The Love Goddess’ Cooking School

by Melissa Senate

  Holly was dying to try the white bean pâté on crostini for lunch, but since she needed to soak the cannelloni beans overnight, she flipped through the recipe binder for the three-cheese spinach ravioli, and perhaps she’d also try crab ravioli or gnocchi in an herb sauce as starters. She eyed the pasta machine, which was not her friend, and decided not to think about it until it was time. She chose one of the large wooden boards and set it in the middle of the center island, then brought over the canister of flour and salt, measuring the amount onto the surface and making a well for the eggs. She drizzled in the olive oil, then kneaded the dough and sprinkled it with a little extra flour to keep it from sticking.

  Holly smiled at the thought of how she hadn’t known where to work the dough for pasta when she’d first started alone in the kitchen. Despite watching her grandmother cook for so many years, cooking right beside her, she’d missed so much. But she’d absorbed much as well. And what she knew, without realizing it, often took her by surprise. Such as kneading the dough until it was elastic and then letting the gluten relax for a good ten minutes. She’d seen her grandmother do that at least a hundred times.

  While the dough rested, she turned back to the recipe book and got the cheeses she needed from the refrigerator, the buffalo mozzarella, ricotta and parmesan, the baby spinach and the basil leaves. On her way to the herb baskets for garlic she switched on her iPod from its dock on the windowsill and “Beautiful Day” by U2 filled the room.

  A half hour later, she’d pulled the rectangular pieces of dough through the pasta machine, making sure they were thin but not too thin. As she cut out her squares and stuffed each ravioli with the spinach and cheese, she checked the recipe for the final ingredient. A wish.

  “My wish is that job. I want that job.”

  She felt eyes on her, and there was Antonio, staring at her. She could swear he was smirking at her. She headed over and scooped him up, despite his wriggling against her, and scratched behind his ears. “I’m going to get that job, Antonio cat.” She danced him around to U2 for a few moments, then let him down. He waddled back to his bed and stared at her. Holly laughed. She felt in control for the first time since coming to Maine. And it felt good.

  She would save the butter sage sauce for the last minute, since it only took five minutes to make. Eight raviolis stuffed and sealed so that the edges wouldn’t open during the four-minute boiling, she dropped the ravioli in the pot and was about to set the timer when she heard the bells jangle. She raced over, wiping her hands on her apron, unable to place the four women who stood in the entry, one of them holding a container of ravioli and a pint of her vodka sauce.

  The woman looked so familiar. She’d seen those cold green eyes before but couldn’t place her. “My mother bought this ravioli and sauce here yesterday,” she said, practically spitting the words, “and we heated it up exactly as the direction label said, but the ravioli was inedible. And the sauce, way too bland. I hope you have a return policy.”

  Holly felt her cheeks burn. Were the women all together, or were they separate customers who’d likely leave now?

  “Of course,” Holly said. “And I apologize.” She opened the old-fashioned register, in which she kept very little cash, and returned the woman’s eleven dollars and tax. “I’d love for you to take this penne and vodka sauce,” Holly said, confident about both, “with compliments and apologies.”

  “Um, I don’t think so,” the woman said in the snottiest voice Holly had ever heard, and Holly suddenly placed her.

  “You’re Georgina Perry,” Holly said, staring at her.

  “Georgina Perry Handelmann.”

  Whoopdie-doo, Holly wanted to say.

  “Oh, wait a minute. You’re the previous owner’s granddaughter, right? Hailey, right?

  “Holly.”

  “That’s right, Holly.” She upped her chin at the blonde behind her, who tapped into her iPhone. “Carly has a dog named Holly. Her husband gave it to her on Christmas. Isn’t that adorable?”

  Georgina Perry had been Avery Windemere’s little sidekick when Holly was a girl, with a mean mouth and buck teeth she’d clearly had fixed.

  And Holly was Avery’s competition.

  She knew the penne and the vodka sauce were perfectly fine. Three weeks ago she would have burst into tears over a returned pasta, knowing she was barely passable as a cook. Now it was personal taste—or a friend of Avery’s—that would merit a return.

  “Have a nice day,” Georgina said with a smile, then the rattlesnakes left.

  They’re still in middle school, Holly thought, hoping Mia’s friend hadn’t inherited her mother’s or mother’s friends’ ways. Yeah, right.

  At the sound of a short hiss, Holly remembered the ravioli.

  No. No. No. All that work! She raced to the stove to see her ravioli bubbling over the edge of the pot. Several had fallen onto the stove.

  Well, there was another wish that might not come true.

  Holly was so dejected by the hours of work wasted that she changed into her comfortable walking boots and headed out for the two-mile walk to Blue Crab Cove, hoping the beautiful inn would reinspire her to work on the recipes later. Plus, Juliet hadn’t called back and perhaps she’d run into her, if she weren’t holed away in her room. Holly had only been inside the Blue Crab Cove once, to have a birthday lunch with her grandmother, and she’d gotten a peek into one of the rooms, which was so lush and romantic Holly could imagine living there.

  The inn jutting out on the craggy cliff seemed much closer from a distance, but the road to it wound around the bay in such a way that it was a mile from the main road. As she neared the inn, the fairy tale–like gray Queen Anne with its turrets and decks came into full view and almost stole her breath. She, Holly Maguire, former dogwalker, temp, and sea anemone lecturer, could very well be catering a fancy wedding in this amazing place.

  The grounds, the surrounding bay, the majestic Queen Anne were so beautiful that Holly stopped to take it all in, then headed in to the posh lobby with its oriental rugs and huge Renaissance oil paintings. She walked down the hall to where she could see inside a banquet room with its imposing chandeliers and floor-to-ceiling windows draped in velvet.

  She was making a mental note to soak the cannelloni beans for the white bean pâté when she saw Juliet through the wall of windows, down by the cliff’s edge, just past a stand of trees lit by its yellow-orange leaves. She was standing there, in jeans and a long gray sweater, looking out, and then she sat down and began digging at the pebbly sand-dirt with her bare hands and put something in the ground, then covered it with earth.

  And then she dropped down to her knees, as if she were crying, and Holly wanted to run out there, but she knew she shouldn’t.

  Oh, Juliet, what happened? she wondered. Perhaps she would hang around the lobby until Juliet came back inside. Holly settled herself into one of the overstuffed chairs by the fireplace with her brochures and menus and the notes she’d taken to fine-tune her ideas for the tasting menu. If Juliet came in and spotted her and wanted to talk, so be it.

  Holly spread out her work, plugged in her netbook, and ordered a pot of Earl Grey and a plate of cookies when Juliet did come through the side door, her gaze stopping on Holly. She came over, her hands on each end of her sweater’s sash. “Sorry I haven’t called back. I appreciated your call. I’m just not …”

  “That’s okay, Juliet.” Holly reached up and squeezed her hand briefly. She waited for Juliet to say more, and when she didn’t, Holly rushed to add, “I’m trying out for a catering job for a wedding here, so I figured I’d soak up the ambience while I worked on the tasting menu.”

  “That’s wonderful, Holly. I know you’ll do great. I was so impressed with the class. You’re a natural teacher. And the way you set up the class, so that we all do everything together and learn about pans and technique as much as simply following a recipe, that was so helpful.”

  Holly beamed, the compliment making her very happy. “I think I might
have found my place, Juliet. Do you remember how we used to talk about that, how we felt like we didn’t belong anywhere? I feel like I’m meant to be here, meant to be doing this.”

  Juliet smiled, but the smile faltered and she sat down on the edge of the chair beside Holly’s as though she might have fallen otherwise. “I’m sorry if I cast a gray pall over everything. Until that pink woman mentioned how gloomy I look, I didn’t even think about what impression I give. I don’t really care how I look, but I don’t want to turn your class into a downer.”

  “Don’t give it another thought,” Holly said.

  Juliet stared at her feet for a moment. “I’ll see you Monday night for the class. I did really enjoy the first one. I liked hearing all those wishes and memories. I’ve been so … insular lately that I almost forgot other people have wishes and memories. My husband thinks that’s selfish, that I’m selfish for closing myself off and running away out there, but we’re such different people. …” she trailed off and moved to the windows, gazing out at the blue-gray water.

  Holly was relieved to hear Juliet’s husband was alive and well.

  “Well,” Juliet said. “I’ll see you Monday, then.” And with the briefest of smiles she was down the hall and gone.

  • • •

  Back at the house, after cooking for hours, an exhausted Holly glanced around the spotless kitchen, which she’d just finished cleaning. There was no sign of the huge mess she’d made, including knocking a bottle of expensive olive oil off the counter with the pot of soaking cannelloni beans that she’d moved to the stove. She’d had a good night. Her fifth attempt at risotto alla Milanese had come out pretty darn good. She would absolutely include the risotto on the tasting menu.

  Holly turned off the lights, headed upstairs to her grandmother’s room, and began moving some of her clothes to the closets, wondering what she should do with Camilla’s beautiful collection of dresses. She hated the idea of giving them away, but she wouldn’t wear them herself, so perhaps she could donate them. When she was too tired to lift even a stack of her sweaters, Holly settled in under the fluffy white comforter with her grandmother’s diary.

  September 1962

  Dear Diary,

  Since Lenora did become pregnant and Jacqueline’s unbearable in-laws did choose to live with their other son in Massachusetts, word spread that if you wished for something in my home, it would come true. Lenora suggested I charge money for wishes, but that seemed a little greedy for something that took no effort on my part. And so their friends came to make wishes, which turned into conversations and questions about their lives, about their future, about their marriages and children and jobs, and suddenly I was bringing down the three Po River stones and using them more for comfort for myself than for any answers. The women seemed to like that, that what I “knew” seemed to come from the magic Italian stones. Finally, I did take Lenora’s suggestion to charge money and settled on five dollars. Every day I have at least one customer for a fortune, so I created a private nook in the kitchen by the side window with its view of sky and trees.

  Despite this, despite all the phone calls and knocks on my door, despite how much I know about these women on the island, I haven’t made any real friends, even though I’ve tried, both with the locals and the mothers at Luciana’s school in Portland. I remain on my own. It is just as well. I am now the keeper of secrets here on the island, and since I know so much about so many, perhaps that is why everyone keeps their distance.

  Today the class worked on making tagliatelle Bolognese. Of course they want nothing to do with learning how to make fresh pasta; they say they have no time. But they have plenty of time. As Annette added the meats to the pot, the veal and the pork and the pancetta, she said, “Do you believe my mother is already trying to fix me up with her doctor? My husband has been dead for one month.”

  The others were mincing vegetables, the carrots and garlic and onion and celery. I waited to see if something would come, a vision of Annette and a man canoodling in a doctor’s office, but there was nothing.

  “I wish you knew everything,” Lenora said, adding the crushed tomatoes to the pot. “I wish you could tell us everything that’s going to happen.”

  “I’m not sure any of us would really want to know,” I said. “Had I known my Armando was going to suddenly die, like your husband, Annette, then what? I would have suffered an additional two weeks, two months? Been unable to focus on the time I had with him because I’d be already grieving when he was alive.”

  Annette glanced up at me. “That’s very wise, Camilla.”

  “I wonder if my baby will be a boy or a girl,” Lenora said suddenly, dipping a spoon into the pot for a taste. “Oh, my, this is good.”

  Lenora mistook my silence as a polite reminder for her to pay up, and she rummaged in her purse for a five-dollar bill, which she slapped on the counter.

  But I wasn’t thinking about fortune-telling disguised as questions a close friend would ask another, for support, assurance. I was thinking that Lenora’s baby would be a boy—and that there would be trouble. The funny feeling I originally had was now just something of a gray cloud.

  “What?” Lenora asked, the spoon poised midair. “Oh, God, don’t tell me it’s twins!”

  “A boy and a girl!” Annette exclaimed.

  “Identical twin boys,” Jacqueline added. “Lenora already has the girl she always dreamed of.”

  Lenora ignored them. “I want to hear what Camilla has to say.”

  No, you really don’t, I thought, pretending great interest in peeling an extra clove of garlic.

  “Boy, right? Lenora asked. “I heard if you’re carrying low, it’s a boy. And girls are supposed to steal your beauty, but I’ve never looked better.”

  As her friends agreed with that last bit, I turned away for a moment. I knew the baby was a boy, but I didn’t want to tell Lenora that, didn’t want to make this baby so definite in her mind, something she could name and shop for, buying out the blue onesies at the new department store in Portland.

  “I do have the feeling the baby is a boy,” I told her. “But—” And I added this in front of everyone so that they would pressure her or gossip to her doctor—“but there is some feeling of a difficult birth.”

  She stared at me. “Amanda’s was an easy birth, so I don’t know why this one wouldn’t go as smoothly. Right?” There was hard emphasis on the right.

  “You delivered at home with Amanda, using a midwife?”

  Lenora glanced at her friends. “Yes, and everything was fine. It’s what I’m going to do for this baby too.”

  “No, Lenora,” I said. “This baby should be born in a hospital.”

  Her sharp blue eyes bored into mine. “Why? What are you saying?”

  I hated this. Hated knowing. Hated knowing so little, but enough to alarm. “I don’t know, Lenora. I only know that it will be a difficult birth and you should deliver in a hospital, not at home.”

  “So, maybe she’ll need a cesarean section?” Annette asked.

  “Yes, maybe that is it,” I said, though I had no idea.

  “My sister had a C-section with her youngest,” Jacqueline said. “She was in labor for something like twenty hours and they finally had to do the cesarean to save the baby. She was born perfectly healthy. And at ten pounds, my sister was grateful for the scar. She doesn’t even mind not wearing a bikini anymore.”

  And so the discussion turned to birth stories, both their own and their friends and what they’d heard, and Lenora calmed down. But I felt her eyes on me.

  Something was brushing Holly’s cheek. She opened her eyes to find Antonio’s tail resting against her face. She’d fallen asleep, her grandmother’s diary facedown on the rug. She glanced at the clock: 12:47 a.m. She turned off the lights and settled back under the blanket, wondering what became of Lenora Windemere’s baby, if this was the same child who Francesca Bean had mentioned had died young, but not wanting to know at the same time. She had a feeing it was and
wondered what her grandmother’s connection was. Something she’d “foreseen”? Whatever it was, it was something Lenora had clearly held a thirty-year grudge over.

  Just before she fell asleep, she also wondered if the fact that Mia was her apprentice would cause trouble with her new friend, a Windemere. She wouldn’t be surprised if Madeline Windemere, of the “We’re letting you in our exclusive M Club because we like your hair and your name starts with M,” was as mean as her mother, Amanda, and her grandmother, Lenora.

  She reached for her white satin pouch of stones and clutched it in her hand, hoping it would reveal something in her subconscious as she slept.

  Nine

  Please, please, please let Daniel Dressler ask me to the Fall Ball,” Mia wished into the mixture of ground beef, egg, and bread crumbs in the bowl on the center island. “Extra please with please on top,” she added, measuring out a teaspoon of salt and tapping it in.

  Class number two of Camilla’s Cucinotta’s cooking course was off to a great start, the meatballs and spaghetti to wow Simon’s daughter (he planned to attempt it himself that weekend, when she’d be visiting), almost ready for their pots.

  “Even though Madeline Windemere thinks he’s a loser,” Mia whispered in the bowl.

  “Why does Madeline Windemere think he’s a loser?” Tamara asked, once again in her meet-men uniform of a pencil skirt, fitted sweater, and knee-high boots. Someone definitely had a date tonight, Holly thought. She added the parmesan cheese and the half teaspoon of pepper.

  Mia bit her lip. “She said he thinks he’s all Edward Cullen because he acts so serious and wears cool vests over T-shirts and carries around a book we’re not even supposed to read for class. But those are three of the reasons I do like him so much.”

  “Should I be embarrassed that I know who Edward Cullen is?” Simon asked, winking at Mia. He and Juliet were on garlic mincing duty, and the smell in Camilla’s Cucinotta was so delicious that Holly knew the meatballs would be a hit even before they were formed.