I straightened my shoulders. “It has been a lot of work, thank you.”
“You could stop that work and just go out with him.”
“No.” I shook my head hard. “Not happening.”
“So if it’s not Adrian, who is it?”
“Just a guy.”
“Just a guy,” Clementine repeated dubiously.
“Yup.”
“Just a guy you met …”
I averted my eyes.
Clementine narrowed hers and leaned in closer.
I swatted her away. “What are you doing?”
Clementine leaned still closer, until her nose was a thumb’s width from my own.
“Fine!” I squirmed away. “I met him on the Internet.”
“Huh, it works then.”
“I guess.”
“I was referring to the nose trick—my mom did that when I was a teenager and she wanted to get me to talk. I never knew if it was the trick or just her that got me to crack.”
“It works, because that was really disturbing.”
“Thanks.” Clementine shoved a length of her dark brown hair over her ear. “So. You met a guy online? Cool. You’re sure he’s not an ax murderer and all that?”
“I should probably check that before the date, shouldn’t I?” I said, finishing off the nail polish on my right hand. “You think the FBI has a background-check app I could download?”
Clementine pulled her phone from her pocket. “I could find out.”
I couldn’t stop my grin. “He’s kind of great, though. Funny. Smart. Good looking, from what I can tell.”
“Where’s he from?”
“He’s living in Memphis, currently,” I said, aware that my nose seemed to wrinkle of its own volition.
“Have you been to the South?”
“Not really. Texas, once.”
Clementine lifted her eyebrows. “It’s a whole ’nother world down there. Different from Texas. Very, very different from Portland. The whole Pacific Northwest, for that matter.”
“Lots of places are different from the Pacific Northwest. France is different. I like France.”
“The South is its own brand of different. And there are parts of the South that don’t really like France.”
“That’s probably true.”
Clementine gave a knowing smile. “I’m sure he’s nice, and I’m sure you’ll have a good time tonight.”
“You think?”
“I do. And it’s mainly because of the nail polish.”
I swatted her arm—carefully, so as not to smudge the varnish—as we laughed together.
Twilight hung over the city, but I couldn’t convince myself to get out of the car, not yet. What if I didn’t like him? My heart clutched at the thought.
After a deep breath and a Cambridge & Thames lemon drop, I adjusted my hair combs, grabbed my purse, and climbed out of the car. I walked inside and scanned the room—busy, even for a Thursday—but didn’t see anyone who looked like Neil’s photo. After a moment passed and he didn’t turn a corner holding, say, a red rose, I approached the maître d’s podium. “I’m meeting someone,” I said, hoping against hope not to be recognized.
The maître d’s expression remained impassive. He consulted a hidden sheet of paper. “Are you Juliette, to meet with Neil?”
“Yes.”
The maître d’ gave a vague smile. “One moment.”
My heart dropped.
I could have scripted the following minutes; it had happened often enough over the years. The maître d’ made a phone call; hushed words were exchanged. From my vantage point in the foyer, I could see two members of the waitstaff emerge from the kitchen. They sought out a man, a nice-looking man with ginger hair, seated near the kitchen doors, and through the pantomime gesturing and broad smiles, I could tell that Neil was being offered a different table, a better table.
A table out of my personal visual range, but I didn’t need to be able to see to know what was happening.
Thirty seconds later, the maître d’ sought me out, accompanied by waiter number one. “Mr. McLaren is here,” he said with a glowing smile, as if Neil hadn’t been there earlier, had slipped out the back for a smoke and recently returned. “And this is Kurt. He’ll be taking care of you this evening.”
I followed Kurt to the new, improved table. Neil—it had to be Neil—stood when he saw us approach. As I walked toward him, I took him in—he was tall, even taller than I thought. There were laugh lines by his eyes, and his ginger hair caught the light and turned gold.
I couldn’t help but smile as I realized he was looking at me the same way, taking me in.
“Hi,” he said once I stood in front of him.
“Hi back,” I said, grinning like an idiot.
Our waiter babbled about how he was going to take great care of us and would return shortly to take our drink order, unless we knew what we wanted now, but if we needed time to decide, that would be fine too, and that he would be back, like he said, shortly.
Neither of us spared him a glance.
“Friendly staff,” Neil said, a twinkle in his eye. “I’m not naive enough to think they care about impressing me.”
“They should, you know,” I said teasingly, sounding more authentically flirtatious than I’d ever managed before. “I’ve heard you’re a seriously tough critic.”
“You’ve heard, have you? Well, you’re right. I’m very particular about my macaroni and cheese.”
I grinned. “It’s good to see you.”
“You look even better in real life than you do in my inbox.”
My flirtatious bravado wavered. I wanted to tell him I felt the same, but I smiled instead and unrolled my silverware, draping the napkin over my lap.
The table came complete with a candle, which didn’t look like it had been burning all night, and a plate of fresh bread near a saucer of olive oil and vinegar.
So much for anonymity.
“You know what I like about this place,” I said, reaching for the bread, “is that they use such high quality oil and vinegar for dipping. The oil’s from this tiny town in Sicily—much spicier, much greener than oils you’ll find here. They don’t make oil like this in the States.”
“Really?” he said, and for a horrible split second, I wondered if I should have just shut up about the stupid green olive oil.
“I wonder if it’s the soil profile or the processing,” he continued, and I felt my entire body relax. “Probably both. I know they talk about terroir and all of that, a geographic location’s soil and microclimate, and the bacteria and microorganisms specific to that region. Of course,” he said, “I can get more excited about the bacteria end of things. But I think it’s cool how it can mean that stuff tastes better.”
A goofy smile threatened to stretch off my face. “I think so too,” I said.
Cooking is like love. It should be entered into with abandon or not at all.
—HARRIET VAN HORNE
The restaurant did its best to impress us, bringing course after course of beautifully plated dishes out for our enjoyment, one of them “compliments of the chef.”
Neither of us paid much attention.
We’d talked about his research, about the paper he was working to publish, and about his colleagues at Oregon Health and Science University—OHSU to the locals. He asked after my restaurant, how Gigi was adjusting to life back at the apartment, and about my appearance on Portland Sunrise.
“You were so nervous I was concerned for you,” Neil said. “But you looked so relaxed and natural, and you sounded so knowledgeable. I’m sure it’s because you are knowledgeable,” he hastened to add. “I was glad it turned out so well.”
I rested my forehead in my hand. “I don’t understand, not for the life of me. I was so nervous, and I barely remember what happened when the camera was rolling.”
“Really?”
“I keep hearing it was great, and either my loved ones are the world’s nicest liars, or somehow
me being terrified makes for quality television. I don’t get it.”
Neil clasped my hand. “But you made it.”
I couldn’t help but smile at him. “Just barely, yes. And I’m going to be doing it again tomorrow. I don’t know what your schedule is, but I got you an audience ticket, if you want to come.”
“Of course I want to come. It’s first thing in the morning, isn’t it?”
“It is. And no pressure, if you have other things …”
“I’ll be there. How’s your other piece coming? The one about your grandmother and the chocolate cake?”
“It’s coming. I was hoping for a little more information about her early life, though at some point I’ll lose the timeliness factor and I’ll just have to write with the facts at hand.”
“Makes sense.” Neil sipped his water. “My grandmother had a chocolate pudding cake that I remember. You inspired me to try making it for myself.”
I leaned forward. “Yeah?”
“She made it all the time for my dad when he was a kid. Made it every night for six weeks, just so she’d be sure that she’d got the recipe down.”
“I love it.”
“When she moved on—I think it was to custard or something—my aunt said, ‘Thank goodness you’re off that kick.’ That’s how the story goes, at least.”
I laughed. “It’s a good story. How did your cake come out?”
“Good. Tasted like I remembered. Maybe a little crispy around the edges, but still gooey.”
“I’ll bet it was good,” I said, choosing not to suggest checking on a cake when its aroma becomes apparent.
“I thought so. Tell me how the restaurant’s shaping up.”
I tilted my head, considering. “Would you … would you want to come see it?”
He did. So we left—the check having been paid long before—and drove our separate cars to the patisserie.
He parked on the street while I pulled my car into the hidden back space. “One of your front headlights is out,” he said, once we could see each other’s faces again.
“Yeah?”
“I can fix it for you. It’s probably just the bulb.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” I said, ducking my head to hide a pleased smile, using key selection as my cover. We used the back entrance, mainly because that’s where all the light switches were located.
He followed behind me in the dark and waited patiently as I flipped each dining room light switch.
“This is incredible,” he said, taking it in.
I couldn’t disagree.
The floors that I’d had stripped and stained myself over two long weekends, the fresh oyster-gray paint that lent the room its sophisticated air. The oriental rugs I’d purchased mainly because they came with a perfectly worn-in patina, but had not yet been destroyed. The vintage light fixtures over the tables.
And the chairs—oh, the chairs. The ones Nico and I had argued over endlessly. They were my biggest expenses, even though I’d used Dad’s chairs, but having them restored with leather made the room look so cozy and perfect, like you could sink into one and sit and eat forever, without a care in the world.
Neil knew all of this, of course, because I’d told him in one e-mail or another. In many ways he’d wrestled alongside me as the various pieces came together.
This was his first time seeing it, though, and I couldn’t help but take pride in his reaction.
“You did good,” he said at last.
“Thanks,” I said, rubbing my arms. “The last detail I’m working on is some fused-glass accent pieces for the tables. But the wiring has been cleared, and the inspector’s coming next week.”
“Have y’all set an opening date?”
“We’re aiming for early September. I’ll be meeting with vendors, tasting wines, that sort of thing, until then. We’ll have a seasonal menu, but I want to make sure we’ve got some classics down before we open.”
I looked up at him to see him staring down at me, intently. “What?”
He shrugged. “I like hearing you talk about the restaurant.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I looked up into his warm brown eyes. “I had fun tonight.”
“Me too,” he said, smiling down at me.
Our gaze held. I knew deep inside, in that moment, that I wanted him to kiss me. I craved his kiss like I craved the first sunshine of the year, like a hot shower on a snowy day, like cold milk with chocolate cake.
Did he feel the same? I thought so. We stood there, kept company by eight tables, sixteen chairs, and some charmingly worn rugs, simply gazing at each other. My gaze flickered to his lips, surrounded but certainly not buried in his well-trimmed beard. I wanted to touch him, but my hands, my arms, seemed frozen.
His eyes studied my face. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, feeling, but I thought I read desire in his gaze.
I tipped my head back.
He smiled.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asked.
Tomorrow? I could barely think about tomorrow. “I, um, sure,” I said, which was the slightly cooler way of saying yes, absolutely.
“You live upstairs, right?” His eyes drifted upward.
I couldn’t seem to catch my breath. “Yes.”
“What time do you need to leave?”
“Seven,” I said, my voice laced with apology.
“That’s fine. You can introduce me to Gigi.”
I nodded stupidly. “Sure.”
“It’s a date,” he said, the last syllable of his sentence disappearing into a yawn. His hand flew to his mouth. “I am so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I said, instantly regretful. “Jet lag—what time is it for you?”
“Late enough,” he hedged. “Seven tomorrow?”
“Seven tomorrow,” I repeated. “I’ll walk you out.”
I switched off the lights, slowly and regretfully.
I didn’t sleep much that night.
Did he not want to kiss me?
Was it too early?
Was I too obvious?
I tried tossing, and when that didn’t work, I gave up and tried turning. Neil would be over at seven the next morning, and like as not, I’d wind up with the biggest bags under my eyes.
He did seem to like me, didn’t he? I racked my memory for signs of disappointment. Nothing. Nothing that I’d noticed, at any rate.
I flopped over again and considered my options. I could get up, but I might wake up Clementine. Gigi was already snuffling her sleepy displeasure at my inability to hold still and leave her headrest—my left calf—in one place.
Since movement was out of the question, I reached for my phone and typed a quick e-mail to my sister Cat.
From: Me, [email protected]
To: Caterina, [email protected]
I know I should know this, but how do you know when a guy really likes you?
J
Moments later, my phone buzzed in my hand.
From: Caterina, [email protected]
To: Me, [email protected]
A grown guy? The short ones pull your hair. The big ones—if they’re actually grownups—will give you incontrovertible proof. He’ll ask you out. He’ll propose. He’ll give you flowers—that kind of thing.
Lucky for you, I’m awake because your nephews refuse to sleep. What would you do without me?
And why are you asking????
C
I hesitated, considered my words, and typed out my reply.
From: Me, [email protected]
To: Caterina, [email protected]
Um … can I explain later? Hope the boys go to sleep soon.
J
Another buzz.
From: Caterina, [email protected]
To: Me, [email protected]
Just promise me it’s not that guy Nico keeps nattering on about. He sounds like he could be related to us, and TRUST M
E THAT IS NOT WHAT I NEED IN A BROTHER-IN-LAW, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.
I snorted, waking up poor Gigi.
From: Me, [email protected]
To: Caterina, [email protected]
Different guy. Put your caps away.
Moments later, more buzzing. I rolled back, settling in for what was likely to be a lengthy e-mail exchange with my sister.
From: Caterina, [email protected]
To: Me, [email protected]
Sorry. I’m just really tired and I have to teach twenty-five students tomorrow while using sharp objects, and Damian’s out of town. Want to come over and baby-sit? Tonight? There’s got to be a red-eye flight … Chicago is supereasy to get to …
From: Me, [email protected]
To: Caterina, [email protected]
I would, but I’ve got another morning television appearance, and I’ll be puffy as it is. And the guy is coming along in the audience.
From: Caterina, [email protected]
To: Me, [email protected]
!!!!!
Call me tomorrow? Or whenever you have time. Sleep soundly, baby sis.
From: Me, [email protected]
To: Caterina, [email protected]
DO NOT TELL MOM. OR ANYBODY. NOT EVEN DAMIAN. OR THE BOYS.
From: Caterina, [email protected]
To: Me, [email protected]
HAHAHAHA no. Of course not. I REMEMBER HOW IT WAS. Not a word from me. I’ll even change my e-mail password for extra security. So if you don’t hear from me, it’s because I forgot the new password.
SERIOUSLY.
Gosh, I love capital letters.
From: Me, [email protected]
To: Caterina, [email protected]
I noticed. Good night!
Fine. If Cat felt confident in my personal state of affairs, I had to stop worrying. And to Gigi’s immense relief, I finally fell back to sleep.
I woke up well before dawn on Friday. Gigi lay at my feet, nestled against my legs with her paws gently aloft.
Clementine had a pastry job and had left earlier in the morning. Gigi and I moved through our morning routine, with Gigi performing her morning kibble dance, followed by a nap on my bathrobe while I showered.
A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) Page 17