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

by Lodge, Hillary Manton

She presented miniatures of her pastry offerings—a two-bite strawberry shortcake with rose liqueur-spiked whipped cream, a peach-and-brown-sugar bread pudding served on the end of a spoon, a dark chocolate torte with a hint of cinnamon, and a trio of melon ball–sized scoops of gelato. The results were perfect—we were able to taste each one without being overwhelmed after so much food.

  When Nico, Adrian, and Clementine emerged from the kitchen, flushed from work and looking proud, we gave our hearty applause.

  “Well done,” said Frank, giving his stomach a pat. “That was some exceptional food.”

  “My favorite was the lasagna with the duck ragù.” My father kissed his fingers. “If you have more, I will take it home with me to study.”

  Nico preened.

  My mother nodded. Her color seemed better today, and her eyes glowed. “I loved the desserts in miniature. It might be a lovely option, to offer both a full-size and a miniature of each one.”

  “Or simply order a platter of bites,” I suggested. “Obviously, timing is everything. The bread pudding is delicious when it’s still hot and moist. If it cooled and became chewy—no one wants that.”

  “And that would be harder for a busy service. Maybe other desserts would lend themselves better to being miniature, be more forgiving,” said Maman. “I loved the strawberry shortcake.”

  Clementine blushed with pleasure, a fact that didn’t escape Nico’s notice.

  “I have to say,” I said, trailing my fork around the marionberry sauce on the duck plate, “that I will be dreaming about that duck for some time to come. The spices—I got coriander, ginger, cinnamon. Some cumin, I’m sure. And smoked paprika? I’m sure there were more, but it was very, very good.”

  “That one was mine,” Adrian said. “But I thought it would be perfect for the opening, and your brother agreed.”

  I tried not to let my shock show. “It was very good.”

  In my head, Adrian was like a character in a book, and a flat one at that. But the duck—the duck was special.

  The duck made him more complicated than I’d anticipated.

  Once the tasting dinner ended, Chloé headed upstairs to play with Gigi, and the rest of us huddled around the table to finalize the opening menu.

  I stayed downstairs to tidy the dining room before going back upstairs. Clementine left for a catering gig, and I settled in for a late quiet night.

  After a while the clanging downstairs died down, and I figured that Nico and Adrian had finally finished cleaning the kitchen. I wasn’t surprised to hear footfalls on the steps outside or the knock on the apartment door.

  What did surprise me was the person on the other side of the door.

  “Oh,” I said, startled. “Hi, Adrian.”

  “Hey, Juliette,” he said, far less confident and suave than usual. “Mind if I come in for a moment?”

  I hesitated, as any sane single girl would. But after a moment, I realized that if Adrian had harmful intentions, Nico’s revenge would be swift.

  And would also likely involve a Godfather-esque utilization of an ice pick.

  Ice pick in mind, I swung the door open. “Sure.”

  “Thanks.” He peered around. “Haven’t been up here since you moved in. It looks good.”

  “I like it. Can I, um, offer you some water?”

  “Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Water would be great.”

  I nodded and headed to the kitchen where I filled a glass with water. When I turned around, I found he’d followed me in.

  “Nice kitchen,” he said, taking in the counter space and vintage fixtures. “Your gran knew what she was doing.”

  “She did.” I handed him the glass. This clearly had to be about something, but I wasn’t going to ask.

  Better to watch him suffer.

  Adrian drank half of the glass before shifting it from his right hand to his left, and back again.

  “I hope you’re happy with … Neil,” he said, his voice soft. “I, well, I like you. I did the first time I met you. But Neil seems like a good guy, and with the restaurant and everything, well, I just hoped we could be friends.”

  “Of course,” I said, mainly because it seemed like the right thing to say.

  “Good.” He took another long drink of water. “I just— I’m sorry I told Nico about Neil. I figured out later I totally let the cat out of the bag.”

  “True. But no harm done in the end. Neil had to meet everyone at some point anyway.”

  “Your family’s cool. I’m sorry about your mom.”

  “She’s a tough lady.” I looked around the kitchen. “Normally I’d offer you something to eat, but …”

  I watched as Adrian turned a gentle shade of mint. “No. I couldn’t eat anything. Probably won’t eat again for a week.”

  “You’ll make the busboy do the tasting for you?”

  “Something like that.” His mouth quirked to the side.

  I decided not to notice how shapely his lips were.

  “Thanks for stopping by,” I said, bringing the visit to an end. “And thanks for being a part of the restaurant.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said.

  I walked him to the door and waved good-bye, stopping myself from wondering what might otherwise have been.

  To distract myself, I made a pot of tea and settled in the living room with my steaming mug and stacks of papers.

  But instead of organizing, I found my thoughts drifting from Adrian to Neil to Grand-mère.

  I planned on trying to figure out more about Grand-mère’s past while I was in France, but more and more the whole idea made my stomach churn.

  I didn’t understand how she and I could have been so close and yet she kept such a huge secret from me, from the family. Sure, maybe the man in the photo was just a sweetheart. But my gut told me that this man was special, that he meant something more to her than just a fleeting sweet memory.

  And if that was the case, why keep it such a closely guarded secret?

  The way I saw it, people kept secrets to protect themselves or to protect others. So who had Grand-mère been protecting? Because she certainly hadn’t meant for me to find what I’d found. The clues I’d found—if they were clues—were small and almost innocuous, and yet my intuition told me they meant something.

  This was no Da Vinci Code or National Treasure. I wasn’t following a trail of carefully crafted artifacts toward an abstruse yet correct conclusion. All I had were bits and pieces, mismatched ones at that.

  And not one of them was property of the Vatican or the Library of Congress, so their accuracy was clearly up for discussion.

  If I admitted it to myself, I could recognize feeling hurt that Grand-mère had kept her secrets from me and from my family. Why wouldn’t she have trusted us? Why didn’t she trust us to love her, past included?

  Once again, I weighed my options and considered telling Maman about what I’d found.

  Except … what I’d found was still so thin, so circumstantial. I remembered the difficult months after she passed, the dark circles beneath my mother’s eyes. Some people were prepared to deal with the loss of a parent, but my mother wasn’t one of them.

  Until I knew—truly knew—I decided to keep my findings to myself.

  Dear Juliette,

  In fact, I’ve been wanting to run through a strawberry field with the wind in my ears for some time. I keep trying to work it into my schedule, but without success. I encourage Gigi to live the dream.

  I enjoy reading about your adventures in farming. Did I ever tell you that my grandfather was a farmer? He and my grandmother ran a peach orchard in—of all strange places for a peach orchard—Georgia. He loved his trees and supplied several of the best restaurants in Atlanta.

  I don’t believe the chefs wanted to take pictures of him, though. He lived in his overalls.

  Life here in Tennessee has returned to a kind of normal, but with the difference that you now make in the way that I see the world. Now you’re not just an id
ea, but a flesh-and-blood woman. I felt I knew you fair to middling before, but now—now you’re both more real and more mysterious.

  Does that make sense? Or are these just the ramblings of a man who’s smitten? You tell me.

  I hope you enjoyed your tasting dinner. Myself, I went out to a new Italian restaurant with some work colleagues. Italian food is second to barbecue in Memphis—there’s even an Italian food festival in the spring. Anyway, the restaurant was good, but I definitely found myself wondering what your take on it would be.

  The food scene in Memphis is growing—at least that’s what my knowledgeable friends tell me. All I know is there are enough pork barbecue joints, scenting the air with their smoking drums, that I don’t know how Jews around here keep kosher.

  Just so you know, I’m missing you too. So it’s okay to say it. If we’re going to be miserable, may as well do it together, I suppose :-)

  Neil

  Dear Neil,

  It’s late and you’re sleeping, and I wish I could pick up the phone and wake you up, but you probably wouldn’t appreciate that much.

  At least I wouldn’t. A lot of people talk about having friends they can call in the middle of the night, and I always hear/read that and think about how I would throw a fit if someone called me at 3 a.m. True, that makes me a tiny bit of a hypocrite, since I did that to you. And to my sister Cat a little while ago. (There was this guy I met online and I had to talk about him with my sister. YOU KNOW.) But at least with her, there’s a 50/50 shot that she’s awake around the clock, since she’s got twin boys who don’t sleep much.

  The tasting went well. We got the menu down to ten items. Nico argued for more, but training kitchen staff to make a ten-item menu quickly and reliably is a lot easier than with a twenty-item menu.

  Among the dishes that I love are a wonderful duck dish and a creamy macaroni and cheese dish with chipotle that I think you’d like. Technically, it’s made with penne, which I like better because it stands up to a thick cheese sauce. If you were here, I’d make it for you. I don’t think it would freeze well—otherwise I’d consider shipping it to you on dry ice.

  You hadn’t told me your grandfather was a peach farmer! I love it. What was that like? What did the orchard smell like? I’ll admit I almost dated a man who grew up in an orange grove, mainly because I was romanced by the idea of the orange grove. Is the orchard still in your family?

  How are your experiments going? I saw some beaker, petri dish, and test tube-like glassware in the new Anthropologie catalog, and I thought of you. Before you ask, the glassware was all colored on the bottom in jewel tones. So if you feel your equipment needs a colorful update, you know where to look.

  That said, I think your work is fascinating. I admit I don’t understand it as much as I wish I did, but I think the fact that you do and you’re using it to help people is quite wonderful. Isn’t it cool that God gave us such uniquely gifted brains?

  I hope you’re sleeping well. Let’s talk tomorrow—I miss your voice.

  All the best,

  Jules

  CHIPOTLE-SPICED PENNE AND CHEESE

  For the sauce:

  4 tablespoons unsalted butter

  2 cloves garlic, peeled and crushed

  ⅔ cup plus 1 tablespoon flour

  3 cups whole milk

  14 ounces sharp white cheddar

  2 ounces monterey jack cheese

  1 teaspoon sea salt

  ½ teaspoon chipotle powder (see note)

  For the pasta:

  12 ounces penne

  2 ounces cheddar

  1 ounce monterey jack for the top

  For the panko crumb topping:

  ¾ cup panko crumbs

  ¼ cup minced parsley

  2 to 3 tablespoons salted butter (or add salt to unsalted butter)

  ¼ teaspoon chipotle powder

  Preheat oven to 350°F. In a large saucepan, add butter and crushed garlic, sautéing the garlic as the butter melts, scenting the butter. Remove the garlic with a slotted spoon. Add the flour and whisk until smooth, about 2 minutes. Pour in the milk, and cook until thickened and mixture coats a spoon, about 10 minutes. Remove from heat, add cheeses and chipotle powder. Stir until cheese melts. Salt and pepper to taste.

  In a separate pot of salted boiling water, cook pasta for 2 minutes less than the package’s recommendation, about 7 minutes. Rinse and drain the penne, and add pasta to cheese sauce. Stir to combine, and do not panic when there seems to be twice as much sauce as necessary. (The sauce will absorb into the pasta.)

  Transfer into a 9-by-13-inch baking dish, and sprinkle top with cheeses.

  To make the panko topping, melt butter in a glass measuring cup in a microwave. Add crumbs, parsley, and chipotle powder. Stir to combine—mixture should have some cling but not be too wet. Add additional butter or crumbs as necessary. Sprinkle mixture over the pasta.

  Bake uncovered 25 minutes, and let stand 5 minutes. Serve warm with a salad of young greens.

  Note: The spice is easily adjustable. Add more chipotle for the adventurous; decrease for younger diners.

  Enchant, stay beautiful and graceful, but do this, eat well. Bring the same consideration to the preparation of your food as you devote to your appearance. Let your dinner be a poem, like your dress.

  —CHARLES PIERRE MONSELET

  For a tiny moment, I considered feeling guilty about using Clementine in my plot for revenge. I considered and then dismissed my reservations; the fact of the matter was that my brother was clearly drawn to the petite pastry chef. He needed a shove, my brother.

  And me? I was happy to provide that shove.

  “I was just thinking,” I mentioned to Clementine late Friday night, in the most causal tone I could muster, “would you like to come to this week’s dinner with me?”

  “Well …”

  “My dad’s cooking is not to be missed.”

  “It wouldn’t be awkward? I hate to intrude.”

  “Not at all. Guests come all the time.”

  Clementine shrugged. “Sure. Sunday night?”

  “Sunday night.”

  “Good.” I gave my bravest smile. “I’m off to bed, then. And I think I’ll take Gigi with me.”

  “Oh, she’ll hate that.” Clementine nodded toward Gigi, who was already halfway down the hall to my room, tail wagging in anticipation of pillows and blankets at her disposal.

  “Is there anything I should bring tomorrow?” Clementine asked on Saturday morning, as we both prepared for the day.

  “My mom is a sucker for a good hostess gift,” I answered, toothbrush in mouth. “I can give you a few ideas, if you’re in need.”

  “I found a couple antique handkerchiefs at a flea market the other day.” She squeezed toothpaste onto her own toothbrush. “I don’t have specific plans for them—thought your mom might like them.”

  “That sounds perfect.” I spat into the sink. “I’m impressed.”

  Clementine shrugged. “Your gran would have liked them, and she mentioned your mom’s good taste a few times.”

  She was right—my mother did enjoy the handkerchiefs, though not nearly as much as I enjoyed Nico’s expression when he saw Clementine on Sunday.

  Nico’s eyes were wide, his jaw slack. Best of all, he couldn’t speak—a first, since the tender age of nineteen months.

  Clementine, of course, was so focused on my mother and meeting the rest of the family that she either didn’t notice Nico or ignored him altogether.

  For dinner, my father had prepared a robust pot of cioppino, serving it with a green salad and miniature baguettes of bread.

  It was a simple meal, but the shadows beneath my parents’ eyes were their own explanation. My heart ached. I knew that all of us were pitching in—Alex with maintenance around the house, Sophie with coordinating doctors’ visits and treatments, Nico with food, and Caterina—Caterina sent care packages full of silly novels, loose-leaf tea, and scented candles.

  As the last born, I was th
e official pinch-hitter, filling in where needed. Sure, I felt like the fifth wheel, but that was part of the gig as a fifth child.

  We sat down at the dinner table, and to my dismay Sophie practically elbowed her way to the seat on my right, while Clementine took the chair to my left.

  Nico, I noted, was at the opposite end of the table. Not that it stopped him from staring at her. At some point, I needed to have words with my brother. He had to stop acting like a thirteen-year-old boy.

  Within moments, it became clear Sophie was on a mission. “You must go and get genetically tested,” she said, leaning toward me. “I finally went two weeks ago.”

  “Oh.” I draped my napkin in my lap. “So … what precipitated that idea?”

  “Mom’s cancer, of course. Ovarian cancer often has a genetic component, and I wanted to find out if I had any of the markers.”

  “Makes sense,” I said.

  “Well, apparently, I am a carrier. I’m going to have Chloé tested too. It doesn’t mean we’ll get it, just that we could, you know?”

  “Right,” I said. It was a depressing enough thought and not what I would have considered dinner conversation, but Sophie would not be deterred.

  “I had them run a general test and look for any other diseases, while I was in. Better to know and to be prepared. Do you know what they found? I’m a carrier for Tay-Sachs disease. Can you believe it?”

  I shook my head. “I think I’ve heard of it, but I don’t remember what it is.”

  “It’s a genetic disease. It’s usually associated with Jews, but according to my reading, it occurs in other small gene pools, like the Acadians. But you should get yourself tested. It’s best to know for sure. Now is a good time to be taking lots of antioxidants.”

  “I will … have to get on that,” I said, my mind whirling but not settling as I passed Clementine’s soup bowl to my father, who stood at the head of the table, ladle in hand.

  The dinner passed easily, with Clementine slipping seamlessly into the conversations that churned across the table. Everyone seemed to adjust to Clementine far more effortlessly than to Neil, but wasn’t that to be expected? She was a pastry chef, a breed my family understood. With the exception of Nico—whose inclusion of Adrian was simply bad behavior—I didn’t begrudge the uneasiness I’d seen during Neil’s visit.