The Love Goddess’ Cooking School

by Melissa Senate

  “Actually, no. I’ve made some friends—my students. And there’s this guy,” Holly dared to add.

  “Ah, so that’s why you’re staying. I knew it couldn’t be the cooking class and that snotty community.” Her mother sounded so relieved.

  Holly sighed. She and her mother would never understand each other, never be able to talk to each other, hear each other. Holly had no idea how to fix this, how to just say, No, Mom, it’s not the guy. It is the cooking class and the island, which isn’t really all that snotty, except for the Avery Windemeres. Her mother wouldn’t understand because she’d been there, done that, and had been miserable for reasons Holly couldn’t understand.

  A constant stalemate.

  “Mom, my ravioli is burning. I’d better hang up. Tell Dad I said hi.”

  Bittersweet, ha. Her relationship with her mother was just plain sad.

  She cooked on, tasting, dumping, testing, perfecting. Aware that her mother was wrong. Being here, in this kitchen that made her feel so happy, so challenged, so safe, had nothing to do with a man and everything to do with herself.

  That night before the tasting, though, Holly did wish into the saffron risotto that somehow, someway, she would have at least one amazing night with Liam, that she’d experience those lips on her, those hands on her, those eyes on hers. And when she dipped her fork in to try it, the risotto as perfect as can be, she was sure there was something to those bittersweet wishes and memories.

  When Thursday dawned a bright, beautiful day, the sun lighting the yellow and orange trees outside her window like the flames under the various pots and pans that were her life now, Holly felt so positive. She had her menu, she had her recipes, and she had Camilla’s Po River stones in her pocket. She set to work on the pasta dough, sure for the first time that she could do this, would do this. Even when Francesca Bean called to say that her mother insisted she include a veal marsala in the tasting, as it was her husband’s favorite dish and most people liked it even if Francesca did not, but her mother had dismissed her as an eccentric. Francesca also reported that the two mothers insisted not a word be spoken at the tasting until they made all their notes and put their forks down.

  Veal marsala? No problem. Notes like she was a contestant on the The Next Food Network Star? Fine. She was ready. She’d even hired an off-duty waitress at the hotel to help her bring everything over, set up, clear, and keep things moving smoothly for two hours.

  And so, with Antonio watching her, U2 blaring on the iPod dock, and the garlic-and-onion-infused kitchen irresistible even to her after three days, she got to work.

  Eleven

  Holly peered out of the small kitchen attached to Banquet Room B to see Francesca Bean, her mother, and her future mother-in-law walking in and taking off their coats. The mothers both had perfectly highlighted Martha Stewart bobs and wore similar outfits of pants and flowy blouses with chunky necklaces. Holly was surprised they weren’t sisters. A short, rectangular table had been set up by the inn staff, and the two mothers seated themselves, leaving the one in the middle for the bride to be. Francesca turned toward the kitchen and mouthed, Good luck, then sat down between the two tough cookies.

  “You’ve got your work cut out for you with those faces,” Sarah, the waitress Holly had hired for the occasion, said with a wink. “The scowling one is always here, complaining that the coffee isn’t hot enough.” At Holly’s frown, she added, “Don’t worry, though, I’ve served steaks tougher than her. You’ll be fine.”

  Oh, great, Holly thought. Just as Holly was about to tell Sarah not to say another word, a bell chimed. Mrs. Bean had come up with the bell system as she was clearly used to ringing a little bell when she wanted her housekeeper to dust a chair her flat tush was about to sit on. At the first bell, Holly was to come out and introduce herself, then return with the first course. The next bell would signal that they were ready to have their plates cleared for the next course, and so on.

  Holly glanced down at her Camilla’s Cucinotta apron to make sure it wasn’t covered in marinara, pasted a smile on her face, and walked into the room, stopping in front of the table. “Hello, my name is Holly Maguire, and I’m thrilled to have this opportunity to cook for you today. I’ve created a tasting menu that I believe suits the happy couple, this beautiful venue, the groom’s heritage and the bride’s home state, and all of your special requests. I do hope you’ll be pleased with the results.”

  Her little speech seemed to charm Mrs. Mariano, the groom’s mother; she smiled in that isn’t that lovely way to Francesca, but Mrs. Bean remained as snooty-faced as ever. Well, Holly planned to crack that constipated expression with one bite of the amazing mozzarella she’d found at a tiny Italian market in Portland. By the time the woman got to the veal marsala, she’d be breaking out into song.

  Holly gave a little bow, then dashed back into the kitchen. Everything was ready, heated to just the right temperature, and the tasters were waiting.

  “Everything looks amazing,” Sarah assured her. “Go knock them dead. Well, not really,” she added.

  If only this were a weekend and Mia would have been available to help, Holly thought. She closed her eyes for a moment and sent a wish up to the universe to let her get this job, then came out with the first course on a large round tray and set down three small plates of her artfully arranged antipasto—delectable mozzarella, the most intense olives, and bruschetta, infused with olive oil and herbs and a topping of fresh tomatoes and bits of eggplant.

  “Mmm, doesn’t this look good!” Francesca said, as though she couldn’t help it.

  “Shhh,” her mother admonished, slicing her fork into the cheese. The kitchen door was perpendicular to the way the table was set up, and the tasters’ backs were to the kitchen, so Holly couldn’t see expressions, but at least no one had spit out anything with a “This is disgusting” like John Reardon had.

  The spinach and three-cheese ravioli was on deck, and when a bell rang, Sarah came out to collect the plates and refresh their water glasses. Then Holly brought out the tray of ravioli, placing a plate before each woman.

  Mrs. Bean poked at each of the three raviolis with her fork, writing something down on a little pad next to her as though she were a Top Chef judge. Mrs. Mariano simply scooped it up with her fork and put it into her mouth, her expression giving nothing away. Francesca forked a bite, and Holly could tell from her expression that she loved it.

  And so it continued with the crabmeat gnocchi, the veal marsala, the tagliatelle Bolognese, which Holly considered her masterpiece, two kinds of vegetarian pastas, and an herb-infused sole that flaked just right.

  And finally, Mrs. Bean dug her fork into the saffron risotto, which Holly would grade an A. Not an A-plus, not Camila Constantina’s Italy, but Liam’s perhaps. Good enough for the Blue Crab Cove, Holly thought.

  Mrs. Bean took two more tastes of the risotto, then scribbled on her pad. And finally there was napkin dabbing and bell ringing. All that was left for Holy to bring out was herself for the assessments.

  “I’ll begin,” Mrs. Bean said, eyeing Holly under her glasses with all the disdain she could muster. “I enjoyed the veal marsala and the crab-stuffed gnocchi, but the Bolognese was too rich for me, and the risotto, I don’t know, a bit too flavorful. Oh, I did love the mozzarella from the antipasto selection. That was exceptional.”

  Holly deflated a bit. Her only rave was on the one thing she hadn’t made herself.

  “Well, I loved the Bolognese,” Francesca said. “In fact, I loved everything, except the veal marsala, which I found just a bit too heavy, but only because A, I don’t like veal marsala and B, because I envisioned everything a bit lighter for a first day of spring wedding. I loved the risotto. Mmm, was that good. And the color was beautiful.”

  Holly’s pride puffed back out a bit.

  But the one Holly was most worried about, because of the Italian connection, half or not, was Mrs. Mariano.

  The groom’s mother cleared her throat and put on her
reading glasses, which hung around her neck on a multicolored chain, then picked up her little pad. “I gave everything a solid B, except the tagliatelle Bolognese, which was an A-minus, and the risotto a solid A. Oh, and I agree on the antipasto selections. That mozzarella was magnificent.”

  Mrs. Bean smiled. “Unfortunately, dear,” she directed at Holly, “A solid B with only two A dishes is not quite what we’re looking for when it comes to the food for our baby’s wedding. But thank you—Holly, is it?—with time and experience and a bit more seasoning, we’re sure you’ll be a fine caterer.”

  “Mom,” Francesca said, her cheeks flushing.

  Holly mustered a thank-you from the bottom of somewhere inside her. She offered Francesca a brief smile, then began collecting plates to have something to do and returned to the kitchen, where she hid against the side of the doorway and tried not to burst into tears. Sarah squeezed her hand and rushed in to collect the rest of the plates.

  “Mom, I thought everything was great,” Francesca said, her voice carrying loud and clear to the kitchen.

  “I disagree, dear,” Mrs. Bean said. “A few items were, yes. But the majority I’d honestly have to give a solid C. Even your father wouldn’t rave over the marsala, and you know how he loves that dish.”

  Francesca shook her head. “Mom, the food was delicious. And I want Camilla Constantina represented at my wedding.”

  “I understand that. So we’ll borrow one of her signature recipes and give it to Avery or the Portland company, and she’ll be represented.”

  “It’s not the same,” Francesca said. “Holly’s grandmother is the reason Jack and I are together in the first place. If she hadn’t told me to take my paints and my questions to the pier every day for that week, I could be in California right now, dating a string of surfers.”

  “Surfers were never your type, Francesca. And stop being so dramatic about this.”

  As Holly scraped the uneaten food into the compost can, she glanced out the door to see Mrs. Bean slide back her chair and sling her purse over her shoulder.

  “And besides, the fact that you and Jack are getting married already means she’s represented, doesn’t it?” Mrs. Bean said, glancing at her watch. “Let’s move on, dear. We have an appointment to look at headpieces in less than an hour.”

  Francesca stood up and crossed her arms over her chest. “Mom, I loved the food. I want to hire Holly and Camilla’s Cucinotta.”

  Mrs. Bean made a show of rolling her eyes and throwing up her hands. “Anna, talk some sense into this romantic daughter of mine.”

  Mrs. Mariano shook her head. “Oh no, I’m not becoming the classic mother-in-law and butting in.” She smiled and picked up her purse as well.

  “Mom, this is my wedding,” Francesca said.

  Mrs. Bean let out a heavy sigh. “Sweetheart, we had an agreement that Anna and I make the final decision about food. Unless you can come up with the ten thousand or so the catering will cost.”

  Francesca slumped down into her chair, turning toward the kitchen door, where Holly was standing, a plate of half-eaten risotto in her hands. Francesca mouthed an I’m sorry to Holly, then followed her mother and her future mother-in-law out the door.

  Holly dropped the entire plate into the garbage and closed her eyes. All that work, all that wishing, all that money spent on ingredients. For nothing.

  “Sorry, Nonna,” she whispered to the air.

  There was enough money to keep Camilla’s Cucinotta going for another few months. After that, she’d have to find a job, a full-time job, doing who knew what, and she’d have no time to make the pastas and sauces for the little takeout shop. She’d have no energy to teach the class—or the daily practice required to become proficient at the recipes. And Camilla’s Cucinotta would become a memory, like her grandmother.

  Tears stung her eyes. And now in four hours she was expected at the Gellers’, where she had to pretend she was qualified to teach anyone how to cook.

  “Holly, right?”

  Holly turned around, a bulb of garlic in her hand, to find Avery Windemere standing in front of her, her shopping cart containing what looked like a bottle of champagne.

  “Yes, I’m Holly,” she said, unwilling to let Avery know she recognized her.

  Avery was beaming, her long, white teeth almost the same color as her white-blond hair, which Holly knew was natural. Avery was one of those pretty women who required no makeup to look polished. “I thought that was you! It’s been what, ten years since we probably saw each other?” She ran her gaze over Holly’s same old hair, which hadn’t changed since she was five years old, long and straight to her shoulders with a fringe of bangs. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  “Neither have you,” Holly said, barely managing a smile.

  “Well I didn’t have these ten years ago,” Avery cooed, shoving her two-carat diamond ring and gold wedding band at Holly. “And I wasn’t yet in the restaurant business. But now I’m happily married and own my own bistro, and did you see my signs, I’m offering cooking classes now.”

  “Yes, I saw.”

  “I’m offering an Italian segment, but a little healthy competition is good for people, don’t you think, Holly? Will keep us both on our pretty pink toes.”

  God, she was sickening. Not only was she naturally pretty with gorgeous hair and good teeth, she had the ability to seem as though what she was saying was perfectly nice. It was how she’d never gotten into trouble as a rotten kid or mean bully of a teenager. “All I said was that if Holly let her hair grow out from that awkward length and stopped wearing green near her face, since she’s so fair and it completely washes her out and almost gives her a green cast, you know like the Wicked Witch of the West from The Wizard of Oz, which we all watched as a family yesterday—isn’t that the most touching movie?—she would look much better.”

  And the adult’s comment was always, “We watched that last night too! Avery, you really should think about becoming a stylist. For television or magazines or films. You’re so naturally gifted at fashion and beauty.”

  “Oh, and I hope it’s not out of line for me to say I’m sorry about the Bean–Mariano wedding,” Avery added. “I just heard that one of the caterers on their list of possibilities has been crossed off, and since I know you had your tasting today …”

  Holly glanced at her watch. “Oh, it’s almost five o’clock. I’d better get going. Nice to see you.” She started to push her cart away.

  Avery slightly blocked Holly’s cart with her own. “I’m so nervous for my tryout tomorrow afternoon. But excited too.” She glanced at her diamond-encrusted watch. “Oh, look at the time. My Madeline is due home from cheerleading practice. Better run.”

  Holly watched her high heels click away, but then Avery turned around. “Oh, Holly? You’re welcome to sign up for my course starting next week,” she said. “It’s not Italian focused until the third week, but I’m sure the lessons will carry. What you got wrong at the tasting is about skill.”

  “Or something else, perhaps,” Holly said and turned her cart around just in time to see the slight confusion in Avery’s beady blue eyes as she tried to figure out exactly what Holly had meant.

  Thank you, Avery Windemere, she thought as she set her groceries on the checkout table. You just buoyed my spirits because you’re so transparent and wrong. My not getting the job had nothing to do with my skills as a chef. I know I did well. I know it wasn’t the food. And there are other catering jobs to court.

  That felt great until she hit the cool October air and reality hit her in the stomach.

  Twelve

  Uh-oh,” Mia said as she opened the door of her house.

  Holly clutched the brown paper bag of groceries to her chest. “Uh-oh is right. I didn’t get the job.”

  Mia puffed out her lips in a frown. “How is that possible? Wasn’t this Tamara’s sister and mother? How could they not love your cooking? Did you make your tagliatelle Bolognese?”

  “I did. And it
was rated too rich.”

  Mia rolled her eyes. “Whatever on them. If they want mystery meat and rubber chicken like at our caf, I guess they’ll hire someone else.”

  Holly smiled. “At least I have one fan.”

  Liam came down the stairs, and for a moment Holly’s heart actually lifted, but then it sank again. He glanced from Holly to his daughter and back to Holly. “So I can see by your faces that we’re not celebrating tonight.”

  Holly shook her head. “And the risotto was even Italy worthy, or at least I thought it was. I saved you some at the house, so maybe you can tell me sometime if I’m crazy and it was just as off as it was the other day.”

  “Sorry,” he said, taking the bag from her. “I know this job meant a lot to you.”

  “It meant everything,” she said. “I’m not sure how I’m going to keep the business going. But I could try and go after other catering jobs. If I get my confidence back.”

  “There will definitely be other jobs, Holly. It’s just one wedding. And what, you’ve been at this for barely six weeks. If your risotto tastes that good after six weeks, imagine it after four months.”

  That did make her feel better. But if she couldn’t get a catering job with the bride pulling for her, why would strangers hire her? Then again, perhaps off Blue Crab Island, where mothers of friends of enemies of her grandmother were not aplenty, she would not have the same issues.

  Liam took one look at her face, which was clearly about to crumple, then took her hand and led her to the sofa. “Why don’t you let us cook for you? We have the recipe. I have the ingredients. Just sit back and relax with a glass of good red wine and some music. I’m not saying dinner will be good, but since you’ve been cooking nonstop for days, it’s your turn to be served.”

  Fine, make things even worse. Be wonderful, Liam. She leaned her head back against the soft leather and stared out the window, focusing on where the short strip of sandy beach met the dark water. She stared at a rowboat docked on the little square pier, The Mia written in dark purple paint across the side. The sight of it made Holly smile. This was a dad who loved his daughter.