“Are you crazy?” Rachel said, jumping to her feet so that she had some height on him. She couldn’t believe he’d demand such a thing. “Those are mine.”
“No,” Marco said with a patronizing shake of his head. “They’re my recipes. Alessandro’s. You created them as works for hire while we were paying you a salary. Since you don’t want to marry me—well, it’s all right here.” From an inside pocket of his jacket he drew out a large cream-colored envelope. He placed it on his desk and slid it toward her.
Rachel could see the law firm’s return address printed in the corner. Fingers trembling, she picked up the packet and removed the contents. There, in black ink, was a legal demand that she relinquish all recipes created or suffer being taken to civil court. She couldn’t believe Marco had been so…premeditated. “You’re giving me a demand letter?”
“It was Anthony’s idea,” Marco said, as if blaming his brother made the letter less of an evil. “This would all be so much simpler if you married me as we’d planned. We had a good thing going.”
“Until you couldn’t keep your pants zipped,” Rachel pointed out as she skimmed the appalling letter again. “I don’t understand the rationale behind this action. I work for you. I bake here. My desserts feed your customers. That won’t change just because you and I are no longer engaged.”
“But in the future, it might. What if you choose to leave?” He tapped his fingertips again.
“I have a six-month noncompete clause,” she reminded him.
“Yes, and six months is a mere drop in the ocean of time. If you go, all the money Alessandro’s has invested in you flies out the window. We run a business here, and as much as I’d like to be generous, Anthony’s right. We can’t let you take our property with you.”
Now he was talking way over her head. She planted her hands on her hips. “Let me see. Either I marry you, or I turn over my recipes?”
“Marriage to me wouldn’t be that bad,” Marco said with a smile. “At least you’d get something permanent in return.”
“Who says I’d turn over my recipes then?” she demanded. The gall of the man.
He seemed taken aback by her outburst. “As I’ve always said, husbands and wives share everything. And when you became pregnant and stayed home to raise our children, your replacement would continue your work. I don’t see what the big deal is.”
Pregnant? Stay home and be barefoot in the kitchen? What had she seen in him? “You are archaic.”
“Tradition is part of my heritage.”
“Oh, please,” Rachel scoffed. She was sick of the charade. “Enough of this. You’re a third-generation Brooklynite whose trips to Italy are all for show. Give me a break. You’re not getting my recipes, which by the way originated from my grandmother’s cookbook. Not your kitchen.”
“Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be,” Marco said. He stood and gestured. “You’re overwrought. Perhaps I shouldn’t have gone to Italy. I should have wooed you more. Made amends. I’ll call Anthony and have him cover for me tonight. We’ll go out. See a show. You can pick out a new piece of jewelry.”
“No.” Rachel placed both hands on his desk and leaned forward. “This is over. You and I are through. T-H-R-O-U-G-H.”
He stepped around the desk, as if sensing the situation was spiraling out of his control. “Rachel, please calm down. Be sensible. I’m not your enemy.”
“No, Anthony is.” Rachel waved the letter in front of Marco. “Well, we’re not playing this game. You will not steal my recipes.” She got up and stalked to the door.
“Rachel, this will get ugly,” he warned.
She whirled around. “It already has,” she told him. “You’re an egotistical creep. The worst kind of human. I don’t want to be around you. I quit.”
His indignation was immediate. “You can’t quit. Who will bake your cakes? And you won’t work anywhere. I’ll see to it.”
She couldn’t contain herself. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Don’t kick a sleeping snake.”
“You and your stupid quotations. I always hated those. You’re like a walking Bartlett’s.”
“Good, then hate this. You can’t threaten me. You have no hold over me. None. You won’t get my recipes, so just leave me alone, Marco. I’m out of your life.”
She stormed out of his office, and didn’t realize he’d followed her to the kitchen until she heard his footsteps behind her.
“You will not walk out of here until you give me your recipes,” he shouted. “That letter says you must.”
Faces appeared around stainless-steel pots and pans. The kitchen, normally a crescendo of clattering, quieted as spectators watched the show.
“You can’t demand anything from me. I just quit,” Rachel said, her voice notching upward.
“I can and I will,” Marco warned. “You’ll deal with my lawyers. Anthony’s lawyers.”
She rolled her eyes. “Please. Neither you nor your brother scares me. This isn’t some silly TV show. It’s real life. In fact—” her gaze lighted on the chocolate cakes she’d left out to cool “—you want my recipes?”
“They are Alessandro’s property,” he reiterated.
Rachel smiled. “Fine. Have them.” She dug her hand into the nearest nine-inch cake pan and drew out a still-warm chunk of moist chocolate cake. Within seconds, the huge mass had found a new home on the front of Marco’s suit. She stood there, defiant. Marco took one step forward, then stopped, aware of the avid audience. “Replacing my suit will come out of your final check,” he said.
“In that case…” Rachel shrugged, reached into another cake pan and hurled another gob at him, this time nailing him on the neck. Brown crumbs clung to his jaw, catching on the evening stubble. “Now, that’s worth every penny.”
Marco glared at her but didn’t say another word. Instead he turned, retreated, and moments later the door to his office slammed, the sound resonating throughout the kitchen.
The staff looked at Rachel in obvious appreciation before quickly returning to work. Only Glynnis followed Rachel to her locker. “Never would have believed that if I hadn’t seen it. You’ll be the talk of the crew for days. Can’t say he didn’t have it coming to him.”
“You’ve been great to work with,” Rachel said, her adrenaline beginning to ebb as the reality of what she’d done crept in. She removed her Alessandro’s apron and tossed it on a table.
“Call me if you ever need me,” Glynnis said. “I’d come work for you anyday.”
“Thanks, but I’ll have to let you know. I’m somewhat unemployable at the moment.” Rachel tugged her coat from her locker and grabbed her purse. She dumped the padlock and key into her bag, then she reached up to the top shelf and took down the only other item in the locker. She kept most of her recipes at her apartment, but she’d made copies of the desserts she baked for Alessandro’s and stored them here in a small notebook.
“You’re giving him those?” Glynnis asked.
“Hell, no,” Rachel said with a wry laugh. “He’s not going to sue me, and he can rot somewhere hot if he does.”
“So what will you do? You don’t have the money to fight him if you can’t work,” Glynnis said, obviously concerned.
“Oh, I’ve got a job waiting for me,” Rachel declared, not wanting Glynnis to worry. Rachel would have to put her tail between her legs to ask for the position, but once she walked in the door, she knew the owners wouldn’t turn her away.
“You got a job? Where?” Glynnis asked.
“Kim’s Diner,” Rachel said, the idea taking hold.
Glynnis appeared confused. “Kim’s? Is it in Jersey?”
“No. Morrisville.” Rachel saw her expression. “Indiana.”
“Never heard of it,” Glynnis admitted.
That was the kicker. “No one has.” The adrenaline of the moment had worn off completely and Rachel trembled as she digested the implications of her rash decision. She’d hate leaving New York. She loved the city. She vowe
d to make her exile only temporary. She plastered a brave smile on her face.
“You know what the tough do when the going gets rough?” she asked.
Glynnis shook her head.
Rachel picked up her bag and gave Glynnis a hug. Hopefully, she’d see her friend soon. “The tough go home.”
Chapter Two
“Who would have thought coming home would cause this much stir,” Rachel said as she put away the last of the clean dishes.
“Now, don’t let all the gossips get you down.” Her grandmother Kim said as she handed Rachel one last plate. The diner was only open for breakfast and lunch, and as soon as longtime patron Harold Robison finished his last cup of coffee, the workday would be over. Harold liked to linger, and for years had ignored the sign indicating that Kim’s closed at precisely three o’clock. “Everyone’s just glad to see you, that’s all.”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Rachel told her grandmother. She’d been back in Morrisville for two full days now. Once she’d stormed out of Alessandro’s, she’d been a woman of action. One day and two phone calls later and she’d had her place sublet. One more phone call had gotten her car out of its Queens storage lot. A week after tossing cake on her former fiancé, Rachel had been on the road, driving from New York to Indiana with her personal possessions loaded in the trunk.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t escaped town quickly enough to avoid a courier-delivered envelope from Anthony and Marco Alessandro’s lawyer. Not only had they docked her final paycheck for the cost of replacing Marco’s suit, leaving her with a mere six dollars and ten cents, but they’d also given her thirty days to turn over her recipes or face civil action.
The amount they’d valued her recipes at had been astronomical. The morning after the cake flinging, Rachel had prayed that Marco would see how stupid and silly they were both being, but apparently, he was determined to punish her.
She no longer had rent expense, but she did have credit card debt. Now she was about to add legal bills to an already stretched budget. She refused to take charity from her mother and grandmother—it was bad enough she was back in her childhood bedroom, which had pretty much remained unchanged since the day she’d left for New York City. Her window still faced the Morris house; the only difference was that Colin Morris, her friend since childhood, no longer occupied the room across the way. As youngsters, they’d used flashlights and Morse code—get it? Morse/Morris code, they’d laugh—and sent messages to each other until late at night.
For income, Rachel had negotiated eleven dollars an hour to work at Kim’s. Her grandmother had wanted to pay her more, but Rachel knew that any money for a higher salary would come from her grandmother’s pocket and not the restaurant’s cash register. Kim Palladia lived comfortably, but Rachel didn’t want to be in debt to her family. It was time she faced the music.
Starting with heading to the law office of Lancaster and Morris, which had provided legal expertise to the town of Morrisville for over fifty years.
Rachel tugged on her coat. She’d walk across Main Street, through the parking lot, and be in the law-office lobby before her bravado deserted her. She dreaded hearing what Bruce Lancaster would have to say. He was one of the sharpest legal minds in the state and a former childhood playmate, but she had to admit she was petrified he’d tell her that Marco had a legitimate claim to her recipes and she’d have to turn them over.
“I’m leaving,” she called.
Her grandmother waved. “See you at home tonight,” she said. She’d moved in eight years ago, adding another body to the Palladia homestead. The century-old Victorian home, which stood on a half-acre lot, was really too big for just two people. But it had been in Rachel’s father’s family for two generations, and Rachel’s mother simply couldn’t bear to part with it. Rachel knew that her mother hoped she’d eventually move home and raise a family in the old place. She hated disappointing her, but figured all those years in New York City were a clue that she didn’t want to be a small-town girl.
The blustery March wind whipped down the street, causing the Easter decorations hanging from light poles to sway. Morrisville had signs for every holiday. The current ones displayed a white bunny carrying an egg-filled basket and advertised the annual Knights of Columbus Easter-egg event the middle of the month.
Rachel gathered her coat closer, and soon was inside the first set of huge wooden doors. She crossed the black-and-white tile floor and pulled on the next set. Lancaster and Morris was situated in the former county seat, an old court-houselike, three-story building complete with a rotunda. Colin Morris used to say there were two coveted offices in the place: the Morris office, which overlooked Main Street, and the Lancaster office, which overlooked the town park. Rachel strode over to the receptionist, seated behind a huge desk.
“May I help you?” the girl asked.
“I’m here to see Bruce Lancaster. If he’s available,” Rachel added hastily.
“Do you have an appointment?” She had to be about twenty, Rachel decided, and already she had a wedding ring on her finger.
“No.” Gosh, she really was an idiot. “I’m Rachel Palladia. My grandmother owns Kim’s Diner. She’s a client here.” Rachel had no idea whose, but Lancaster and Morris had handled both her father’s and her grandfather’s estates.
“Mr. Lancaster is out of town for the next two weeks,” the receptionist said politely. “He and his wife—”
“Oh, yes, Christina. I didn’t attend their wedding, but my mother and grandmother went.” Rachel smiled helpfully. “Is she available?”
“No, she’s out of town, as well. I can see who else could meet with you, if you’d like. If no one is available today, I’d be more than happy to set up an appointment for some other time.”
Rachel sighed with frustration. She’d have better luck just walking next door this evening, bringing Reginald Morris an apple pie and asking for his advice after dinner. “No, that’s okay. I’ll take care of it.”
She turned and began the trek back across the marble floor, the rubber soles of her tennis shoes squeaking. She’d just reached the outer set of doors when one of them opened as if of its own volition. The motion threw her off balance, and she plowed right into the man walking in.
“Careful there,” he said, his bare hand catching her arm in an attempt to steady her. His wool overcoat slapped around his legs and his briefcase banged his knee. “Gotta look where you’re going,” he chastised her lightly.
“I was,” Rachel replied, her patience a tad on the thin side.
“As long as you’re okay,” he said. It was then that they both took a good look at each other. “Rachel?” the man said. “It is you.”
Colin Morris stood in front of her, blocking her escape. “Hi, Colin,” she replied.
He smiled. They were still in the vestibule, and he let the outer door close behind him with a thud. “It’s good to see you. I heard you were in town.” His blue eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here?”
“What, in town?” He hadn’t grown dense over the years, had he?
He frowned. “No. Here. Where I work.”
“Oh. I wanted to catch Bruce, but he’s away.”
“Yeah, his wife’s pregnant and soon she won’t be able to travel with Bella, her little girl. Christina and Bruce decided to visit her side of the family now, while she’s still mobile.
“So, you’re home for a while?” he asked conversationally.
“Yes. You know, I do come home occasionally. In fact, I was home this past Christmas,” she said, chafing. “I met Christina then. She came briefly into Kim’s to pick up some of my mom’s chicken salad. I’m in and out so quickly that I don’t have time to see everyone. Most of my friends are all married and busy with their own lives. I have managed to keep in touch with Heather.”
“Yeah, but not with me or Bruce. You didn’t attend his wedding. I thought I’d run into you there. We haven’t caught up in years.”
“I was in the Hamptons that weekend with a p
rior commitment.”
“Oh.” He arched his eyebrows disapprovingly, as if he found hobnobbing a poor excuse for missing a friend’s nuptials.
Rachel exhaled, blowing a strand of wind-tossed hair off her face. She didn’t want to get into any discussion with Colin here, in between doorways. The man had no right to judge her. She might be back in Morrisville, but the friendship they’d shared was long past. She was all grown-up now, and not so enamored with Colin’s playboy ways.
“It’s been great catching up, Colin, but I’ve really got to get back. Kim’s closes at three, but there’s always cleaning to do. I said I’d help.”
“You’re working there now?” he asked.
She gritted her teeth. “Temporarily. I have a few matters to take care of, which is why I came by to consult Bruce. I’ll just visit your dad tonight. Take him and your mom a pie.”
“He always had a sweet spot for you and your desserts,” Colin said with a laugh. When he grinned, the harsh angles of his face softened. He could frown and remain drop-dead attractive; smiling made him a heartthrob. Sadly, even after all the years away, Rachel found herself not immune. He had been her secret crush for so long. That had to be the reason she experienced a tingle in her toes and a shiver along her spine. The man was simply magnetic. Like Marco, Colin probably affected a lot of other women this way.
“So what do you want to talk to Dad about?” he asked, pushing the inner door open. “I’ve got some time and we’re blocking the exit. We need to either go one way or the other. Why don’t you tell me about it.”
“Really, I’m not going to be here in Morrisville that long and—”
He stopped, his foot holding open the lobby door. “Look, Rachel, if it’s something legal, my father has a pretty tight schedule for the next few weeks. He’s due in court two days from now as the defense counsel in what’s shaping up to be a huge and long trial. If you want some advice, I’ll help. We are still friends, aren’t we?”
She wavered. Friends. That was all they’d been until her heart had gotten in the way. Even afterward, the feelings had been one-sided. Hers.
The Marriage Recipe Page 2