Together at the Table Read online

  And to be fair, it was a dish we’d become famous for—brussels sprouts sautéed with pancetta and a hint of orange zest, served with a poached egg and parmesan on top. My own mouth watered thinking of it, and I saw fifteen of them leave the kitchen per sitting.

  “I’ve got three more orders for the sprouts. Do we need to cut them off?” I asked Nico.

  He looked up from his station. “It’s fine. I pulled out the sprouts reserved for the wedding.”

  My eyes widened. “Yeah?” I asked cautiously. I didn’t want to contradict him in front of the staff, but…

  He read the caution in my eyes. “It’ll be fine. I made a couple calls, and the New Seasons at Cedar Hills has the amount we need. I need to get some air anyway—I’ll just run and get them.”

  “Okay,” I said, even though I hated the idea. We had too much to do for me to feel okay with Nico leaving the kitchen.

  “It’ll be fine,” he repeated. “Kenny and Adrian will be starting the prep work. And I can look at their bulk dates, because I’m not happy with mine.”

  I nodded. “Do what you need to do,” I said. I knew getting things at a grocery store rather than our supplier would be more expensive, but at this point the important piece was simply having the ingredient at all.

  Adrian and Kenny began cleaning their stations before the last of the lunch guests left. I closed out the tabs, thanked the guests, and left Braeden and Mallory to tidy up the dining room while I ran upstairs to eat a bite and let Gigi roam free.

  After another short walk to the park and back, I walked back downstairs to get ready for the wedding.

  We’d received the call about the wedding two months before. The bride and groom had gotten engaged at the restaurant—an event which may have had to do with our free champagne promotion our first month in business—and called shortly after to ask if we rented out the restaurant for weddings.

  We hadn’t before, but it seemed a perfect time to start. How hard could it be, anyway? It was catering—which all of us had done—and serving in our own space.

  So far, the preparations had been straightforward. I’d had a sit-down meeting with the couple, Sonnet and Theo, in mid-August.

  “We just want something simple,” Sonnet had said. “We’re not eloping, but we’re not having a long engagement or an elaborate wedding. No tulle, no rose petals, no topiaries. Just the two of us getting married and eating good food with family and friends.”

  No rehearsal, either. “It’s a wedding,” she’d said. “Not a school play. And we’re paying for it ourselves.”

  I hadn’t asked, but it sounded like punctuation in a conversation she’d had many other times with many other people.

  Sonnet and Theo chose items off our menu to serve as a buffet—including the brussels sprouts—before meeting with Clementine to plan the petits fours. I charged enough to cover our usual take on a Saturday night and give the servers a paid night off.

  Nico, Adrian, and Clementine would do the food prep and setup. I’d run the beverages and keep everything running smoothly; Adrian had volunteered to stay through the event with me and wash dishes after. It was a small enough crowd at fifty, and a simple enough buffet, that we could comfortably run the show with a skeleton crew.

  Sonnet and Theo had chosen to have a standing ceremony in the dining room, with reception overflow on the patio; I took a bucket outside and pruned off dead leaves and stray branches, then swept away cobwebs that had formed overnight. After a brisk sweep, it looked wedding worthy.

  My phone rang; I pulled it from my back pocket to answer. “Nico, hi. What’s up?”

  “Hey, Etta. So…I’m having some car trouble.”

  Life is too short for self-hatred and it’s too short for celery sticks.

  —MARILYN WANN

  My eyes squeezed shut. “What happened?”

  “Alfa died,” he said, though it was a little hard to hear.

  Of course it did. “It’s not dead, it’s just resting,” I said, quoting my oldest brother, Alex, the mechanic of the family. “Where are you?”

  “I’m on 217, northbound.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Your Alfa has terrible timing. Mine only breaks down on side streets.”

  “You’re living your best life,” Nico quipped. “The tow truck is on its way, and I texted Adrian to have him pick me up.”

  “Are you sure? Adrian’s prepping—or if he’s not prepping, he will be. I’m tied up here, since I’ve got the wedding party coming shortly to set up. Did you call Alex? Dad? Sophie? Anybody?”

  “Alex and Dad are tied up. Sophie is on dance detail with Chloé—first homecoming, remember?”

  “You’re right. I can’t believe I forgot.” I shook my head. That was the restaurant business for you, guaranteed to make sure you miss out on as many milestones as possible.

  “Don’t worry—she’ll take enough photos to make sure you feel like you’re there.”

  “True enough.”

  “It’s just thirty minutes here and back. It’ll be fine.”

  “I’m holding you to that,” I said. “Be careful on the side of the road, there.”

  “I will. Is it raining over there?”

  I looked out the window. “Not yet.”

  “It will be.”

  “Lovely. Stay safe.”

  He promised he would, and we hung up.

  Adrian met me outside. “You talk to Nico?”

  “I did. Hurry back, okay?”

  “You worry too much,” he said, dropping a quick kiss on my lips. “See you soon?”

  “You’d better!” I shook my head as I watched him step down the stairs to our small back lot, climb in his car, and drive away.

  Two down. I didn’t like it, but my opinion wasn’t moving mountains today.

  The sound of footfalls on the front deck shook me from my thoughts. I strode around to the front to find Sonnet and a few friends on the doorstep.

  “Hi, you guys! Sorry, I locked the front to keep people from wandering in. It happens.” I pulled out my keys and opened up.

  Sonnet shook her head. “No problem. I parked in front of the restaurant. Is that okay?”

  “Perfectly okay.”

  “Cool. I’ve got more flowers in my car, and my clothes and stuff.”

  “Sounds great.” I introduced myself to her companions—a sister, Poem, and friends Sara and Meg. “Let’s get stuff downstairs, and I can help you out with the flowers.”

  Poem, Sara, and Meg oohed over the space as they stepped inside. We deposited the clothes downstairs and set to work with the flowers.

  Listening to the women, it sounded as though they’d made the arrangements themselves from mums and autumn leaves. More leaves were scattered across the buffet table, with gold-painted pine cones scattered here and there like magical objects.

  Shortly after, a navy-blue pickup truck pulled up, and a couple of guys, both in their late twenties, unloaded a tall wooden structure from beneath a violently blue tarp. Sara looked out the window. “Hey, look! Will and Zach are here with the chuppah frame!”

  I helped the guys to the back-deck stairs, and Sonnet directed them to place it on the back of the deck. Sara gave Will a kiss before shooing him away, and the women headed back to the dining room for final touches.

  A quick glance at the lot showed that Adrian hadn’t yet returned with Nico, but the rain had certainly arrived.

  Not good.

  I watched the droplets ripple into puddles for a moment before slipping into the kitchen, where I found Clementine preparing the next day’s bread pudding. “They’re still not here yet, are they?”

  Clementine looked up from her whisking. “Not yet, no. What happened?”

  “Nico’s car died, Adrian went to pick him up, nobody’s back yet, and I have concerns.”

  Clementine snorted. “What is it with you guys and your Alfa Romeos that break down half of the time?”

  “Italians
are romantics, and Alfas are the vehicular embodiment of that fact. But enough about cars—we’ve got to keep this thing on time.”

  “We’ll be fine,” Kenny said, pausing in his pursuit of shredding carrots for the Moroccan salad.

  I wasn’t convinced, but my phone rang before I could voice my opinion. “Adrian, where are you?”

  “It’s me,” Nico said. “I borrowed Adrian’s phone. We, ah, we ran into a problem. Or—I guess, the other way around.”

  “None of what you just said is making me panic any less.”

  “You know how there’s the scientific phenomenon of people driving into things because they’re looking at them? Well, add a wet road to that, and you get an idiot crashing into the tow truck.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope!”

  “You sound remarkably cheery.”

  “Didn’t hit my car, but now they’re calling a tow truck for the tow truck, and I can’t leave before I give a statement to the police.”

  “Police?”

  “Well, it’s enough of a to-do here by the side of the freeway, what with the tow truck and the idiot and the other tow truck on its way. There are road flares and everything on this scenic rain-soaked highway.”

  My stomach twisted. “Okay. I’m assuming you don’t have a time estimate?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I know you tried calling family, but what about a taxi? I mean, what’s your time line? If we’re serving at six—”

  “Plenty of time.”

  Well, he’d also said that he’d be back in half an hour, and that hadn’t much panned out, either. But I knew my brother. He could put a lot of food together very quickly if necessary.

  So I practiced the deep cleansing breaths advised by the yoga teacher I never saw anymore—on account of my job—and returned to the phone call. “Keep me posted,” I said. “And please, please don’t get hit by a car.”

  “I won’t. Traffic’s moving too slowly now that the police are here. With the flares.”

  Perfect.

  We said our good-byes and hung up. But before I could discuss the prep schedule with Kenny—and rope Clementine into staying longer—I caught the sound of Sonnet’s voice.

  She didn’t sound happy.

  I rounded out of the kitchen to find Sonnet and her friends facing three older women in the dining room. Sonnet caught my eye, her look of panic begging me for help. I couldn’t blame her. The three of them in their best wedding boleros, bolts of tulle tucked under their arms, looked like a scene from Macbeth gone pastel.

  I pasted on my best manager’s smile. “Hello. I’m Juliette D’Alisa, manager here at Two Blue Doors. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  The center woman stood up straighter and nodded. “I’m Theresa, Theo’s mother. We just came by to do a little prewedding sprucing.”

  That explained it. Sonnet struck me as someone who had no problems asserting herself, but a mother-in-law-to-be? Tricky territory.

  “That’s wonderful,” I said. “Let me get the wedding binder,” I improvised. “Just to check off the decorations in the contract agreement.”

  “Contract agreement?” Theresa echoed.

  “Right. When I meet with brides and grooms, there’s a list created for the approved decorations.”

  “It may not be in that list,” Theresa hedged. “But it’s just tulle. Won’t leave a mess—it’ll just make it look like there’s a wedding.”

  “Let me check the list,” I said, retreating to my office for my wedding notes. I hastily shoved them into a blank-covered binder of ordering accounts before returning to face down Theresa. “No tulle on this list. Is that tulle fire-retardant treated?”

  Theresa gave one of her compatriots a nervous glance. “I’m not sure. I think so.”

  “It’s usually marked,” I said. “On the bolt. In red.”

  Lady to the Left checked her bolt. “I don’t see any markings in red.”

  “Oh, that’s a pity,” I said, darting a quick glance toward Sonnet. “I’m afraid I can’t allow you to decorate with untreated tulle.”

  “But—,” Theresa began to protest.

  I shook my head. “Fire code for restaurants. Because our space is small, it’s a hazard.”

  From the corner of my eye, I could see Sonnet’s shoulders drop in relief.

  Theresa looked around the room. “It is a very small space.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Cramped.”

  “The old buildings, you know,” I said, sagely. I wasn’t going to let myself be insulted by a woman dressed in a cantaloupe-colored suit. “There’s some time before the ceremony—I’d be happy to set up a table for you on the covered patio, if you’d like to relax.”

  Theresa glanced to her right and left. “I suppose we could. We came from Wilsonville. In traffic.”

  I made a sympathetic face and led them outside. Smooth wood benches lined the edges; I set them up in a corner before retrieving one of the folding patio tables from the basement.

  In the kitchen, I prepared a tray with a pitcher of lavender lemonade and glass tumblers. Theresa cast a critical eye, but the others—who had to be sisters, the resemblance was so strong—were impressed by the ice cubes with lavender sprigs inside.

  Who wouldn’t be?

  Once they were safely set up and out of trouble, I went looking for Sonnet.

  “We’re doing pictures at the park,” she said. “Under the gazebo, it looks like, though we’ve got lots of colorful umbrellas. The photographer will arrive shortly.”

  “Let’s get you somewhere more private to get ready, or I’m afraid you’ll have company before too long,” I said, tilting my head toward the patio. “Let’s get your clothes. You can follow me upstairs.”

  “Isn’t there a residence upstairs?” Sonnet asked, eyes wide. “I couldn’t—”

  “Escape Theresa? Yes, you could. Do you like dogs?”

  Sonnet nodded.

  “Then Gigi will enjoy the company. You’ll be doing me a favor.”

  They followed me upstairs, and I felt glad I’d tidied sufficiently the day before.

  “This is so nice of you,” Sara said as I let them inside.

  “It’s no problem. And the light is better up here, anyway.” I flipped lights on. “At least now it is. This was my grandmother’s apartment. She actually owned the whole building.”

  “She didn’t run the bakery, did she?” Sonnet asked. “The one that used to be here?”

  “She did, actually.”

  Sonnet’s eyes widened even farther. “Mireille Bessette? Mireille Bessette is your grandmother? She was amazing. I sketched at the bakery some days because I was so inspired by her style. I’m a women’s wear designer,” she said, holding up a hand. “Not a stalker, I promise.”

  “Not worried,” I answered, suppressing a smile. “And she was amazing, and lived an incredible life,” I said. “Today’s your day, but give me a call another day and I’d be happy to show you her closet.”

  “Really?”

  “There’s a vintage Dior in there.”

  Sonnet nodded. “You’re right. I have to get married today. But next week—” Her gaze lingered in the direction of the closet.

  “Next week,” I promised.

  Once the younger women were well ensconced in my apartment, I headed back downstairs to check on the older women, and finally on the kitchen to see if Nico had made it back yet.

  I knew before I swung open the kitchen doors that they weren’t. The quiet only served to amp up my concerns.

  I pulled out my phone. No missed calls or texts.

  I dialed Nico’s number and waited; no answer. I redialed with a stubborn tap twice more, his voice mail picking up each time.

  Next, I dialed Adrian. Same. I walked back to the kitchen and put my hands on my hips. I had a bride and her friends upstairs and fifty guests arriving in two hours.

  So I washed up and got to work.

  “Kenny. You’ve go
t the Moroccan carrot salad done, but where are we with the brussels sprouts?”

  “Everything is prepped. We just need the sprouts.”

  “Good. Go ahead and start caramelizing the onions for the goat-cheese toasts, and then get the bacon going—just be sure to undercook the bacon. It’ll cook the rest of the way in the oven.”

  “Yes, chef.”

  “Clementine, can you take over the grilled crudités? We need to get them chilled by five.”

  She nodded. “Yes, chef.”

  “Excellent. I’ll start prepping the butternut-squash fritters,” I said, rolling up my sleeves. “And then the mozzarella poppers. Let’s get to work.”

  I was elbows deep in fried mozzarella and crispy-edged butternut-squash fritters when my brother and boyfriend finally arrived, wet and bedraggled, at the kitchen door.

  “I have dates,” Nico said, holding the crate aloft. “Dates and brussels sprouts.”

  “It’s about time,” I shot back. “You’ve been single far too long.”

  “I’m going to get cleaned up,” he said, “and then I can relieve you.”

  “Take your time,” I replied honestly. “I’ve got everything under control.”

  And I did. The fritters were done and in the warming oven with a cake pan full of water in the rack below to keep them from drying out. I’d made up the mozzarella poppers by breading the rounds of buffalo-milk mozzarella with batter and panko crumbs before deep-frying them in batches.

  It had felt good to work with my hands again, good to do something other than managerial work. I cast a longing eye at Clementine’s pavlovas, the baked egg whites topped with quartered figs. There was something soothing about working with egg whites, the frothy pure-white shade they became when whisked.

  Nico and Adrian cleaned up before returning to work.

  Adrian dropped a kiss on my cheek. “I can take over the fryer,” he said. “You can get cleaned up if you like.”

  I nodded. And it was true—I needed to get the grease out of my pores and repair my makeup. But what I wanted, I realized, was to stay and get the rest of the appetizers out. Logic won out, and I headed upstairs.

  Gigi bounced in joy to see me; I washed my face and reapplied my makeup before heading downstairs, which happened to coincide with the arrival of the bridal party and photographer, flushed and laughing under oversized umbrellas.