I reached out my arms and we hugged. I marveled how he felt both familiar and alien all at once.
He kissed my cheek and stepped back, looking into my eyes. “Take care, Juliette.”
“You too, Éric.”
A wave, a glance over the shoulder, and I left Éric and his Tahmira behind.
MOROCCAN MINT TEA FOR TWO
2 cups boiling water
1 tablespoon loose-leaf Chinese green tea
8 fresh mint sprigs
1 tablespoon sugar
Place the tea and mint leaves in a heatproof measuring cup or bowl with a spout. Pour water over the leaves; cover and steep for 3 minutes. Strain tea and mint mixture through a fine sieve into a second heatproof measuring cup or bowl. Discard tea and mint leaves.
Add sugar and stir until thoroughly dissolved. Chill and serve over ice with additional mint leaves for garnish.
Love doesn’t just sit there, like a stone; it has to be made, like bread, remade all the time, made new.
—URSULA K. LE GUIN
I had a lot of time to think on the plane. Ten hours and fifty-five minutes, to be exact. With Ellie Holcomb’s sweet music piped into my ears via earbuds, I stared out the window and tried to process the last twenty-four hours. And while I was at it, there seemed to be good reason to take stock of more than the last three months.
The truth was, I’d made a truly epic mess of my life.
Sure, I wasn’t in prison or anything. But somehow I’d let guilt and perceived expectations dictate my life. When I hadn’t gotten what I’d wanted—Éric and a career in a restaurant kitchen—I’d let myself fall into my life choices, rather than make them myself.
I’d allowed my guilt to keep me from being honest with Nico, and honest with myself. I’d allowed my fear to keep me from a healthy relationship with Neil.
Deep shame washed over me.
This wasn’t who I wanted to be. It wasn’t who God wanted me to be, but I’d been so busy feeling some strange combination of frightened and responsible that I’d stopped listening to him. Instead, I’d let the strong tide that was my family and Marti carry me along.
I thought of Grand-mère and her table. I remembered what I’d told Nico about it, those months ago.
She willed the table to me.
Had it been intentional? Had she left her secrets behind, loosely hidden, for me to find? I’d never know, of course, at least not in this lifetime. But in my gut I knew that Grand-mère’s secret story held wisdom that was meant for me.
Was that why I’d chosen not to tell my family? Maybe it wasn’t really to protect my mother. Maybe it was because I knew I needed to discover grand-mère’s story and to hold its truth close to my heart before sharing it with others.
I landed at Charles de Gaulle airport at 11:25 in the morning, around the time that Parisian minds begin to turn to lunch. I picked up my little rental car—a sunny little Fiat—and called Sandrine to check in.
Rather than make the six and a half-hour drive fresh off the plane, I told her I planned to get a hotel room, stay the night in Paris, and leave in the morning after a fortifying night’s sleep.
Sandrine agreed wholeheartedly, offering to call a friend of hers with a hotel in the 4th arrondissement to see if she had room for me, before recommending a handful of restaurants, shops, and markets to visit before heading her way.
First, I would attend to lunch. I negotiated my way southwest on the A3 toward the 4th, just in case Sandrine’s lead did pay off. Once I’d reached the 4th, I pulled off onto the side streets, parked, and walked until I found something that appealed for lunch.
Sandrine called me back while I was, admittedly, plowing through my second buckwheat crepe. “My friend had no room, but her friend, across the street did. So go to le Petit Hôtel, ask for Inès, and tell her Léa sent you.”
I agreed, but not before eating a dessert crepe and walking down the street.
I did spare a moment to stop at a spice shop for a couple of items to add to my pantry collection.
Somehow, walking down the street in Paris made me feel as though I understood Grand-mère just a little better. I imagined her as a young woman, attending culinary school, away from the family château for the first time and loving her taste of freedom.
The funny thing was, I came from a long line of women who wrote their own stories. Grand-mère attended pastry school. My mother left France to go to America and married an Italian in the process.
And then there was my father, who left his brothers in Italy to open a restaurant of his own in the Pacific Northwest.
Why was I so afraid of forging my own path?
Le Petit Hôtel turned out to be only a short distance away, but I reparked my car all the same. Inès greeted me with enthusiastic kisses on the cheek, welcoming me to Paris, wishing me all the best in Montagnac, and inviting me to stay with her upon my return.
“If you bring me some of Sandrine’s honey, I will discount your room. Léa has lorded that honey over me for too long!”
I finally conceded to my travel weariness and napped in my hotel room. Upon waking, I showered off the travel grime I’d accumulated over the last twenty-four hours.
Looking out the window, I could see Parisians walking home from work. They wouldn’t consider dinner for at least another two hours—it was only six o’clock, after all. I ticked back the hours.
Around nine. Nico would be awake, so I called.
“How’s France?” he asked, sounding almost casual enough to make me think he’d forgotten that we’d parted in anger.
“French,” I answered. “We need to talk.”
Nico yawned. “I haven’t had any coffee yet.”
I rolled my eyes. “Too bad. Here’s the thing. Mom and Dad met on an airplane. While emigrating from separate countries. It was crazy, and Mom’s dad hated it. But they loved each other, and they made it work.”
“Jules—”
“You’re my brother,” I said gently. “And I love you. But I have to make my own choices and choose my own mistakes, and I need you to respect that. I’m not asking you to agree; I’m asking you to give me room to figure myself out. As it happens, I think I’m more of a late bloomer than I ever realized.
“Secondly,” I continued, “you should know that Éric and I dated for a year when he was your sous-chef.”
I stayed silent for a moment to allow Nico time to absorb that tidbit.
“I felt guilty for a long time because we broke up … and he left. I felt like it was my fault that L’uccello Blu failed—”
“No, Jules,” Nico interrupted. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“I’m still processing that. I saw Éric in Seattle, between flights.”
“How is he?”
“Good. He wanted to know if you were dating your female pastry chef.”
Nico snorted. “You’re making that up.”
“I swear on my signed edition of The French Laundry Cookbook I did not.”
“I should go visit him.”
“He’d like that. Thirdly, I might go off and move away. Maybe to Memphis, although Neil and I broke up. Maybe somewhere else. I might even move to Paris. I need you to be okay with the fact that I might leave.”
Nico sighed. “What would I do without you?”
“For the love of all that is holy, how many times do I have to tell you to take Clementine out on a date?”
“You’re really stuck on that,” he said dryly.
“I am.”
“You’re stubborn.”
“So are you,” I answered lightly. “Are we okay?”
He sighed. “You really liked that Neil guy?”
“He was the one who suggested I reevaluate my work life, when my work life was causing me to vomit in the greenroom at the Portland Sunrise studio.”
“Huh? All right, then.”
“We’re okay?” I repeated.
“You’re my sister, Jules. We’re always okay. You stay safe over there.”
&nbs
p; I drove south to Montagnac the next morning. I took in the house, surrounded by oaks down the drive and fields of lavender all around. Château de L’Abeille, where my grandmother had grown up.
The sound of the bees filled my ears the second I stepped out of the car. It was the sound of pollination, of new life, of change. I loved it.
A woman stepped out from the front door and waved at me with a dishtowel in hand. She looked a lot like Sophie, with her fine blond hair and pale eyes.
“Bonjour, Juliette! Ça va?” Sandrine wrapped me in a hug, complete with double kisses. “How was your drive? How was the room at Inès’s hotel? The jet lag—do you need coffee? Come, come inside. Welcome to Château de L’Abeille. We are so excited to have you, Maman and me.”
“I am so glad to be here.” I looked all around, taking in the views. “I forget how beautiful it is.”
“Yes, it is beautiful, non?” Sandrine agreed, looking around with her hands on her hips, the picture of a satisfied proprietress. “You were quite small when you were here last.”
“I’m happy to pay for a room,” I said as we walked inside together. “I know this is peak season for you.”
“Non non, jamais. There is plenty of room in the family wing. There is room—you will see. The farm makes enough money that we don’t have to use the entire château as an inn to make ends meet. Also, I am a very good cook. So I never allow more than six guests at a time. I charge a great deal for my cooking,” Sandrine stated, with a dramatic amount of eyebrow waggling, “and nobody complains. Bon. I will take you to your room, and then you must see Maman. She will be glad to see you. Hearing of Mireille’s death saddened her, naturellement.”
“I would love to ask her questions about my grandmother,” I said, clutching my suitcase. “About her youth.”
“Oui oui. You must know that she has la maladie d’Alzheimer. How do you say it? The Alzheimer’s disease. Some days are good, but other days she thinks I’m the new kitchen maid.” Sandrine shook her head. “I am lucky she was always kind to the kitchen maids.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Sandrine lifted her shoulder in a very French shrug. “C’est la vie. Voilà—here are the family rooms. The toilet and bath are down the hall.” We stopped at the first room, finished with yellow toile wallpaper and accented with a vase full of lavender buds.
“It’s lovely,” I said, wheeling my suitcase inside.
Once I was situated, Sandrine took me to see Grand-tante Cécile.
“Coucou,” Sandrine called as she rapped on the door with her knuckle. “Maman! Juliette est arrivée, la petite-fille de ta soeur, Mireille.”
I looked over Sandrine’s shoulder at Cécile. She held court in her sitting room, which overlooked the lavender fields from south-facing windows. When Grand-tante Cécile turned, she took my breath away. Her resemblance to Grand-mère was undeniable. Cécile’s hair was soft and downy white. Though her face was wrinkled, her delicate bone structure still showed through.
The genes in my family certainly ran strong—which was, of course, one of the reasons I was there. If I was lucky, Cécile might remember.
“She and my father spoke English together,” Sandrine said as we entered the room. “So they could say things without me understanding when I was young. Some days she still has English, sometimes not. It is the same with everything. And her hearing—it is best to speak up.”
“Sandrine!” Grand-tante Cécile’s face lit up when she saw us enter the room. “Entrez, entrez! Asseyez-vous ici avec moi! Venez et partager un morceau de gâteau avec une vieille dame.”
I smiled. “You’re not old,” I said. “Vous êtes très, très jeune, Grand-tante Cécile. I’m Juliette, Mireille’s granddaughter,” I continued, testing out her English. To my relief, Cécile nodded.
“Yes—you look just like her.” She patted my hand. “So pretty. You have the same eyes.”
My eyes had to be the only similarity—I was tall, curvy, and dark, where Mireille had been fair, lithe, and petite. But the eyes, well, I wasn’t about to argue.
“Très bien,” Sandrine said, clasping her hands to her waist. “I must return to the inn. The kitchenette is just around the corner, if you’d like tea or anything else to eat. À plus tard.” She gave a small wave and left.
“I’ll be here for a few days,” I said, reaching into my bag. “I would love to chat with you about my grand-mère Mireille.”
“Ah, Mireille.” Cécile shook her head. “Unlucky, that one.”
I froze. “Oh?”
“Would you like cake? It’s very good, made with lavender and honey from the château. Our eggs, as well. Not everybody can make a perfect cake, but Sandrine can. Your grandmother could also. She could put something in the oven, leave, and we would be sitting and talking. And then all of a sudden, she would jump up”—Cécile raised her hands in the air—“and she would go and take whatever it was out of the oven. It would always be perfect. She was a very good baker.”
I gave a bittersweet smile. “Yes, she was.”
“Oh, she made Papa so furious when she insisted on going to pastry school in the city. It wasn’t done, you know, at least not for a woman of good family. But she was stubborn, and Papa loved her best. So”—Cécile shrugged—“she went. Changed everything—just like Papa said it would.” She turned away and looked out the window before sipping her tea.
“I was looking through some of Grand-mère’s photos,” I said, trying to sound as casual as possible. My heart beat hard inside my chest. “Not all of them are labeled. Do you think you could tell me,” I said, pulling the photo from my purse, “who this is?”
Grand-tante Cécile plucked the photo from my hands. “Oh lá lá.” She shook her head. “C’était si triste. I have not seen this face for many, many years.”
I didn’t dare to breathe.
“His name was Gabriel Roussard.” She studied the photo. “Your mother—she was named for him, naturellement. Gabriel was … very handsome. To Mireille, he was the sun and the moon.” She smiled. “And all the stars in the heavens.”
“Were they together? Des amoureux?”
“Oui oui, c’est vrai—and they were married! Papa was so angry. She never told you?”
“She did not speak much of the past,” I said. “But I wondered.”
“Such a scandal!” She clucked her tongue.
“Was he my mother’s father?”
“Oh yes, of course. Your grand-mère didn’t marry Gilles until your mother was nearly two.” Cécile shook her head. “Gabriel was a Jew, you know. But you saw—he was handsome. And Mireille adored him. So sad. Unlucky, my sister.”
“What happened?”
Cécile sipped her tea and then made a face. “The tea is cold. I will go make more.”
I stood up quickly. “I can make it.”
“Non non,” Cécile insisted. “I will go. You’re the guest. I’ll be right back.”
“D’accord.” I sat back down and watched Grand-tante Cécile as she made slow, careful steps down the short hall to the kitchenette.
I was right.
They were married, and Gabriel was my true grandfather. After all this time, to know—I could hardly take it all in.
A moment later the teakettle whistled, and I could hear the clinking of a teapot lid being removed and replaced. Seconds later, Grand-tante Cécile returned. “Ah, bon. J’ai de la compagnie. Quelle fête pour une vieille dame comme moi.”
Oh no. “Grand-tante Cécile? It’s me. Juliette.” I leaned forward. “Mireille’s granddaughter, remember?”
“Très bien, très bien. Vous êtes ainsi belle comme votre grand-mère. Mais, je parle qu’un petit peu d’anglais. Parlez-vous français?” She smiled a beatific smile.
“Oui,” I said, trying not to cry.
Just that quickly, she was gone. I drank the tea and conversed in French, trying to be jovial and light, rather than bitterly disappointed.
After tea, I walked along the edge of the east lavend
er field. I knew it could be like this, but having it happen broke my heart.
But rather than dwell on the disappointments in life, I listened to the hum of the bees.
Afterward, Sandrine and I discussed the visit. She told me that Cécile’s good days were becoming fewer and further between.
Maybe I would get lucky again. I had a few days. And Sandrine told me that Cécile loved a long phone conversation—though she might forget to whom she was speaking halfway through.
I still had so many questions. Did Gabriel have family? Did any of them survive the war? Did I have cousins somewhere, cousins like Sandrine?
I didn’t have the answers now. And that didn’t mean I wouldn’t have the answers later, only that I was to wait, to be patient, to listen.
There was a life lesson in there, somewhere.
I sighed.
There were some areas of my life where I could only wait. Others?
I could also take action. Up ahead on the path, I spied a bench, situated at the corner of the field, angled to face the lavender.
Phone in hand, I took a seat. Dialed Neil’s number. Listened to it ring and then listened as his recorded voice promised to get back to me within a business day.
I carried on, undeterred.
“Hi, Neil. It’s Juliette,” I began. “And I’m in France right now. I’m sitting outside the château where Grand-mère grew up, and I’m looking at her lavender. I don’t know that it’s the same lavender, but it may be clones of the original lavender plants. Sorry. Anyway, I just wanted to call and tell you”—I paused to breathe in—“that you were right.” Then I breathed out. “I didn’t know what I wanted. Well, I’ve had some time to think about it, and here’s the thing—I really love restaurants. Always have. But I also want you in my life. I don’t know that I’ll get to have both. But you asked what I wanted, and that’s it. I want to work in a restaurant, and I want to be with you. And I hope—”
My phone beeped.
I pressed on. “I hope that maybe you’ll forgive me and that we can figure out a way to try again.”
Another beep.
“Even if it means me flying out to Memphis. But I want you to know, I have dreams. I haven’t figured them all out yet, but I have them.”
A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) Page 27
