My face flushed pink, as it always did when the subject of Neil came up. “He did. He’s…” I searched for words. “He’s easy to travel with, easy to get along with.”
“Easy to love?”
My blush deepened. “It’s still early. Early, but…yes. I do love him, Maman. At least, as much as I can after such a short period of time.”
She smiled. “It did not take me long to fall in love with your father.”
“Once you stopped arguing on the plane.”
A shrug. “I never said we agreed about everything, only that we loved each other.”
“How…how have your treatments been?” I asked, half afraid to hear her answer.
Her smiled faded. “They’ve been difficult, and my white blood cell count has been low. Our insurance plan hasn’t been paying for as much of the treatments as we’d hoped.”
“That’s why Dad’s been at the restaurant more, isn’t it?”
“Money is tight.” She reached out and squeezed my hand. “I don’t want you to worry. We’ll figure out what to do. And until then? We’ll enjoy the sunny days and Vietnamese noodles and happy dogs napping outside.”
I followed her gaze to where Gigi sprawled on the grass, belly to the sun, paws resting lazily. “She looks happy.”
“You do too,” she said. “When you’re not worried about me.”
“Of course I’m worried about you.”
“Juliette, I don’t know how many days I have here on earth—none of us do. There’s no sense in being anxious during those days.”
“I can’t help it,” I said in a small voice.
Her hold on my hand tightened. “Be strong with me.”
I squeezed back, and worked as hard as I could not to cry.
Neil called just as I began the drive back home. Between the time with my mom and hearing the sound of Neil’s voice, my emotions sat closer to the surface than I preferred. “Hi,” I answered, wincing at the way my voice warbled.
“Are you okay?”
“I just had lunch with my mom. I’m fine, she’s fine, she’s just…she’s sick. And I know she’s sick, but that doesn’t make seeing it a whole lot easier.”
“I’m so sorry, Juliette.”
I swiped at a stray tear that managed to trail down my face. “She’s getting the best care and the best food, and her health is as good as it can be, considering—it’s not like she already had some other chronic condition. She has faith. I—I have faith.” I sniffed. “Sorry, I know you didn’t call for me to fall apart on you.”
“Just needed to hear your voice, that’s all. No agenda.”
“You poor thing,” I said dryly. “Calling to be nice and look where it gets you. What happened, were there no easygoing, well-adjusted single women in Memphis when you opened your online dating account? You just had to date someone in Portland whose life was a mess?”
“What can I say? There were other candidates but they didn’t have enough life challenges for me to commit,” Neil joked.
“You’re funny,” I said.
“We’ve all had our challenges and baggage,” he answered. “Mine just happens to be a few years ago.”
I remembered the night he’d told me about his childhood best friend Felicia, who’d suffered from a rare degenerative disease, and whose death left a teenage Neil paralyzed with grief.
“You’re right, I know. I just hate that it’s a bit one-sided.”
“I’ll try to dig up something.”
“Things are good with you? Work’s all right? The DNA sequencer is working properly?”
“Yup, the tech came out and it’s back online.”
“Sequencing away?”
“It is. I miss you.”
“I miss you too. I’ll see you in a few weeks, and I can’t wait.”
Neil mentioned a few other things he couldn’t wait for, which had me blushing in seconds. We said reluctant good-byes when I got home—if we wanted to see each other, I had work to do.
Two days later, our restaurant not only boasted a high score from the health department, but also a competent array of staff.
I’d hired three people to wait tables and two people to wash dishes. My first hire would probably irk Adrian. Braeden Stein, an operatically inclined voice student at Portland State. While not technically an actor, Braeden was charming and smooth with, admittedly, a lovely speaking voice. I had no aspirations of his sticking around in the long run, but I had a hunch that diners would find him charming and interesting. Even more, he had a singer’s confidence, and when I gave him a list of specials to read, he managed to describe them in such a way that sounded familiar but not rote.
My second hire was Mallory Briggs, who was blond, gorgeous, and competent. She possessed the skill of being friendly but not uncomfortably familiar.
Many restaurants suffered from deep divisions between the kitchen and the front of the house, which is problematic when you’re relying on cooperation to transfer an order into a dish that will need to be delivered. I knew I could rely on Mallory to charm the diners as well as the kitchen, which would help the front-of-house business run smoothly.
I also suspected she would catch Adrian’s eye what with the pretty and the smiling and the blond hair.
Which was none of my business.
The third hire was Patrick Chen, who arrived in a perfectly tailored vintage suit, complete with pocket square. I admired his sense of hipster style and tales of his adventurous palate; before moving to Portland, he’d waited tables in New York and eaten his way through Singapore.
I felt good about the hires, but wished I could share about them to Neil in person. Instead, I had plans to meet with my friend and former co-worker Linn for dinner.
We’d have a good time, I wasn’t worried—I couldn’t wait to catch up with her and hear about the paper I’d left behind and the latest restaurant-scene dish. But my plans meant that Neil and I wouldn’t have much time to talk, and it’d been a few days since we’d spoken at length.
Instead, we’d texted throughout the day, between appointments (on my end) and meetings (his).
We missed each other; most of our messages shared that sentiment.
I called him on my way to Linn’s place.
Neil’s phone rang, and I gave a sigh of relief when he picked up, and his voice filled my car via Bluetooth. “Hi, beautiful,” he said.
My smile stretched wide. “Hi, yourself. Tell me about your first day back on the job. Texting doesn’t cut it for me.”
“Coffee,” he said. “I remember the coffee. You?”
“A lot of coffee,” I conceded. “And meetings and interviews and more coffee. Did I mention I told Nico about the Memphis trip?”
“I’m sure he was thrilled,” Neil said dryly.
“Very,” I answered lightly. “Also, late last night I dug up the key I’d found in Grand-mère’s prep table.”
“Oh yeah? So what’s your plan for it?”
I navigated the roundabout on my way to Linn’s Goose Hollow neighborhood home. “I’ll mail it to Sandrine—that’s all I can do. If I’m lucky, Sandrine will have time to give it a try and see if it works.” Even saying it, my plan sounded thin. “Ideally,” I admitted, “I’d go back and try it myself, dig around the house some more. The letters—they’re incredible. There has to be more.”
“You started the letters?”
“I did! Grand-mère’s so young, such an adventurer. She has so much ambition, so much life. It’s funny trying to reconcile the version of her that I’m reading and the version I remember.”
“We know what that’s like.”
“True. But it makes me want to dig through the chateau that much more.”
“You may have to go back,” Neil said. “And I’m not saying that lightly. Sandrine has her hands full with the chateau and caring for her mother. She may not have time to go digging.”
I winced. “That’s true. But it’ll be all I can do to make it to Memphis. I have no idea when I might
be able to have the time, much less the money, to travel back to Montagnac. It’s so much easier in books and films, you know. People can put their lives on hold, fly around the world.” I passed Linn’s house, looking for a place to park. “Sorry. I’m tired and cranky, and I’m about to have dinner with Linn and I’ll probably be terrible company.”
“You’re superior company, even when you’re tired. I should know.”
“You’re sweet,” I said, though I suspected I had a sibling—or four—who would beg to differ.
“Are you still enjoying the restaurant? Are you glad to be back?”
“I am. We’re getting close to opening, and I’m excited to put plans into action. I’m nervous,” I admitted. “I know what kind of hoops reviewers are going to make us jump through. Being on the other side is…nerve-racking.”
“You’ll do great,” he said. “And I’m not just saying that.”
“No?” I asked, a goofy grin on my face. What was it about this man that turned me into a loopy fifteen-year-old?
“How are your parents? How’s your mom doing?”
“I talked to them this afternoon. I’ll see them for family dinner Sunday—they’re out of town on a getaway this weekend.”
“Good for them.”
“That’s what I thought. Mom’s between treatments. She’ll start radiation when she gets back, but until then they’re taking a long weekend at Cannon Beach.”
“Family dinner, then. Are you going to ask your father about the second mortgage on the restaurant?”
I sighed. “I haven’t figured that out yet. Depends on whether I can get him alone. We’ll see. Did it feel good being back in the lab today?”
“It did. I had dinner with my friend Callan and his wife, Tarissa, tonight.”
“What did they think about your impromptu European tour?”
“Tarissa was jealous, but the coffee and caramels I brought back helped. If Callan doesn’t take her to Europe within the next year, I fear for him.”
“They sound great.”
“They are. They’re anxious to meet you when you come out.”
“Yeah?”
“Tarissa’s delighted that you got me to take time off. You’re a winner in their book. Mine too,” he added, “but you knew that already.”
“I think you’re pretty great too. Hey look, a parking space.” I pulled to the side and prepared to reverse into the parking space. “Don’t mind me, I’m just parking.” Once I made it into a socially acceptable position, I threw the car into park, then grabbed my purse and the bottle of Bordeaux I’d brought for Linn before climbing from the car.
“Do you guys have a date for the grand opening?” Neil asked. “I want to be there, if I can swing it with my work schedule.”
I laughed. “We’ll have just seen each other.”
“Not at your restaurant, we won’t.”
“I’d love for you to be there,” I said, striding down the sidewalk. “We’ll open on Friday the 25th. Mark your calendar.”
“Consider it marked.”
I stopped in front of Linn’s townhouse apartment. Looking up, I spied Linn’s face through the curtain. She waved, and I waved back.
“Well, I’m in front of Linn’s,” I said. “She has enough questions about you, and if she figures out who I’m talking to…”
“Say no more. Have fun, okay? I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I love you, Juliette.”
“I miss you, and I love you,” I said, before ending the call and walking up the steps toward Linn’s front door.
~ BLUEBERRY BUCKWHEAT BREAKFAST CAKE ~
This is a hearty, fragrant cake to serve friends for breakfast. Yogurt keeps the cake moist, while also adding protein to start the day.
1¼ cups buckwheat flour
¾ cup unbleached all-purpose flour
½ teaspoon sea salt
¼ teaspoon nutmeg
4 teaspoons baking powder
1½ cups plain, whole-fat yogurt
½ cup whole milk
1½ teaspoons vanilla bean paste or pure vanilla extract
Zest of 1 orange
6 tablespoons butter, softened
⅔ cup light brown sugar
2 eggs plus 1 egg white
1 tablespoon demerara sugar, for sprinkling
2 cups blueberries
Preheat the oven to 350°F. Coat a round springform pan with a thin layer of butter. Kitchen tip: you can use a leftover butter wrapper for this. Otherwise, place a half tablespoon of butter on a paper towel and wipe it around the inside of the pan.
In a large mixing bowl, whisk together the flours, salt, nutmeg, and baking powder. In a small bowl, mix the yogurt, milk, vanilla, and zest together, stirring until smooth.
In a stand mixer, cream the butter until pale and fluffy. Add the brown sugar, scraping down the sides of the bowl when necessary, and mix for another couple of minutes. Slow the mixer and add the eggs and white, one at a time.
With the mixer running, add half of the dry ingredients and half of the yogurt mixture. Then add the last of the dry ingredients and the last of the yogurt. Turn the mixer off just as the last of the yogurt incorporates.
Pour half of the batter into the springform and sprinkle half of the blueberries over the top, pushing some of them down into the batter. Follow with the second half of the batter and the blueberries. Sprinkle the demerara sugar over the top.
Bake for 50–70 minutes, or until the cake is golden on top and pulling away from the sides of the pan. You can serve it immediately, though it’s even better the next day.
Serves 10.
A plate of apples, an open fire, and “a jolly goode booke” are a fair substitute for heaven.
—LUCY MAUD MONTGOMERY
I curled up in my room that night, with Gigi on my lap, ready to read more letters.
September 26, 1938
My very dearest Cécile,
My classes have continued to go very well. Tante Joséphine is content because we have found a very proper ladies’ organization to which to donate my creations. They are exceedingly grateful, and I may find myself the recipient of an award of some sort.
If they do, I shall send it home to Maman.
Now, for the rest of this letter, I ask that you read it very much alone. The beginning, I agree, is dreadfully dull, but I did it because I know that sometimes Maman can be nosy with the correspondence, and I didn’t want to begin with the delicious details that I’m dying to share.
Are you quite alone? Good.
Do you remember when I said that one of my instructors paid me a grudging compliment? I neglected to mention that he is the most scrumptious man I have ever seen. I wonder if I were not at pastry school, if I would describe a gentleman in a way that was not…well, edible.
I suppose it’s quite unladylike. May I remind you not to tell Maman?
Anyway, this instructor. His name is Gabriel Roussard, and he is young, perhaps twenty-four or twenty-five? A couple of the students are older than he is and thought that he could be bullied, but he is very, very good. According to Marcel (I overheard this, naturally—none of my classmates want to be caught taking pity on the girl), he studied under Maurice Pinon, and has created some of the most noteworthy desserts in the city. He teaches two classes a year—one beginning, one advanced—and spends the rest of the year at the restaurant, where he is a favorite with the English and American tourists.
While my instructors have ceased berating me for the texture of my pâte brisée, he seems to have taken an interest in me. He told me that my croissant dough was, in fact, very good. And just today, he asked how I spent my afternoons after classes. I told him, of course, how I shop for produce and supplies and go home to practice my technique.
He asked if he could join me at the market, where he would show me how to choose the best quality fruit.
I felt I was adequately prepared to shop for myself, but I wasn’t about to shy away from the opportunity.
After my last class, we m
et at the front doors and we walked together to the markets.
Cécile, I wish you could have been walking behind us, taking notes! He asked how old I am, and where my family lives, my interest in pastry, and what I plan to do after I complete the program.
And as he shared what he knew about choosing fruit (I really did learn something), he told me about his brothers. One works in the city as a jeweler for Van Cleef & Arpels. The other is an Ancient Languages professor in Warsaw, specializing in Hebrew.
He seems smart, and kind, and thoughtful. He has a generosity of spirit, I think, that I found lacking in Gilles.
(Though when it comes to Gilles, it is very kind of him to visit Papa. I am forced to think well of him for that.)
This has become a very long letter, I shall give you a summary: I find my pastry instructor troublingly attractive, and I am improving in my classes. Oh, and the honey arrived perfectly, thank you, dearest. I have taken to heart your recommendation for showing off my trim figure on my next visit home, and I am already planning which frock will set off my figure to its best effect. Two weekends from now, would you like to come and shop for hats? We’ll need something on our heads to truly cut stylish figures, if we’re to do it properly.
Bisous!
Mireille
There it was, in Grand-mère’s lovely, handwritten loops—Mireille laid eyes on Gabriel. And he admired her. They discussed fruit together.
My heart swelled with the charm of it all. I continued to Cécile’s reply.
October 3, 1938
Dear Mireille,
I confess I enjoyed the lengthy description of your Paris adventures, particularly your handsome instructor. If this were a schoolgirl novel, of course, he would be a spy of sorts. Does he look like a spy? Or perhaps a tragic past. I do enjoy a good tragic past.
It does seem timely to remind you that you never told me much about why you ended your engagement to Gilles before you left. If I’m to rebuff any attempts at an attachment to Gilles, it might be useful to know more.
Reservations for Two Page 10