Reservations for Two
Page 15
“I wanted to,” I answered.
I began to gather my things and run through the good-bye hugs. With travel on the horizon, I expected no less than three from my blood relatives, and a hearty handshake from Nelson.
“So you’re leaving for Memphis this week?” Adrian asked once I’d made it within three feet to the door.
“Tuesday morning,” I said, the familiar bit of anxiety unfurling in my stomach.
“Fly safe, and all that,” he said, smiling.
“Thanks.” I cleared my throat. “Anything you want me to bring back for you?”
“A bottle of Corky’s Apple Barbecue Sauce,” he said. “If you’ve got room in your luggage.”
“ ’Kay,” I said. “See you.”
He tipped an imaginary cap. “Enjoy the trip.”
On Monday I packed for Memphis with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. I couldn’t wait to see Neil again, but the idea of another parting made my stomach churn.
On my nightstand, I’d arranged a tableau of photos of Neil and me together—a shot we’d taken of ourselves in Portland, on the riverfront, a photo that Sandrine had taken of us by the lavender field, and yet another at Nonno’s birthday party.
We looked unbearably, incandescently happy. What would it be like if we were able to have a future together? And would I be this anxious about our relationship if we lived in the same city? Living so far from each other, every interaction seemed so…loaded. The instability made me nervous. If we both lived in Portland, would we feel more comfortable letting our relationship develop slowly? Closer, we could have been like risotto—adding a little stock at a time, letting it absorb until the rice became rich and creamy, plump with stock and wine.
Instead…I didn’t know what we were. Stir fry, maybe. I could only carry the food metaphors so far.
I called Caterina while I stuffed clothes into my suitcase.
“Etta!” she said warmly when she answered. “Lovely to hear from you during daylight hours.”
“Oh, come on, I haven’t called after midnight since…since Mom was in the hospital. So not long ago.”
“But once you’re in Memphis, we’ll be in the same time zone. That’ll be exciting, won’t it?”
“It will,” I said, grinning. “I’ll be sure to call you when I’m there. We can synchronize our watches or something.”
“So what’s going on? Is Mom okay?”
I sighed. “She’s hanging in there. The antibiotics are starting to work. We’re hoping they don’t give her a yeast infection, but what can you do? No, I was just calling to chat.”
“Why are you calling me instead of your fella?”
“He’s at work. And he’s great—really.”
“Good. That’s good that he’s great.”
“It’s just…this whole long-distance thing. I’m not even there yet, and I’m dreading saying good-bye.”
Caterina exhaled. “That’s rough.”
“And we see each other so little that every time we’re together, it’s so much more intense, like we have to make the most of every moment. Sometimes I feel that’s good, even special, but other times it feels like we’re setting ourselves up for failure. In real life, we can’t live like that all the time. We have to have time doing normal people stuff, with one of us writing e-mails on the couch while the other watches TV, sharing a box of stale crackers.”
“Is there something triggering this?”
If I was honest with myself, yes. With anyone else? No. “We need more normal. Mom’s sick, things are crazy, and I’d just like to have him around, you know?”
“But stale crackers? Be real.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Oh, I do. But the rest of it, working on the couch with the TV on…it’s the stuff of life, you’re right.”
“Is that weird? I want for Neil and me to be boring together. Instead we’re in this high-drama, long-distance relationship, with no end in sight, and I keep thinking that I’m just not cut out for it. And I feel guilty—think of all the military families. Why can’t I get it together?”
“I don’t think setting every relationship to that standard is healthy. I knew I wouldn’t like that kind of life, so I didn’t marry a serviceman,” Caterina said plainly. “It’s not for everybody, and it’s foolish to think it might be.”
“You think?”
“I had a friend tell me off once, because I wouldn’t date a guy who would spend most of his career on the road, but I figured—look, I’m not cut out for that life. I’m high maintenance and a lot of work, just ask Damian. No guy who travels needs to come home to that. So better that he marry someone autonomous and patient than a handful like me. I mean, think about it. We were raised in a crowd, with some assembly of loved ones nearby at all times. ‘Alone’ is not really part of our social vocabulary.”
“I can see that.”
“Look, if you want unsolicited advice, Sophie’s your girl. But you called me, so I’ll tell you that I think you should go to Memphis and have a great time. Don’t overthink it, just let the trip happen. If it’s everything you ever wanted and more, great. If you need to reevaluate, you’ll be okay.”
Will I be okay? my heart asked, but I knew the answer. I would be disappointed but not destroyed. I would start again, even if I didn’t want to. I would carry on.
I sighed. “You’re right.”
“Your heart will go on.”
“Look at you, quoting Celine Dion.”
“She feels things. Do you have anything fun planned for Memphis?”
“We’re going to dinner with his parents, who are traveling to Memphis from North Carolina.” I cleared my throat. “I’m not at all anxious about that.” Caterina laughed. “Dinner with the parents? Really? You’re anxious about that?”
“It’s not funny!”
“But he met Mom and Dad, right?”
“He did. And you’re right, I should just buck up and get over it. There’s no getting out of it, no telling him I wish it were just the two of us. He’s really excited about it. I just have to put on my big girl apron and deal with it.”
“Does it have pockets?”
“What?”
“Your big girl apron. Does it have pockets?”
“Yes,” I said, baffled but game. “Several.”
“Good.”
“You’re loopy.”
“I am. And it’s even daylight—who knew? But the boys didn’t sleep much last night, and my current class is a handful.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I’ve got a classroom full of students—all ages, mind you—who want to be handheld every step of the way, and if their cuisine doesn’t come out the way mine does, it’s my fault. Always, always my fault. They burn the risotto because they weren’t stirring, or their cakes won’t come out of the pan because they skipped the buttered parchment paper step. Basically I tell them how to do things, and either they don’t listen or they blow me off, and then when things don’t work it’s my fault and they’re irate because they paid good money for that risotto.”
“I hope someone really said that, that they paid good money for the burned risotto.”
“Oh, she did.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That I provided the ingredients and the instructions, but what she did with them was her responsibility.”
“How did that go over?”
“Well, the upside of being obviously Mediterranean is that you can get away with being more forceful than would be otherwise acceptable. If I sound extra Italian and flip my hair around…I don’t know. It changes the dynamic. Damian’s better at it when he guest-teaches. He flirts.”
“I miss you guys.”
“Seriously, come on out anytime. I won’t even make you baby-sit the whole time. But you’re opening a restaurant, so I know your time is not your own. I’m going to try to come out for the opening, at any rate.”
“Oh, do. Please come. We had a fleet of naked unicyclists f
or the soft opening, so I can only imagine what will happen when we open for real.”
“Chloé told me about that.”
“It was…a notable experience for her young life.”
Caterina laughed. “I’m sure. Well, dear sister, I can hear the plaintive cries of my children in the next room as they beg for nourishment.”
We said our good-byes, though Cat’s “dear sister” wording had stuck with me. I’d been so busy I hadn’t had time to read letters. With that thought in mind, I made sure that the scans of the letters were on my computer for the flight. I’d be traveling for nearly eight hours—plenty of time to catch up on Mireille’s love affair.
~ DOUBLE CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES ~
2¾ cups bread flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon sea salt
1 egg
1 egg yolk
2 tablespoons whole milk
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2 sticks butter, softened
1¼ cups dark brown sugar
¼ cup white sugar
6 ounces dark chocolate, chopped
6 ounces semi-sweet chocolate, chopped, or chocolate chips
Whisk together flour, baking soda, and sea salt. Set aside. In a small bowl, combine egg, egg yolk, milk, and vanilla, stirring until blended.
In a stand mixer (or in a large bowl with a sturdy hand mixer), whip the butter until pale and creamy. Add the sugars and mix on medium speed for five minutes. Lower the mixer speed, add the egg mixture, and then the dry ingredients. Continue to mix until the dry ingredients are entirely combined.
Fold in the chocolates with a sturdy wooden spoon. Refrigerate dough for at least an hour, or overnight.
Preheat oven to 350°F. Drop heaping tablespoons of dough two inches apart on a parchment paper–lined baking sheet. Bake for 13–15 minutes, or until just browned. Serve warm, with milk.
A daydream is a meal at which images are eaten. Some of us are gourmets, some gourmands, and a good many take their images precooked out of a can and swallow them down whole, absent-mindedly and with little relish.
—W. H. AUDEN
December 18, 1939
My dearest Mireille,
I confess that after hearing your glowing account of your trip to Ladurée with M. Roussard, I am not very surprised to hear that you have developed tender feelings for him.
However, I am curious to know if there have been any events that have led you to your certainty of matrimony. You must tell me at once if I’m to be a bridesmaid in the near future. A wedding for Maman to plan would be a blessing from the Lord.
Anticipating your arrival for the holidays. Maman has me looking at wallpaper samples when I’m not writing menus for tea parties.
À bientôt,
Cécile
January 15, 1939
My dear Cécile,
Please find enclosed six tea party menus for your personal use. I regret I could not write them up during my stay, but they should free up a little of your time (if you do not wish your time freed, then by all means stash them in your bottommost desk drawer).
And no, Gabriel and I have made no official declarations as yet, but we will.
Oh, Cécile, he is the most wonderful man. I’m sure you’re tired of hearing me gush about him, but I cannot seem to help myself.
He doesn’t think I’m unladylike or impractical for pursuing pastry. And his smile? He smiled at the cranky cheesemonger, and the woman couldn’t help but smile back.
I love Gabriel for everything that he is, for his generosity and devotion to his family, his kindness—so many things. He is also a lovely kisser (although I shall not reveal any more than that).
Classes begin soon; Gabriel will be returning to work. I fear I will see him very little.
À bientôt,
Mireille
I looked up from the letters long enough to accept my cup of ginger ale and ice from the flight attendant. I smiled my thanks and returned my attention to the screen.
The slant of the next letter, with its strong decisive downward strokes told me that I’d finally reached one of Gabriel’s letters. I leaned forward to read, even as my mind tumbled with questions about the man likely to be my biological grandfather.
February 1, 1939
Dear Mireille,
I have not had the pleasure of seeing your face for a week, and am saddened that I will not be able to see you for another week. And so, I have decided to write you a letter.
When we see each other, I feel…overwhelmed. When I am with you, I find myself enjoying those moments so much that I forget to be sensible. Because I would not wish to change a moment of our time together, I have decided to “take to the pen,” as my oldest brother would say.
Let me write of my family.
My parents, as you know, reside in the 4th arrondissement. My mother grew up in Poland as the daughter of a professor. Her father took a professorship at the Sorbonne, where my father was a student.
My oldest brother followed into the family tradition of scholarship. I wish I saw him more often, but his research keeps him busy in Poland. My younger brother, you know, has turned his nimble fingers to jewelry craft.
And myself? My parents laugh that I make pastry and yet found a way to teach as well.
You must know that my mother was raised a Messianic Jewess. My father was raised Protestant; my brothers and I were raised to know the old traditions, but attended services at the Protestant church in Paris. We live in the Marais district, home to much of Paris’s Jewish community.
The political and social tensions for Jews, you know, are high. I am confident that France will remain safe, but I worry for my brother in Warsaw.
As much as I have grown to have an attachment to you, your smile—and your croissants—I want you to be aware of these things. Should you choose to end our acquaintance, I will understand.
With deepest regards,
Gabriel Roussard
I have grown to have an attachment to you, your smile—and your croissants, I read again. Obviously, the man had it bad.
February 3, 1939
Dear Gabriel,
Don’t be ridiculous. I look forward to seeing you on Monday next. Prepare yourself, for I intend to be very serious indeed.
Mireille
I laughed out loud, earning a furtive glance of concern from the woman seated to my left. But I loved Mireille’s response so much, I didn’t care. I missed Grand-mère very much, but I had only ever known her as a grandmother. In her youth? I wish we could have had sleepovers and talked about pastry technique and boys, though perhaps not in that order.
She’d grown into a serious woman; while I never doubted her deep love for her family, I wouldn’t have described her as vivacious. Did the shift occur after losing Gabriel, or was it just a side effect of time? I’d likely never know.
The next letter on the screen was addressed to Mireille.
February 16, 1939
Dearest Mireille,
Yes, your letter has been received. Maman and Papa withdrew into Papa’s study for a length of time. Thank you for showing me how to hold a glass to a door so many years ago; that technique has served me well on several occasions.
They have their concerns, of course, and they feel you are being quite mysterious. Papa, for one, has carried hopes that you and Gilles would reconcile. Maman simply had hopes that you would marry well, but at least he’s not a Belgian (because what could be worse, I suppose?).
Anyway, Maman is now writing you a letter (which you may receive before this one, due to sheer force of will) to inform you of their upcoming visit.
I am still contemplating if it’s wise to join them. While they might be better behaved if I’m there, if the visit coincides with my “delicate time of the month,” it may simply be too much to endure.
(That said, should you desire my presence, I could summon the necessary courage given a promise of lemon tartlets).
Bisous!
C
écile
As promised, the next letter was from my great-grandmother, written with great care to appear breezy.
February 25, 1939
My Darling Daughter,
Your father and I were delighted to read your most recent letter. Our curiosity has gotten the best of us, and I have taken the liberty of writing to my sister Joséphine of a visit next Saturday and Sunday. If your M. Roussard could find it in his schedule to join us for dinner, that would bring us both great joy.
We both miss you very much at the chateau. Mme. Bessette sends her regards, as do the staff, of course.
Looking forward to seeing you, Joséphine, and Anouk soon.
Regards,
Your Maman
March 2, 1939
Dearest Cécile,
Maman has indeed written, and they are indeed coming.
She couldn’t help but mention Gilles’s mother in the letter, to remind me of him in case I had forgotten him by accident, rather than by choice.
c’est la vie.
I couldn’t imagine asking you to come along if you are enduring your “ladylike trials.” However, do keep in mind that this may be your one opportunity to meet Gabriel before our parents have him conveniently murdered. It must be very inconvenient for them that they cannot sell me to Gilles for several acres of land and a cask of Armagnac.
The final choice is up to you, dearest, but do know that I have set to work on some lemon tarts that I might have no choice but to donate to the Ladies’ League.
Bisous!
Mireille
March 12, 1939
Dearest Mireille,
Please forgive me, I have taken to my bed. I imagine Maman and Papa will enjoy the tarts.
Cécile
Poor Cécile, felled by her “ladylike trials.” I smothered my own laughter and continued to read as my plane soared high over the earth.
Let the stoics say what they please, we do not eat for the good of living, but because the meat is savory and the appetite is keen.