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

Author:Lodge, Hillary Manton [Lodge, Hillary Manton]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780307731760
Publisher: The Doubleday Religious Publishing Group
Published: 2014-03-18T00:00:00+00:00

A week after the family exploration of the trunk, I sat back and admired the first part of the article about Grand-mère. There was more to come, but what I had was beautiful—lovely photos, truths about how I felt about food—and I couldn’t be prouder.

As much as I admired my handiwork, my neck cracked when turned and my limbs felt stiff. I stretched my muscles before noticing everyone else had cleared out of the office for the weekend.

I drove home, thinking over my next task.

After nearly two weeks of living in my new place, I decided I’d had enough and fished Clementine Grey’s card from my purse once I got inside.

I hesitated before dialing.

It felt awkward, calling a near stranger like that. Asking someone to be your roommate—it made me feel eight years old all over again, asking someone to be my friend.

But it was fair and it was logical, so I straightened my spine and dialed.

I didn’t expect her to answer but was pleasantly surprised when she did.

“So, listen,” I said, after completing the usual phone-call pleasantries. “I’ve moved into my grandmother’s old apartment, and I could use a roommate. I figured since the commute would be just as useful to you once the restaurant opens, I’d ask you first.”

“You’re … asking me to room with you?” Clementine cleared her throat. “Um, how much is the rent?”

“Nico and I are leasing the building from my mom,” I said. “Part of the reason I’m living here is because I need to keep living costs down. Let’s say two hundred dollars in rent, plus utilities and all that.”

“Okay, wait,” she said. “Did you say two hundred dollars?”

“I did.”

“And,” she said, her voice sounding oddly wobbly, “you’re talking about Mireille’s apartment over the patisserie?”

“I am,” I said, trying to gauge her response.

“Um, yeah,” she said, sounding distinctly watery. “Sorry. I … I mean, sure. I’ll take it. If you’re sure.”

“Clementine, are you … are you okay?” I asked, pretty sure I heard something that sounded a lot like muffled sobbing on the other end of the line.

“I can’t believe—I mean—you have no idea …” She paused and caught her breath. “I can’t make my rent at my apartment, and I was going to have to sleep on a friend’s couch or move back in with my parents, and I cannot move back in with my parents, and you just called and offered me a place with rent I can afford that’s not a health hazard. And I think I’m more stressed than usual because I’m not usually this emotional,” she finished, the last word catching. “Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” I said firmly. “I should have called you a week ago, but I put it off. That was stupid. Listen, there’s still stuff in the bedroom—Grandmère’s stuff—but there’s a path to the bed. I’ll leave a key for you under the blue flowerpot; you can move in anytime you need to. Today, if you want. Just whenever.”

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