“I understand. Do you know what that would mean, though? I’d know. I’d know for sure that we were related. That our grandfather wasn’t actually our grandfather.”
“Do you want to know for sure?”
“Yes,” I said finally.
“Maybe your grandmother kept it because of the blood. Some people get sentimental over bodily fluids.”
I snorted.
“Hey, people do weird things. That’s practically the first thing they teach you in medical school.”
“I believe it.”
We smiled at each other, and suddenly I was reminded of the fact that, first, Neil had a killer smile, and second, we were sitting on my bedroom floor, only inches apart.
Smiling at each other like idiots.
“Thank you,” I said. “You have no idea how much it means to me to finally show somebody this stuff, to talk about it.”
“My pleasure.”
“So,” I said, folding my hands around my knees, “what do you want to do next?”
Instead of answering, Neil leaned forward, swept my hair from my face and tucked it behind my ear. He leaned in, searching my face.
His eyes held mine. I couldn’t look away.
I sighed as his hand slipped behind my head, into my hair. In a single smooth motion, he gently pulled me close.
Our lips touched.
I thought of Éric, but only for the tiniest moment. Neil’s caress was gentle and sweet, giving me the opportunity to end it if I wanted to.
I didn’t. I deepened the kiss, my free hand finding his back, his neck, his ginger hair.
He kissed me back with the same enthusiasm, his other hand running down my arm, our fingers twining.
The kiss ended naturally, once we were both breathless.
I wanted to hug him. I wanted to cry.
I didn’t want him to ever leave.
After what I decided was possibly the Best First Kiss Ever, we left the apartment to go to Powell’s City of Books, with plans for lunch afterward.
But now that the kissing barrier had been broken, we walked down the exterior apartment stairs, hand in hand, fingers laced together.
Which was how Adrian saw us, at the bottom of the stairs.
“Hi,” I said, my face flushing a bright pomegranate red.
“Hey,” he said, taking in the scene.
There was plenty to take in, I supposed. Neil and I, hand in hand, my lips swollen from our recent kiss.
“I brought the tax forms,” Adrian said. Sure enough, he had several pieces of paper in his hand, folded once down the center.
I cleared my throat. “Oh. Good.”
My mind whirled. I knew I should probably take the forms. But what to do with them? The responsible thing would be to take them to the filing cabinet in my office, but that would mean—most likely—letting go of Neil’s hand.
I didn’t want to let go of Neil’s hand.
“You look like you’re going out,” said Adrian, which I figured was true in more than one sense.
“Yes,” I answered, confirming both interpretations.
“Want me to drop them in the mail slot?”
“That would be perfect,” I said, nodding like a bobblehead doll.
Adrian didn’t move.
“I … uh … Neil, this is Adrian. Adrian,” I said, my hand flailing between the two, “this is Neil. Neil is my … friend.” I winced at my word choice but carried on. “Adrian’s the sous-chef for the new restaurant.”
“Good to meet you.” Neil extended his right hand, while hanging on to my hand with his left.
Adrian shook it with a shadow of his familiar bravado.
“We’re off to Powell’s,” I said, my voice awkwardly bright. “See you later.”
“Later,” Adrian echoed, chin lifted.
We got in the car and drove away. Once we were about a block away, I scrunched up my face and exhaled. “That … was not ideal.”
“Adrian? Why?”
“He’s my brother’s new best friend. And I can’t imagine—,” I started to say, but stopped. Stopped because my phone had already started to ring.
“You don’t have to answer that,” Neil pointed out. “Not if you think it’s your brother.”
“No,” I agreed. “But the phone is only the beginning.”
With my phone turned off—all the way off, not just to vibrate—we finished out the drive to Powell’s on Burnside. We wandered through the floors and explored the nooks and crannies of the gigantic bookstore. Neil found a novel and I found a cookbook, which he insisted on paying for.
“So you remember the weekend,” he said, patting the cookbook.
I lifted an eyebrow. “Trust me,” I said. “I’ll remember.”
“If you’re interested,” he said as we walked back outside, “I’m giving a lecture tomorrow. It’s not a big deal …”
“I’m still impressed.”
“If you’d like to come, you’re very welcome. I can reserve a space for you.”
“I’d love to,” I said. “What’s the topic?”
“Genetic engineering and bacterial drug resistance.”
I gave a sage nod. “You know, I was just wondering about that.”
“I thought so,” he said, eyes twinkling. “That’s why I asked.”
“Seriously”—I beamed up at him—“I’d love to.”
We said good-bye at the end of the day with the kind of reluctance usually reserved for small children leaving Disneyland.
“I’ll pick you up in the morning,” he said, pulling me close for another breathless kiss.
I squeezed his hand just before releasing it and going inside, our romantic lingering cut short by a fresh sprinkling of rain.
“Morning?”
“Morning,” he promised before walking away.
I sighed and let myself into the apartment. Chilled, I shed my jacket but left my scarf on, then set to work making myself a mug of cocoa.
As I stirred the milk on the stove, I switched my phone back on.
Granted, I’d turned it on briefly earlier to verify that Clementine would be able to puppy-sit Gigi for the rest of the day. By then I had a small collection of voice mails and text messages that I’d studiously ignored.
And now? I lifted my phone to listen to my voice mails.
Of which I had nine.
Five from Nico, which wasn’t any surprise.
Two from Cat.
One from Sophie.
And … one from my mom.
Asking if Neil wanted to come for Sunday-night dinner.
SEA SALT HOT CHOCOLATE
1 cup whole milk
1 small cinnamon stick
3 ounces semisweet chocolate, divided
Whipped cream, for serving
Sea salt—fleur de sel, if you have it, to taste
Set aside about ½ ounce of chocolate for garnish. Shave it, grate it, whatever floats your boat.
Heat milk in a small saucepan, stirring constantly.
Add chocolate, stir until melted and blended, and the milk is frothy. Taste, add salt to taste.
Serve immediately with whipped cream and reserved chocolate on top.
It is a true saying that a man must eat a peck of salt with his friend before he knows him.
—MIGUEL DE CERVANTES
In a panic, I called Cat.
“You are so lucky I’m awake,” she said when she picked up. “The boys are sick and not inclined to sleep, and not inclined to let me sleep either. Just so you know, Jules, if you’d woken me up, you’d be so dead to me.”
I closed myself in my room and unzipped my boots. “Nico is freaking out.”
“Caught that.”
“Everyone knows.”
“Figured as much.”
I released a pent-up breath. “You have to tell me what to do.”
“Honey, I moved to Chicago—that’s what I did.”
“Mom invited him to Sunday-night dinner.”
“She’s g
ood, that one,” Cat acknowledged. “So, is he sticking around until Sunday?”
“He’s scheduled to leave that morning,” I said, scanning my room for projects. I could put away clothes—the morning’s attempt at dressing had wreaked its havoc. I smushed the phone between my ear and my shoulder and began to throw garments into piles.
“So what are you worrying about?”
“Aside from the rest of the crazy?”
“How did Nico find out, anyway?” Cat asked.
I folded a pair of jeans. “Adrian.”
“That’s Nico’s new best friend, right?”
“Right.”
“Always makes me think of Rocky. Anyway—why did it matter enough for him to tell Nico?”
“There’s a vibe,” I said, tossing two blouses to the end of the bed.
“A boy-girl kind of vibe?”
“Yup.”
“And nothing’s come of it—you’re just vibing each other?”
“Dating a coworker is bad news. And he’s enough like Nico that it would be a terrible idea. I don’t take him seriously.”
“Well, boo on him for outing you.”
“I miss you.”
“I miss you too. Did you at least have a good second date?”
I couldn’t stop my smile. “After a fashion? Yeah.”
“Cool. I won’t ask, because if I did, I’d be the biggest hypocrite, but I’m glad it was good. So—other than everyone being in your business, is there a reason you wouldn’t want him at a family dinner?”
“No. Yes. He’s wonderful, but he’s different.”
“ ‘Different’ as in he wears capes publicly, or ‘different’ as in …”
The bed squished beneath me as I sat down. “I don’t know. I guess he’s not the epicurean, big-personality guy that I think everyone’s pictured me with.”
“Whatever. You’re the one dating him.”
I lowered my voice. “I don’t want him to be the next Nelson.”
“Okay …” She paused in thought. “Nelson’s not actually that bad.”
“He’s boring.”
“Not to another CPA he’s not. And he’s good-natured. Sophie wanted stability, and that’s what she got. He’s a good dad to Chloé. You could do worse than someone like Nelson, if it was a guy you really liked.”
“I guess that’s true.”
“You could always invite him to dinner, you know, so he knows the offer’s out there. See what he does with it.”
“What if they scare him away?”
“If that’s the case,” she said, “he doesn’t deserve you. Also—know that when Nico called, I acted totally shocked. He didn’t hear anything from me.”
“Thanks for that.”
“Anytime.”
“I might skip Sunday-night dinner just to spite everyone.”
“Go for it,” Cat said. “A little rebellion is good for the soul.”
Neil picked me up at eleven the next morning, already dressed in a suit for his presentation.
“You look great,” I said, taking in his ensemble. Not many men owned a day suit, but the caramel color looked wonderful with his ginger hair.
“You look better,” he said, offering his arm as we walked out the door.
“Glad you like it. I haven’t dressed for a medical lecture for a little while.”
“Ah,” he said. “Just a little while?”
“More like ever.” I grinned up at him cheekily. I had to admit I felt pretty sharp. I’d donned a white sheath dress and paired it with my black boots, a black blazer, and a cobalt-blue necklace.
We walked to the car arm in arm.
“I had a thought,” Neil said once we were en route. “I don’t want to leave on Sunday.”
“No?”
“No. And I’ve got plenty of vacation time built up. How would you feel about it if I flew out early Tuesday instead? Then we’d have some time Monday evening, maybe meet for lunch in between, if you can get away.”
Tuesday. I froze.
“If you’d rather I didn’t, that’s okay,” he said, eying my face nervously even as he negotiated traffic.
“No, I want to see you,” I said, sounding more panicked than pleased. “It’s just that, um—”
“Don’t worry about it. Forget I asked.”
“My mom invited you to Sunday-night dinner,” I blurted.
“What?”
“Sunday-night dinner. Most of my family has dinner together every Sunday. Sunday because that’s the day the restaurant’s closed. Adrian saw us together yesterday, and he told my brother, and now everyone in my family knows about you, and my mom invited you to dinner.”
“That’s kind of her,” Neil said.
“Yes,” I said, “kind. Or recon with food.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“There are a lot more thoughts in your head. I can see them on your face.”
I crossed my arms and schooled my features. “You’re supposed to be watching the road.”
He pointed forward. “Stoplight.”
“Whatever.”
“It’s up to you. I’d be happy to meet your parents.”
“Oh no, it wouldn’t just be my parents. It would be my brothers, and my sister and her spouse, and my niece, and it’s basically a room full of multilingual people eating food and bossing you around and getting in your business.”
“I can handle myself.”
Ungraciously, the first thought in my mind was a retort about him spending his days with petri dishes. But I caught a hold of myself. If he liked me, maybe he wouldn’t be totally overwhelmed by my family.
Maybe?
“It’s up to you,” I said finally. “They’re a lot. Have you seen My Big Fat Greek Wedding? Dinner with my family is like that, but not Greek and with smaller hair.”
“I think I saw that movie at some point.”
I squinted at him. “You’d remember if you had.”
“This may surprise you,” he said dryly, “but I don’t watch a lot of chick flicks.”
“I hate that term,” I said, looking out the window, “but that’s an argument for another day. Are you in or out?”
“I’m in.”
“Fine,” I said.
I spent the rest of the drive trying to decide how to tell my mother I would bring a guest on Sunday.
Neil would give his lecture at the OHSU’s Old Library Auditorium. I gave him a parting kiss on the cheek before we entered, and I allowed the event’s coordinators to sweep him away. An assistant gave me a paper program and showed me to a seat in the front row. While I waited, I examined the program.
“Phagocytes in Opportunistic Mycoses,” it read. Before I could fully wrap my head around what that could possibly mean, another man in a suit—not as nice as Neil’s—stood at the podium to greet everyone and announce Neil.
I could see Neil standing to the side. In his suit, in the setting, he seemed almost a different person. Self-assured, certainly. He was calm and collected, his features composed.
Seeing him so serious, I found myself wanting to make silly faces at him. But there were still other people up front with him, so I bided my time.
Neil made a few opening remarks, thanked the gentleman who introduced him, and settled in for his lecture. While my science background wasn’t bad—I had to be conversant in the chemistry of baking and the biology of roasting meats, after all—so much of what he said was completely and utterly over my head. At least the slides were pretty and colorful in their own way, even if they were the interior of some sort of cells.
Ten minutes later, Neil was alone at the podium, without even an assistant waiting in the wings to give him bottled water.
So I waited.
I waited until his eyes landed on me. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and his mouth turned up into the gentlest smile.
I had him.
Holding his gaze, I turned my lower lip down into an exaggerated pout and slid my tongue up until i
t covered my upper lip. He wanted to laugh. I could tell. But instead, he paused for the briefest instant—which sounded dramatic and professional—and flashed an irresistible grin.
Ha.
My eyes slid from left to right, checking the attendees seated next to me. Both were scribbling notes, absorbed with Neil’s material.
And nobody was the wiser.
I stayed at Neil’s side during the following reception. Neil introduced me to people whose names I immediately forgot. I made charming conversation but mostly smiled and nodded silently. All in all, I felt very much like a political wife.
Another ten minutes and my wrist would start to pivot my hand into the royal wave.
Thankfully, we left nine minutes later, almost as if Neil knew I wouldn’t be able to behave for much longer.
“You were amazing,” I said, as we walked to his rental car.
He gave me a sideways look. “Nice faces there.”
“I just wanted you to connect with your audience,” I said with an innocent shrug. “And it was only one face. Don’t exaggerate your data.”
“Mmm. I wouldn’t want to do that,” he said, his hand finding its way onto the small of my back.
“So, are you sure you’re still up for dinner tomorrow?”
“I am.”
“I should call my mom and let her know. I was also going to ask if you would like to come to church with me tomorrow.”
“Of course.”
“Great,” I said, trying to quell the butterflies that decided to take flight. Dinner with the family, going to church together—I couldn’t get ahead of myself. Instead, I smiled and made a conscious choice to focus on the present.
At church the following morning, I chose the service my family didn’t attend and sat in the back rather than the seventh row, right-hand side.
“Is everything okay?” Neil asked after we’d shaken the hands of everyone in the general vicinity.
“Yes. Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“You seem a little … twitchy.”
“Twitchy?”
“Like a bunny rabbit.”
“Bunny rabbit?” I repeated, incredulous. “Who says ‘bunny rabbit’?”
Neil took his seat and crossed his arms. “I guess I do.”
“It’s just … my family and I usually come to the later service. It’s restaurant business,” I explained. “Most everyone tends to work late on Saturday nights.”
A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) Page 19