Aunt Vera said, “I want our little venture to be such a success.”
“I know you do.” I laid out tarps and opened cans of paints. “Tell me something.”
“Uh-oh.” She wagged a finger. “Do not glower at me like your father does. What do you want to know?”
“What’s the history of this place?” Once before, I had broached the subject with my mother, but in a matter of seconds, she had snapped the lid closed on that line of query saying: It’s your aunt’s private business. “I know you purchased Fisherman’s Village in the seventies.” The L-shaped two-story village, with its elegant columns, white balustrades, boardwalk-style walkways, and brick parking lot had to have cost a pretty penny.
Aunt Vera pressed her lips together.
“I heard a rumor that you bought it so you could specifically own The Cookbook Nook and café. If so, why didn’t you ever open the store?”
Aunt Vera looped a finger under her strands of beads. She twisted them into a fierce figure eight.
“I’ll probe until I find out,” I said. “I’m good at probing.”
“Not now, dear.” She released the beads. “Now is all about you. You are my niece. My beautiful niece. And it is your time to shine. I want to make this exactly like the store you envision, with cookbooks, gadgets, children’s cooking toys, and culinary mysteries and fiction.”
I planned to set up a vintage kitchen table with funky chairs where our guests could sit and pore over recipes or have fun piecing together jigsaw puzzles of delectable food. We would have a reading alcove for fiction enthusiasts, too; I was an avid reader. I adored the smell of new books; some might call it a fetish. I didn’t digest as many books in a year as a librarian, but I could read a book a week. My nightstand to-be-read pile stood eight to ten books high at all times. Also, if we found the right chef for the café, we might even offer cooking classes.
So many ideas; lots of time.
“By the by,” Aunt Vera said, “I expect the shop to thrive. I don’t want to be giving psychic readings well into my golden years.”
“Like you need to.” A fact I did glean from my mother was that Aunt Vera had made a killing in the stock market way back when.
Aunt Vera didn’t blink an eye. “I want to rest and relax and drink in the scent of the ocean.”
“Mom said that the ocean is part of our soul.” When I was young, my mother used to take me to the beach, our paint kits and canvases in hand.
“She was a special woman,” Aunt Vera said as she began to color in the seashells she had drawn. “How she loved painting seascapes.”
I, on the other hand, thanks to a Degas retrospective that I saw at the age of eight, liked to paint dancing girls. I enjoyed the fluidity of motion and catching girls midspin. At nine, I announced that I would become the greatest ballerina artist in the world. It didn’t happen; I settled for moderate talent and huge appreciation.
“After we’re done here,” my aunt said, “let’s get you settled into your abode. I’ve hung new drapes, and I updated the kitchen. The cottage has a new stove and oven.”
I flashed her a wicked smile.
“You can learn to cook,” she said.
“Who will have the patience to teach me?”
“If you follow a recipe to the letter, it always works.”
“Ha! Tell that to someone trying to make an angel food cake. That was one of my first attempts back in high school—a disaster. Can you spell glue?”
“G-l-u-e.” Aunt Vera roared. “Oh, that reminds me.” She set down her paintbrush, ducked behind the counter, and popped up with a pile of cookbooks. “I’ve assembled a starter’s set for you. A number of them are Cook’s Illustrated. The Best 30-Minute Recipe. The Best Light Recipe. Best, best, best.” She chuckled. “The smart shopping tips help make a cook’s job hassle free. And I adore this one.” She shook a bright pink paperback called Cook Like a Rock Star: 125 Recipes, Lessons, and Culinary Secrets. A picture of white-haired Chef Anne Burrell graced the cover. “You’ve seen her. She stars on that Food Network show.”
“Personality up the wazoo.”
“That’s the one. Love her. In this book”—Aunt Vera opened the book to the index—“Anne offers all sorts of encouragement and professional tricks. There’s a list of what to put in your basic pantry, and explanations for all sorts of scary cooking words, like braise and sauté. I’ll start the collection in the storeroom.”
As she carried the cookbooks out of the shop, I poured coral paint into a deep-well roller tray, soaked my paint roller in the goo, and started covering over the fleshy pink on the wall behind the sales counter.
In less than an hour, I gave the wall a single coat. I set the roller down and stretched.
Aunt Vera followed suit, groaning audibly with the effort. “You know, your father is quite a chef.”
“Really?” My mother always did the cooking.
“A single man must adjust.”
Yet again, I picked up her veiled meaning. A single woman must adjust, too. Not only did I need to learn to cook, but like my father, I had to move on and reconnect with the fun part of living. “Did you tell Dad our first celebrity guest is Desiree Divine?”
“I wanted to keep it hush-hush.” Aunt Vera held a finger to her lips. “She’s such a star.”
“She was always Dad’s favorite of my college roommates. They bonded at a Habitat for Humanity project.”
“Her name sounds like a stripper’s.”
I chuckled. “Desiree is always fast to point that out.”
“Really?”
I would never forget the first day of college. Desiree swept into the dorm room at Cal Poly with such confidence, plunked onto one of the tiny beds, and said, “Let’s dish.”
“I’ve read her profile on the Internet.” Aunt Vera set down her paintbrush and perched on the three-step ladder by the sales counter. She crossed her legs, hoisting her caftan ever so slightly to reveal a brand-new pair of Birkenstock sandals. “She says she’s a foodie fashionista who”—my aunt fanned herself—“likes to cook in stilettos and nothing else.”
I rolled my eyes. “I was a party girl, but Desiree was a party expert. I attended a beer bash; she attended a champagne soiree.”
“I love the fact that you keep in touch.”
“We talk about once a month. She was the first person to call after David—” My mouth filled with imaginary cotton balls. I fiddled with my mother’s heart-shaped locket that hung around my neck, unable to finish the sentence, but I knew my aunt understood: After my husband died in the boating accident.
When I regrouped, she plunged ahead. Aunt Vera was nothing if not pragmatic. “I have attempted to make Desiree’s eggs and caviar recipe. I’ve failed miserably.”
“At least you’ve dared.” I had eaten the delicacy at a restaurant in San Francisco that mimicked the dish—a lightly poached egg, slipped into a bowl, with a dollop of caviar and two crustless toasts, drizzled with truffle butter. Melt-in-your-mouth delicious.
“When will she arrive?” Aunt Vera scooched off the ladder and picked up her paintbrush to resume her task.
“In two days. I’ve booked her at the Crystal Cove Inn.”
Crystal Cove was a seaside community, which consisted of three crescent-shaped bays. A range of modest mountains that defined the eastern border of the town trapped ocean moisture and blessed Crystal Cove with a temperate Mediterranean climate. Stores and restaurants and quaint malls, like the Fisherman’s Village, lined the roads that paralleled the ocean. Houses, hotels, and numerous bed-and-breakfast inns populated the streets that twisted up the mountains away from town. Fifty years ago, in an effort to unify Crystal Cove, the city council mandated that the buildings be whitewashed and sport red-tiled roofs. All but a few residents complied. The town was as pretty as a picture postcard. As I grew up, I didn’t think there was a future for me in such a gentle town, but in the eight years since I had graduated college, Crystal Cove had burgeoned, and I was willing to give
moving home a try. Anything to find that elusive smile.
“Is it true Desiree has received hate mail?” Aunt Vera said.
“If you read the gossip magazines, Desiree has stolen not only a recipe but a boyfriend and a husband. She’s anorexic, bulimic, and a fraud, and she’s popping pills faster than that actress . . .” I clicked my fingers trying to come up with the name and failing.
My aunt pulled a pouch from the pocket of her caftan. She brandished it and mumbled something under her breath.
“What’re you doing?” I asked.
“Casting away the curse.”
My pulse—which had calmed down while we painted—spiked. “Is there a curse on The Cookbook Nook?”
“Nonsense. I have a bad feeling about your friend Desiree. Such unwarranted anger and hatred can destroy a soul. She must beware.”
My aunt’s words sent a shiver down my spine.
Chapter 2
AT THE END of the day, my aunt and I sat in white rocking chairs on the porch of her charming Cape Cod–style beach house and chatted about the changes in Crystal Cove since I’d last visited. Waves lapped the shore. Seagulls keened overhead. In the lingering remnants of sunshine, families equipped with buckets and shovels practiced on the beach for the Labor Day Sandcastle Festival, which was set for the first weekend in September.
When the conversation with my aunt waned, we drank pinot grigio and nibbled from a plate of veggies, hummus, and pita chips purchased from The Healthy Haven’s deli counter.
As the sun melted into the horizon, I yawned and said, “I’d better set up house.”
I hadn’t brought much with me. Clothes, a few of my paintings and sculptures and art supplies, some silk houseplants that I couldn’t kill, and a red Ching two-door cabinet with brass handles—one of the gems David and I had purchased in Chinatown. In July, I’d finally divested myself of David’s Brooks Brothers clothing, giving the entire wardrobe to his mother, who said she couldn’t part with any of it. How could I refuse her?
The cozy cottage proved to be the perfect size for me. One expansive room with a bachelorette kitchen, a bay window facing the ocean, a redbrick fireplace, a wall of books, and a niche for my art supplies. Aunt Vera provided all the dishes, linens, and furniture. I nearly cried when I saw the pretty brass bed decorated in lacy white.
After a long Epsom salts bath to relieve my painting-sore muscles, I curled up in front of a toasty fire, a crocheted blanket tucked around my knees—evenings in August could be chilly on the coast—and downed Tootsie Rolls. I listened to Judy Garland croon on a CD player about the man that got away, and I read. In the City, after a long day at the office when my eyes ached from reading too many proposals, I would switch on the television and channel surf. I would catch up on the latest Hollywood gossip, cooking shows, and new age exercise. But in my new environment, I wanted quiet. I wanted to hear my heart beat. I devoured the hot new thriller by Meg Gardiner until midnight. Before nestling beneath the duvet cover, I cracked open the window an inch so I could drink in the fresh salty air. Around 1 A.M., I drifted into a deep sleep.
In the morning, I took a brisk barefoot walk, my toes enjoying the grit of the sand. While living in San Francisco, I had forgotten how much I enjoyed walking on the beach. I wasn’t a collector; I didn’t pick up shells and such. I would leave the strand as pristine as I’d found it. But I enjoyed water lapping my ankles, the hint of mist hovering at the edge of the horizon, and the simple beauty of sandcastles made the day before.
For over an hour, I viewed the beach homes that lined the ultra-expensive strand and reacquainted myself with the familiar sights of treasure seekers scouring the sand with diviners and families emerging from the public access paths located between some of the houses and dashing toward the ocean. I let the breeze kiss my face, and before long, a smile found my lips. Moving to Crystal Cove might have been the best decision I had made in months.
• • •
OVER THE NEXT two days, Aunt Vera and I set up shop. On the first day, although we had bookshelves on nearly every free inch of wall space, we aligned shorter, three-shelf cabinets at the center of the store. We filled the shelves closest to the sales counter with our previous stock, which we discounted at basement prices. One of the steals was The Gourmet Cookbook, Volume 1, for three dollars, with a wealth of entrees such as escalopes de veau sautés chasseurs, red flannel hash New England, scallops Parisian, and a treasure-load of cookies—maple black walnut kisses, brandy snaps, and cinnamon stars. However, the book had only a few pictures, which was a major drawback for present-day consumers.
In the display by the picture window, we set out seaside-related items such as seashells, sand-sculpting tools, buckets, and fishing reels, as well as food-themed novels and culinary mysteries. I had thumbed through many of the latter. Some featured stories about coffee or cheese or cookies. Many contained recipes. What fun I was going to have reading each of the books after experimenting in the kitchen. Yes, I was ready to experiment.
When we finished arranging the display, we assembled knickknacks around the shop: colorful aprons on hooks, recipe boxes serving as bookends, and items such as stackable measuring cups, quirky salt and pepper shakers, and uniquely shaped spatulas sprinkled here and there—treasures for our patrons to discover while they searched for the perfect cookbook.
On the second day, we hired the café’s waitstaff and hostess and lucked into a chef, who proved to be none other than my best friend in high school, Katie Casey. We had lost touch over the years. I went to college; she stayed in Crystal Cove, and although I came to visit, I never reached out. Bad me. Katie, who reminded me of Julia Child or, rather, Dan Aykroyd impersonating Julia Child, didn’t have official restaurant credentials; yet for the past five years, she had served as a personal chef for a wealthy widower in town. Recently he’d passed on—not because of her cooking. She received a tremendous letter of appreciation from his children, which caught my aunt’s attention. For her tryout, Katie didn’t cook a dish in the café. Instead, she surprised us by showing up with a homemade meal that consisted of braised beef, caramelized onions, butternut squash, blackberry pie, and one of my all-time favorites, clam chowder. The meal was to die for. In addition, she had created a first-week’s menu for the café that knocked our sandals off.
Around noon the day before our grand opening, Aunt Vera and I nestled at the vintage kitchen table, and we ate lunch.
“Delicious,” Aunt Vera said between bites. “Every morsel cooked perfectly.”
Not by me. Katie had thrown together a Niçoise salad of tuna, string beans, boiled potatoes, hard-boiled eggs, olives, green onions, and a scrumptious amount of anchovies.
“Is there garlic in the dressing?” I asked.
“Bien sûr, but of course.” Katie hovered beside the table, hands folded over her apron strings, her wild mass of curly flaxen hair anchored beneath a chef’s toque. She added, “I can be heavy-handed with garlic.”
“I like it,” I said.
“Oh, good. I’m sorry about using canned tuna, but I think albacore is best from May to July and yellow-fin tuna from September to October. We’re sort of in between in August.”
My aunt gave the table a pat. “Good to know, so we don’t poison our guests.”
“Hoo-boy.” Katie’s sizable chest heaved with laughter, and her hangdog-shaped eyes sparkled with mischief. “That’s good, Vera. Poison.”
Someone knocked on the doorjamb. “Is she here, Vera?” A guy with exceptionally large forearms and a Grand Canyon cleft chin stopped in the arch of the door and surveyed the store. “Is Desiree here?”
“Not yet, Tito.” My aunt tapped my hand and whispered, “Tito Martinez is a local reporter.” He resembled a boxer—the dog variety. Broad face, broad shoulders, short legs. Energy twitched through him. “We want him on our good side.”
“I get an exclusive interview with Desiree Divine, right?” Tito beamed, his incisors razor-sharp. “You promised.”
Aunt
Vera nodded. “Come to the store a half hour before opening.”
He flashed the thumbs-up sign and zeroed his gaze on me. “Heard you don’t cook.”
I glanced at my aunt.
“Small-town gossip,” she muttered. “Get used to it.”
“I’m on a learning curve,” I said to Tito.
“Good luck. It takes years of practice, and even practice doesn’t make perfect,” he said, a tic grabbing his upper lip in a snarl. As he strolled away, I swear I heard him yipping.
“So tell me about Desiree Divine.” Katie perched on a chair—one of the girls.
“She’s a bit over the top,” I said. “The woman everyone loves to hate.” I added quickly, “Not hate hate. Love hate. Think Giada de Laurentiis’s lusciousness and Ina Garten’s talent all rolled up into one willowy glamour girl, with a smattering of Martha Stewart’s uptightness, enough to make her interesting.”
“Jenna met her in college,” my aunt said.
“Desiree showed up to our dorm room that first day, dressed in white and looking like a goddess,” I said, the memory fresh. “She wasn’t haughty. She was simply perfect, with a radiant smile. Her windswept golden hair framed her face perfectly.” To give an impression, I shook my shoulder-length hair and flashed my pearly whites. Katie and my aunt laughed. “A dozen freshman guys crowded in the doorway, tongues hanging out.”
“Hoo-boy,” Katie said.
“And yet, from the first moment, Desiree and I bonded over dating, the drudgery of classes, and helicopter parents, though hers proved worse than mine. Her mother was quite shocked and vocally disappointed when Desiree quit school to become a chef.”
“Ah, a mother’s dreams. Too-ra-loo,” Aunt Vera said. Did I detect sadness in her tone? Hadn’t my grandmother supported my aunt’s dreams?
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