Together at the Table Read online

  I looked ahead to where an older couple settled onto our bench and looked out at the river.

  I lifted my hand to rest on his. “I’m sure we’ll manage. I can eat pie and walk at the same time—Gigi would like that.”

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine, just taken aback,” I said, smiling up at him.

  In the next split second, my gaze traveled over my shoulder, my eyes unexpectedly catching Neil’s as he watched Adrian and me walking across the green.

  ~ APPLE AND GINGER HAND PIES ~

  For the pastry:

  1¼ cups all-purpose flour

  ¼ teaspoon fine sea salt

  ¼ cup ice water

  ½ cup unsalted butter, very cold, cut into small cubes

  For the filling:

  4 tablespoons butter, melted

  2 small apples, one sweet and one tart (Honeycrisp and Granny Smith make a great combination), peeled, cored, and sliced thin

  1 teaspoon grated fresh ginger

  2 tablespoons brown sugar

  ½ teaspoon vanilla extract

  1½ teaspoon cornstarch

  To finish:

  1 egg, beaten

  In a medium bowl, combine flour and salt. Cut in the butter, using a pastry cutter or two knives, and work the butter into the flour until the mixture resembles lentils. Add the water, 1 tablespoon at a time, until the mixture sticks together just enough to form a disc. Wrap the disc in plastic wrap and refrigerate one hour.

  Heat the oven to 400°F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper.

  Stir together the apples, melted butter, ginger, brown sugar, and vanilla in a medium-sized bowl. Refrigerate if not using immediately.

  To assemble, cut the pastry disc into two pieces, and allow them to reach room temperature. Between sheets of plastic wrap, or using a floured surface, roll each piece of the pie dough into a circle, about ⅛-inch thickness. Cut each circle in half; you should have 4 semicircles.

  Using your finger or a pastry brush, rub a thin layer of beaten egg onto the outermost edge of each semicircle. Spoon filling onto one half of each semicircle, about ⅓ cup. Fold the pastry over to cover, and crimp the edges with a fork to seal. Cut three vents into the top of each pie to allow steam to escape. Finish with a light brushing of egg over the outside of each pie, and then place them on the baking sheets.

  Bake for 25–30 minutes, or until each pie is golden brown and the pastry has cooked through. Allow to cool at least 5 minutes before serving. To store leftovers, allow to cool before covering.

  Makes 4 pies

  Kitchen tip: to keep the butter cold, cut it into small cubes and then refrigerate the cubes until you’re ready to use them.

  Promises and pie-crust are made to be broken.

  —JONATHAN SWIFT

  Back at home, after Adrian left, I still couldn’t shake the memory of Neil standing by the river, the feeling of seeing such a familiar person in such an unexpected place.

  So Gigi and I curled up with my laptop, and I pulled up the draft I hadn’t sent, editing it down to hit the key points—that I was sorry we ended the way we did, that I hoped he’d find someone kind and, well, local. But the same thing happened that always happened when I wrote; I found myself processing my own memories, the act of watching my mother die. How she looked like a fading fairy in a hospital gown, her skin translucent and smooth, stretched snug over sharp bones. How she passed a month after the opening, when the leaves just began to turn colors around the edges.

  Was that really why I’d written over and over? Not to connect, but as a place to put my feelings?

  I spent most of my days trying to outrun my emotions. But when they caught up with me, for some reason I still turned to Neil. Or really, the idea of him.

  The real Neil deserved better. So I made the letter sound as sensible as possible, wishing him all the best before pressing Send.

  I sat back. For the first time in months, I had sent Neil McLaren an e-mail.

  “I heard you ran into Neil,” Nico said as I drove him home from family dinner the following night. “He’s working in Portland now?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Adrian’s such a gossip.”

  “So the guy was just standing there by the river?”

  “Just standing by the river. He’s working at OHSU for the fall term—but I’m sure Adrian already told you that.”

  “He did.”

  We drove in silence for a while.

  “How serious are you about Adrian?”

  “We’re very serious,” I said, keeping my eyes fixed on the road. “We watch C-SPAN together every night.”

  “Juliette—”

  “Adrian and I are fine. Nothing’s changed.” I took a deep breath. “When we started dating, I’d just broken up with Neil and Mom was dying. Adrian’s a great guy. We’re taking things easy.”

  “And he knows that’s the deal? Because he seems serious about you.”

  “We’ve had many conversations about it,” I assured him. “He and I are totally on the same page.”

  “You’ll tell me if I have to hire a new sous-chef, though, won’t you? Adrian and I have a good thing going, but if I need to hire someone else, I can.”

  “I…We…,” I began and failed. His request shocked me, but in fairness, there was precedent. When I’d been young and fresh from culinary school, I’d dated the sous-chef, Éric, from Nico’s first restaurant venture. We’d kept it a secret, though I found out later my mother had always known.

  Éric had already been thinking about leaving the restaurant and starting a place of his own, but a late-night argument spurred that move sooner than any of us had expected. We argued and Éric quit immediately, leaving for Seattle.

  Unbeknownst to me, Nico’s restaurant, L’uccello Blu, had been struggling to stay afloat, but without Éric’s stabilizing influence the doors closed six months later.

  I’d carried the guilt for years, only recently shrugging out of it like a winter coat in June. My brother was many things—adult, for one—and the experience with L’uccello Blu had taught him lessons he’d brought to Two Blue Doors.

  “Of course I’d tell you,” I said at last. “Why the concern all of a sudden?”

  “Adrian said…”

  I sat up straighter, my hands gripping the wheel. “What? What did he say?”

  “He said you looked at Neil like you were still in love with him.”

  “I’m not,” I said. “Neil and I are over. We’ve been over a long time.”

  “He came to Portland.”

  I shook my head. “No. First, he had work connections to OHSU before we met. Second, Neil came to Portland and didn’t tell me about it. If he had some kind of agenda, any sort of intention to win me back, then standing around on the riverbank in hopes that I’ll finally get outside for the first time in months—well, that shows some poor planning.”

  Nico shrugged. “The heart wants what the heart wants.”

  “Bully for him.” I checked my mirrors and changed lanes before responding. “What the heart wants and what the heart gets can be two different things.”

  I heard the harshness of my own words but couldn’t take any of them back.

  Nico’s voice softened with caution and concern. “When did you get so cynical, baby sis?”

  When Mom died. When Neil broke my heart. When life didn’t turn out the way I’d hoped it might.

  I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” Nico said, his voice weighted with regret. “It’s been a rough few months.”

  “It has, hasn’t it?” I tried to sound light and knew that I failed. With Nico’s complex in sight, I slowed the car and turned into the driveway in front of his building.

  “Things will get better,” he said. “I have faith. Faith enough for us both, if need be.”

  I reached out and patted his hand. “I appreciate that.”

  “You’re welcome. And I mean it—a little lead time to fin
d a new sous-chef. Even just twenty-four hours. I can do a lot in twenty-four hours.”

  “Adrian and I are not breaking up!”

  “Just saying.”

  I parked and turned off the car before turning to face my brother. “You’re a good chef and a good boss. Two Blue Doors will be fine, no matter what. I doubt lightning will strike twice.”

  “You’ve dated two sous-chefs.”

  “Who else do I see?” I asked with a laugh. “I’m at the restaurant every day all day.”

  “We have customers!”

  “You’re right,” I answered dryly. “That would be the prudent choice.”

  Nico laughed out loud, and we said our good-byes before he exited the car and climbed the stairs home.

  The week sped by. Adrian didn’t mention Neil, and neither did I. I waited for an e-mail response at first, but after a few days I stopped waiting. Neil wasn’t going to respond, and that was fine.

  We hired new staff. Patrick decided to trade Portland for Williamsburg, so we replaced him with Jade the Artist and added Stan the Cellist.

  Nico hired a new line cook, Diego, and trained Kenny to act as sous-chef when either he or Adrian took a night off.

  I made Mallory, the young blond server who’d been with us from the beginning, assistant manager. I had her shadow me for a week, but I knew she’d take to the work easily. Half of the manager’s job was being the middle person between the kitchen and dining room—if the waiters weren’t picking up orders quickly enough, or if the kitchen wasn’t getting orders out fast enough, the manager had to step in.

  Keeping the customers happy would comprise the rest of her job, but her time as a waitress had already honed those skills.

  With her kind yet no-nonsense nature, Mallory was a perfect fit. Her new position meant that I could take an extra day off—two whole days per week, all to myself.

  With Sundays and Mondays to myself, I could enjoy not just a leisurely Sabbath but a less leisurely Monday to catch up on everything else. Laundry, exercise, groceries, getting Gigi groomed—all things I now had the ability to be on top of, instead of hopelessly behind on. Adrian and I even went to a movie.

  “This is what they call a theater,” I said in a mock stage whisper as we settled into our seats. “They show moving pictures here.”

  “I don’t know,” Adrian whispered back. “I’m not sure I believe in such things.”

  “We live in advanced times.”

  “It’s a good thing we didn’t choose a 3-D movie. We might die of shock.”

  “Very true.”

  Adrian grinned. “After this, I’ll really have to up my game to make your birthday meaningful.”

  “Nah,” I said, “I don’t need much.”

  “Come on, it’s your birthday.”

  “Eh, it’s just a day.” I took a deep breath. Yes, my birthday was coming. That didn’t mean I wanted to talk about it. I squeezed his hand. “Cat’s coming out with her family, Clementine’s making me a cake, and you’re making me…”

  “I’m not telling. It’s still a surprise.”

  “And there I was, thinking I could trick you into telling me. I’ll get to see the people I care about all in one place—other than that, I could skip it altogether.”

  The lights dimmed. Adrian leaned close, whispering into my ear before giving the lobe a nibble. “I just want it to be a good day for you.”

  I turned and kissed him gently, cupping his face. “You’re a good guy,” I said as the first trailer rolled onto the screen.

  He kissed me back. “You make me want to be a great one.”

  We went to dessert afterward and enjoyed a stroll down the city streets. I relished the feel of our hands entwined together.

  I sat in my office the next day during the lunch seating, updating the restaurant’s social media, printing up the menus for the following week. A glance at the clock told me we’d be closing up shortly, getting ready for the transition between lunch and dinner.

  I rose and stretched before heading to the kitchen. The tickets had finished, and the guys were cleaning their stations and washing dishes. I waved; they waved back, and I continued to the dining room.

  There were a couple of ladies at a four-top, lingering over their white wine, and two businessmen finishing a work lunch.

  And then at the corner window table sat a man I recognized instantly.

  He’d come. He wore a striped button-down shirt and chinos, and he sat with a slim tablet device; from where I stood, he looked to be reading a book.

  Looking at him hurt, but I couldn’t take my eyes off him, either. I checked in with the other diners before stopping at Neil’s table. “Hi, stranger.” I said, resting my fingers on the tabletop. “Mind if I have a seat?”

  Neil looked up, standing immediately. “Juliette,” he said, his chair scraping the floor as it moved backwards. “Hi. You’re here. Here—have a seat,” he said, pulling out the chair opposite his.

  “Thanks,” I said, willing myself not to blush. “How was your lunch?” I asked, pointing toward his plate, empty now except for a brush of crumbs.

  “Very good, very good,” he said, reaching for his water glass.

  I remained silent while he drank. I could have used a drink myself.

  “I got your e-mail,” he said after swallowing.

  “Oh,” I answered. I didn’t know what to say. After all, I’d sent it a week ago.

  “I’m truly, truly sorry about your mother’s passing,” he said. “I can’t say that enough.”

  Mallory returned to the dining room with the checks for the four-top; I caught her eye and flicked my fingers discreetly.

  “Two mint teas, please,” I said when she finished collecting credit cards. “Have you had dessert?” I asked Neil.

  “Not yet.”

  “Two of the pumpkin-custard pies.”

  Mallory nodded and set off toward the kitchen, carrying, I imagined, the news that I was sitting with a man in the dining room. Eating pie.

  I turned back to Neil. “Some conversations are best had over tea and pie.”

  He nodded. “Can’t argue with that.” He looked around the dining room. “Nice place. Really, really nice place. I’d tell you you should be proud, but I suspect you already are.”

  I couldn’t hold back my smile. “I am.”

  “You look really good.”

  “Ha!” I felt my face flush. “I look tired is what I look like. But I’ve got yet another eye cream to try, so I have hope. But you, you look…rested.”

  Neil raised an eyebrow. “Am I making you nervous?”

  I willed myself to chill out. “You have to admit, this does feel a little…well, it’s not ideal.”

  “I should have told you I was going to be at OHSU,” he said quietly. “I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

  “That…wasn’t untrue, at least for a while. But I should have written sooner.”

  Neil shook his head. “I wasn’t any good at a long-distance relationship, so it’s no wonder I couldn’t hack a long-distance breakup very well.”

  “You were fine,” I said. “It was my fault.”

  “No,” Neil started, but I held up my hand.

  “Look,” I said, “we were always going to break up. If it hadn’t been that weekend, it would have been some other time.”

  “You think so?” Neil’s face was neutral, his features so carefully arranged they could have been a Dutch still-life painting.

  “Of course I do,” I said, looking away. I had to look away, because if I looked into his eyes I feared I’d change my mind. “But let’s not waste time with all the reasons we already know. Tell me about how you are. Tell me about your fall.”

  He gave a half smile. “Well, we broke up. I won’t lie and pretend that was easy. I missed you, missed your letters. But,” he said, sitting up, “I’m good at work, so I worked hard. Hard enough that I started getting offers elsewhere. My research, you may remember, has focused on antibacterial resistanc
e. I’ve been tapped to teach at OHSU, but in January I’ll be moving to Atlanta, to start work with a group that’s working on isolating narrow-strain pro- and prebiotics. The idea is that instead of using antibiotics to combat bacteria, we use other strains of bacteria to bring the negative bacteria into balance.”

  “That’s fascinating.”

  He smiled. “I think so. We’ll see where the science takes us. I just know that with the antibacterial resistance we’re seeing, not only do we need to back off on the antibiotic use, but we need alternative therapies.”

  “Makes sense to me. So is Atlanta a temporary or permanent move?”

  “I sold my house in Tennessee,” he answered. “I don’t know how long I’ll be in Atlanta, but it’s a real move.”

  “Wow,” I said, processing. “I’m sure Callan and Tarissa will miss you.”

  He nodded. “And I miss them. But they’ve had some changes as well. Callan took a position in Chicago.”

  “Good for them! I remember Tarissa talking about the possibility of going back. That’s where Callan’s from, right?”

  “His parents and his brothers are there, yes.”

  “Which one of you made the jump first?”

  Neil tipped his head. “I left for Portland before finalizing the Atlanta job. Callan went job searching immediately after. The timing worked out, though. Callan was ready to leave the South.”

  “You’ll miss working together,” I said. “Is Tarissa okay moving? I know she had family in Memphis.”

  “She’s okay. Callan had been talking about it long enough that she’d prepared herself for the possibility. And one of her sisters already moved away to Columbus.” He sipped his tea. “This is very good. What kind of tea is it?”

  “Moroccan mint. Basically, it’s green tea steeped with mint leaves with lots of sugar.”

  “Southern sweet tea, just fancier?”

  “Exactly.” I pointed toward his plate. “Try the pie. It’s my favorite dessert of Clementine’s so far.”

  Neil obliged, nodding as he chewed. “This is”—he looked up at me—“addicting,” he finished, his fork already returning for a second bite. “Your roommate knows what she’s doing.”