The Love Goddess’ Cooking School

by Melissa Senate

  “I’m very serious about it,” Holly said. And she realized how true it was.

  Over another cup of tea, Francesca told her about her and Jack’s first date, and the engagement party, which Camilla had gone to, giving them a beautiful box with their names carved on it, and then she got into the details about the how and when of the tasting. The mothers wanted the matter settled within two weeks, so Francesca named a date and time to meet in the drawing room at the Blue Crab Cove, because according to Jack’s mother, it was as important to ensure the food went with the décor and ambiance as it was for it to be delicious.

  “About the menu,” Holly said. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Since Jack comes from an Italian family, we all like the idea of celebrating the mix of our heritages. Maine meets Italy. Camilla’s lobster ravioli, which she made for our engagement party, was amazing. Three courses. Oh, and each course should have a vegetarian option. You don’t need to worry about dessert, of course. The cake is being made in Portland, by my mother’s favorite bakery.”

  “And you’d like a sampling of a few different items per course for the tasting?”

  “Three of each would be perfect.”

  Three of each. Nine dishes to make and perfect within two weeks. If she secured this job, she would be hired for other catering jobs. For the Blue Crab Cove. For parties, corporate and academic and private.

  “Francesca, I’m just curious. Who is my competition?”

  “You have two competitors. One is Portland Cooks and the other is Avery Windemere. Do you know her? She grew up on Blue Crab Island. She’s now offering cooking classes too. My parents are good friends with the Windemeres, so I have to offer her a trial run too, even though”—she leaned in—“she’s not my favorite person. Plus, Lenora Windemere is a good friend of my grandmother’s, and especially because there was some kind of bad blood between Lenora and your grandmother, I feel like I have to give Lenora’s granddaughter a chance.”

  “Bad blood?” Nothing in the diary hinted at bad blood—yet, anyway. Though, as Camilla had written, despite the confessions and secrets she was privy to, she had not quite been welcomed into the group of four as a friend. “Like what?”

  Francesca shook her head. “I don’t know. My grandmother isn’t much of a gossip, so she’s never said. And the one time I thought to ask my mother, who does love gossip, she said she didn’t know either, just that it had something to do with Lenora Windemere’s youngest son, who died young.”

  Died young? The baby she’d finally conceived?

  “Apparently, Lenora tried to get your grandmother kicked off the island for a long time when they were in their twenties or thirties, but then Lenora just took to ignoring Camilla and stopped talking about her altogether. She tried to get her friends to stop going to Camilla for fortunes and classes, but they snuck over to see her anyway and soon enough Lenora accepted it.”

  “I wonder what happened,” Holly said, her grandmother’s words in her diary coming back to her. When she dropped the gnocchi into the water and added, Please Lord, let me get pregnant, I got a funny feeling. . . .

  Francesca shrugged. “Whatever it was, it was something bad. When my grandmother mentioned to Lenora in passing a couple of months ago that I planned to hire Camilla to cater the wedding, she said that would be a big mistake, that Camilla might poison the food to spite her for being a family friend. Of course, everyone told her that was nonsense, and my grandmother reminded her it was because of Camilla that I was getting married and staying in Maine in the first place. My family loves Jack and his family. So Camilla has serious points with some of the Beans, if not the Windemeres. But I’ll tell you, my mother thinks the Windemeres walk on water, and she’d like to hire Avery to score suck-up points, so do the best cooking of you life for the tasting.”

  But no pressure! “I’ll spend the next week creating a tasting menu to assure you and your family that they should choose Camilla’s Cucinotta to cater your wedding,” Holly said.

  “I’m sure you will. I just have a good feeling. And you’ve got Tamara all jazzed about something other than dating. Though now she’s talking about how she can cook for her dates.”

  Tamara, enthused about dating? Interesting. Maybe she talked about dating so much with her family to get them off her back, to assure them she was “working on it.” She had a feeling Tamara had long lived in Francesca’s shadow. Or maybe Tamara did want to meet someone, did want to get married like her sisters—and didn’t want to admit it, especially under all that pressure, perceived or otherwise.

  “I owe Tamara too, since she found my gown for me. I must have looked at a hundred dresses and none of them was the one. And then Tamara said she saw the perfect Francesca dress in a small boutique in Portland’s Old Port, and she was right.”

  “Did you have to get mother and future mother-in-law approval?” Holly asked, unable to imagine someone nixing a dress she loved and having to put it back.

  Francesca laughed. “No way.” She whipped out her cell phone from her purse and flashed through five photos of herself in a beautiful, delicate wisp of a dress that suited her fragility.

  “It’s stunning,” Holly said. “Tamara must know you well.”

  Francesca looked thoughtful for a moment. “Better than I thought.”

  Holly had tried on a wedding gown once, just six months ago, right before John had started changing, becoming more distant. She’d passed a bridal boutique and had gone in and couldn’t help the big fat fibs that had come out of her mouth, that yes, she was a bride to be, thinking of a summer wedding, and could she try a few? She flipped through stunning gowns on the rack until she found the one she’d wear if John ever did propose, and when she tried it on, it was so fairy-tale perfect that she’d burst into tears. The proprietor had her tissue box handy, of course, and had said that was often how you knew. Holly supposed that was true. She’d cried when she’d realized John was pulling away from her in a way that was different from those times he’d needed a minor break. She’d known.

  She wondered if Jodie without an e was visiting bridal shops and trying on dress after dress and then dumping them on the floor with a disdainful, “That particular white doesn’t suit my coloring at all.” Which was mean of Holly, since she didn’t even know the woman. But Mia had been right about Jodie’s attitude when she’d come in about the class; she’d been disingenuous about wanting to do something with Mia and all about scoring points with Mia’s father by being able to tell him she tried. And those cracks about Juliet’s colors? Just plain obnoxious.

  As she walked Francesca to the door, Holly was torn between wanting to find out what the “bad blood” was between her grandmother and Lenora Windemere and preparing for a very big job interview. She decided the Camilla–Lenora feud would just have to wait. She headed back into the kitchen and stood in the center of the room and felt as though the air was filled with tiny invisible bubbles of possibility. “I have a chance to do something,” she said to Antonio. “Something meaningful. Something that would make my grandmother proud. Something that would make me proud.” She bent down to scoop up Antonio and scratched him under his white chin, the only spot of white on his gray coat. “Antonio, I want that catering job. If you are at all magic like my grandmother was, twitch your whiskers to help, okay?”

  Antonio only twitched to get down. He didn’t love Holly and clearly missed his owner of sixteen years. She set him down in his little bed, then grabbed the recipe book and held it tight against her chest. Almost two weeks to prepare the menu, based on Camilla’s menus and recipes. Almost two weeks to perfect it. The money that a major job like this would bring in would pay that property tax, months of groceries, and allow Holly to offer a winter class and keep Camilla’s Cucinotta going.

  She would secure that wedding. She had to. Even if she had to wish into every pot and pan for the next two weeks.

  Seven

  At a little before six, Holly scooped up the bag full of ingredients she�
�d collected from the refrigerator and pantry and headed across the street and down the oak-strewn unpaved path to Cove Road. She’d often biked down this road as a kid, the pretty cottages with their picket fences and porches so appealing. The Gellers’ cottage was the last one on the left, Mia had said, the bay opening up right behind it. It was getting dark now and Holly couldn’t see the water, but she could hear the seagulls and feel the bay breeze in her face, in her hair.

  The house was fairy-tale wonderful, made of stone with a red wood door, the name GELLER in multicolored letters on the lobster-shaped mailbox. Two bikes were leaned against a stone carport, helmets dangling from the handlebars. Two beagles scampered up to greet her, their barks alerting Mia she was here. The red door opened and Mia beamed and raced out. “I’m so glad you came, Holly. I was so nervous you were going to bail on me.”

  If only I could, she thought. “I brought an easy-to-make meal. I thought we’d make chicken Milanese again so you can wow your dad with how much you learned and how easy and fast it is to make, and we can do a basic linguini primavera as a side. Plus a delicious loaf of Italian bread for bruschetta—that just means toasting the bread and topping it with fresh chopped tomatoes and olive oil.”

  “Prima who?”

  Holly smiled. “It means spring—and in this case, spring vegetables. And trust me, scrumptious.”

  One eyebrow shot up in the air. “If you say so. Everything we made last night was incredible.”

  “It was, wasn’t it?” Holly said. Not Camilla incredible. Not four-star restaurant incredible, but incredible because they’d made it themselves. “So is your father here?”

  “He’s not home from work yet. Come on in.”

  Holly followed Mia up the three stone steps into a foyer with a wrought-iron coat rack, on which she hung her jacket. Through an archway they entered the large living room with its huge stone fireplace; brown leather sofa and love seat, both covered with colorful throw pillows; and oriental rug. There was an upright wood piano against one wall and a gallery of photographs of Mia in varying ages behind the love seat.

  “Very nice,” Holly said, looking all around. And much cozier and “a family lives here” than another single father’s home had been, she thought, recalling how stark John Reardon’s house was.

  “Give the bobblehead a day as official stepmonster and everything will be pink and made out of plastic, trust me.” Mia led Holly down a short hallway into the kitchen, a good size, with old-fashioned appliances—a white stove and refrigerator and no dishwasher, as far as Holly could see. There was a beautiful wood table set below a bay window with three chairs.

  “There used to be just two chairs at the table until Dad and Fakie got serious and she started coming over for dinner all the time. I hate looking at that third chair every day.”

  Holly didn’t feel it was her place to respond to that in Liam Geller’s own house, so she set down the bag of ingredients on the counter and busied herself by putting away the perishables, unable to help noticing the to-do list scrawled in black ink and stuck to the refrigerator with a Downeast Energy magnet: Put $10 for field trip in M’s backpack. Pick up dry cleaning. Oil change. Say thanks to the cooking teacher. Kibble.

  Only Say thanks to the cooking teacher and Put $10 in M’s backpack for field trip had big check marks through them.

  Holly smiled.

  “My dad is totally anal,” Mia said. “I just learned that word in our psychology segment.”

  Holly slid over a large wooden bowl and began placing her vegetables in it. “Everyone keeps to-do lists. You will too.”

  “I keep mine up here,” Mia said, pointing to head. “Number one: Lose the soon-not-to-be stepmonster. Number two: Get Daniel to notice I exist on this earth. Number three: Find perfect dress to wear for the Fall Ball.”

  “Are you going to ask Daniel to the dance?”

  “No way. I’d be totally mortified if he said no. Especially if anyone found out I asked him. And my one new friend already knows I like him. One person knowing is enough.”

  “That’s great that you have a new friend,” Holly said. Friends were everything, especially when you were turning twelve. Holly remembered how much Juliet had meant to her, how much Juliet had helped her feel not only okay, but good about herself at that awkward age.

  “Her name is Madeline Windemere,” Mia said. “Isn’t that the most gorgeous name? She’s thinking of letting me in her M Club, but so far, the other Ms have been kinda snotty about it. Like Morgan Leeson and Megan Grist. Madeline’s one of the most popular girls at school, so if she lets me in, I’m in.”

  Huh. That didn’t sound good. Life on a tiny island. The Windemeres were everywhere.

  “I met Madeline at a welcome party her mother threw for us when we moved here at the end of August,” Mia said. “Madeline said I had killer hair and a totally possible amazing body and that because my name started with M, I could be in her club, but only if the other Ms voted me in at the end of the month.”

  Ugh. Holly remembered this crap from middle school. She supposed it would go on forever. And either Mia would be welcomed into the glittering girls’ society and find true friends there, which was possible, Holly knew, from watching the cliques Avery had as a tween and teen and in her own school in Massachusetts, or she’d be cast out and find her own group, her own people. Being “voted in” to a group of friends didn’t sound like the basis of a beautiful friendship.

  She imagined Jodie coaching Mia into the M Club. Maybe Jodie did have to go. “Mia, I just want you to remember one thing. You get to choose too. If you decide you don’t want to be an M, you get to decide that too.”

  Mia looked at her like she had four heads, but before she could say anything, the sound of a car pulling up had her jumping down off the counter. “My plan is to ease into the topic. Not hit him all once with the fact that I saw him with the ring. He hates confrontations. You have to work up to a conversation with my dad.”

  Holly had a desperate urge to run out the door and back up the path to Blue Crab Boulevard. What was she doing here, in the middle of this family drama that had nothing to do with her? How had she gotten here?

  Mia took Holly’s hand and pulled her into the living room, where Liam, looking his usual rumpled, handsome self, was being welcome-mauled by the two beagles jumping at each of his knees. At the sight of Holly, he straightened.

  “Dad, look who’s here to give me a home lesson in the basics of Kitchen 101 and Italian cooking? Isn’t that awesome? Holly is so amazing. We’re going to make dinner! It would be so cool if you could learn too, Dad. Holly is the best cook and can teach us to make all our favorites. I’m getting to do my own trial run of what we made last night—chicken Milanese.”

  Holly’s eyebrow shot up. She hadn’t cleared this with her father? Holly didn’t love being manipulated, especially by a preteen. She’d have to make things clear with Mia later. And she was hardly the “best cook.” Lesson number one for Mia: one exaggeration could topple your entire plan.

  “That’s great,” he said, taking his messenger bag from where it was slung around his torso and hanging it around the coat rack. “But honey, I wished you’d let me know. I have plans for dinner tonight. Important plans that I can’t break.”

  Mia’s lips tightened and she looked like she was trying to stop herself from crying. “You mean with Jodie?”

  He glanced uneasily at Holly. “Yes, with Jodie.”

  “What’s so important?” Mia asked through gritted teeth. “Why is tonight so important?”

  Holly wanted to disappear. Liam glanced at her with an embarrassed I’m sorry about this expression, and then stared at his daughter. “Mia, we have a guest, so—”

  “Yeah, we have a guest so let’s not talk about the fact that my father is going to propose tonight to a totally fake beauty pageant loser who hates me.” With that, Mia ran out the front door.

  Liam rushed to the door, but Mia was out of sight. “Mia!” he called out.


  Silence.

  He came back in, leaning his head against the wall and sighing.

  Holly put on her jacket. “Which direction do you think she went?”

  “There are four places she likes to go when she’s upset. She could be at any of them.” He put his jacket back on and they went out, the dogs following them. “Stay in the yard,” he told them, and began walking around back, where Holly could see a stretch of inky water and a rowboat moored at a short wooden dock. “I often find her in the rowboat,” he said as he headed around the house.

  Was she supposed to follow? Go home?

  She followed. “This must be tough on you, your daughter reacting this way to the news that you’re going to propose to your girlfriend.”

  She realized she’d just done exactly what Mia wanted—a little late, though.

  “News? I don’t know where she got the idea that I’m going to prop—” He stopped dead in his tracks and ran a hand through his dark hair. “Oh, man. She must have seen me holding her mother’s ring this morning and thought I’d bought one for Jodie.”

  “Her mother’s ring?” Holly asked, not sure she should even be in this conversation.

  “I was looking for a parking pass and couldn’t find it anywhere and thought I’d thrown it in the top drawer of my desk in my bedroom, where I throw everything I never use, and sitting right in there was my ex-wife’s diamond ring. She left it, and her wedding ring, on my pillow the morning she moved out, and I flung it in the drawer. I saw it in there this morning—for the first time since, and it just floored me, you know? A few years ago I had a very different life. I guess the ring reminded me.”

  Lord, this was awkward. She barely knew this man and now she was privy to the breakup of his marriage and his escalating daughter drama.

  “So you’re not proposing to your girlfriend?”

  “No,” he said. She waited for him to add a yet or an I don’t know or a we’ll see what the future brings, but the no was all he seemed willing to say on that subject.