At Sara’s confused look, Dolores explained. “The Southwest streets in Little Havana.”
“I guess she’s a little conceited?” Sara asked.
“She can be at times.” Samantha grabbed a banana from a nearby basket of fruit. “Sometimes she’s friendly, but sometimes, we seem to butt heads.”
Sara wrapped an arm around her niece’s shoulders and hugged her. “Since I know what a good kid you are, I have to say she’s the problem. Ignore her.”
Samantha shook her head. “I’ve got to go study. I’ll see you later,” she said and left the room.
Dolores tracked her daughter’s flight, full lips twisted into a grimace. “Sometimes I wonder if we did the right thing by letting her go to that fancy prep school.”
Sara knew that her brother Matt often worried about the same thing. But as far as she could see, her niece was well-adjusted and had a circle of friends she could count on. “She’ll be fine, Dolores. As for this Angelica, whoever she is, we’ll just make sure that Samantha’s quinceañera is the best party ever.”
“Gracias, Sara. With you cooking, I’m sure it will be. And hopefully there will be a mention in the magazine that helps your business,” Dolores said as she pulled a cookbook off a shelf. As she opened it a number of handwritten pieces of paper spilled out. Dolores gathered them up and laid them on the table neatly, passing her hand across them in a fleeting caress.
“My mami wrote these out for me so I wouldn’t forget our family recipes,” Dolores said with a sniffle.
Sara examined the pieces of paper. Yellowing with age, they had a stain or two, which gave them character. They reminded her of the recipes her grandmother had carefully handwritten onto index cards for her. “Do you mind if I snap some photos of these? And do you have photos of your mom and dad? I’d like to turn these into a cookbook to give to Samantha as my quinceañera gift.”
The sniffles grew louder, and Dolores wiped a tear from under her eye. “That would be a wonderful gift, Sara. Gracias.”
“It would be my pleasure,” she said and hugged the other woman. After a long minute, Dolores waved away her upset and said, “Let’s get back to work.”
Sara nodded. “For sure. We’ve got to rock these family dishes and show everyone they’re at the best quinceañera party ever.”
Chapter 11
The reporter sat across from Tony at the News Café while the photographer flitted around like a bee sampling flowers, shifting here and there to shoot photos for the article.
Tony sipped his café con leche as Roberta Lane flipped through her notes, pausing here and there. He watched carefully to catch any reaction on her part, but her face was as immobile as the marble of a Greek statue. She’d make a marvelous poker player, he suspected. Finally, she flipped to an empty page in her notepad, reached into her purse, and took out a digital recorder.
“Do you mind if I record this?” Roberta asked, then clicked it on without waiting for his response.
“Sure,” he said facetiously—not that she caught that. Instead, she charged ahead with her questions.
“Was it difficult for you to leave your restaurant to come help your family with their quinceañera?” she asked.
“It took some planning, but I have a great crew back in New York. Plus, family comes first, sabes. When my sister called and asked for help, I couldn’t say ‘no’.” Although I did think about it. But if he hadn’t come down, he wouldn’t have reconnected with Sara, and that had made it even more worthwhile.
Roberta’s gaze, the only animated thing on her features, narrowed as if she was deep in thought.
“Does that mean we’ll see your brother, Javier, at the party?” she asked.
Sylvia had been calling Javier, but it wouldn’t be the first time that his brother hadn’t shown up due to work obligations. Not that Roberta needed to know that. It also reminded him that he should call Javi and check up on him.
“We’re expecting that Javier will be here for the party,” he said and held his coffee cup with both hands to still any motion that might tip off the reporter.
Roberta paused, and for a moment he expected her to press for more information on his highly successful CEO brother, but with a slight shake of her head, she said, “What will be on the menu for Angelica’s quinceañera?”
Tony dipped his head and tossed out the names of some of the recipes he’d been perfecting over the last few days. “The theme is Miami Spice so I’m doing new takes on Cuban classics as well as some other Latin cuisines since Miami now has such a diverse Latino population. I’ve got a Cuban-style porchetta, cracklin’ and tripe tacos, and ropa vieja arepas just to name a few.”
“You’re making my mouth water, chef,” she said, but as her gaze slipped over him, he felt like something she thought should be on the menu. It made him decidedly uneasy and not just because he had interest in only one woman—Sara.
“Gracias, Roberta. I hope you’ll enjoy my food when you try it at the event,” he said, then picked up his cup and sipped.
“I’m sure I will, but I’m certain others in the area would love to try your food as well. Is there any chance you might have a new restaurant in the works here in Miami? Could that be part of your reason for the visit as well?”
He laid the cup down on the table and shifted it back and forth between his hands as he considered her question. The option to come back home and open a new place had been on his mind, and Sara had made the idea of leaving Miami that much harder to contemplate. He was enjoying his time with her just way too much.
“I’ve thought about it,” he admitted, his gaze fixed on his coffee cup to avoid giving anything away to the reporter. “Being in Miami...being home has brought back many great memories of growing up here. Most of my family and friends are still here, so yes.”
“I imagine it would be a tough choice. After all, you and your restaurant have won several awards.”
With a nonchalant shrug, he said, “I’m just a man who has been lucky enough to be noticed for doing something he loves.”
“And doing it well. That means people know you and expect certain things, don’t they?” Roberta pressed.
Was that a sly look in her eyes? Where was she going with these questions?
Cautiously, he nodded to confirm it. “They do. That’s why I always try my hardest to be the best that I can be. I don’t want to disappoint my customers.”
Almost as if she had just hooked a fish, Roberta reeled him in. “Do you think you’ll be the best chef out of all of the quinceañera celebrations? Even when one of the other chefs is Miami’s rising young star Sara Kelly?”
Suddenly he felt like he was flopping on the dock like that hooked fish, trying to avoid Roberta’s mallet, poised to smash in his skull.
“Sara is a fabulous chef. I’ve had the opportunity to sample her delicious food at Munch,” he said, dodging the question even as he wondered how it was possible that Sara had not mentioned that she was working on such an event. Not that he’d mentioned his involvement in Angelica’s party either. In fact, he’d never thought to ask who Angelica’s apparent rival was, but now he guessed that it must be Sara’s niece.
“Is she as good as an award-winning chef with a coveted starred restaurant?”
“As I said before, Sara is an absolutely wonderful chef and what she’s done at Munch is truly an accomplishment,” Tony reiterated.
“It’s not the same caliber as your restaurant and skills. That’s why I imagine it’s important to Sara to prove she’s capable of playing in the same ballpark as you. And you likewise want to show that you’re the best,” Roberta said, with the first hint he’d seen of a smile, albeit a calculating one, on her face.
Her pushing and questioning was starting to wear on his patience, especially since it was hitting too close to home. A good showing in front of important locals might provide him with the conn
ections to open a second location in Miami. “It is important. There’s nothing to say we can’t both be the best at what we do.”
“Sara’s menu at Munch is far from the kind of high end dining your customers expect,” she said, hoisting the mallet for the killing blow. He tried to wriggle out of her reach.
“Sara’s menu is luxurious and top-of-the-line. What she’s doing is innovative and exciting,” he said without any hesitation. He’d been floored with how Sara had transformed what were supposed to be run-of-the-mill comfort foods.
Roberta narrowed her gaze, leaned back in her chair, and tapped her pen against her lips for a second. Then she leaned forward again and said, “It sounds like you’re quite a fan of Sara’s. Do I detect something there besides professional interest?”
“Sara is a friend. We grew up together,” he said, but he was sure that this shark in reporter’s clothing would find a way to twist that statement and upset Sara, which was the last thing he wanted to do.
The reporter smiled again, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I understand you’ve got a professional crew from the hotel working in your kitchen. It’ll be interesting to see what pros do against Sara’s amateurs.”
“Amateurs? There is nothing amateur about the crew working Sara and Jeri’s kitchen,” he challenged.
“I guess you don’t know that Sara and Jeri train women from the local shelters.”
Sara had mentioned it in passing. And as with everything else he learned with each layer of Sara that was peeled off, it only made him like her more and more. “I do know, and I think that’s a wonderful thing to do. I admire her even more for it, especially considering what I’ve seen happen in her kitchen.”
“Thank you so much for taking the time to chat with me, chef. I appreciate it, but I want you to understand that I have limited space for the article and can only really feature one of the events in the magazine.”
And from all that she’d said so far, she intended to pit him against Sara. Controlling his anger, he said, “I understand. Whatever you decide to do is fine with me.”
The reporter shot a look at her photographer, who he’d forgotten was there, grabbed her digital recorder, and stood. She held out her hand and said, “Would you have a problem with us dropping by the hotel kitchen so we can photograph you at work?”
He rose as well and shook her hand but felt like he had to wipe it clean after he did so. “It would be my pleasure,” he said, though he suspected he wasn’t fooling anyone with his statement. She had left a very sour taste in his mouth—which seemed to have been her goal, given the way she clearly delighted in unsettling him.
“Wonderful. Well, we must be going. We have another interview to do today,” Roberta said, and Tony had no doubt that Roberta would be burning rubber to get to Sara and try to box her into a corner the way she’d tried to do with him.
As Roberta walked away, he pulled his smartphone from his back pocket and dialed Sara, but she didn’t answer. He left a short message asking her to call him as soon as possible so he could explain whatever Roberta was sure to misrepresent. Especially the line about Sara and he being nothing more than friends.
They were way more than that. In the short week that he’d been in Miami Sara had come to mean a lot to him. What they already shared was so much more than just friendship and he wanted Sara to know that.
Muttering a curse beneath his breath, he swiped to end the call and decided there was only one thing he could do.
He rushed onto Ocean Drive and nearly ran to Sara’s restaurant.
Sara had hated to leave Jeri holding down the fort again, but the South Beach Style reporter had wanted to interview her at a local Lincoln Road coffee shop rather than at the restaurant. She hurried the couple of blocks, worried that she was running late because Matt had been a little tardy with his morning delivery. As she rounded the corner onto the pedestrian mall, she caught sight of a woman sitting at one of the al fresco tables outside the coffee shop. A photographer sat on the ledge of a nearby planter, looking decidedly bored.
The reporter was dressed in a curve-hugging dress in a shocking flamingo pink. Her blonde hair was styled in an elaborate knot atop her head and swept away from an unlined, perfectly made-up face. As the woman caught sight of her, she smiled in greeting, but there was no warmth there. If anything, the hairs on Sara’s neck rose in warning at the look in the other woman’s gaze.
Sara swept her hand down the simple lace blouse she wore, hoping it hadn’t gotten too wrinkled while she had worked in the kitchen that morning. She also hoped that she wasn’t dressed too casually with her blouse and faded jeans, but she’d had too much to do to change into anything more formal.
Sara marched over and stuck out her hand. “Sara Kelly.”
“Roberta Lane, South Beach Style. Thank you for taking the time to chat with me. Can Wilson get you anything?” she said and gestured to the bored photographer.
“No, thank you,” she replied politely.
Roberta jerked her head in the direction of the coffee shop. “Wilson. Large latte, soy milk, no foam, no sugar.” She tacked on as an afterthought, “Please.”
As if used to the rudeness, the photographer said nothing and scurried away to fulfill her command.
Sara sat across from the woman, crossed her legs, and leaned back in her chair, trying to adopt a laidback pose when she was feeling anything but. This woman set her teeth on edge.
“Do you mind if I record our interview?” Roberta said even as she snapped on a digital recorder and placed it on the table between them. A second later she whipped a leather portfolio from a designer handbag the price of which could have fed a family of four for a month or more.
“Not at all.”
“This is going to be such an interesting article. After all, we’ll not only get to see how two families interpret such a lovely tradition, we’ll get to see what two top chefs bring to the mix. It’s just a shame that I’ll only really be able to feature one of you in the article.”
Sara crinkled her nose with confusion. “Feature? Two top chefs? Color me confused, but I’m not sure what you mean.”
“You and Tony Sanchez, Angelica Rodriguez’s uncle. Didn’t you know he was going to be responsible for the meal at her quinceañera?”
Tony was cooking? For the Angelica who was a thorn in her niece’s side? Angelica was Tony’s niece? She couldn’t believe she hadn’t made the connection before.
“That’s very nice,” she eked out past the lump in her throat and the chill filling her center with worry. Maybe even anger, if she was being honest with herself.
“I guess you didn’t know,” Roberta said, an unctuous note in her voice.
Sara forced a smile and tried to hide her upset. “Tony is a wonderful chef and I’m sure that whatever he does will be spectacular.”
A toothy grin, like that of a shark before it bit you, split Roberta’s face. “Do you think your group of amateur chefs—”
“They’re not amateurs.” Her hands tightened on the arms of her chair. “Who called them that?”
One manicured brow inched up in response. “I guess you think you can do as well –”
“Better than Chef Sanchez and his crew.” She popped out of her chair, so forcefully it almost fell over. “I’ve got to go back to my crew of trained kitchen staff and chefs.”
“We’ll be visiting with Tony in his kitchen. Can we do the same with you? I’m sure the readers –”
Can go pound sand, she wanted to say, but bit it back. “We’d be delighted to have you with us so you can see just how well we measure up.”
She didn’t wait for Roberta’s reply although her trill of “Wonderful” chased Sara as she almost ran down the sidewalk to get back to her restaurant.
She had taken no more than a step into the building when Jeri called out, “You’ve got a visitor.”
&nbs
p; Tony stood by the half-wall, a look on his face that spoke volumes.
He held his hands up in apology and said, “We have to talk, Sara.”
She pointed at the door. “You. Outside. Now.”
Chapter 12
Tony did as Sara asked. Arms akimbo, he faced her and said, “You’re doing the quinceañera meal for your niece?”
Sara copied his pose and jammed her hands on her hips. “I am. And you’re cooking for yours?”
“I came to Miami because Sylvia asked me to help out. She said Angelica’s party has to be the ‘best quinceañera ever.’” He used air quotes for emphasis.
“The reporter said she can only really feature one of the parties,” Sara said and tilted her chin up. Her grey-green gaze spit emerald fire at him. “I need Samantha’s party to be the best. For my niece. For Jeri and me and our women. I am going to make it the best.”
He tapped his chest. “Angelica’s party is important to me too, Sara. I’ve been thinking about relocating and maybe even opening another place here. A feature in that magazine could give me the exposure I need to do that.”
Sara shook her head, looked away, and dragged her hand through her hair in obvious frustration, leaving it sticking up in spiky strands. When she met his gaze again, she said, “Do you know how much harder it is to be a female chef? How hard it is for us to get financing?”
He sympathized with her predicament. He held his hands out in pleading. “I get it—”
She slashed her hand to silence him. “Please. You can’t possibly understand. It’s always male chefs being featured or getting awards for their ‘fine dining’ restaurants,” she said and barely took a breath before pushing on. “You know why so few women have high-end places?”
Tony couldn’t argue with her that women often didn’t get the same exposure as male chefs, and he knew that lack of exposure affected quite a number of things. Like financing. “Because you can’t get the funding for anything other than a small mom and pop place.”
South Beach Love Page 11