A third beep. I moved my phone from my ear.
I had an incoming call.
From Neil. With shaking hands, I transferred over. “Hi,” I said, my voice wobbly.
“Hi, Juliette.” Neil’s voice soothed like warm maple syrup. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too,” I told him.
Looking out onto the lavender, I realized I didn’t know what our future held, but I couldn’t wait to find out.
PROVENÇAL LAVENDER AND HONEY POUND CAKE
For the cake:
1 tablespoon dried culinary lavender buds
3 cups flour
½ teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon sea salt
1 cup honey—lavender honey, if you can find it
½ cup sugar
1 cup full-fat yogurt
5 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla bean paste or vanilla extract
½ cup poppy seeds (optional)
12 tablespoons unsalted butter (1½ sticks), at room temperature
For the glaze:
2 tablespoons honey
¾ cup powdered sugar (or enough to reach desired consistency)
1 to 2 tablespoons hot milk
Preheat oven to 350°F. Butter a 10-inch loaf pan; dust with sugar.
In a spice grinder (a dedicated coffee grinder works for this—but don’t use it if it’s already ground coffee unless you want the cake to taste like coffee, which you don’t), grind the lavender together with a tablespoon or so of sugar, and pulse until the lavender is finely ground. Set aside.
In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, baking soda, and sea salt.
Pour 1 cup honey into a 2-cup glass measuring pitcher. Add 1 cup yogurt, and stir the honey and yogurt together. Set aside.
Separate the eggs into a large metal or glass bowl, placing the yolks in a separate small bowl. Beat the whites with a hand mixer until they form stiff peaks.
In the large bowl of a stand mixer, beat the butter, sugar, and lavender sugar together until pale and fluffy, about 5 minutes. Add the vanilla, and then add the yolks one at a time.
With the mixer running, alternate adding the dry ingredients and the honey-yogurt mixture three times, ending with the honey-yogurt. Fold in the poppy seeds, followed by the egg whites, and pour batter into the prepared loaf pan.
Bake the cake on the center oven rack for 1 hour or until a cake tester comes away clean. Allow the cake to cool on a wire rack for about 10 minutes, and then invert. Cool the cake completely.
For the glaze, heat the milk on the stove or in the microwave, and add to the honey. Beat the liquid ingredients together with the powdered sugar, and drizzle over the cooled cake.
Makes 12 to 16 servings.
Readers Guide
1. As the book opens, Juliette realizes that her life is in a rut. How do you think she got there? Have you ever felt that way?
2. When Juliette finds the photo, her first instinct is to keep it a secret. Why do you think she felt that way? What would you do if you found a clue to a family secret?
3. As time passes, Juliette finds that Neil is the person in her life she can confide in most, despite the fact they’ve not met in person. Why do you think she shares with him more easily than her friends and family?
4. On the surface, Adrian seems like the kind of guy Juliette is looking for. Why do you think Juliette is not interested?
5. As Mireille’s story unfolds, we learn that she was even better at keeping secrets than Juliette. Why do you think she kept her secret? And why did she also keep the evidence?
6. Juliette shares camaraderie with Caterina and conflict with Sophie. Do you think it’s easier to get along with people who are more similar to you or more different?
7. When her mother is in crisis, Juliette makes risotto to show love for her. What do you do when your loved ones are going through a difficult season?
8. As her feelings for Neil deepen, Juliette begins to panic. How do you think her relationship with Éric influences her feelings about the relationship?
9. After the tasting dinner, Adrian apologizes to Juliette. Do you think Juliette’s opinion of him changed? Did yours?
10. In France, Juliette decides to take charge of her life. Do you think she’ll be successful? What parts of the mystery are you most looking forward to discovering in the next book?
Acknowledgments
The year this book was written turned out to be profoundly eventful and difficult. Writing is hard enough, but writing under less than ideal circumstances is its own kind of heroic.
So too—arguably more so—is being the agent, editor, friend, and spouse to that author.
My agent, Sandra Bishop, is the kind of agent every writer ought to have in her corner—persistent, patient, tough, and encouraging.
Many thanks to my editor, Shannon Marchese, who brought me to WaterBrook Multnomah. She patiently waited on the manuscript and then helped me turn the story I’d submitted into the story it was meant to be. It is so much better, I can’t even tell you.
Thank you to my line editor, Susan Tjaden, who was so supportive through the process of finding all the rough spots and making sure they were buffed out.
Thanks to Laura Wright and the copyeditors (good band name, no?). I could not do what you do, but I’m glad you can.
In the past, I’ve worked with a slew of early readers, but this book I kept very close (partly for practical reasons—it got rewritten a lot). Love and tea to Kara Christensen and Rachel Lulich, whose thoughtful responses and encouragement were so helpful during the writing process.
Thanks and curry to Maureen McQuerry and Stephen Wallenfels for their readings and critique as I shaped that doozy of a first act. Gratitude and molasses cookies to Joanne Bischoff for her encouragement as I wrapped my head around the rewrites. Thanks also to Jania Hatfield, who lent her legal expertise for a plotline that’s no longer with us but was still much appreciated. And to my dear friends who will be reading this for the first time once it hits print (and e-book), thank you for your patience and grace.
Thanks and croissants to Carolyn McCready, who generously helped to develop the Mireille plotline.
Love and Tillamook Mudslide to my family for their love, support, and prayers through the submission, contracting, writing, and production process of this project.
Lastly, devotion and crème brûlée to my husband, Danny, who picked up Thai takeout, talked through plot points, and listened to (near) endless waffling as I named and renamed most of the characters. Seven years ago, though, he was the man I met online, the one I stayed up late e-mailing, despite the fact we’d never met in person. He was the man who didn’t flinch when I told him I wanted to write books. From inspiration to process, this book wouldn’t exist without him.
About the Author
HILLARY MANTON LODGE is a storyteller at heart. She is the author of Plain Jayne, a Carol Award finalist, and Simply Sara, an ECPA best-selling book. A graduate of the University of Oregon’s School of Journalism, Hillary discovered the world of cuisine during an internship at Northwest Palate magazine. In her free time she enjoys experimenting in the kitchen, watching foreign films, and exploring her most recent hometown of Portland, Oregon. She shares her home with her husband, Danny, and their Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, Shiloh.
A Selection from
Reservations for Two
A friendship can weather most things and thrive in thin soil; but it needs a little mulch of letters and phone calls and small, silly presents every so often—just to save it from drying out completely.
—PAM BROWN
The Provençal breeze tousled the ends of my hair as I tried to organize my thoughts. “I’m beginning to figure out what I want,” I told Neil, my voice echoing slightly over the cell connection.
“Oh?”
“When you hang up and listen to the message I was leaving, you’ll hear all about it.”
Neil chuckled, and I steeled myself. He had the best laugh
. If I closed my eyes, I could see the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, the way his lips turned upward.
“You want me to hang up?” he asked.
“Nope.”
“So why don’t you tell me what you want?”
I shrugged and looked out onto the lavender waving in the breeze. “I want the impossible. I want to love my job, and I want to be with you.”
“Cool.”
“Cool?” I lifted an eyebrow. “What are you, fifteen?”
Neil sighed. “Sometimes I feel like it. Here’s the thing. We talked about this earlier—I have thousands of frequent flyer miles built up.”
“Aiming to get your name on the side of a plane?”
“Not yet. I’d rather use them. And I’m at a good place to pause at work. Do you want company?”
“What?”
“I’ll fly out there. You want us to be together? So do I, and spending time in Europe doesn’t sound so bad.”
“It’s not a vacation,” I told him. “There will be family members and family dinners and people with opinions. And that’s just starting with the French family.”
“Do you want me to come?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then I’ll see you there.”
I snorted. “You don’t even know where I am.”
“I know you’re at Château de L’Abeille. I also know how to use Google.”
“Well … fine. Be all smart like that.”
“I love you, Juliette. I want you to know that.”
Joy blossomed inside my heart. “I love you, Neil.”
“Guess what?”
“What?”
“I’ll see you soon.”
I spent the next thirty-six hours expecting to get a phone call, an e-mail, or a carrier pigeon telling me that it wasn’t going to work out. That Neil had been delayed, that he’d come to his senses.
Instead, I was setting the table for dinner when I saw a pair of headlights come down the long road toward the château.
“Either that’s the German guests who haven’t checked in yet,” said Sandrine, watching the window over my shoulder, “or your copain has arrived.”
We watched together as Neil unfolded from his rental car, a Fiat like mine, and stretched his arms.
“Oh là là.” Sandrine pressed a hand to her heart. “Très beau.”
My heart fluttered and then burst with happiness when Neil spied me through the window, a grin spreading across his face.
I raced out the door and into his arms. “You came!”
“I told you I would.” Neil pressed a kiss to my forehead. “All you had to do was ask.”
We returned to discover that the table set for three had become a table set for two; Sandrine and Grand-tante Cécile had disappeared. Two candles flickered at the center of the table.
“I think Sandrine feels invested in our having a happy reunion,” I remarked dryly.
“I can live with that.” Neil tipped my chin upward and placed a gentle kiss at the corner of my mouth.
My fingers wove into his hair as I kissed him back.
We might have stayed like that forever if the sound of Neil’s stomach hadn’t broken the moment. “Sorry,” he said. “I ate a baguette after landing. That was a few hours ago.”
“Do you want to eat dinner?”
“It smells really good,” Neil admitted sheepishly.
We sat and portioned food onto our plates; Neil poured the wine Sandrine had left open, a rich, full-bodied Bordeaux.
I told Neil about my time with Cécile, how she’d remembered just long enough to tell me about Gabriel Roussard, the man in the photo—Grande-mère’s first husband and my grandfather.
“That’s incredible.”
“And Cécile confirmed that he was a Jew. That’s why her family wasn’t happy about it.” I shrugged. “And then she got up to make tea, and when she came back, it was gone—she was gone, at least, the version of her that remembered her teens.”
“It’ll come back.”
I shot him a wry glance. “I don’t want to bank on her Alzheimer’s feeling cooperative. She may well not remember, at least not before we leave.” I shrugged. “I shouldn’t be greedy—I still found out more than I would have on my own. Anything more is gravy.”
Neil lifted an eyebrow. “I think I know you pretty well. I don’t think you’ll be satisfied with just a slice of the story. You won’t stop working until you know it all, from the filling to the crust.”
“That’s very poetic of you.”
“Thought you’d like that.”
“I’m impressed. And you’re right. I’m just … trying to pace myself. Set realistic expectations.”
That evening I baked a batch of madeleines for our evening visit with Grandtante Cécile. Neil and I brought the cookies to her sitting room on a tray, as well as a pot of strong black tea and an appropriate number of cups and saucers.
“Bonjour,” said Cécile, putting her paperback novel down when she saw us.
“Bonjour,” I echoed back, showing her the tray. “Would you like some tea?”
“Oh yes,” she said, and I breathed an internal sigh of relief. Cécile’s English came and went along with her memories. If she spoke English, she was more likely to remember.
We made small talk, and I gently reminded her who Neil and I were. After Cécile and I had each enjoyed at least one madeleine and Neil had eaten four, I ventured a question. “Where exactly did Mireille and Gabriel meet?”
“I don’t know, chérie,” Cécile said, shaking her head sadly. “Mireille kept him a secret from the family for a long time. There might be something about it in the letters, though.”
I sat up straight. “Letters?”
“Naturellement. Mireille and Gabriel wrote letters after she returned to the château. How else would they continue their attachment?”
“Um … a telephone?”
“Too expensive … calls from Paris. And besides, Papa wouldn’t have it. Mail—she pretended to be writing a girlfriend she’d met in the city.”
“Letters, then.” I pleated my skirt between my fingers and tried my best to sound casual. “Tell me about them.”
Cécile’s eyes widened. “I knew she was hiding them, but one day I snuck into her bedroom and read them. They were very romantic,” she said, leaning forward. “Passionate. I was shocked, of course, but not as surprised as everyone else when she returned to the city to marry the man.”
Neil squeezed my hand.
“What happened to him?” I asked. In all likelihood, I already knew the answer. “How did he die?”
“Die?” Cécile’s face went blank. “Who told you that?”
“Well …” My voice trailed off. Come to think of it, I had no records. I opened my mouth to say as much, but Cécile interrupted.
“I had a letter just last week from Mireille. She’s with child, you know, and they just bought the loveliest flat. He’s dead? Are you sure?”
“No.” I patted her hand. “I must have been mistaken.”
“Never speak lightly about such things! And Mireille with child …” She shook her head. “They love each other so much.” Grand-tante Cécile leaned forward. “She’s quite large with child, you know. She says she’s not so far along, but it’s not the first time a woman has given birth to a large baby early, n’est-ce pas?”
I pursed my lips together to keep from laughing. “True,” I said. “So—Mireille and Gabriel are happy?”
“Très joyeux.” She shook her head. “My heart longs for a man to look at me the way Gabriel looks at her. Or,” she added, her voice coy, “the way this Neil looks at you.”
My face turned pink. Neil winked at me.
I tamped down the frustration inside me. Cécile remembered Gabriel for the first time in days, but only half the story.
I crossed my legs together at the ankle and tried to reorganize my mind into a new line of questions. “So, what is Gabriel’s occupation?”
“He
is a pastry chef. Mireille assured Papa that he is a very important pastry chef, working at Maxim’s.”
“What is he like?”
“Handsome—tres beau. They look well together—he with his dark hair, Mireille with her blond curls.”
I smiled. I’d seen a photo of Gabriel; his resemblance to Nico was uncanny. “And they wrote letters. Did Mireille keep them all, you suppose?”
“She kept all the letters I wrote to her in Paris—she showed me. All tied up with a pink silk ribbon. She read them when she was lonely, she told me. I can’t imagine she would part with Gabriel’s letters.”
“Where do you think they might be?”
“The window seat in the garret, of course,” Cécile answered without pause. “It’s where she kept all her secrets away from Papa.” She leaned forward and took another madeleine from the plate. “These are very good. Mireille is such a good baker—I’d know her madeleines anywhere.”
“She’s very good,” I agreed, while a mixture of pride and sadness stirred in my heart.
Neil and I tidied up Cécile’s sitting room before we left; Sandrine arrived to assist her mother to bed. We wished them both a good evening and slipped out of Cécile’s rooms and toward the rooms my grand-mère had used in her youth.
The garret above Grand-mère’s rooms had once been used as servants’ quarters, but had since become the storage nook for stray linens, pillows, lamps, and old clothes.
Neither Neil nor I spoke as we picked out a path to the window. The window seat looked just as Cécile had described; I removed the chintz cushion and lifted the seat.
“Oh,” I breathed.
Letters. Bundles and bundles of letters.
A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) Page 28
