“And we’re here at the early service to avoid them.”
“Not avoid,” I said, trying not to feel defensive. Trouble was, I couldn’t think of a better word for it. “Just … temporarily evade them.”
“That sounds a lot like avoidance,” Neil replied dryly.
“You’re going to meet them tonight,” I said.
“You’re worried.”
“I am not.”
Somehow, I got through the rest of the service without looking over my shoulder. I even managed to take sentient sermon notes. “Want to see if there are any good cookies out?” I asked afterward.
Neil searched my face for signs of stress—or maybe mental illness—before giving his assent. We threaded our way through the crowd and into the foyer where two eight-foot tables stood laden with baked goods.
“People bring things voluntarily,” I explained, picking up a paper cocktail napkin. “Some weeks it can be a little thin, but—”
My words stopped when my eyes landed on a familiar platter and an unmistakable pile of cookies. “Oh no.”
“What?”
“Those.” I pointed. “Those there.”
“They look like cookies.”
“My mother made them. Which means—”
“Do I smell bad?”
I turned to face Neil. “What?”
“Do I have terrible people skills?”
Where was this going? “No …”
“You find me interesting company.”
“You know I do.”
He rested his hands on my shoulders. “So is there anything you need to tell me about your family? about me?”
I stepped away from the table, into a corner behind a pillar. “They’re intense.”
“I’ve encountered intense people.”
“They have no sense of boundaries.”
Neil shook his head at me ruefully. “I’m from the South.”
“I’m just saying they’re loud and they have expectations.”
“I see.” Neil took a half step back. “Expectations of me? Or of you?”
I looked away. “Both, probably.”
“I don’t have to go, Juliette.”
My stomach twisted into a series of unpleasant knots.
I wanted to keep Neil to myself. I wanted him to be my little secret. Was that the adult thing to want?
Probably not. I forced a smile. “It’ll be fine.”
Neil studied my face, clearly unsure as to whether he believed me or not. I couldn’t blame him.
I forced my shoulders to relax, stepped back to the cookie table, and reached for a polenta cookie. “You really should try one,” I said, trying to sound breezy and relaxed, even though I felt anything but.
Neil tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “I’m sure they’re wonderful.”
LEMON-SCENTED ITALIAN POLENTA COOKIES
1¾ cups all-purpose flour
1 cup dry polenta or yellow cornmeal
½ teaspoon sea salt
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar
1 tablespoon lemon zest
1 large egg, plus 1 large egg yolk
1 teaspoon vanilla
½ teaspoon lemon extract (optional)
Sparkling or raw sugar, to finish
Preheat oven to 350°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
Mix dry ingredients together in a medium bowl.
Beat butter and sugar together with an electric mixer until pale and fluffy and pretty; add lemon zest.
Add the egg, beat for 10 to 20 seconds, and then add the yolk and continue to beat for another 10 to 20 seconds. Add vanilla and lemon extract (if using).
In small portions with the mixer running, add the flour mixture. Continue to beat until just combined.
If the dough feels too dry to the touch, add a tablespoon or two of milk to the mixture. Prep a pastry bag with a large-sized star tip. Scoop dough into the pastry bag and pipe onto prepared cookie sheets into curly S shapes, spacing the cookies about 1 to 2 inches from one another. Sprinkle with sparkling sugar.
Bake 15 to 18 minutes or until edges are golden and cookies are fragrant. Allow to cool before eating.
Makes about 36 cookies.
Note: If you don’t have pastry bags or tips, you can substitute gallon-sized Ziploc bags and cut a hole in one corner. Also, the cookies can be made simply as drop cookies.
Food is our common ground, a universal experience.
—JAMES BEARD
“Tell me about your siblings,” Neil suggested as he drove the two of us to Sunday dinner. “Which ones will be there?”
“Almost all,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Caterina’s in Chicago with her husband and little boys; otherwise she’d be in the kitchen trying to boss my dad and elbow Nico out of the way. She’s great. She goes by Cat, and half of the time, she tells people she was named for Cat in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”
“So she’s funny.”
“She is. She’s the sibling second-closest in age, six years older than me. Sophie’s the oldest. She and Cat couldn’t be more different. Sophie’s very cautious and conservative, whereas Cat’s more free-spirited. Sophie is married to Nelson—the CPA—and their daughter is Chloé. Chloé is twelve and awesome. Really a good kid. Nico is a lot like Cat, and they tend to fuss at each other because of it. He’s a big personality, likes to get his own way. Alex is more studious. He and his wife divorced six months ago, so that’s been rough.” I peered out the window as we crossed Morrison Bridge. “And then there’s me.”
“The baby of the family.”
I made a face at him. “I hate that term.”
“Sorry.”
“Being the youngest of five is a heavy mantle to wear sometimes.” I brushed my hair from my face.
One of these days, I needed to invest in a good hair spray.
For the occasion, I’d dressed in very careful layers. I wore a pencil skirt with a sleeveless chiffon shell, a cardigan, and a scarf.
If I got warm—or very, very nervous—I could shed layers before sweat started to become a problem.
Hopefully.
When we pulled up to the house, I noted with no little horror that each sibling’s car was parked nearby.
Clearly, everyone was inside, lying in wait.
“Mmm,” I said mildly, trying to sound casual. “Looks like the gang’s all here.”
“Relax,” Neil said as we made our way up the walk. “And don’t forget I have siblings too.”
I didn’t have time to process that reminder. Chloé threw open the door. “You’re here!” she squealed. “She’s here,” Chloé repeated over her shoulder.
“Hello, sweetie,” I said. Neil chuckled behind me, but I didn’t ask why. I was too busy trying to process the tableau of awkward domesticity in front of me.
Sophie sat on the sofa, crocheting, of all things. My father and Alex were engaged in a game of chess, using the board usually reserved for décor.
Maman sat next to Sophie, a slim cookbook in her hands.
Nico had perched himself on the edge of the leather chair, a tower of Jenga blocks in a stack in front of him.
Nelson seemed truly oblivious, his thumbs busy on his cell phone.
Cell phone aside, I felt like I’d just walked into a Jane Austen adaptation.
“Hi, everybody,” I said, forcing a smile. “This is Neil.”
Neil greeted my mother first, giving her the tub of pure shea butter he’d brought as a hostess gift. I assumed he didn’t miss her near-translucent skin, her penciled-in eyebrows, and the contrasting full head of hair she sported, thanks to her wig. He gave her a warm smile and complimented her scarf, which I knew to be an Hermès.
My father stood to shake Neil’s hand. A sort of receiving line seemed to form. I watched with a mix of pride and horror as Neil shook each hand graciously, his grip appearing firm.
A momentary silence struck after everyone exchanged greetings and i
dentities, and in that moment, I heard a flush from the hall bath.
My eyes scanned the room. No, everyone was here.
And then my sixth sense tingled.
My eyes swung to Nico, who had the grace to look—just maybe—almost guilty. When Adrian emerged from the bathroom, I wasn’t surprised. I could read Nico’s face like a book. He didn’t like that I’d brought an outsider over, a man so completely separate from the world of cuisine. He brought Adrian to meet the family, thinking I’d come to my senses.
Deep disappointment with my brother flooded my chest.
“We’re so blessed to have special guests tonight,” my mother said. “Adrian brought some lovely hors d’oeuvre with him.”
Sophie and I exchanged glances. Adrian had brought food to add to our mother’s dinner? And she was happy about it? I’d tried to bring a saffron-spiked dip once and my mother declared that—while it was lovely—it didn’t match the balance of the menu that she’d achieved. Cheese, chocolate, and wine were allowed.
Foods requiring assembling or preparation were not. Until now.
No one mentioned this fact, even Nico, who’d had a wilted chard and pancetta dish turned away. No, Nico looked about ready for his victory lap.
Neil and Adrian shook hands. This time, Adrian’s shoulders were squared, his chin high, his eyes taking measure of Neil.
To his credit, Neil either didn’t notice or did an excellent job pretending, merely shaking his hand without the encounter turning into a chest-beating session.
At least not yet.
I realized as we walked to the dining room that Neil didn’t have to do or say anything to Adrian; instead, he merely walked beside me with a gentle hand located at the small of my back.
My father had outdone himself. We started with seared scallops on a bed of kale, moved on to risotto, and continued to osso buco.
“It’s veal,” my father told Neil in his outdoor voice. “Osso buco means ‘bone with a hole.’ See?” he said, pointing at the round hole at the center of the veal shank. “There’s a hole in it.”
“It looks delicious,” Neil said, nodding. “I’ve never eaten veal before.”
Every head but Nelson’s whipped around to stare at Neil.
Neil cleared his throat. “I’m from the South.”
“What do you eat in the South?” Dad asked.
“A lot of pig,” Neil said, with a discreet wink in my direction. “The main southern food groups include bacon, sausage, pork, ham, and lard.”
Sophie’s head shook from side to side in horror.
“Also catfish,” Neil said, reaching for his utensils, “if you’re farther south.”
“So where are your people from originally?” Dad asked.
“My dad’s family was from Scotland. My mom’s people were Norwegian.”
“Norwegian,” Dad said, rolling the idea around in his head. “And Scottish.”
“Have you ever eaten haggis?” Chloé asked Neil.
Neil chuckled. “No, and I have no plans to.”
My father nodded as if the haggis abstention comforted him.
“My mom’s from Spain,” Adrian volunteered. “Great food in Spain.”
“Eh, that is true. Some of the great chefs of this era are Spanish chefs.” Dad sipped his wine. “The rest of them are Italian.”
My mother cleared her throat pointedly. My father splayed his hands. “I cannot help that French cuisine is dying. I didn’t come up with the exorbitant taxes for restaurant dining. At least the Italians had the sense to keep Starbucks out of Italy. France practically turned out a welcome mat for”—his face contorted into a grimace—“McDonald’s.”
My mother took a deep breath. I knew what was coming—twenty or so minutes of debate. “The osso buco is so tender, Dad. What kind of wine did you braise it in?”
“Sangiovese.”
My parents still glared at each other, but the dueling pistols had been temporarily avoided.
Neil squeezed my hand. I smiled at him.
“Now, Neil”—Sophie leaned forward, and I caught my breath—“if you’re from Tennessee, how exactly did you and Juliette meet?”
“We met online,” Neil answered simply.
“Online,” Sophie repeated, her eyes narrowing. “You mean, like—Facebook?”
“Something like that,” I hedged.
“So it wasn’t Facebook,” Sophie clarified.
Because she couldn’t exist in a world where she didn’t know everything. I took a deep breath, doing my best to ignore Adrian’s stare. “We met on an online dating site.”
Sophie tried, and failed, to stifle a gasp.
“Really?” said Chloé. “That’s so cool.”
“I have no complaints,” said Neil.
“When did you, you know, meet?” Sophie asked.
“Thursday,” I said.
Sophie shook her head. “But online—when did you meet then?”
“I think it was the end of March,” I said.
Neil nodded. “That sounds about right.”
Sophie folded her arms. “March? Well, that was quite the secret.”
“Not really,” I lied, as if the fact hadn’t been one part in a towering stack of secrets. “You never asked.”
“Seriously, Soph,” Alex interjected. “Enough with the twenty questions.”
Oh, Alex. I would have to make him cookies.
“Cat’s going to flip,” Sophie muttered to herself.
“So, Neil,” Nico began, “has Juliette told you much about the restaurant we’re starting?” Nico’s hand drew a circle in the air, one that included himself, Adrian, and me.
“She has. I know she’s been working very hard.”
“Yes,” said Nico.
I raised an eyebrow. Really? I’d thought my hard work had been largely taken for granted.
“Even with all the work ahead of time,” Nico continued, “the preopening is the calm before the storm. After the opening, well …”
My father nodded. “It’s true. When we first opened D’Alisa & Elle, I barely slept for a year.”
“The late nights, the long days …,” Nico said, his voice trailing off.
I glared at my brother. “Neil’s a doctor. I’m sure he’s no stranger to crazy schedules.”
“True,” he said, turning to Neil. “It is nice that your schedule is so flexible. Will you be able to fly out for the restaurant opening?”
“I’d like to, yes,” Neil replied.
“That is excellent,” Nico said, but he’d already made his point. “I did not think most doctors were able to have so much time off.”
With Neil’s schedule in Memphis and my schedule here, when would we ever see each other? The travel, the time, the hours. We had our time now, partly because Neil had needed to come to Oregon for business and partly because he was using his vacation time. What happened when that was used up?
And what about me? Even if I did leave my job at the paper—especially if—I would have to stay close to home, more often than not.
My heart clenched as I realized I was falling for a man I’d never be able to keep.
I made it through the dessert course, but as soon as the last piece of cheese had been shaved off and eaten by Alex, Neil and I left.
On the drive home, I tried to pretend everything was okay.
“Why did you laugh at me when I greeted Chloé?”
“When?”
“When we were at the door.”
Neil thought for a moment. “I remember,” he said. “You said, ‘Hello, sweetie.’ I’m a geek,” he admitted easily. “It’s a Doctor Who line—one of the characters always greets the Doctor by saying ‘Hello, sweetie.’ ”
I squeezed his hand. “I think you’re a very nice geek.”
“Thanks.”
“You were wonderful back there.”
“Glad you think so.”
He didn’t pick my brain to find out what I thought my family might have thought, and I was grateful fo
r that.
Because I was certain they thought he was all wrong for me. A nice guy. Kind, funny even. But wrong for me because he lived in Tennessee, worked as a doctor, and would never be able to understand my world.
“I was thinking about that photograph of your grandmother’s,” Neil said, his eyes on the road.
“Oh?”
“I was thinking about hidden things. You know, you see it in movies.”
“True,” I said, almost feeling silly for putting so much time and thought into Grand-mère’s mystery.
“What never makes sense to me is when people hang on to incriminating objects. Like in The Da Vinci Code—you’ll never be able to convince me that the right way to hide something is to keep all the clues. So you wouldn’t keep things unless they meant a lot or unless you meant to tell someone, someday.
“What I mean, then,” he continued, “is to say, the man in the picture was someone I think your grandmother loved very much. And if you’re related to him, that must be something special.”
“Thanks. Those are good thoughts.” I studied his profile. “Can I make you dinner tomorrow?”
He gave a sideways grin I found devastating. “Sure.”
His right hand found my left, and I clung tightly.
“I had a great time with you today,” Neil said as he walked me to my door.
I smiled up at him, hoping the cover of night would hide my misty eyes. “I could do it every day.”
“I agree.”
But we couldn’t, and there was the crux of it. We were stuck in a game of relocation chicken, and I knew in my gut that neither of us was willing to flinch first.
I hated the distance between our homes. I hated that his life was in Memphis and mine was inextricably in Portland. Neither of us could pick up sticks anytime soon—too many people depended on us.
I pointed up to my apartment windows. “Clementine’s home. We should say good-bye down here.” Tears stung my eyes. “I am really, really going to miss you when you go,” I said, then paused to clear my throat. “I know it’s just been a short time in person, but—”
He held my face in his hands. “I know,” he said, before tilting his face toward mine.
A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) Page 20
