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

by Lodge, Hillary Manton

  It wasn’t a kiss where one person kisses and the other responds. Instead, we kissed each other; I wrapped my arms around his neck as he pulled me closer, his hand on the small of my back.

  “I’ll see you after work tomorrow?”

  I wanted to cry. It wasn’t enough.

  Neil stroked my cheek. “We’ll be fine.”

  I took his hand between my own. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow,” he echoed in confirmation.

  One last kiss and I walked up the stairs to the apartment.

  Gigi greeted me at the door. I found Clementine at work in the kitchen, stirring a pot surrounded by panna cotta molds.

  “You’re back.” She checked the pot and removed it from the heat. “Just in time—the first batch is about ready. How did it go?”

  In reply, I burst into tears.

  PANNA COTTA FOR THE BROKENHEARTED

  1 packet powdered gelatin (about 1¼ teaspoons)

  3 tablespoons cold, filtered water

  2 cups heavy cream

  ¼ cup sugar

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract or vanilla bean paste

  1½ teaspoons orange zest

  A few saffron threads

  Pinch of sea salt

  In a small bowl, add the gelatin to the cold water; allow to set for at least 5 minutes.

  Heat the heavy cream and sugar in a saucepan, but do not boil. Stir until the sugar has dissolved. Remove from heat, and add the vanilla, orange zest, saffron, and salt. Taste, and adjust flavorings as necessary.

  Add the gelatin and stir until incorporated. Cover and let stand for 10 minutes.

  Lightly oil four custard cups with a neutral-tasting oil, such as safflower oil.

  With a fine-mesh strainer, strain the warmed cream mixture into a separate bowl.

  Divide the mixture into the prepared cups and chill them until firm—at least 4 hours and up to 3 days.

  Run a sharp knife around the edge of each panna cotta before unmolding onto a serving plate. Serve chilled, and enjoy them with at least one pair of listening ears.

  Note: Panna cotta is traditionally served as a molded dessert, but can also be served out of teacups, jelly jars, stemware, or glass tumblers.

  All sorrows are less with bread.

  —MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA

  Clementine spent the evening plying me with panna cotta (I ate two), brioche (two slices, buttered with jam), and tiny fresh strawberries (too many to count).

  I stopped weeping after the panna cotta, stopped sniffling after the brioche, and stoically considered the situation as I nibbled the strawberries.

  “I’ll reimburse you for the strawberries,” I told Clementine. “Organically grown, locally sourced—they couldn’t have been cheap.”

  Clementine shrugged. “I got them from a farmer friend of mine.”

  “Still.”

  “Consider them a gift. So, you’re making him dinner tomorrow night? What are you going to make?”

  “I was thinking of making fresh pasta. Haven’t decided what to do with it yet.”

  “What about dessert?”

  I toyed with the dishcloth on the countertop. “Don’t know yet.”

  “When planning a menu,” Clementine suggested, “start with dessert and work backward.”

  “Spoken like a pastry chef. What do you suggest?”

  “I’ll think on it.”

  I splayed my hands. “After all that?”

  “The inspiration for a good dessert comes inexplicably and without method.” She shrugged. “But don’t worry. I always think of something.”

  I sat up straight. “I’ll make him dinner,” I said, “and we’ll say good-bye, and if I see him again, I’ll be glad, but if I don’t, we had a wonderful weekend.”

  “You think you won’t see him? He seemed pretty … attached, when we met.” She gave me a direct look. “And by ‘attached,’ I mean he was holding your hand or touching your shoulder or just plain looking at you with cow eyes.”

  “I don’t know what to think. I don’t know how this can work.”

  “To start with, you’re both American citizens. That’s one insurmountable difficulty you don’t have to deal with.”

  “True.” I ate another strawberry. “Because love and the INS do not mix well.”

  She laughed. “When’s he coming over? I can make myself scarce for the night.”

  “I think I told him sixish. Not too late—he’s flying out early the next morning.”

  “Something tells me he won’t mind.”

  I gave a wan smile. “I appreciate your optimism. I’m spent—thanks for sitting with me.”

  Clementine patted my shoulder. “Anytime.”

  After two hours in bed, I’d made no progress sleeping. Gigi didn’t seem to mind, simply readjusting her sprawl every time I tossed or turned.

  I wanted to talk to someone—my head was too full. I prayed first, hoping a spirit of calm would descend and allow me to drift off.

  But the Lord said no.

  I considered calling Cat, but I knew she’d been exhausted, and I couldn’t bank on her being awake with the boys yet again.

  Clementine had already gotten an earful.

  As I flipped over one more time, I found myself reaching for my phone and calling the only person I really wanted to talk to.

  He answered on the fourth ring.

  “Juliette? Is everything okay?”

  Neil’s voice managed to soothe me and send my heart skittering at the same time. “I can’t sleep.”

  “Oh?”

  I chewed on my lip. “I really like you.”

  “That’s good,” Neil said easily. “I like you too.”

  “How could it ever work out, though? I don’t … I don’t see how this can end well.”

  Neil sighed. “Is this something you were worrying about before Nico brought it up?”

  “Not yet, no.”

  “I don’t mean to sound rude—”

  “Sure you do.”

  “Okay, maybe I do. I was going to say that neither of us is dating Nico. So neither of us needs to worry about whether he thinks it’s going to work or not.”

  I mulled that thought around in my mind. “True. But what if he made a good point?”

  “The poet Robert Browning married Elizabeth Barrett even though she was in poor health and likely an opium addict.”

  “So, which of us in this scenario is Robert and which is Elizabeth?”

  His chuckle reverberated through the phone. “My point is that sometimes unlikely relationships can thrive.”

  “I am shocked you know about Robert and Elizabeth. You didn’t strike me as a poetry man.”

  “I’m a man of many interests.” He cleared his throat. “I also attended a lecture on hypokalemic periodic paralysis. The lecturer addressed speculation that Elizabeth Barrett Browning may have suffered from it.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s a genetic disease.”

  “It sounds terrible.”

  “But she and Robert Browning married and had a good life together.”

  I rested my head on my pillow. “They have a good story.”

  “Jules, I don’t know what kind of future the Lord has in store for us. But I want to find out and enjoy spending as much time getting to know you along the way—even if it’s over the phone or over e-mail. I’d rather have an e-mail from you than an in-person date with someone else who lives nearby.”

  “I like it when you call me ‘Jules.’ ”

  “I like it when you call me ‘Neil.’ ”

  I snorted. “That makes no sense.”

  “Sorry. I was asleep five minutes ago. Cut me a little slack.”

  “Do you have a nickname?”

  “None. I have no embarrassing nicknames.”

  “Liar.”

  “Maybe. That’s a conversation for the middle of another night.”

  “Fine.” I sank deeper into the covers. “Thanks for picking up the phone
.”

  “I always love hearing your voice, Juliette,” he said. “Day or night.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Preferably day. But I can make night work too.”

  I gave a soft laugh. “I’ll let you go back to sleep.”

  “Do you think you’ll be able to sleep yourself?”

  “I think so,” I said after a moment of reflection. “Thanks.”

  We said good night and hung up. I pulled the covers up to my chin, gave Gigi a chance to resettle, and slept until morning.

  The morning began bright and sunny. I dressed quickly, walked Gigi, and found Clementine in her natural habitat.

  “Mmm—babkas. Those look amazing,” I said, closing my eyes as I took in the scent.

  Clementine wiped a floury hand on her apron. “They’re not rising the way I want them too. I think there’s a weather shift coming.”

  “Any inspiration for dessert tonight? I’m going to meet Neil for lunch, I think, and then do a bit of light grocery shopping.”

  “What are you making?”

  “Fresh pasta carbonara with leeks and lemon,” I said, “with broccolini on the side.”

  Clementine’s eyes rolled to the tin-tiled ceiling as she thought. “Ordinarily I’d say a sorbet, to offset the heaviness of the egg yolks. But you’re feeding a man.”

  “True.”

  “And it’s a romantic dinner. I think chocolate.”

  “How about my grandmother’s chocolate cake? Her famous one?”

  “Perfect.” Clementine’s expression softened. “Mireille would have liked that.”

  I waved good-bye to her and Gigi as I left for work.

  Today, I would have to talk to Marti. Maybe we could make it work, she and I. If I stayed at the paper, only staying with the restaurant long enough to get it launched, then maybe my schedule would be manageable enough to figure out a trip to Memphis to see Neil.

  Maybe we could make it work.

  The tenor of the building that morning seemed … off. More scurrying than usual, but somehow fewer people scurrying.

  Had something happened that I hadn’t read about? Were a lot of people reporting on scene? I’d find out soon enough.

  I set my things down on my desk and leaned over to check in with Linn.

  Except she wasn’t there.

  And her space was clear. Everything was gone—her books, her photos, her computer.

  She’d texted me Friday. Why, oh why, hadn’t I remembered to call her back?

  I strode away from my desk, away and into the emptiest hallway as I dialed her cell number and listened to it ring.

  “It’s about time I heard from you,” she said when she picked up.

  “Are you okay? Your stuff’s gone. What happened?”

  “Budget cuts. Marti sacked me.”

  “What?”

  “Newspaper shrinkage and all that. I shouldn’t be surprised. Sam got let go too. He had quite the Jerry Maguire moment; it’s too bad you missed it.”

  “Linn, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

  Her voice softened. “It’s not your fault.”

  “Well, I may well be next. Marti wants to see me this morning.”

  Linn gave a bitter laugh. “You? The golden girl? That bit with the paper towels—Marti ate it up.”

  “That was the worst.”

  “I’m sure your job is plenty secure. You’re generating a lot of Internet traffic and ad revenue.”

  “I’ll talk to Marti. There’s got to be something you can do.”

  “It’s over, Jules. I’ll become a food blogger like the rest of the out-of-work food journalists. I’ll write scorching Yelp reviews. You just wait. It’ll be—”

  “Terrible,” I finished for her.

  “Hope may not be warranted at this point. I’ll make it work. Have your meeting. I don’t envy you the extra work you’ll pick up.”

  “I’ll call you later,” I promised. I shoved my phone in my pocket and strode to Marti’s office.

  “There you are!” she said, eyes bright. “You were so great last Friday. Quick thinking! Everyone loved it.”

  “I’m glad,” I said, as I sank into the chair opposite Marti’s desk.

  “I don’t know if you checked your work e-mail or not while you were out, but corporate cut our staff on Friday,” Marti said, “and that included cutting reporters. Food reporting is essential to the community, to our culture. I fought for the department as much as I could, but in the end I had to let Linn and Sam go.”

  “Linn does so much,” I said. “Isn’t there anything that could be done to be able to retain her?”

  “I’ve got enough funds for myself, one additional reporter, and a freelancing fund. Times are tough. There’s a lot of restructuring. People consume their news differently, and our job is to figure out how to make ends meet as we adjust.” She shrugged. “In other news, I had a long conversation with Susan Piecely, the producer at Portland Sunrise. She’d like you to do a segment once a week. You’re a hit, Juliette.”

  “I wish I could,” I said, with as much confidence as I could scrape from the depths of myself. “But you need Linn. She’s so much better at the spontaneous thing, so great in front of people—and she loves it.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No.” I shook my head vigorously. “After two tries, I can say no, no I don’t. I’ve been busy with my brother’s new restaurant, and we’ve talked about that. But I’m feeling stretched thin, and I hate not giving one hundred percent of myself either here or there. So, please, cut me. Let Linn come back. She’s your girl.”

  “You really don’t want it.” Marti sounded stunned. “This could be big, you know.”

  “I threw up after the crepe debacle. I don’t want it.”

  “If you go, you’ll have to leave today. I can’t afford to keep you in-office two weeks, but you’ll have medical through the end of the month.”

  The idea of life without work benefits should have made me nervous, but it didn’t. Instead, I felt relieved. “That’s fine.”

  Marti folded her arms against her chest. “I won’t say I’m not disappointed.”

  “It’s time, I think, for something new.”

  “I’m coming to eat at your place once it’s open. You know that.”

  I smiled. “Looking forward to it.”

  And that was it. I’d quit my job.

  I walked back to my desk and packed up my things, which didn’t take long. I paused just long enough to text Linn.

  I took care of it.

  Once I was back at my car, I called Neil. “I did it,” I said. “I quit my job.” I explained about the budget cuts and the Portland Sunrise producer and Linn.

  “So you’re a hero,” he said.

  “Just setting things to how they should be. Linn was always better suited to what I was doing anyway.”

  “Feel good?”

  I breathed in and then out. “Yes. It’s strange to have that chapter closed, but it’s a good thing.”

  We said our good-byes, and I left to go grocery shopping. At Trader Joe’s I picked up wine, Marcona almonds, eggs, and a whimsical bundle of fresh flowers for the table. At City Market, I purchased bacon, a bundle of leeks, and a beautiful organic lemon.

  Back at home, I organized my kitchen workspace and set to work. I scooped out my flour blend—I preferred two parts semolina to one part all-purpose white—on a pastry cloth and made a deep, round well in the center before cracking the eggs into it.

  Even though I’d grown up next to my father, sister, and brothers making pasta by hand, there was always something dangerous to me about placing a mound of flour on the countertop and then cracking eggs into it—as if I were about to make one big mess even worse. But I loved the magic that happened as I worked the eggs into the flour, kneading them together and watching as smooth, elastic dough began to take shape.

  After the dough finished resting, I rolled it into long tubes and sliced it, and then formed it into orecchiette
with my fingers.

  The word orecchiette means “little ears” in Italian, but to me the pasta often looked like tiny cupped hands—hands to hold sauce, hold flavor, hold love.

  My mind wandered as I repeated the motion over and over, rolling each piece of dough with my fingers until it reached the shape I wanted. I thought about Neil. I thought about how much I’d learned about him, about how much I’d come to care for him in the short time we’d spent together.

  I tried not to think about how much I would miss him, and failed miserably. My heart ached, and I quickly learned I had to improve my mood lest my orecchiette become flattened.

  So instead of thinking of Neil leaving, I thought about our dinner and how the food that I created with my hands had the power to bind us together in a shared experience.

  When I’d formed the last little ear, I set the lot of them aside on a baking sheet to dry.

  I prepped the rest of the dinner ingredients and set the chocolate cake to bake before stopping to primp.

  My mother always looked tidy and fashionable even if she’d been cooking all day, but my clothes were covered in little bits of food debris, even though I’d been wearing an apron.

  I slipped into an easy black knit dress with a scooped neckline and full skirt. Around my waist I fastened a ballet-pink leather belt and slipped my feet into ballet flats just a shade pinker. The look was sophisticated and romantic.

  My hair had grown wavy from the day’s humidity, and I let it stay that way. I dusted a bit of gray eye shadow on my lids, lined my eyes with black liquid eyeliner, and finished my face with some pink blush and lip gloss.

  I studied myself in the mirror.

  Tonight, I would relax. I would enjoy my time with Neil. I wouldn’t worry about the future, about our relationship, about my family, about my job. About life.

  I looked deeply into the reflection of my own eyes.

  Who was I kidding?

  There were so many butterflies in my stomach I feared I might fly away.

  PASTA CARBONARA WITH LEEKS AND LEMON

  For a recipe like this with so few ingredients, it’s important to use good quality ingredients. Use very fresh organic eggs if you can find them. Be sure to set them out ahead of time to reach room temperature, or set them in a bowl of warm water.