Together at the Table Read online

  “I know. I just…I just feel like Cécile might have said something—at least, if it were more of an open secret. She was very open about Gabriel, during her good days.”

  “That’s true. Well, come and use my Internet. The boys are in preschool until one, and I teach on Tuesdays and Thursdays. When we’re out, the house is very quiet. When we’re home…less so.”

  “It sounds perfect.”

  Caterina gave a beatific smile. “You say that now. Just wait until you find a stray puddle of urine.”

  “I thought they were doing better with that.”

  “When they’re tired, well—the aim, not so good.”

  “I’ll be on my guard.”

  “I recommend shower shoes.”

  “I can wear shower shoes.”

  Cat reached out and squeezed my hand. “I can’t wait.”

  The plans fell into place with impressive ease that night. Mallory leaped at the chance to take on the extra hours, and Alex happily agreed to let Gigi stay with him. I shelled out a ridiculous amount of money on a one-way ticket, and the boys danced with joy.

  I texted Adrian, suggesting we meet in the kitchen before hours.

  He showed up looking wonderfully handsome yet frayed around the edges; my heart broke just looking at him. I handed him the extra cup of coffee I’d brewed that morning.

  “I’m heading out for a little while, after Thanksgiving,” I said. “I need to clear my head, and Caterina’s guest room seemed a good place to do it.”

  He took a sip of the coffee before setting the cup onto the stainless-steel countertop. “Is this it? Are we done?”

  I hated the hurt in his voice. “I didn’t say that. I just want to get away for a little while, get my head together.”

  “It’s been a good run, you and me. We’re good together.”

  “I know. I’m just not ready, and I don’t have any idea when I might be.”

  He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me. “I rushed you. Like a jerk.”

  “You weren’t a jerk.”

  “Did I embarrass you?”

  My silence confirmed it.

  “Then I was a jerk,” he said. “Can I be honest?”

  “Always.”

  “I was jealous of Neil, when you two were together. He’s this smart guy, he knows things about bacteria and stuff.” He leaned against the counter. “I’m just a kitchen guy. Seeing him again…”

  “Ah,” I said, feeling stupid, as though I should have pieced it together myself. I should have, and I didn’t.

  “I didn’t want you to be the one that got away. I didn’t want to lose you to that guy.”

  I ran my hand over my face. “I don’t think whatever happened between Neil and me can be undone. We might be friends in the future, we might not, but…that’s life, I guess.”

  “But now you’re leaving for Chicago.”

  “I just need a break to clear my head.”

  “How long are you planning on being gone?”

  “Not sure,” I said, looking away. “The one-way ticket was cheaper, and I want to come back feeling…feeling like myself again. At least as much as I can.”

  He considered my words and nodded. “If that’s what you need, I want you to have it.”

  “Thank you for being cool. About this. All of this.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve already been rejected in front of twenty people. It’s all up from here, right?”

  “I— No guilt trips, okay? Nobody forced you to propose in front of twenty people.”

  “How am I supposed to feel? I throw you an amazing birthday party and then put myself out there—”

  I bristled. “I don’t owe you my hand in marriage as a thank-you for a birthday party. A birthday party I didn’t ask for.”

  “What do you mean you didn’t ask for it?”

  My calm control snapped. “I told you I wanted to keep the day simple!” I threw my hands up exasperated. “I told you I would rather forget it was happening at all!”

  “But it’s your birthday!”

  “I don’t care!” I yelled. “It’s my day, I get to decide— Look, now I’ve gotten myself sucked into an argument over a birthday, like I’m five. But the truth of the matter is that you didn’t listen, you carried on with what you wanted me to want. And then you asked me to marry you, without ever discussing it with me first.”

  “I wanted it to be romantic!” he yelled back.

  “You wanted me to pick you,” I said, with quiet control. “You wanted me to pick you in front of my family so that you didn’t feel insecure anymore.”

  “That wasn’t the only reason,” he countered, hoarse. “And I didn’t want to spoil the moment by weighing pros and cons first. It was supposed to be perfect.”

  “If my life were perfect, my mom wouldn’t be dead. She wouldn’t be dead, and I wouldn’t be spending the next chapter of my life knowing that there will be a dozen milestones that I won’t get to share with her. Perfect isn’t anywhere on my radar. What does matter to me is respect, and being heard. I told you I wasn’t ready for commitment, I told you I just wanted us to enjoy our time together. And I’m sorry, so very sorry that you’re hurting. But you can’t will someone into wanting what you want for yourself.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Look— I don’t want to fight. I don’t want things to be weirder between us than they have to. I care about you, I care about our relationship. It’s just a trip to Chicago, that’s all.”

  Adrian just looked at me, his eyes peering from behind his black curls.

  “It hurts,” he said after a moment. “It hurts to find out you’re the person who cares more.”

  “Cares differently,” I said. “I do care about you, a great deal.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “This is such a mess.”

  Adrian grunted.

  “You have every right to feel hurt. After the holiday, I’m going to Chicago, and you don’t have to even look at my face for, like, two weeks.”

  He wouldn’t look up. I sighed, said good-bye, and left.

  If you really want to make a friend, go to someone’s house and eat with him….The people who give you their food give you their heart.

  —CÉSAR CHÁVEZ

  “So,” Sophie asked over the phone the following evening. “Can we talk about Thanksgiving?”

  I groaned. “You are relentless.”

  “I get things done. And I need to know if we’re disinviting Adrian.”

  “We’re still together.”

  “Really?”

  I could hear the surprise in her voice.

  “I’m not questioning you,” she said, her voice careful. “I just thought that since you declined his proposal and bought a ticket to Chicago, that you guys were taking a break.”

  “We’re still on. I think. We were and then we argued and…I don’t know. It’s all weird.”

  “Okay. Well, we’ll have plenty of food, so if he’s still coming to Thanksgiving, we won’t have to clean out the freezer to feed him.”

  “I’ll…I’ll ask what his plans are.” I realized, in that moment, that I hoped that he might have plans elsewhere.

  “So the Monday after Thanksgiving works for you?”

  “Yeah, that’s still fine,” I said. That was the thing about being in the restaurant business—you rarely, if ever, celebrated holidays on the actual day. We got Christmas Day, usually, and Easter—but that was about it.

  “Is there anyone else you want to invite? I know it’s last minute, but right now it’s just family and Adrian. Clementine is with her family, right?”

  “That’s right. I can ask Linn what they’re up to, but they very likely have plans.” I exhaled. “Are you sure we can’t just skip Thanksgiving? I’m not feeling particularly thankful. I’ll feel thankful later, but right now I’m just tired. Tired and sad.”

  “If you need to stay home, no one would look sideways at you, hon. But I think it’s important to stick together, now more than ever.”

 
“You’re right, I know you’re right.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “I love you, Soph.”

  Sophie paused, as if taken aback. “I love you too, Etta.” She cleared her throat. “We’re going to make it through. I really believe that.”

  “I know,” I said, even though I didn’t. “So, what do you want me to bring for Monday night?”

  “Dad’s making lamb in honor of Mom, I think, though he won’t say as much. Make whatever makes you happy. I don’t think anyone’s going to leave if the meal doesn’t coordinate.”

  I cracked a half smile. “Okay.”

  The days ticked by. Adrian barely looked at me, only spoke to me when necessary. I let him be, focusing on work when I was there and thinking about what I’d make for Thanksgiving when I wasn’t.

  Sophie’s words resonated in my head, her admonition to make what made me happy. I thought of her words as we worked through the holiday, serving our prix-fixe menu into the late hours.

  On Friday, I pulled out cookbooks, scanned glossy pages full of lovely foods, let my eyes drift over whatever recipe seemed best to get my hands into.

  Saturday, I slipped out to the farmers’ market. Waiting for me were crates of pears in shades of green, gold, and rose. I fell in love.

  I brought home a flat of Comice pears and placed them on my dining-room table. I pulled out a chair so that I could look at them at eye level.

  Pears.

  Pear cake, pear sauce, caramelized pears, baked pears.

  Pear tart. Everybody liked tarts. I could flavor it with vanilla for depth, lemon zest for brightness, and cardamom as a surprise. I could make it as a galette, a free-form tart, and use a buttery puff-pastry crust.

  If I wanted to get my hands into food, puff pastry was a good place to do it. The process of making the laminated dough, folding butter into already buttery dough over and over—depending on your mood, it could be hypnotically soothing or mind-numbingly tedious.

  It sounded perfect.

  Sunday morning after church, I came home, made a quick French-style open-faced sandwich, and set to work while Gigi lounged in her dog bed near the oven.

  In the stand mixer, I beat a large quantity of butter until it was pliable and smooth. Just a little flour, more mixing, and then I scraped it all onto a waiting piece of plastic wrap. I used my fingers to shape it into a tidy, flat square, and then wrapped it up and set it aside.

  That task done, I made the enrobing dough, stirring the flours into salted water, adding just enough melted butter, and watching the dough take shape. I wrapped up the mixture and put it in the refrigerator to rest before taking Gigi out on a walk.

  Within minutes, I felt rain droplets on my hair, my nose, my hand. I squinted at the sky and got a raindrop in the eye for my trouble.

  Naturally, I didn’t have an umbrella.

  If it were just me, I’d keep going and get a cup of coffee while I was at it. But Gigi? She was a white sponge, bless her heart, and I didn’t feel like giving her the toweling off—or blow-dry—she’d need if we stayed out much longer.

  So Gigi and I turned toward home, and I lengthened my strides to get us there faster.

  My phone buzzed halfway there. “Good place for a car repair?” the text read. “The place Yelp most recommended is $$$.”

  I checked the number.

  Neil.

  I stopped for a moment, missing the fact that the droplets grew heavier.

  It was just a text, a stupid text about car repairs, and I was standing in the rain—so why did my face feel flushed?

  “What kind of car repair? Is this your BMW?” I found myself texting back.

  “Yep. It’s making a weird noise.”

  “Have you called Boyd’s? Across the river but I’ve heard good things about it from Alex’s buddies.”

  “I have not. I will call. Thx, Jules.”

  “Anytime,” I texted back.

  Gigi tugged on her leash, bored—and increasingly wet. I put my phone away and pulled the leash closer. “I’m sorry, hon. Let’s go home.”

  Back at home, I toweled Gigi off just the same and watched as she launched herself in an unending roll across the carpet.

  I tucked my jacket away and pulled my phone from my pocket; another text waited.

  “How did the birthday party go?”

  Too many answers to that question. I settled on vagueness. “Too soon to tell. Hope you had a good Thanksgiving.”

  I turned my phone to silent after that and returned to the pastry, letting the process of rolling the dough, layering the butter, and folding the layers calm my spirit.

  Adrian met me at my front door, late Monday afternoon. “Are you sure you want me to come?” he asked, a restaurant-sized pan of bread pudding in his arms.

  “Well, you wouldn’t want that to go to waste,” I said, pointing at the pan.

  “Be serious, Juliette.”

  “I invited you,” I said softly. “And you’re my boyfriend. And we care about each other. So yes, I want you there.”

  He searched my eyes for a moment and then nodded. “Okay.”

  “Let me get the galette,” I said. “And Gigi’s leash.”

  “Gigi’s coming?”

  I started for the kitchen. “Of course she is. It’s not a holiday without her.”

  “Tell me about this galette,” he called after me.

  Always with the food, with us. “Pear galette—Comice pears sautéed in butter, in a buttery almond filling spiced with cardamom. Puff-pastry crust.”

  “Nice. Whose recipe?”

  “It’s mine. It’s just something I dreamed up.”

  He gave a crooked smile. “Good on you.”

  I set the galette down on the table and slid my feet into my ankle boots before attaching Gigi’s leash and pulling on my coat. There was no denying the chill by now. I’d skated by for weeks in jackets and sweater coats, but tonight’s Gorge winds meant business.

  Outside, I tucked my chin into the high collar of my coat. “So you’ve got bread pudding in there, yeah?”

  “Savory bread pudding—acorn squash and sage.”

  “Alex will like that. Sophie will bemoan her lactose intolerance.”

  He winked at me. “I made it with coconut milk.”

  “Did you, now? You’re a savvy one.”

  We rode over in his car, listening to KINK radio and making enough conversation that we almost felt normal.

  “So you’re flying out to Chicago tomorrow, right?” Adrian asked.

  I winced inwardly. “I am,” I said, almost teetering toward guilt. Almost. “I’ll fly out tomorrow and come back a week or two after, I think.”

  Adrian nodded, absorbing the information.

  “You don’t have to go, you know,” he said.

  “It’s Cat. And I haven’t been back to Chicago in ages. I’ll tell you what the Chicago chefs are up to, be your intel.”

  He blew a puff of air. “Like I care what Chicago’s doing in food.”

  I wasn’t in the mood to placate him if he wanted to be testy; I looked out the window rather than take the bait. “There are some Christmas lights out already.”

  “Christmas comes too early, every year. One of these years somebody’s going to hang their Christmas lights on the last day of the school year.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “You just seem…” Unreasonably riled by the Chicago food scene and Christmas-tree lights. “Tired,” I ended lamely. Tired, tense, unhappy.

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  We spent the rest of the drive to my father’s house in silence.

  Sophie greeted us at the door, a cornucopia-printed apron tied around her waist. “Happy Thanksgiving!”

  “Happy Thanksgiving!” we chorused back; I could already feel my smile turn plastic.

  Sophie and Nelson relieved us of the food, and Adrian followed, giving instructions about what temperature oven would best keep them warm.

  Caterina wrapped me in a h
ug. “How’s it going?”

  “Fine.”

  “Because it looks awkward.”

  “That too,” I said, my lips settling into a grim line. “He’s mad, and he’s pretending not to be.”

  “Well, it is Thanksgiving. Somebody has to have their knickers in a twist.”

  I lowered my voice. “I told him he didn’t have to come. But I think he’s embarrassed and out to prove…something. That we’re fine. That he’s fine.” I tucked my hair behind my ear.

  Caterina and I stood in the foyer together in companionable silence. Because the inalienable truth that neither of us wanted to say out loud was the fact that Adrian and I were not, in fact, fine.

  My father broke the moment by rushing forward to hug me, something I chastised myself for not doing first.

  “Oh, my Giulietta, so good to see your face.”

  He smelled of garlic and cedar, rosemary and home. I wanted to curl up in his lap and ask him to fight my dragons for me. I wanted him to tell me I didn’t have to be an adult.

  But I was, unfortunately, and my father had dragons of his own. Was that what it meant to be a grownup? To finally realize that your parents weren’t invincible, but that they had challenges and struggles of their own?

  We sat down to dinner shortly after. My parents had purchased their dining-room table sometime in the eighties; it bore the scars of our childhoods and adolescent years and somehow managed to look more handsome for it. The table fit us all with ease; reaching nine feet when the leaves were in place. We were twelve that night, with Luca and Christian seated between Damian and Caterina.

  “I can never tell when to separate them,” Cat said, looking at the boys as they poked each other. “Separated, they’re bored; together, they’re…that.”

  “You might not be able to win,” I said. “It may be the Kobayashi Maru of seating arrangements.”

  Caterina gave a sage nod. “You are very likely right.”

  We quieted when my father rose from his seat to say a Thanksgiving prayer. He spoke of thankfulness, of the promise of heaven, of seeing our mother again. He asked for a blessing over the food and over the loved ones gathered around it.