A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors)

by Lodge, Hillary Manton

  For this appearance, I started with my most comfortable ballet flats—a pair in bronze leather—and worked up. I picked a white pencil skirt and paired it with a sapphire-colored blouse with a wide V neck and tiny cap sleeves.

  Since I had woken up so early, I had plenty of time to primp myself into a state of casual perfection and even take Gigi out for a morning stroll.

  I ate a quick bite—a scone and espresso—and tossed a ball for Gigi while I mentally prepared myself for the day. I pulled out the crepe pans and spreaders I would use for my segment and stashed them in a tote bag, wrapped in a wrinkled tablecloth.

  When I heard the knock at the door, I’d almost begun to relax.

  I swung the door open wearing my brightest smile.

  Neil stood on my front porch, dressed in khakis and a striped polo and holding a bouquet of …

  “For you,” he said, handing me the ribbon-wrapped bouquet of …

  “Spoons! I love them,” I said, taking a closer look. The wooden mixing spoons—the ends of each painted a different bright hue—were tied with a wide grosgrain ribbon. “Thank you, Neil!”

  “They reminded me of you,” he said, his hands placed bashfully in his pockets. “I figured that flowers wilt, but spoons …”

  “They’re perfect.” I gestured him inside. “I need to grab my purse and my crepe supplies. Come meet Gigi!”

  Gigi had waited through the whole exchange on her blanket by the fireplace. We had been working on her door manners, and while her short tail threatened to launch her forward, she managed to stay put. “Okay, Gigi,” I told her, and she rocketed toward Neil. A bounce in the air and she settled into an impatient sit while Neil stooped to pet her.

  After Gigi received several pets and Neil quite a lot of hand licking, I carried her to her kennel. Then I retrieved my purse. “I’m ready.”

  “How are we on time?”

  “Early,” I admitted. It was a nice change of pace.

  “Then I’ll take care of this,” he said, fishing in his pocket. He held out a small, shiny bulb.

  “You found one!”

  “I did. It’ll just take me a couple minutes.”

  I followed him out, locking the door behind. True enough, he removed the clips to the headlight, removed the old bulb, and spun the new one into place. Once the cover was back in place, he started up the car and turned on the lights. “How’s that?”

  “Bright and shiny,” I said. “Thank you.”

  We drove to the studio together, with me keeping a running monologue about the buildings we were passing, the shops and restaurants and ways that things had changed over the years. I knew I was rambling, but in this moment it kept my panic down to a manageable level.

  Once we arrived, the countdown began much the way it had before, only this time Neil was escorted to the audience area while I continued to the greenroom alone.

  Today’s segment would pull from the column that started it all—crepes. I brought three pans so that Waverly and Dean could give it a go, if they wanted to. I brought premade batter that I’d prepared the night before. The batter had separated, but a short stir would fix it easily enough. I put the batter into the small fridge on set, and set the pans to the right of the range.

  I sat in the greenroom, half wishing Neil could have been there with me, half glad he couldn’t see how green I looked as I waited.

  After a thousand years had passed, the production assistant knocked on the door and escorted me to the studio kitchen. I pasted a huge, stupid smile on my face and greeted the hosts.

  If talking and walking and functioning in front of a camera had made me nervous before, the studio audience made it ten times worse. From the corner of my eye, I was fairly certain there weren’t more than fifty or sixty people there, but it was still fifty or sixty more people than I was used to.

  With Waverly’s prompting, I began my demo, heating the crepe pans and melting the clarified butter. I reached for my bowl of batter in the refrigerator and …

  It wasn’t there.

  I looked to Dean, I looked to Waverly, and both smiled at me in pleasant anticipation. What did they expect me to cook with? “The batter has wandered off,” I said, keeping my voice light while the blood left my face.

  The audience tittered as three of us looked around, double-checking the refrigerator and cupboards, but the batter remained MIA. Two production assistants and three very young interns scurried backstage, as Waverly asked me questions about batter preparation and the reasons behind letting the batter settle before cooking.

  The director signaled with his hand. Crepe batter or not, we had four minutes left.

  “If only we had food in this kitchen,” Dean said, “we might be able to make more batter.”

  I had thought of that. But while they had some flour, there were no eggs, and the milk looked past due. I thought fast. “Do you have some paper towels?” I said. “We can make some paper towel crepes and show the audience how to fold them.”

  Waverly and Dean brightened. “We’ve got lots of paper,” said Waverly, and sure enough a youth appeared with a roll of towels and three pairs of scissors.

  So we cut wonky circles from the towels and carried on, filling the paper circles as if they were edible. I demonstrated three different crepe-assembling techniques and dusted powdered sugar over the top.

  At the end, I used my fork to pull a bit of filling from the center of my paper roll and taste the filling combination, despite my roiling stomach. “It’s sweet and tangy,” I said of the lemon curd, basil, and mascarpone blend. “And it would be even better inside a real crepe.”

  Waverly and Dean laughed heartily, and I pretended to join in.

  Once the director yelled for a cut to commercial, I exhaled so deeply I expected my legs to go out. I collected my crepe supplies, washed my pans beneath cool water until they were safe to transport, and then retreated to the greenroom.

  When I was safe inside the greenroom, I made a beeline for the ugly floral couch and immediately placed my head between my legs.

  A soft knock sounded at the door.

  I stood to answer, even though my stomach protested.

  Neil stood in the hallway. “I bribed one of the interns to help me find you. And she said they found your bowl. Apparently, one of the other interns saw it in the fridge and thought because it was separated that it was from a previous segment and went bad.”

  “Oh,” was all I could say, because at that moment my stomach decided to stage its own protest. I made it to the trash can, hair in hand, just in time.

  As my breakfast deposited itself into the trash-can liner, I vaguely registered Neil’s hand on my back, another on my hair.

  When it was over, I spat to get the taste out of my mouth. My eyes burned. “I’m so embarrassed.”

  “Do you want a mint?” he asked, reaching into his pocket.

  I nodded without meeting his eyes.

  “Sit back down,” he said. “Feel better?”

  How to answer that? I’d just thrown up in front of a man—whom I had hoped to impress—on what was effectively our second date.

  And yet my stomach rested contentedly, having ended its battle to retain its contents.

  “Would you mind driving me home?” I asked instead.

  “Of course not.”

  I didn’t move. Neil paused and then sat down in front of me.

  He placed a hand on my knee. “I’m just going to say this—you don’t enjoy any of this television business, do you?”

  I shook my head miserably. “I hate it.”

  “And your boss wants you to continue.”

  “She loves it.”

  “And you feel overextended, balancing your job with the restaurant.”

  I nodded. It was all true.

  “So, do you think it’s time to reevaluate?”

  I let his words sit in my head for a moment—evaluating them, turning them in my head, examining them from all angles.

  “I have to quit my job
, don’t I?” I said as the realization set in.

  Neil shrugged. “That’s your call. But if your job depends on you doing this”—he waved his hand—“and if you hate it so much it makes you sick to your stomach, it may be that moving on to something new could be the wisest.”

  “Puking is bad,” I said.

  Neil’s lips formed a thin smile. “I agree. And it’s not good for your esophagus or your tooth enamel.”

  “Sage words.” I considered the possibilities. “Maybe if I talk to Marti, tell her how … difficult it is, maybe she’d reconsider. You know the funny thing? My coworker Linn? She’s great at this stuff. Stick her in front of an audience and she comes alive. I’m only here because I told another coworker to make chili and corn bread for a dinner party.”

  “You’re also talented,” Neil pointed out. “And natural, even if it doesn’t feel like it.”

  I shook my head. “It doesn’t, and I have no idea why the fact that I’m wigging out isn’t blindingly obvious on camera.”

  “Everyone has a strange superpower, I suppose.”

  “Yeah? What’s yours?”

  “I’m good at finding north.”

  “So you’re like a human compass?”

  “Often, yes.”

  “Good for you.” I looked around. “Can we leave?”

  Neil chuckled. “Feeling better?”

  “Ready to be done.” I pressed my hands to my eyes. “The intern really thought the batter had gone bad because it had separated?”

  “That’s the story.”

  I shook my head. “I tell you. Kids these days.”

  Neil grinned. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  Eating, and hospitality in general, is a communion, and any meal worth attending by yourself is improved by the multiples of those with whom it is shared.

  —JESSE BROWNER

  Earlier, I’d planned on going in to work after filming, but just walking to the car, I still felt unsteady on my feet. Once I settled in the car, I reached for my phone to call Marti.

  “Great work today,” Marti said. “Quick thinking with those paper towels.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Listen—I’m wiped out. Mind if I call it a day?”

  After she agreed, I thanked her and hung up. There would be a longer conversation later, but I wasn’t about to have it over the phone.

  “That’s that,” I said to Neil. “As far as today goes, I don’t have plans.” I bit my lip. “Though I might be hungry.”

  “Already?”

  “Consider that I eat for a living.”

  Neil laughed. “Just tell me where to go.”

  We left the parking lot, Neil behind the wheel, and landed at Mother’s Bistro & Bar for brunch/elevenses. As we enjoyed our meals, we never found ourselves at a loss for conversation. My restaurant, his research, our families, our cars, our careers—we jumped from one topic to another as easily as a stone skipping a lake.

  We were just finishing our coffee when my phone rang. I picked it up to silence it, but the number gave me pause. “Just one moment,” I told Neil, who nodded with understanding. “This is Juliette,” I said, my heart beating a little faster.

  “Juliette,” the voice said, “this is Marla at Maloy’s. I wanted you to know I heard back from my contact at Van Cleef & Arpels.”

  “Yes?” I said, rummaging in my purse for a pen and my miniature notebook.

  “Both the ring and the cuff links were made by an S. Roussard. The ring was commissioned by a Monsieur G. Roussard, the cuff links by Madame Roussard.”

  “So S. Roussard was the employee,” I said, “making pieces for family members? Like we were talking about?”

  I found the notebook but no pen. I scowled. But Neil had been paying attention and quickly pulled a ballpoint from his jacket pocket. I beamed at him and began to scribble.

  “It appears to be possible. The ring was commissioned in May of 1938, the cuff links in September of ’42.”

  “But they don’t have the first names in the database?” I asked. I could do a lot with first names.

  “I’m sorry. They didn’t seem to.”

  I shrugged, thanked Marla, and hung up. Before I tucked my phone away, I noticed I had two missed calls and a text from Linn.

  She wanted to hear about my paper-towel escapades, no doubt. I’d call her later. For now, I focused on my new discovery. “Huh.” I stared at the scribble in my notebook before looking up at Neil. “Thanks for the pen.”

  “Anytime.”

  “That was the lady from the jewelry store, following up on the pieces I had appraised. They turned out to be Van Cleef & Arpels—did I tell you that?”

  “I don’t remember. Go on.”

  “Well, think Tiffany, but older, more prestigious, and French.”

  “Got it.”

  “So now I’ve got a first initial and a surname. Might get somewhere with a Google search, maybe not …”

  Neil smiled. “But you’re curious.”

  “I am.”

  “Then come on,” he said, reaching for his wallet. “Let’s get out of here.”

  I spent the drive back to my apartment telling Neil that we didn’t have to go back to my apartment.

  “It’s a beautiful day,” I argued. “The sun’s out. The mountain’s out. Are you sure you don’t want to see more of the city?”

  “Yup,” he answered simply.

  By the time we walked inside, I realized what a gift he’d given me. For the first time since my strange discovery, I could share my findings as a whole.

  I decided to leave Gigi in her kennel, but gave her a rawhide twist to encourage good behavior.

  She didn’t seem to mind.

  I caught up with Neil in the kitchen. “This is the prep table where it all started,” I said, opening the side drawer. The cookbook lay inside, wrapped in a tea towel for protection; I’d kept the photo tucked between the pages. “Here it is,” I said, handing the photo to him.

  “Look at that.” He examined the photo, holding it close to his face. “And you found it because you were taking the cookbook to work?”

  “It was pasted inside the dust jacket. It probably doesn’t mean much to you. Here—I’ll show you a picture of my brother.”

  After scrolling through a few photos on my phone, I found a somewhat recent shot, taken at a family dinner while Caterina was in town.

  “You look pretty,” he said.

  “Thanks, but you’re supposed to be looking at my brother. See the resemblance?”

  “It’s certainly striking.”

  “Hold on—” I pulled up Cat’s Facebook page and scrolled until I found her wedding photos. “See?”

  “Nice dress.”

  I felt my face flush. Luckily for me, Cat had chosen flattering bridesmaid dresses. “You’re good for my ego.”

  “I’m glad. Looking at these photos … I went into immunology rather than genetics,” he said, comparing Nico’s photos with the antique photo, “but it would be unlikely for them to not be related. They both have cleft chins, the shape of the eyes—it’s almost uncanny.”

  “Agreed.” I reassembled the book, rewrapped it, and put it away. “The trunk is in my bedroom,” I said, leading him inside.

  I was grateful I’d left things so tidy for once.

  I lifted the trunk lid and showed Neil the hidden compartment.

  He chuckled. “That’s really cool, you know.”

  For the first time, I got to see the trunk through someone else’s eyes, from a viewpoint not clouded by family drama. “It is cool, I guess. Secrets in a trunk? It’s like something from a schoolgirl novel.”

  “And that’s where you found the jewelry?”

  “Yes. Though right now I’ve got it under my bed since my niece has a fascination with the trunk.”

  “Clever.”

  “It was that or my sock drawer,” I said, reaching under the bed for the tin. “This is the box I found inside the compartment.”

  I opened the
box and laid out the contents. The hanky in particular caught my eye. “That’s one tiny mystery solved—I found out today that the purchaser of the engagement ring was a Monsieur G. Roussard.” I held up the handkerchief and pointed at the initials. “I can assume G. Roussard is ‘GR.’ ”

  “What are these?” Neil asked, fingering the cuff links. “I mean, I know they’re cuff links, but—”

  “One’s a whisk, and one’s a pastry cutter. I think Monsieur Roussard was a baker and his wife gave him the cuff links. What I want to know is—was my grandmother his wife? Well,” I said, “there are several other things I’d like to know. But that one’s a start.”

  “It’s too bad the hair sample is a cutting. If you had some roots, you might be able to perform some tests.”

  “That would have been nice. If only it were fashionable,” I said dryly, “to yank your hair out instead of cut it for loved ones.”

  “I’m just saying—a little DNA and you’d have some concrete answers. Though it would be a small miracle for the hair follicles to survive this long undamaged. Now, if there were any dried blood spots”—Neil opened the handkerchief and examined it—“from cutting himself shaving, for instance …”

  Our eyes zeroed in on the stain at the same time.

  “Does that look like—”

  “Yes, it does,” Neil said, casting a critical eye over the spot.

  It wasn’t large, by any means—no more than a few millimeters in each direction. It did look very much like the kind of stain that might have been left after a shaving nick or small scrape.

  “I wonder if Grand-mère knew about it. She was so particular about laundry and cleanliness … So, is there enough?”

  “Enough to run a genetic test? Maybe, but only if it’s not been washed. Laundering would likely remove the white blood cells, and those are the ones that actually carry DNA. If they were present, you certainly wouldn’t be able to get the information you’d otherwise get from, say, fresh blood or bone, but enough to prove a relation? Maybe. But that’s a lot of ifs.”

  “That sounds like a crazy long shot.”

  He gave a wry smile. “Most likely. Sorry—I’m a doctor. I can’t offer too many absolutes.”