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

by Lodge, Hillary Manton

  While many Italian American recipes include cream in the sauce, the authentic Italian version skips the cream and relies on the egg for the sauce. I like the leeks, lemon, and parsley for this version because they lighten up the dish and add a fresh twist. Broccolini would be nice in it as well.

  A note on leeks: They can come very dirty and also be tricky to clean. I like to soak them in a sink full of water to loosen up debris. Afterward, I slice off the root end, slice off the dark green ends (keep an eye out for lighter green bits in the center—you can use those), slice them in half lengthwise, and run them under a faucet to get rid of any residual dirt.

  Coarse salt and ground pepper

  7 slices bacon, cut on the diagonal into ½-inch-wide pieces

  3 leeks (white and light green parts only), halved and sliced thin

  ¾ pound orecchiette

  2 eggs at room temperature

  ⅓ cup grated parmesan cheese, plus more for the table

  1½ tablespoons finely grated lemon zest

  1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

  ⅔ cup fresh parsley leaves, coarsely chopped

  Set a large pot of water to boil with a handful of sea salt.

  In a medium bowl, whisk together eggs, parmesan cheese, lemon zest, and lemon juice.

  Cook bacon in a large skillet, over medium heat for about 7 minutes, until they’re just this side of crisp. (If the bacon is too crisp, it won’t blend as well into the sauce.) Allow bacon to drain on paper towels, and pour off all but 2 tablespoons of bacon drippings. Pepper the leeks generously and sauté them until golden and soft, about 10 minutes.

  Set pasta to boil and cook until just al dente. If using dried pasta, refer to the packaged instructions. If using fresh pasta, it will be done in 2 or 3 minutes.

  Slowly pour ¼ cup pasta water into egg mixture while stirring briskly with a whisk to temper the eggs.

  Drain pasta and pour all ingredients into the skillet. Add parsley. Add additional cheese to taste. Serve immediately.

  What I love about cooking is that after a hard day, there is something comforting about the fact that if you melt butter and add flour and then hot stock, it will get thick! It’s a sure thing! It’s a sure thing in a world where nothing is sure; it has a mathematical certainty in a world where those of us who long for some kind of certainty are forced to settle for crossword puzzles.

  —NORA EPHRON

  Because the pasta wouldn’t keep well, I refrained from doing any of the actual cooking until Neil arrived. The pasta pot simmered rather than boiled, and the bowl of whisked eggs waited. The cake was done. I’d toasted the almonds and tossed them with olive oil, salt, and herbs. The broccolini waited to be placed under the broiler. The wine chilled in the fridge.

  Everything was ready. All I needed was Neil himself.

  I straightened the kitchen. Rearranged the place settings at the table. Moved the throw pillows on the slipper chair to the settee and back. Fanned out the coffee-table books so they unfurled clockwise, rather than counterclockwise.

  Neil called ten minutes later.

  “There’s a giant traffic snarl on I-5,” he said. “I’m so sorry I’m late.”

  “That’s all right,” I said, clutching the phone with one hand and adding water to a flowerpot with the other. “Do you have a time estimate? I can have dinner going so it’s ready when you arrive.”

  “It looks bad,” Neil said. “I couldn’t begin to guess when I’m getting out of here.”

  “Oh.” My chest tightened. “What exit is next? What if I met you somewhere?”

  “I’m on the on-ramp to one of the bridges, so I don’t think I’ll have any options anytime soon. Don’t worry. Just hold on tight, and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  I sighed as I hung up. But rather than stay and twiddle my toes, I refrigerated the eggs, grabbed Gigi’s leash, and took her for a brisk jaunt around the neighborhood. If my face glowed a little, well, at least it made my makeup blend a little better. Or something.

  Still nothing from Neil.

  I prayed that the Lord would choose to encourage the traffic into motion.

  My stomach rumbled.

  Resignedly, I retrieved a tub of hummus and some baby carrots from the fridge and dug in. I found myself sagging against the countertop in exhaustion. I’d been so busy preparing everything that I’d worn myself out. Without the adrenaline rush that Neil would have brought with him the second he’d stepped through the door, I felt my muscles complain and my spirit droop.

  I needed a nap. Just a short nap and I would perk up like daisies in fresh water. With that thought in mind, I curled up on the couch, rested my head on a throw pillow, and draped the knit throw over myself. Gigi seemed to agree with my plan and jumped up immediately, settling with her head resting on my ankles.

  I awoke to a stream of drool sliding from the left corner of my mouth and a man’s finger tracing a line down my cheekbone. My eyes flew open, and I saw Neil smiling into them. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” I said, wiping my chin self-consciously.

  “The door was unlocked. You’re cute when you’re sleeping.”

  My eyes squeezed shut. “I’m so embarrassed,” I said, holding my hand over my face. Come to think of it, my mascara had probably smudged onto my cheek.

  “Don’t be. I’m the one that showed up”—he checked his watch—“more than an hour late. There were four cars and a police cruiser in a wreck.”

  “No wonder.”

  Neil shrugged. “I’m from Memphis, where most drivers don’t realize they’re mortal. Car crashes happen; I’m used to it. Just glad to be here.”

  I sat forward and straightened my spine. “So, dinner. Are you hungry?”

  “Starved,” he said, but he seemed less interested in food than in staring at my lips.

  I tilted my face toward his, smiling as he brushed a kiss against my mouth. “You taste like … orange,” I murmured.

  “Orange candies,” he whispered into my ear as he stroked my neck. “They were all I had in the car.”

  I snorted. “Okay. I’m making you dinner. And for starters,” I said, picking up the plate I’d put on the coffee table, “would you like some almonds?”

  “That was an amazing dinner,” Neil said afterward as he ran his fingers through my hair.

  I smiled as I leaned against his chest. “Glad you liked it.”

  The two of us had polished off an impressive amount of dinner. Neil ate his chocolate cake with enthusiasm; half of mine lingered on the plate near an unfinished glass of wine.

  “I’ve had a wonderful trip,” he said. “You should know I thought very highly of you before I came. But now—”

  My head rose and fell against Neil’s chest as he sighed.

  “Now?” I prompted.

  “I don’t want to leave you.”

  “I have a trip to Europe planned soon,” I said, holding his hand in mine. “Maybe afterward—maybe I could visit you in Memphis?”

  His hand squeezed mine. “I would like that. When are you leaving for Europe?”

  “Third week of June. I’ll be in Provence, in Montagnac first. Paris for a little while, and then Italy for my nonno’s birthday party.” I paused, turning to look into Neil’s eyes. “I want to talk to my great aunt,” I said. “I want to find out if she remembers anything that could explain the photo or the things I found in the trunk.”

  “Really?”

  I nodded. “My grand-tante Cécile. Younger sister, which you probably guessed. I’ve heard she has Alzheimer’s or some sort of dementia, so who knows how much information I’ll be able to get.” I shrugged. “That sounds heartless. I’m looking forward to seeing her and my French cousins. And they run the family château as a bed-and-breakfast, as well as a honey business. Lavender honey. I’m hoping to use some at the restaurant. Maybe in a dessert and in an entrée as a signature.”

  “Sounds delicious.”

  “Thanks. Anyway, I’m looking forward to seeing Grand-tante C�
�cile—though the story for the family is that I’ll also be sourcing some ingredients, visiting vineyards. Which I will, but Nonno and Grand-tante Cécile are my first priority. We’ll see,” I said. “We’ll see what she’s able to remember.”

  Neil massaged the base of my neck. “A lot of dementia patients will remember their youth the longest.”

  “I’ve heard the same,” I said, leaning into his hand. “I’m hopeful. I’ll take the photo with me.”

  “I’m surprised you’re going alone,” Neil noted. “I would have thought Nico would have tried to go with you. I imagine he would have been happy to source ingredients.”

  “He’s too busy,” I answered.

  “He didn’t try to get Adrian to go with you?”

  I cleared my throat. “He tried.”

  “Oh?”

  “I reassured my brother that my palate is quite reliable.”

  We were both quiet, allowing us to hear the full range of Gigi’s snores.

  “Your family likes him.”

  “They do.”

  Another pause. “Do you?”

  “He’s not my type,” I answered honestly.

  “What is your type?” The words were whispered near my ear.

  I shivered.

  “Oh, you know,” I tried to say airily, but sounded hopelessly out of breath. “Clever. Educated. Gives talks on bacteria.”

  Neil gave a soft chuckle. “Oh yeah?”

  “My parents have a restaurant marriage,” I continued, more seriously. “I decided a long time ago it wasn’t for me.”

  “A restaurant marriage?”

  “Their lives revolve around D’Alisa & Elle. And it works for them, the kind of partnership that they have, and they enjoy working together. Well,” I shrugged. “I take that back. They fight—a lot—and they always have, but they make up every time.” I cleared my throat. “There’s a reason, you know, that I have four siblings.”

  “I did notice it was a large family.”

  I shrugged. “They were never much for family planning. My mother told me as much once, which was … awkward. All that to say, the restaurant is like a third person in their marriage. And that life, it’s not for me.” I looked away. “I once … I once dated a chef. Well, a sous-chef. He was Nico’s last sous. He and Nico were like brothers, even more than Nico and Adrian are now. And … we dated.”

  “You don’t have to tell me your dating history, if you don’t want to,” Neil said, putting a gentle hand on my arm. “At least not tonight.”

  “No, it’s okay.” I took a deep breath. “His name was Éric. I was young, really young. Not that young,” I qualified when I saw his face. “I was out of college, but just barely. He was older, a wonderful cook. Mostly, he fed me. Anyway, we were together for a year before we had a terrible argument and he quit the restaurant. Left town. Nico was devastated. And”—I moved a stray piece of hair from my face—“his restaurant began to fail shortly after.”

  “You never told Nico,” Neil guessed. “And you feel guilty.”

  “Maybe.”

  Neil tilted his head.

  “Okay, yes, I have often felt guilty about Éric leaving. And I never told anyone about our relationship.”

  “That’s a long time to keep that kind of secret.”

  I gave him a slanted look. “I’m very good. And the last thing I wanted was my entire family nose-deep in my business, because that’s what would have happened.”

  Neil gave a wry smile. “I believe that. I would worry that you’re participating with the restaurant out of guilt,” Neil said, “but I can tell you love it.”

  “I do,” I agreed. “I don’t know that I’ll do it forever, but I’m very happy right now. But the point of my sharing the story is that I learned to never date my brother’s sous-chef.”

  “You know, I think Confucius said something about that.”

  I gave his arm a soft punch. “You’re funny.”

  “It’s the pasta.”

  “Pasta makes you funny?”

  “It’s the refined carbohydrates.”

  “I see.” I wrapped my arms around my torso. “Well, you asked me my type. And the truest answer is ‘not my brother’s sous-chef.’ ”

  “He probably won’t be your brother’s sous-chef forever.”

  “Even if he weren’t, he’s too”—I wrinkled my nose—“smarmy. Like, I’m not sure he washes his socks regularly or not.”

  “That is often a failing among many men,” Neil observed. “And some women. My sister only washes her clothes quarterly.”

  “What? How does she—”

  “I believe she just goes out and buys more underwear. And socks.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. “That’s crazy.”

  He shrugged. “Don’t look at me like that. Those are the facts—I just report them. But I appreciate your being honest with me. In the spirit of truth, you should know I was engaged, three years ago.”

  “Oh?”

  “Meredith and I had been dating for a couple years. I never dated much, so my parents were happy. But I was finishing my doctorate …”

  “You were busy.”

  “I was busy,” he agreed, “but in all fairness, it was more than that.”

  Neil took my hand, rubbing my fingers and knuckles methodically. “When I was eleven years old, my best friend, Felicia, was diagnosed with spinocerebellar ataxia. It’s a genetic disease, and some forms of it are less severe. Felicia’s wasn’t.”

  “I’m so sorry. I can’t—can’t even imagine.”

  “Felicia and I had grown up together—her family lived two doors down. In all reality, she’d begun to present symptoms the year before, but her parents thought it was typical adolescent clumsiness.

  “Spinocerebellar ataxia,” he explained, “is degenerative, and it was very severe in Felicia’s case. She went from being a normal bike-riding, tree-climbing kid to a girl who had difficulty walking, all within the space of a year. Diagnosing it—there were lots of tests, I remember that. I remember spending an entire Saturday with her watching movies after her spinal tap. We watched Big. And Star Wars.”

  He sipped from his water glass. “Fee lost her motor coordination. Her eyes,” he said, pointing at his own, “would move back and forth sporadically. Some of the kids at school were very kind. Others weren’t. Her parents pulled her out. But we still spent most afternoons together. And then one day—”

  I watched as Neil’s face became very still.

  “It’s okay,” he said, his hold tightening and then relaxing around my hand as he exhaled. “Fee had an accident the summer before ninth grade. There was a tree house in the backyard. It was our clubhouse when we were younger. Felicia must have decided to climb up by herself.”

  I felt the blood drain from my face. “Oh, Neil …”

  “She fell,” he said. “And as far as anyone would tell me, she died instantly.” Tears swelled in my eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I knew she was a believer”—his voice became husky—“and I knew she had a better, more perfect body in heaven. But I was a kid. I’d never lost anyone before, and I took it hard. I don’t remember much about my freshman year of high school. For those four years, I buried myself in academics. In college, I started to make real friends again, and I found myself studying genetics. To understand.”

  He shrugged. “I veered from genetics to immunology after a while. But what I learned after Meredith broke off the engagement was that I was still struggling to connect with people on an emotional level.” He cleared his throat. “I couldn’t be the fiancé that Meredith needed me to be, and after all that time, she gave up on me spontaneously becoming the emotionally involved man that she wanted me to be. After we broke up, I did what southerners tend not to do, which is admit I had real problems, and I went to see a therapist.”

  “That was brave,” I said.

  “I did the work—saw my therapist once a week for two years. Learned about emotions and how to have them.” He squeez
ed my hand. “After that, I decided I was ready move on. And I met you.”

  “Wow.” I found myself leaning against his chest again. “I’m glad we met,” I said.

  “Me too.” He pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “And I’ve had just enough therapy to feel miserable about leaving here.”

  I thought about how similar the scene felt to the time when Éric cooked for me, before we argued, before he left.

  “I have to be honest,” I said. “I’m not sure I’m cut out for long-distance relationships.”

  “Have you ever been in one?”

  “No,” I admitted. “But I hate the fact that you’re leaving.”

  “What made you cast your dating net as far as Tennessee?” Neil asked. “I’m curious.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Sheer desperation? What about you?”

  Neil’s shoulders shook as he laughed. “Oh, probably the same.”

  “And now—what’s to become of us?” I droned, both intoning and paraphrasing a distraught Eliza Doolittle.

  “We’ll write letters,” Neil said calmly. “We’ll fly on airplanes. We’ll talk on the phone. We’ll get to know each other now and make big decisions later.”

  “You’re so sensible. I’m hungry.”

  “You can finish your dessert.”

  “True.” I sat up and reached for the plate.

  “I should probably go soon,” Neil said. “Though I don’t want to. My flight’s an early one.”

  “You don’t want to pull an all-nighter?”

  He shook his head ruefully. “I’m not twenty-four anymore. If I wanted to be awake in the middle of the night, I would have chosen emergency medicine.”

  “So you chose research for the sleep? That sounds sensible.” I sighed. “I’d send you with snacks for the plane if I knew they wouldn’t be confiscated.”

  “I’ll be fine.” He squeezed my hand. “Let me help you with the dishes.”

  We both stood, and I gave him a teasing bump of the hip. “I already told you I liked you. Don’t you think dish duty is laying it on a little thick?”

  “My mother raised me to be a gentleman,” he said, his accent comically pronounced.