasm. Chloé stood, pointing, right next to a steamer trunk that did look just like Grand-mère’s.
“Oh,” the associate said pleasantly, “you’ve got a wonderful eye. This isn’t just any trunk either.”
Chloé and I watched as the woman lifted the lid to reveal the beautiful interior.
“This trunk was made by Goyard—you can see the label here. E. Go
yard Aîné—that’s the name that Edmond Goyard gave to the business when he took over the company from his father. The distinctive red ribbons beneath the lid are one of their signature details, as well as the brass fittings. Goyard, the brand, is one of the oldest French makers of luxury luggage. They’re a sought-after item as it is, but this one has some special details.
“Some trunks,” she continued, “have secret places to store special belongings. The Victorians liked their secrets, especially. A lot of desks from that era have hidden areas, usually for private correspondence. In this trunk, there’s a hidden panel behind the decorative painting—see?”
We watched as her fingers slid the painting to the side, revealing a small cubby.
“Cool,” Chloé breathed. She looked up at me, eyes gleaming. “Is there a secret hiding place in Grand-mère’s trunk? Have you looked?”
“I’ve looked inside,” I said, choosing my words carefully. Just because one Goyard trunk had a special hiding place didn’t mean Grand-mère’s did as well. Except …
I had a gut feeling that, this time, I would find something. Something more than old clothes. I would look again, but the last thing I wanted was my niece looking over my shoulder, ready to tell Sophie everything.
“I’ll tell you what,” I said at last. “I’ve got to go home and get some work done, and you’ve got a project to work on. How about we take a look at it tomorrow night, when you come over with your parents for dinner?”
Chloé’s dimples flashed. “Perfect!”
It was—as long as I made sure to check out the trunk first.
Sophie’s car shaded the driveway when I pulled up to her house. Chloé un-snapped her belt. “Thanks so much for taking me to R. Spencer’s. It was supercool—I can’t wait to work on my project.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m such a geek.”
“The best sorts of people are,” I told her, unbuckling myself. “I’ll walk you in.”
Gigi greeted us at the door. “What are you doing here?” I asked, bending over to give her a pat.
“We’re keeping her for now,” Chloé said, shrugging out of her coat.
We found Sophie inside, paler and more worn than usual. Sophie greeted her daughter, planting a kiss on her forehead, smoothing her hair, and asking after her day before sending her down the hall to begin her homework.
“So—you’re taking care of Gigi?” I asked, trying to make conversation.
“The dog required more energy than Maman could give her,” Sophie answered before looking away.
I didn’t get the feeling that Sophie would devote much more herself. Maybe Chloé would become a devoted dog walker. “Is everything okay? You seem more … tense than usual.”
Sophie crumpled. “They ran tests at the doctor’s!”
I took her arm and led her to the sofa. “Yes?”
Cancer. It had to be cancer. It made perfect sense—Mom got diagnosed, Sophie got scared, and sure enough the doctors found something.
“I made them check twice to be sure.” She held her hands out. “I don’t know what I’m going to do!”
“We’ll figure it out,” I said, clasping one of her hands. “What did the doctor say?”
Tears ran down Sophie’s face. I hadn’t seen her this upset since Todd Bianchi broke up with her right before her senior prom.
“The doctor said I’m allergic to dairy,” she spat out. “Dairy! No milk, no cream, no butter, no cheese …” A sob escaped. “What am I going to do?”
“Aw,” I said, relief flooding over me as I comforted my sister—my high-maintenance, high-strung, much-loved sister. “I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”
Back at home, I walked straight to Grand-mère’s trunk.
Just to see. Just to find out.
I lifted the lid and examined the top panel, which did look just like the one at the shop. When it moved beneath my fingers, my heart stopped.
A hidden panel.
A hidden panel with a box tucked inside.
It was a small box, but then again, secrets didn’t necessarily require much square footage.
My face flushed and my fingers shook, ever so slightly, as I opened the painted tin box.
A gentleman’s handkerchief with the initials “GR” embroidered on the corner. A man’s wristwatch. Gold cuff links, cleverly shaped like tiny pastry cutters. A lock of dark hair in a yellowed envelope. A narrow engagement ring with a row of tiny inset diamonds.
I fingered the ring.
I guessed the handkerchief—and the initials—belonged to the man in the photo. My grandfather Gilles’s surname had been Durand—and he had been blond.
Did the hair belong to the mystery man? It seemed to have more curl than the man in the photo, but it was hard to tell.
The pastry-cutter cuff links were particularly clever. Was he a pastry chef? a craftsman of pastry tools? simply fond of pastry-related men’s accessories? I suspected the first, but would remain open minded.
I looked at my finds.
There was no room to question whether Grand-mère had been involved with another man or not. I couldn’t think of any other explanation—she had one sister, so it couldn’t have been a brother’s belongings. Most telling were the cuff links—her father hadn’t been thrilled about her going to pastry school in the city, so they certainly weren’t his.
And then there was the ring. Had she been married before Grand-père Durand?
My mind continued to process the secret in the trunk even as I began to prep the tagine in the kitchen.
Why would Grand-mère hide a previous marriage, if that’s what it was? Had Grand-père Durand known? How could he not? How did the romance I grew up hearing about work into the story?
I ached to confide in someone. Since my last reply to Neil, I’d heard nothing. Sure, it had only been a couple of days, but as night fell and the silence stretched, I began to wonder how long our relationship would last.
Feeling maudlin, I set to work chopping carrots.
When my marinating lamb hit its eight-hour mark, I assembled the rest of the stew and set it to simmer on the stove, swimming in saffron-spiked beef stock and jewel-like carrots. The smell was already intoxicating, and soon that scent would fill the apartment.
Some girls would rather smell like sandalwood or jasmine than stewed lamb, but as long as it was really good lamb, I didn’t mind one bit.
Since my dinner would be late, I made myself a plate of antipasti and poured a glass of Pinot Noir. I also checked my e-mail—nothing.
I bit my lip. Ego bruised, I took my food and drink into my new living room, built a fire in the fireplace to dispel the spring chill, and relaxed by looking at cookbooks and Grand-mère’s recipe cards. Ingredients, edible chemistry—these things made sense to me, even if my life didn’t.
A road map, anytime, Lord, I prayed.
As the tagine simmered away on the stove, my apartment smelled increasingly delicious. I couldn’t help but think of Éric, the first time he’d made me tagine—which, not coincidentally, was also the night we shared our first kiss.
My first kiss.
When we dated, I daydreamed about marrying Éric, being half of a restaurant couple like my parents. They were the daydreams of a very young woman, but I’d enjoyed them. Everybody knew what a talented chef Éric was, and unlike the rest of my family, he was genuinely interested in my thoughts and input. He was the first man I’d ever met who wanted me to taste his food and listened to my comments.
In fact, Éric’s trust in my palate was one of the reasons I had the confidence to move into food journalism.
I continued to page through recipes, marking ones I wanted to test and possibly write about on my blog. My stomach began to growl; the timer couldn’t sound soon enough. When the lamb was nearly ready, I assembled the couscous.
To prep dessert, I peeled an orange, sliced it, and plated the slices. In a separate bowl, I mixed a bit of lemon juice with some sugar and cinnamon. When everything was finished and the lamb was d
one, I ladled the tagine over the couscous and carried my bowl to the couch. With my feet tucked under a blanket, I ate my dinner alone, contented.
Sometimes not having to share has its benefits.
After dinner, I washed my dishes, put away the leftovers, and wiped down my countertops. By the time I was done, my clock read just past midnight.
A late dinner, but worth it.
When the knock sounded at my door, I nearly dropped my bottle of Method spray. I placed it safely on the counter, tiptoed to my door, and looked through the viewfinder.
Nico.
I flung the door open. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“You’re awake,” he said, giving me a companionable hug.
“You didn’t know that. I could have been in bed, sound asleep.”
“Your lights were on.” Nico stopped and sniffed the air. “That smells good. What is that? Is that tagine? That smells like …”
My stomach tightened as he thought.
“Like Éric’s recipe,” he finished. He followed his nose to my kitchen. “Did you make tagine? Do you have leftovers?”
“Do you have a reason for being here?” I countered. “I’m about to go to bed.”
“I was thinking about the restaurant on my way home. Thought I’d drive by to see if you were awake.”
“And the lights were on. Want some tea?”
“Sure,” he said, perching on one of my kitchen stools.
I had some orange left over, so I put some on a plate and gave it to him with a fork. “What’s on your mind?”
He chewed his bite of orange. “This really reminds me of Éric,” he said. “You know he’s opened a place in Seattle?”
“No,” I said, my heart constricting. “I didn’t.”
“He was a good guy.”
“Yes.” I didn’t trust myself to say anything else.
“I want to start drawing up some plans for how we want the layout to be remodeled. There’s a restaurant auction on Tuesday—want to join me? I’m on the lookout for a range.”
I wrestled with the thought in my hand. On the one hand, I didn’t want to leave work again. On the other—I wasn’t sure about sending Nico out on his own. “Okay,” I said. The schedule would work out somehow. I made two mugs of tea and handed one to Nico. “I’m planning on getting some contractor bids for the remodel this week. While I’m doing that, both of us should be figuring out which suppliers to use.” I sat down. “The other thing is that Mom and Dad are sending me to Nonno’s birthday in July.”
A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) Page 13
