“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I echoed, raising myself on my tiptoes for a goodnight kiss. “Whatever it may bring.”
Sophie arrived before I rose from bed the next morning, bags in hand. “I brought underwear for you,” she said. “I got it from Target first thing this morning, then took it home and washed it. I promise it’s as fresh as a May daisy.”
“We’re sisters,” I said, sitting up. “I’d wear your clean underwear.”
“That’s sweet,” she said. “But I need more underwear myself. I can’t afford to share.”
“You could have bought yourself more underwear at Target.”
“I may have.”
I raised a hand in the air. “High five. Here’s to new panties.”
Sophie gave my hand an awkward almost-slap. “Something a wise woman told me once: ‘There comes a time in a woman’s life when she takes stock of her underwear drawer and decides she deserves better.’ ”
“That was totally Cat, wasn’t it?”
“You guessed it. Did you get any sleep?”
“Umm…well, I woke up, so I’m guessing yes? No idea how much, though.” I picked up my phone. No calls from the fire department, but there was a text from Neil wishing me a good morning.
I set the phone back down.
“Neil and I are back together. I think.” I replayed the events of the previous evening through my head. “No, we are. If I’ll have him, we are.”
Sophie sat down on the bed near my feet. “And will you?”
I thought for a moment. “Yes.”
“Nice to have that settled, then.”
“Yes, settled.” I wrapped my arms around my knees. “Thing is, that’s the only bit that’s settled.”
“You’ve got the most important part figured out,” she said. “Everything else is gravy.”
“Chunky gravy.”
“I shouldn’t have woken you up,” she said dryly, patting my legs.
“No, it’s fine,” I said, swinging my legs around and planting my feet on the floor. “I’ve got quite a lot to do today.”
Sophie pointed at the second bag. “I pulled a couple pieces from my closet for you, and some toiletries. That wraparound plaid skirt you like, and a couple sweaters. I didn’t think you’d want to wear last night’s clothes today.”
“You’re a good sister.”
Sophie stilled. “You think so?”
“Of course,” I said, resting my head on her shoulder. “And not just because you brought me underwear.”
In the shower, I thought over our options as I massaged shampoo into my scalp. We were short a restaurant. More specifically—we were short a restaurant building. What if we found a building?
We had a financial cushion, but it wouldn’t last us for long. We still needed to bounce back from this, and fast, before people found their next new favorite spot.
I dressed in my new underwear and the clothes that Sophie brought in her bag. My clothes from the night before smelled of smoke.
I massaged her tinted moisturizer into my skin and used her cream blush to bring some life back to my complexion. But there was no mistaking the circles under my eyes, and I found I didn’t have the energy to fight them. I decided instead they were a badge of honor.
Another text, this one from Adrian. “Heard about the fire,” he said. “Glad you and C are okay.”
I texted him back, thanking him. He really was a good guy, just not the guy for me.
As I dried out my hair, a rough plan formed in my head.
I found Dad in the kitchen, stirring. “What are you making?” I asked.
He looked up at me and smiled. “Hot chocolate. I thought you might want some for breakfast.”
I grinned at him. “You really are the best.”
He shrugged. “Sì, lo so.” He knew. He gave me a peck on my cheek. “Have a cornetto—they’re fresh.”
“Thank you.”
I took a bite, chewing thoughtfully as he ladled cocoa into a cup and set it in front of me with a gentle clink.
“I have a question for you,” I began after swallowing. “And I want you to know you can turn me down.”
“Ah yes?”
“Would you mind sitting down?”
He sat.
I pulled my chair closer. “Here’s the thing. Two Blue Doors has near solid reservations every weekend through New Year’s. I hate giving that up, and who knows how long the repairs are going to take. We’ve got everything we need, everything but a restaurant.” I leaned forward. “D’Alisa & Elle has the upstairs banquet rooms.”
My father gave me a shrewd nod. “That would be interesting.”
“And if we could use the catering kitchen—with Alex’s cooperation, of course.”
He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Haven’t I always said you were the smartest of all my children?”
“Haven’t you always said that about each of us?”
He shrugged. “True enough.”
“You think it might work?”
“What do you think it would take to bring it about?”
“A lot of kitchen cooperation, that’s for sure—the upstairs walk-in is much smaller. We’d want to streamline the menu, or offer a combination of menu options between the two restaurants. That’s probably the better idea.” I thought for a moment. “I’d want to contact an event supplier, maybe look for some room dividers, screens of some sort. Potted orchids for the tables.”
I tried not to think of the beautiful leather chairs we’d had in the dining room at Two Blue Doors. “I think a blend of menus would be intriguing, and a promise of free champagne…”
“You are a restaurateur through and through.”
“We’ll find out, won’t we?” I looked down at my hands. “What do you think would happen, Papa? If I left Two Blue Doors?”
“I do not know,” he said, rising to take my empty plate and cup. “No one knows, not for sure. But you may have new adventures before you, yes?”
I felt my face turn pink. “Yes. I just…I don’t want it to hurt Nico, and I don’t want it to hurt the restaurant. I worked hard to help turn it into what it’s become. You know,” I said, taking a deep breath, “before it caught fire.”
“You should feel very proud.”
“I never thought I would be that girl.”
“Which girl?”
I wrinkled my nose. “The girl who gives up her job for a man.”
He snorted. “Wherever you might go, I am certain there are restaurants, or places to start them. But dreams change, my Giulietta. Even if it’s not a restaurant,” he said, patting my shoulder, “whatever you choose to do will be grand.”
“Thanks.” I squeezed his hand. “So the double restaurant—you think we could pull it off?”
“Pay attention!” he admonished. “I think you can do anything.”
After my talk with Dad, I called Nico to tell him my idea. “I was just about to call you,” he said. “The fire marshal is ready to walk us through the building. Want to come down?”
“Already putting on my shoes.”
“What were you calling about?”
I shared my plan as I drove, down to the menu.
“If Dad’s game,” he said, “I say we go for it.”
“Good.” A smile stretched across my face. “How about this? You call your people, I’ll call mine.”
“Get the band back together?”
“Something like that. But I need seventy-two hours to make it happen.”
“You think we could get it going by Christmas Eve?”
I thought about it and nodded. “I’m good at what I do—and so are you. If you can make the kitchen come together, I can get the dining room set up and do my best to transfer our reservations.”
“Then let’s do it,” he said. “What else have we got?”
~ ITALIAN HOT CHOCOLATE ~
1 cup plus 1½ cups whole milk, divided
4 tablespoons cocoa powder
2 tables
poons sugar
3 tablespoons potato starch
Pinch sea salt
Whipped cream and chocolate shavings, for serving
In a medium saucepan, heat 1 cup of the milk over medium heat until just simmering. Add the cocoa powder, sugar, potato starch, and salt, whisking until smooth.
Add remaining 1½ cups of milk, stirring constantly until the mixture begins to simmer and thicken. Remove the pan from heat, and pour it into serving cups or mugs. Top as desired.
Serves 4.
A recipe has no soul. You, as the cook, must bring soul to the recipe.
—THOMAS KELLER
The outside of the restaurant still smelled of smoke. I could hear the fire marshal talking over specs to Nico, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the acrid scent.
If we cleaned and rebuilt, how long would that smell take to dissipate?
The first glimpse of the downstairs took my breath away. I heard Clementine’s gasp behind me.
Water puddles still covered the tables and floor, which had begun to warp. Black smoke stained the walls, especially near the ceilings.
The major kitchen appliances looked fine, but anything wood handled was definitely the worse for wear.
We walked up the exterior stairs, which were on the opposite side of the burn, and untouched. I held my breath as I opened the door, not knowing what was inside.
The smell of smoke hung heavily in the air, and I wrapped my scarf firmly around my mouth and nose.
Nico placed a reassuring hand on my arm. “The insurance policy covers burn restoration. We’ll get things cleaned and taken care of, Etta.”
I nodded, taking it in.
The dining room and kitchen had been taped off. “There’s burn damage below,” the marshal said. “It looks like there’s a kitchen island of some sort in there—not sure how that hasn’t fallen through the floor, to be honest.”
The prep table.
The table Gabriel made.
“That table is an heirloom,” I told the marshal. “If there’s any way to move it safely as soon as possible, I would appreciate it.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
I wanted to say more but refrained. “Thanks.”
The lieutenant’s prediction had proved accurate. Most of the damage occurred in the kitchen—the broken window, the charred, sooty wall, the residential appliances half-melted, grotesque. Bits of the floor had burned through, others looked like they’d crumble without more than a sneeze.
At any moment, I expected the prep table to simply fall through the floor. Parts of the carpet in the living room squished beneath my feet. The papier-mâché Moravian stars were long gone; the heat from the blaze had caused the vintage bubble lights to shatter. I touched one of the porcelain elves on the mantel, rubbing some of the ash off.
I turned away and peered down the hallway. “Is—is it safe to look at the bedrooms?”
The marshal nodded, and Clementine and I proceeded down the hallway.
Clementine’s room was fine—sooty, but fine.
The wall connecting my room to the kitchen was blackened, the window broken. Powerful hoses had stopped the fire from burning through the wall, but it had left my belongings soaked in a mess of water and ash.
I had no hope for the computer on my desk.
With shaking hands, I lifted the lid of the trunk and slid open the storage compartment in the lid.
The letters were inside, just as I’d left them, perfectly dry.
I realized, as I took them out, that the finish on the trunk had protected them from the water.
The letters. I had the letters, and they were fine.
Carefully, I placed them into a gallon-sized Ziploc bag and tucked the bag into my purse.
My clothes—at least the ones in the closet—were none the worse for wear, other than smelling of smoke and melted microwave. I sent Sophie a quick text, asking if she could help me move the contents shortly. Between the two of us and her family vehicle, I figured we could make quick work of it.
In the meantime, I filled a duffel bag with clothing to launder and threw two of my work dresses over my arm.
Clementine followed with Nico shortly after, a bag of her own packed up.
“It wasn’t bad,” she said as she got into the car. “I expected much worse.”
“Good,” I said absently. “I’m glad to hear that.”
Back at my dad’s house, I started a load of clothes in the washer, then sat down in the office and stared out the window.
Nico knocked on the doorway. “Etta?”
I swiveled around. “Hi. I’m fine. I was just…There’s a lot to do for this hybrid-restaurant concept.”
“Etta…take a day off. Please.”
“There’s a lot to do. I, um, got a call from two of the news stations. They want interviews in front of the restaurant this afternoon. We need to have a plan that I can talk about on camera.”
“One day. Or do the interview, and take the rest of the day.”
“I need this.”
Nico sighed. “If it’s what you need—if it’s really what you need, fine. But Grand-tante Cécile just passed away and the restaurant caught fire and turned into a lot of personal-property damage and you got back together with the guy you’ve been pining over.”
I lifted my chin. “I have not been pining.”
“Shut up. You’ve been pining and everyone knows it. I’m just saying, if you take a day off, the sky’s not going to fall down.”
“I’ll do the interview. And then I’ll take a day.”
“Good.”
“And by take a day, I mean that Sophie and I will try to get my things out of the apartment and work on getting them cleaned up.”
“Whatever you need to do.”
I needed to fix things, that’s what I needed to do. It’s what I was good at. But at that moment I felt so truly and deeply overwhelmed.
“Want to go over the menu?” I asked. “If we get the menu nailed down, I can talk to our suppliers.”
Nico heard the pleading note in my voice, his shoulders lowering in resignation. “Sure.”
I dressed with care for the news interview, wearing a pale-pink peacoat from Sophie’s collection.
The TV crew met me there, and I steeled myself. Historically, live TV was not my thing. The last time I was on camera, I’d lost my breakfast afterward. If that turned out to be the case today, well, I’d already scoped out a likely spot behind the building, behind the boxwood.
The initial interview proceeded in a blur. I explained that there had been a fire, that it had been dealt with effectively by the city’s emergency services.
I knew that my interview would likely be chopped into bite-sized sound clips, but I forged ahead. This was free publicity, if they’d air any of it. “It’s important that our employees remain employed through the holidays,” I said. “We’ll be opening a temporary pop-up on the second level of D’Alisa & Elle until we can return to this building.” I looked over my shoulder to the once stately building, my grandmother’s pride and joy. “This building belonged to my grandmother,” I continued. “It’s an important part of Portland’s history, and we’ll work to make her beautiful once again.”
The reporter wrapped up the segment and gave the signal for the cameraman to cut.
A thin layer of sweat coated my forehead, despite the cold, and I could feel my hands shake.
Nico gave me a huge hug once the van had disappeared. “You were great!” he said. “I hope they use all of that.” He put his hands on my shoulders and looked me over. “Are you going to hurl?”
“I don’t think so,” I answered after taking stock of my stomach’s stability. “I think the boxwood may come out scot free.”
He gave me a quizzical expression. “I don’t know, don’t think I wanna. Let’s get you back to Dad’s place.”
I shook my head. “Sophie’s going to meet me here,” I said. “We’re going to move stuff.”
“Aren’
t you going to get dirty?”
“I’m borrowing Nelson’s gardening jacket. Sophie’s bringing it.”
“Comes through in a pinch, that one.”
I looked at the restaurant. “I think this qualifies as more than a pinch, but yes.”
Nico raised an eyebrow. “So you’ll move some things and then relax?”
“That’s the plan,” I told him. “Don’t worry about me.”
I tried relaxing. Really, I did. But once Sophie and I finished gathering up my clothes and bedding, I felt restless.
“Do you have other plans today?” I asked her.
“Chloé is going over to Grace’s house to ‘study’ this afternoon, so I’ve got the rest of the day.”
“Want to go look at the banquet rooms? See what I’ve gotten us into?”
Sophie nodded. “Let’s do it. I’m in.”
I reached across the center console of the car and grabbed her hand. “You’re the best.”
We were practical first, starting a load of wash and dropping several items off at the dry cleaners, but soon enough we found ourselves at the restaurant where we’d both grown up.
We greeted the servers on the way in, several of whom we’d known for ages. We climbed the stairs and used our copies of the restaurant master key to open up the double doors that led to the first banquet room.
Sophie and I surveyed the room together.
“This is going to take work,” she said.
“You are not wrong,” I answered.
Old tables and chairs were stacked on one side, with the catering plates and glassware stacked on the other. Décor from past eras cluttered up the in-between spaces. Black blinds blocked out the streetlights.
Unlike the downstairs, the light fixtures up here were semiflush rather than pendants. The lights were fine, at least. The art glass had proved, so far, to be ageless. But because they were higher, the space felt less intimate.
Looking back down at the tables, some of my hair fell in front of my face, and a wave of irritation—fueled by lack of sleep—struck hard. I batted the offending hair away. “I need a haircut.”
Together at the Table Page 18