Reservations for Two

by Hillary Manton Lodge

  I sat back on my heels and rested my hands on my knees. “I did. It’s like six now. Evening time.”

  Clementine laughed and shook her head. “Fair enough, though it looks like you cleaned my station.”

  “I did.”

  “It was pristine,” she said, not sounding offended but merely reciting the fact.

  “It was,” I agreed.

  “Feel better?”

  “Yes, actually.” I gestured at the three of them. “What are you all up to?”

  “More pest control,” Adrian said. “Checking for anywhere they might have gotten in.”

  “Are you sure it was a mouse you saw?” Nico asked, crossing his arms. “Because I haven’t seen any evidence, anywhere.”

  I stood, setting my cleaning supplies aside. “You mean did I mistake a mouse for what, a cockroach? I saw a mouse, and even if it was something else, it couldn’t have been anything that a diner would like to see running along a restaurant floor. Plus,” I added, “it had a tail.”

  Clementine cringed. “Ew.”

  Nico turned to her in frustration. “You work in the food industry. How can you be squeamish?”

  She stiffened. “Look—I can deal. But nobody said I had to like it.”

  I rolled my eyes and turned to Adrian. “Consider yourself the pest control foreman.”

  Clementine slugged his arm. “Just what you’ve always wanted.”

  Adrian shrugged. “Don’t mind helping. If we all split up, this’ll go faster. We have to look through the baseboards and the walls for any holes or gaps. If you do, we’ve got black foam to paste over it. Nico and I will start with the basement. Juliette, you and Clementine can work on this floor.”

  I nodded.

  “It’s six now,” he said. “When we’re done I strongly suggest we go out for pizza.”

  “Amen,” I said, and we all set to work.

  To: Neil McLaren, neil.mclaren.f1@netmail.com

  From: Me, jdalisa@twobluedoors.com

  Dear Neil,

  I hope you’ve well recovered from my unfortunate meltdown this afternoon. After a nap, I know I did. I woke up and started working on the kitchen, with help from Nico, Clementine, and Adrian; Alex arrived around eight, and Nico roped the new line cook, Kenny, into helping as well.

  (It feels funny calling Kenny “new”—he worked with Nico at the last restaurant, and has been working part-time for my dad for, like, ever. He’s great, a hard worker, intuitive about food. Glad we’ve got him on board. So…he’s our new regular line cook. I’ll work on a better title.)

  Anywho, we ordered pizza and ate in the apartment after.

  Nico and Adrian did find some mousy evidence in the basement, but they said it looked more like the mice were just passing through and less long-term residents. Which makes sense, since there’s the construction across the street, and we had a near-perfect score on our health inspection (I feel like I keep nattering on about it, but there it is).

  So…I think we’ll be okay. And I think the restaurant will open on time. And I’m very, very thankful that Adrian turned out to be handy with such things.

  Thanks for sending the links to the Top Gear episodes! I’ll be working on invitations for the restaurant soon, both the creation bit and the postage bit, so hopefully I’ll have some sit-down time soon to watch.

  Also hoping for time to get back to the letters. When I left off, Mireille was writing about how glad she was to have ended her relationship with Gilles. Since Gilles was the man I believed to be my mother’s father, this is all very confusing. It’s strange reading these letters, discovering the beginnings, knowing the endings, but having so little information about anything in between. I meant to read more last night but was too worn out, and I’m using the last of my energy to write to you.

  Of all seasons of life, almost-opening-a-restaurant season is not ideal for genealogy.

  But I’m just fussing again.

  Write to me, N. I miss you.

  A restaurant is a fantasy—a kind of living fantasy in which diners are the most important members of the cast.

  —WARNER LEROY

  To: Me, jdalisa@twobluedoors.com

  From: Neil, neil.mclaren.f1@netmail.com

  Dear Juliette,

  Any mice in traps this morning? Are you brave enough to check?

  Glad you have so many people to come and help. I wish I could have joined in, though I’d be more likely to find myself in a corner trying to test mouse droppings for hantavirus.

  Staying busy here. The powers that be have decided to restructure the department, which leaves me with a stack of evaluations and paperwork when I’m not in meetings.

  I couldn’t care less, as long as my funding stays put and Callan and I can work together. He’s been a good friend. I enjoy my work, but even I will admit that elements of immunology research can become tedious. Callan’s company makes up for a lot.

  My parents are excited about the trip out to meet you. I’m working out an itinerary for your visit; if there’s something in particular you’d like to see, let me know. Rhodes College makes for good walking; my sister is a fan of the Dixon Gallery and Gardens. Of course, there’s Graceland (though you strike me as more of a Johnny Cash girl than an Elvis girl. Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong).

  All that to say—if there’s something you want to do, tell me, and if you want me to play tour guide, I can do that too.

  Love, Neil

  To: Neil, neil.mclaren.f1@netmail.com

  From: Me, jdalisa@twobluedoors.com

  Dear Neil,

  Pleased to report that a) mice were caught in the traps, but b) I was not the one to find them. So far, no new evidence of any critters running about, which is positive.

  Now that the Great Mouse Emergency has passed, life has continued on as before. Yesterday I began training the waitstaff on the menu, teaching them about each menu item. The benefit, obviously, is that a diner can ask any question about the ingredients, the preparation, or the taste, and it can be answered by the waiter.

  All we have to do is make it through the soft opening. And the grand opening. And the first two years…

  One step at a time.

  I’ll be very honest, I haven’t had any time to think about what to do in Memphis, other than be very, very glad to see you again. So if we spend half of our time sitting on your porch, I’ll be more than contented with that.

  Love, Juliette

  That night I prepared for family dinner, gathering up the small gifts I’d purchased during my travels. I had scarves for the ladies, belts for the gentlemen, and a pretty beaded hair clip for Chloé, as well as some wine and olive oil to share.

  I gathered up Gigi’s necessaries—leash, water dish, and ball—and packed the two of us into the car.

  At my parents’ home, we were met with a hero’s welcome. As Maman folded me into her arms, I couldn’t help but wince at the fragility of them.

  “Did you have a nice weekend out?” I asked once she’d pulled away to study me for signs of health and/or fatigue.

  “Ah, bon—we had a lovely time away.”

  “It’s my turn,” my father said, pulling me into an embrace of his own. “How was my family? Did they treat you as one of their own?”

  “Above and beyond,” I assured him. “They were wonderful. I enjoyed catching up with them.”

  “Well, you must come inside. You brought pictures, yes?”

  “I did,” I said, patting my purse. “I put them all on a flash drive.”

  The rest of the family waited inside; I found Chloé on the floor, giving Gigi a belly rub, while Alex and Nico discussed which of the family’s Alfas needed to be repaired first. Within moments we were all gathered around the table, pausing in a moment of prayer before diving into the dinner my father had prepared.

  As usual, my father had crafted a beautiful meal. After a warm July day, the grilled leeks with poached eggs tasted perfect. We continued to the grilled tuna served with a tomato brusche
tta and generous servings of garbanzo bean salad.

  While I ate, I fielded questions about the trip, what I saw, where I went, and which family members I spoke with, all while swallowing questions of my own. I was able to catch everyone up on the latest family happenings, give updates on the children, and recount each meal I’d eaten. But rather than create chaos, I decided to save my own questions for a later date.

  For dessert, my father served warm, honeyed focaccia, studded with fresh figs and sprinkled with rosemary and pine nuts. “This is good,” Sophie said, slice in hand. “Juliette, you should take some of this back to Clementine. Nico—why didn’t you bring her along this week?”

  “This week?” I turned an innocent glance toward Nico. “You brought Clementine last week? That was…nice of you.”

  Nico blushed and shifted in his seat. “I was working at the restaurant until coming here. Inviting her seemed like the polite thing to do.”

  Ladies and gentlemen, my brother, Emily Post.

  “I’m sure she appreciated it.” I cut another slice of fig focaccia. “She’s great company.”

  “Oh, she is,” Sophie agreed. “She’s very, you know, ‘Portland’…”

  Which was Sophie’s shorthand for piercings and a couple of small tattoos of Julia Child quotes. “But ‘Portland’ suits her,” I interrupted. “Don’t you think, Nico?”

  “Sure,” he said. “So when are you leaving to visit Neil in Memphis?”

  Well played, Nico. Well played.

  “You’re visiting Neil in Memphis?” Maman asked. “Are you meeting his family?”

  I licked the honey from my fingertips before answering. “His parents, I think, will be coming to visit. They live in North Carolina. I’m not sure whether his sister’s coming. She lives in Jackson.”

  “That’s in…Florida?” Sophie asked.

  I shook my head. “Mississippi. Well, Neil’s sister lives in Mississippi. I know there’s a Jacksonville in Florida, that might be what you’re thinking of.”

  “There are a lot of Jacksonvilles,” Nelson, Sophie’s husband, noted. “Isn’t there one near Medford?”

  Alex shrugged. “That’s all right. Most of the country thinks Portland is a city of godless liberals who put birds on things.”

  I hid a delighted grin at the return of my oldest brother’s dry humor. “Which is so silly,” I said, reaching for my water glass. “Everyone knows we’re decorating with bicycles these days.”

  “And owls,” Sophie added. “Which are technically still birds.”

  Nico nodded. “And marijuana.”

  Sophie backhanded his arm. “Nico! Not in front of Chloé!”

  Chloé rolled her eyes. “Mom, I know what pot is.”

  “Where did you learn about pot?”

  “School.”

  Sophie wadded up her napkin. “Private school. We’ll look into it.”

  “Mom!”

  Nelson patted his wife’s shoulder. “I’m pretty sure they know what pot is in private schools too.”

  “I’m pretty sure this conversation has veered wildly off course,” I said, standing. “Who wants to see pictures?”

  “Of pot?” Nico asked with fake innocence.

  Sophie gave him a look that would have withered a cactus. “Enough.”

  “He’s just bored.” I slid a glance at Nico. “I wonder what Clementine’s up to tonight.”

  “Is Neil going to propose in Memphis?” he shot back.

  “Propose?” Maman echoed. “Isn’t it…a bit early for that?”

  “Nico’s just joking, Maman,” I assured her. Although now that Nico mentioned it…

  Neil wasn’t going to propose. We hadn’t known each other nearly long enough, hadn’t spent the time together, hadn’t talked about life directions or future plans. Our lives and love remained in limbo, and I didn’t know when and how that might ever change.

  The week flew by. The mice disappeared as quickly as they appeared. We managed a last-minute reinspection, which we passed with flying colors. This time, I hoped it would stick.

  Every night I fell into bed, asleep an entire second before my head hit the pillow.

  The Friday before the invitation-only soft opening, I picked up the menus from the FedEx Office. I came home so elated, I set to work in the kitchen making cookies.

  With a plate of warm cookies and a glass of whole milk, I settled into my favorite living room chair and allowed myself to relax with Mireille’s letters.

  November 3, 1938

  Dear Cécile,

  I confess I’ve been quite desolate since you left. What fun we had! I have worn my new hats to class, where one of my instructors (sadly, not Monsieur Roussard) said that I looked quite pert that morning.

  The fact that I have been working harder than any of my classmates has slowly earned the respect of my instructors and a little notoriety from my classmates (in addition to the notoriety of being a woman). My classmates have, I think, begun to work harder than they would have otherwise. The end result is that the instructors of my classes have noticed that their students are altogether more dedicated; I overheard one professor state to another that he may have to add material to the class because the students have mastered the course material so rapidly.

  But I’m still working very hard, and the other gentlemen in my classes remain suspicious of my presence. I’m doing well in my chocolate (though sometimes it seizes up, but I’m getting there) and laminated dough classes, but the rising agents! I have struggled. I’m acceptable with baking soda and cream of tartar, but yeast can be capricious and difficult to please. The weather, lately, has not aided my efforts.

  I hope you enjoy the chocolates. Cook is quite disturbed by the number of things in the kitchen I have been dipping in chocolate, or mixing into my chocolate. My latest creation is a cardamom chocolate truffle, which is quite sophisticated. The challenge has been grinding the cardamom fine enough so that it’s undetectable in a creamy chocolate base. Next term I’ll be taking a course in creams and custards, which I’m very much looking forward to. My hope is to have ice creams and ices well under my belt before the heat of summer.

  We shall see. I’ve been so tired lately that I’ve drifted off at the dinner table, to Tante Joséphine’s horror (in my defense, she is occasionally a tedious conversation partner). The important part is that I’m fully awake in my classes, so as not to miss a thing. I can’t even imagine what might happen if my classmates saw me—the only female student—yawn in class.

  They would probably celebrate.

  Bisous,

  Mireille

  November 17, 1938

  Dear Cécile,

  Just a short letter this time. I have my final tests this week, which means I must make my very best chocolates and laminated doughs, and pray to the Lord above that my yeast doughs don’t fall or rise sky high the way they were just last week.

  I must succeed at this, dearest. I don’t know how I’d live with the disgrace, otherwise.

  Chocolate and bisous,

  Mireille

  November 29, 1938

  Dear Mireille,

  Praying for your tests! Mother lit a candle for you at the church. I’m sure you’ll sail through, but know that I’ll love you no matter the outcome.

  When the tests are over, please set your pastry tools aside, if only for a day or two, and catch up on your sleep. Wear something pretty, and let Tante Joséphine take you shopping.

  Bisous!

  Cécile

  December 8, 1938

  My very dearest sister Cécile,

  I passed all of my classes!! My breads were perfect, my chocolates smooth and unblemished, my laminated pastries so airy and buttery that M. Roussard sighed when he sampled a bite!

  After class he stopped and asked if I had yet visited Ladurée on Rue Royale during my time in Paris.

  I told him that I had, but that I hadn’t been since I was young.

  My dearest sister, you know this to be a gentle stretching of
the truth, since we visited there together just weeks ago. However…the preparations for the final tests aged me in a way that even Tante Joséphine noticed. The girl before the tests, indeed, she was very young.

  And so when M. Roussard asked if I would like to return to Ladurée on Saturday, you must imagine how delighted I felt. I accepted, of course, and floated all the way home.

  My new classes begin in two weeks. As I wrote before, I’ll be taking a course on creams and custards, as well as the principles of candy making, and introduction to fruit.

  I had believed that fruit and I were sufficiently acquainted for several years now, but I’m sure I will learn more. You must know what a trial it is for me to keep my impertinent thoughts to myself in class! I have worked to be a credit to Maman, and I believe that even she would consider my behavior to be beyond reproach. If only I could have achieved such results in a drawing room, rather than a kitchen—c’est la vie.

  I will be departing for a visit home on Monday the 19th. I shall come bearing many sweets to distribute amongst our friends and, yes, even our enemies in the village, while wearing the dresses we bought together in the city.

  Let them eat cake, I say!

  (Although I won’t move on to proper cakes for yet another term, no one has to know that.)

  Bisous!

  Mireille

  December 10, 1938

  My dear Cécile,

  I’m in love with Gabriel, and I’m going to marry him. I thought it appropriate to tell you.

  Mireille

  My heart swelled with the last letter. I loved Mireille’s certainty; I could see it in her handwriting, in the way she wrote, the way she signed her name. As I read, I couldn’t help but wonder if I had that kind of certainty about Neil. I certainly hadn’t written Caterina to inform her of an impending marriage.

  Was it simply because Mireille lived in a different time? People didn’t date for three years before marrying back then. Or was it because she’d had more time with Gabriel than I’d had with Neil? From the letters, it hardly seemed so.