I stole a glance at Nico. He’d moved on from staring at Clementine to conversing more heartily with Nelson than any of us had ever seen, or were likely to see again.
After dinner, at a moment when Clementine was safely out of earshot, I edged over to my older brother and leaned toward his ear. “When are you going to ask her out?”
He stood up straighter. “What?”
“You like her. I think you’d be good together. You should ask her out.”
“Why don’t you go out with Adrian?”
I rolled my eyes. “First off, he never asked. Second, I’m seeing Neil. And third—and most important—we work together.”
“Well, I’ll be working with Clementine. Actually, she’ll be working for me.”
“But you like her.”
He didn’t answer.
“Just think about it,” I said, giving his arm a squeeze. “Because if you don’t make a move, sooner or later someone else will.”
Nico frowned, his gaze never leaving Clementine’s animated face.
“She’s good here,” I said. “Think about it.”
“Do you think”—he fiddled with his pockets—“she would?”
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “But I bet if you asked, you’d find out.”
When I got home, I took Gigi out, then headed to my room and called Neil.
“How did it go?” he asked.
“Fine,” I said, scratching Gigi’s chin. “Better than fine, actually—Mom adores Clementine. Nico was absolutely miserable, sat and stared at her the whole time. He tried to talk to her at one point, but got completely tongue-tied.”
“Poor guy.”
“I have no sympathy for him.”
“None?”
“Maybe a little, but it doesn’t stick around for very long. I cornered him at the end and told him it was time to ask her out—that was fun. Oh—and I had a fantastically surreal conversation with Sophie. Granted, most of our conversations have their own touches of surrealism. One of these days we’ll be talking and my face is going to melt. Anyway, she’s gotten herself genetically tested for the ovarian-cancer gene and in the process found she’s a carrier for Tay-Sachs disease.” I waggled my fingers on the bedspread to get Gigi’s attention.
“She’s going to have Chloé tested and wants me to get tested as well. I’m honestly not sure what I think about it all.”
There was a momentary silence on the line. “Sophie’s a carrier for Tay-Sachs?” he asked. I could practically hear him thinking. “And your mom’s cancer …” He cleared his throat. “Genetically, I would surmise that one of your genetic contributors includes an Ashkenazi Jew.”
“A what? I’m not Jewish, so I’m not up on my lingo.”
“An ethnic Jew with origins in central and eastern Europe. Because Jews typically only married other Jews, certain genes are especially prominent generations later. The same is true in other communities begun with small gene pools—the Pennsylvania Dutch, for instance. The Acadians are another. Sorry—am I starting to sound too much like a lecturer?”
“It’s interesting,” I promised, my mind whirling with possibilities. “Keep going.”
“Tay-Sachs does appear within other populations with the same frequency—Acadians, for instance. However, if your sister tested positive for a BRCA1 or BRCA2 mutation—”
“BRCA2, is what Sophie said.”
“BRCA2, then—the presence of both of those genes would suggest an Ashkenazi Jew as a genetic source.”
My heart began to beat hard within my chest, and the thoughts that had begun to flutter at dinner now settled into clarity. “That was why she never told anyone,” I breathed as the pieces clicked together. “He was a Jew. The man in the photo was a Jew. She married Grand-père in 1943, so anything much before then would potentially be in preoccupation France. Mom said there was a man, earlier, that her family didn’t approve of, and that would explain it. She was with him—married him even, if that ring from the trunk means anything—and had my mother.” Gigi nudged my hand with her nose; I stroked her ears absently. “Something must have happened to him, but they had to have been in love if she kept mementos, wouldn’t you think?”
“Makes sense to me.”
“And then she married Gilles, my grandfather, and never told a soul. Does that … does that sound crazy?”
“Plenty of crazy things happened during that time period.”
“I hate to think she wasn’t happy with my grandfather. They grew up together, you know. If only she were still here—I have so many questions to ask her!”
“Didn’t you find out the last name of the person who ordered the engagement ring?”
“Roussard. G. Roussard. Not a Jewish name, but plenty of Jews assimilated in France.” I thought for a moment. “The jeweler was named S. Roussard. It could have been a family member—there’s a long tradition of Jewish craftsmanship in jewelry. It … it could be.”
“Do you think your great-aunt in France might know more?”
“Maybe. I mean, I think I’d remember if Sophie or Caterina married someone, had a child, and then remarried. Mom said the family disapproved, so it couldn’t have been an entirely secret affair.” I chewed on my lower lip. “Come to think of it, the wedding date—the wedding to Gilles—must have been fudged, some, if my mother had a different father. Or my mother’s age, a bit.”
“Or both. Unless she was still pregnant at the time and married your grandfather quickly.”
“True.” I pressed my hand to my cheek. “This is nuts, but it feels like the first thing in a long time to have made sense.”
“There could be other explanations.”
“I know, but something tells me this is the right one. And as far as I know, my mother has no idea her brother is her half brother and that her dad wasn’t really her dad.”
After going so long with very little attention, Gigi sighed and sprawled across the bed.
“What was their relationship like?” Neil asked.
“Fine, I think. He wasn’t a very affectionate man, from what I’ve heard. He died before I was born, but Alex and Sophie remember him. They said he always had candy in his pockets. Wrapped lemon drops.”
“So he was kind to children, at least.”
“I suppose. I guess I’ll find out more when I’m in France.” I shifted the phone to my other ear. “I wished you could have been there at dinner tonight.”
“I would have liked to be there with you. Did I tell you I have a new system?”
“A new system? No.”
“Every time I miss you, I make plans for what we’ll do when I see you next.” I couldn’t stop my grin.
“Oh, really?”
“It’ll have to be a long trip,” he said. “So far I’ve come up with a lot of plans.”
“We’ll work something out.” I took a deep breath, knowing I needed to sleep but not wanting to let go of the sense of peace I felt when I heard his voice. Neither of us spoke for a long moment.
“I should probably sleep,” I said, finally. “And you too, since you’re two hours ahead.”
“I know,” he said. “I just didn’t want to say it.”
I gave a soft chuckle. “Sleep well, Neil.”
“You too, Juliette. I love you.”
My phone intoned the end of the call, but all I heard were the mental echoes of those last three words.
I prefer butter to margarine, because I trust cows more than I trust chemists.
—JOAN DYE GUSSOW
The words played themselves over and over in my head—I love you, I love you, I love you. Maybe I’d heard wrong. Maybe he’d said “dove.” Or “glove.” Maybe “luck”? Or perhaps “live”? But none of those actually made sense unless he was calling me a dove, which would be oddly abstract for an immunologist.
Which meant … maybe I’d heard right the first time.
Maybe he loved me. Or maybe it had just slipped out.
The sounds of Clementine in the kitc
hen started at four in the morning. I stumbled out three hours later—realizing there was no point in trying to sleep between my conversation with Neil and the kitchen happenings.
At least the air smelled like sugary perfection.
“You’re up early,” Clementine said as I rounded the corner into the kitchen. Gigi raced past me, bounced around Clementine’s feet, and bounded toward the patio door.
I let her out to do her morning business.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I said, eying the array of assembled cream puffs on the prep table.
Clementine winced. “Sorry—my fault?”
I shrugged. “I was awakeable.”
“Sorry,” she repeated. “I woke up inspired.”
“That’s good.” I tilted my head from side to side. “I think I woke up with a crick in my neck.”
“Want some tea?” Clementine asked.
“Sure.”
I settled on a kitchen stool, watching as Clementine set the kettle of water to boil. “You know, it’s funny.”
“What is?”
“For years, I found that within my circle of friends, I was always the one who cooked for and took care of everyone. When I was a kid, it was the same—everyone was so busy doing other things that I did things for myself. It feels funny watching someone do something for me.”
“It’s good practice,” Clementine said. “Let someone do something for you for a change.”
“Feels weird.”
“I promise you can feed me sometime, when you’re not packing to go to Europe.”
“Fair enough.”
Clementine set a tea bag into a mug and poured the water over the leaves. “So what’s got you in a twist?”
“Neil.”
“Mmm,” said Clementine.
I accepted the tea and took a sip. “We might be moving to a different stage of the relationship.”
“You’re not sure?”
“It’s a relationship—is anyone ever sure?”
Clementine conceded the point.
“Anyway, it might be”—I searched for the right word—“shifting. But I’m not sure. And I’m not sure I can ask him to clarify. And I couldn’t sleep much because of it.” I got up and let Gigi back in. “Do you need a hand with anything? Because I could stand to be distracted.”
“I need you to taste things. I’ve been thinking of a revision to the dessert menu, and this morning it was like everything in my head aligned. I came up with a variation on the molten-chocolate cake that doesn’t make me crazy with how brainless it is. You said the theme was date restaurant, man accessible, right?”
“Right.”
“So I added the Black Butte Porter—the one from Deschutes Brewery—to the chocolate cake. It makes the flavor a little darker, a little more complex. I wanted to do five or six desserts, with at least three of them seasonal. For the standards, I thought the chocolate cake and an Italian-style cream puff.” She nodded toward the cream puffs on the table. “Try one and tell me what you think.”
I wasn’t awake enough for silverware, so I picked up the cream puff and bit straight into it, forming a small cloud of powdered sugar. “That’s so good,” I said.
Clementine continued to watch me.
I dove in for a second bite. And then I found it—cherries. Ripe, real cherries in a fruity filling hidden at the center. “Oh my goodness,” I said, my mouth full. “That is amazing.”
“Glad you think so. I thought it was a clever play on Saint Joseph’s Day zeppole—cherries, but not those awful maraschino cherries.”
I nodded. “Maraschino cherries are the worst.” Another bite. “This cream puff almost tastes like a grown-up doughnut. And I mean that in the best way.”
“Oh, I agree. And while cherries will get difficult after a while, we can swap out the fillings seasonally. Maybe a citrus in the winter, that sort of thing. Though I was also thinking about putting some cherries up for the winter, so we’d have some.”
“No arguments from me. This is the best breakfast I’ve had in ages,” I said, licking almond-flavored pastry cream from my fingers. “So—what else have you got?”
“I’m working on an updated tiramisu spin. We’ll see. It might be too close to the cream puff, with the pastry cream.”
“Maybe. Maybe not,” I said, considering. “We can let Nico think about that.”
“I’ll be working on it. But tiramisu is popular and not at all seasonal.”
“That’s true. You could do a layer of candied hazelnuts on the top. That wouldn’t be terrible.”
“No, it wouldn’t be. I was also thinking of doing a selection of ice creams and a sorbet special every week, during the summer.”
“I have full trust. Don’t forget about that Nutella mousse you made for Nico and me. That was memorable.”
“Have you decided what you’re going to do about Neil?”
“Me?” I wiped my mouth with a napkin. “Not at all.”
That night Neil and I chatted about our respective days. I kept things breezy and light on purpose. Once again, our conversation ended much the same way. I wished him sweet dreams.
In reply, he said, “You too, Juliette. I love you.”
“Wait,” I said, before he could hang up. “Do you mean that?”
“That I love you? I suppose I do.”
“Are you sure?”
He chuckled. “Pretty sure. G’night, Jules.”
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Dearest Juliette,
Maman and I are so very happy to see you in two weeks! Please send me your flight details when you have them. Would you like me to pick you up from the airport, or are you planning to rent a car?
I will have guests at the château during your visit, but we do keep a family wing, where you will have privacy. Do you and Nico still want honey for your restaurant? We just harvested a good batch of honey from our hives. Tell me how much you want and I will make arrangements to have it shipped to you. This harvest in particular has even more lavender tones than the last—I am very pleased.
Maman sends her best. À bientôt!
Sandrine
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Lovely to hear from you! I will be landing at Charles de Gaulle on Wednesday, June 18. My plan is to stay for three or four days before moving on to Paris, and then to Italy for my nonno D’Alisa’s 90th birthday in Montalcino. I’d be happy to rent a car during my time in France. I was thinking of having a car in France and then returning it in Paris before taking the train to Italy. There are quite a lot of cars to go around with my dad’s family, so I’ll be covered there—or at least be able to catch a ride.
I’ll ask Nico and Clementine how much honey they want and get back to you. I’m starting in on some of our ordering to make sure we get on the farmers’ delivery schedules. Excited and nervous as our grand opening day approaches in August!
Love to Grand-tante Cécile!
Juliette
The next two weeks were even more of a flurry of preparations. Nico hired a line cook and a pair of dishwashers. After discussing the subject, we agreed that I would interview for waitstaff once I’d returned from the trip.
My travel plans were finally set in stone; I’d decided to do some sleuthing in France before moving on to Italy. Although my grand-tante Cécile suffered from Alzheimer’s, I had hopes she might be able to remember some of her late girlhood, before the war. I also wanted to search in Paris for records relating to G. Roussard and the jeweler S. Roussard. While it was true we lived in the Internet age, I hadn’t been able to uncover much from home.
In preparation for the trip, I used a bit of my nest egg to spruce up the holes in my wardrobe and make myself fit for Paris and Rome. I bought a lovely pair of heels on sale at Nordstrom, a navy sundress at Anthropologie, and a black short-sleeved silk blouse at T.J. Maxx. From Grand-mère’s bureau I set aside several vintage silk scarves.
Neil and I talked or e-mailed most days. I watched episodes of Doctor Who—starting with the Ninth Doctor—as I made meals, and Neil humored me as I mulled the intricacies of the plot lines.
“Just keep watching,” he’d say, refusing to let slip a hint, though we both knew I could take to Google in an instant to satisfy my curiosity.
I tidied the apartment and made arrangements for Gigi to attend doggy day care three days per week while Clementine was away from the apartment. The morning before my flight, I packed my suitcase while Nico worked in the kitchen downstairs. I heard a truck engine, followed by raised voices.
Nico’s, naturally, rose to the top.
A moment later I heard footfalls on the exterior stairs and a sharp rap at my door.
Nico stood on the other side, fuming.
“Potatoes!” he yelled, invoice in hand.
“Carrots,” I said, hands on my hips. “What’s this about?”
“You placed an order for twenty-three crates of potatoes to be delivered today. Why would you do that?”
I plucked the invoice from his fingers. It was for an order I’d placed with Haven Farms. I remembered the order, but there was no way I’d intentionally order twenty-three crates of potatoes …
And then it hit me. “Oh. Oh dear …”
I had placed the order. And then I’d gone back and updated it because I’d forgotten the potatoes. In my rush to correct the order, I’d hit both the wrong quantity—twenty-three, rather than two—and the wrong month. Which meant we had more than eleven times the expected number of potatoes, a month before the soft opening, two months before the grand opening.
“What am I going to do with twenty-three crates of potatoes? Potatoes are perishable, Juliette. They stink when they rot. I can’t have twenty-three crates of potatoes rotting away in my dining room—that’s right, the dining room. They don’t even fit in the kitchen. And they won’t take them back,” Nico added. “I already asked.”
A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) Page 25
