One Small Chance: a novella (a Love Story from Portugal)

by Lucinda Whitney

  She walked behind the counter to the metal shelving where all the kitchen gear and serving ware were available and grabbed four rectangular plates. Thanks to the tour of the pantry on the first day, she knew where everything was. Remembering where everything sat exactly was a different story. One of the camera men with the portable cameras followed her back but she ignored him.

  That had been hard to get used to, all the cameras and lights, the microphones dangling over the stations, the camera men running back and forth and the grips holding the electrical cords for them. Not to mention the make-up crew, the production team, and the director. So many people on her heels and in her face all the time. But it was all coming to an end in less than an hour after the last dish was judged.

  The pizzas cooled on the counter and Isabel cut them into triangles. She’d taken three of the most typical Portuguese dishes and given them a makeover as pizzas, inspired by the ones she’d made before. One square of each pizza for each judge, and the dipping sauces beside them: roasted pork, clams and parsley with lemon sauce; fried onions with salted cod and olives with an olive oil-infused yogurt sauce; and fruits of the sea pizza, a combination of lightly grilled shrimp, calamari, and sea scallops with a spicy tomato-cilantro sauce. Just enough heat to kick the other flavors.

  Caldo Verde soup inspired her salad appetizer and for dessert she’d planned a variation of the chocolate soufflés with a flan pudding sauce. Her menu drew from the traditional Portuguese flavors but with a light, modern twist. The feedback had been positive on the appetizer round, but the other contestants had received really good comments as well, and it was too early to figure out who might be ahead. Judges awarded points for originality, presentation, flavor, and an extra point for their favorites.

  They couldn’t be more different, Isabel and the other contestants: a retired construction manager named António who babysat his grandkids three times a week; Paulo, a university student majoring in computer science; and Marisol, a middle-aged woman who operated her own stall at the fish market. From what Isabel had observed in the elimination rounds, her biggest competitor was António. For a sixty-seven year-old man, he was still in great shape. Like her, he was an amateur, but being older gave him the advantage of more experience in the kitchen. Marisol and Paulo had enough passion, but they seemed less experienced.

  The show had given Isabel and her opponents one hour for the entrée category and had allowed them some minimal preparation of the ingredients for each course. She’d made some mistakes, and so had the others, which was what the producers wanted for the show. Live broadcast conflict made for better reality TV than breezing through the whole thing without any problems. And they weren’t professionals, after all. A lot was at stake, but she couldn’t think about it, or the pressure might get to her. One task at a time would get her to the end, and that was all she wanted for now.

  By the time the judges were done with the commentary on her entrée, Isabel welcomed the scheduled break for the sponsors’ advertising, a blessed eight minutes to think of something else. Cristina came down the stairs to the edge of the stage and Isabel joined her there with a water bottle in hand.

  Cristina reached over the railing and hugged Isabel. “You’re doing great. The judges loved your entrée, Isabel.”

  Isabel drained the water bottle. “Do you think so? I was trying not to analyze their reactions.”

  Cristina touched her arm. “You’re almost done now. What do you have planned for dessert?”

  “A variation of the chocolate soufflés. Remember when I made those at the academy’s kitchen?”

  Cristina frowned. “I’m pretty sure I wasn’t there. Those sound amazing and I would have remembered.”

  It was Simon who had been there, and he’d loved them. Isabel smiled at the memory. The five-minute warning buzzed and she blew out a long breath. “I need to go check my station and make sure I’ve got everything. Are you staying until the end?”

  “Yes, of course. I wouldn’t miss it.”

  *

  Isabel turned as they called her name from each side, her smile in place while the camera flashes blinded her. More pictures by herself, pictures with the other contestants, pictures with the producers in front of the sponsors’ wall.

  One of the production assistants took her by the elbow. “This way, Isabel.” Handshakes, hugs, congratulations from people she’d never met.

  Second place. Isabel had won second place in the national amateur cook-off, a six-month paid internship at the Tivoli resort with the best chefs in the country.

  She blinked again, half-expecting to wake up in her bed. Only the soreness in her muscles reminded her that the dream around her was very much the real deal, however strange it felt. The last course on the show had flashed by in a blur, and Isabel had held on to her instincts and her memories of Avó Marta while she cooked. She’d felt grandmother’s presence beside her, as if cheering her on and reminding Isabel of all the little tips she’d always shared. The feeling in her chest expanded and brought a smile to her lips. Entering the amateur cook-off competition had been a hasty decision, wrought from a situation she couldn’t control, but she was glad to have done it. Whatever happened, Isabel had followed her dreams and Avó Marta would have been the first person to congratulate her. How she missed her.

  Cristina had briefly hugged her before Isabel had been thrust in the media craziness. But now she couldn’t see her anymore.

  “Just a few more minutes, then we’ll let you go get cleaned up,” the assistant said.

  Did she look that bad? She probably did, after so many hours cooking under the studio lights. She must look a fright. Isabel tucked her hair behind her ears, feeling the loose strands at the nape. She was sweaty and tired and ready to go to her room for a long, long shower.

  After a few minutes, all of the media attention was squarely on António, the first place winner, and Isabel took the second elevator to her room on the fifth floor. This is where they’d brought her on Wednesday, before the first part of the competition, and already it felt like a distant memory. So much had happened in the past three days, and so quickly. In less than one week her life had taken another dramatic turn.

  Isabel removed her shoes, then unbuttoned the white chef coat, her name embroidered over the show’s logo.

  A knock sounded at the door, and Isabel opened it to another assistant from the show.

  He handed her a small black box with her smart phone and charging cord. “Don’t forget to use the show’s hashtags when you go on Twitter and Facebook.”

  She sat cross-legged on the bed and turned on the phone to find all the emails, texts, and voice mail messages she’s missed since Wednesday morning. Too many to go through right now.

  She dialed Cristina’s number. “Cristina, I’m sorry I missed you at the end of the competition.”

  “Isabel, are you back to the land of the plugged-in?”

  The familiar voice brought a smile to her lips. “They just returned my phone and told me I can tweet with the show’s hashtags.” Isabel pulled another pillow closer and relaxed against the headboard.

  “Did you come back to the city?” Cristina asked.

  “I will tomorrow morning. I need to catch up on some sleep and I might as well enjoy the room here.”

  “Don’t forget to go see Simon before you turn in.”

  Isabel sat up in bed. “Simon is here? Where?”

  “He came over last night, very anxious to see you, so I told him to go to the hotel and be sure he didn’t miss the show on TV,” Cristina replied.

  Isabel edged to the side of the bed. “He’s probably left already. I’ll call him tomorrow.”

  “He was there when I left. He and Mando hung out together in the hotel’s bar to watch the competition on the flat screen.” Cristina chuckled. “I wish I could have seen that.”

  Isabel shot up to her feet. “I’ll talk to you later, Cristina. Bye.”

  Isabel flung her suitcase open and quickly changed into a
pair of dark jeans, a T-shirt, and a cardigan. She found a pair of complimentary slippers by the bed instead of dealing with her boots, and let her hair down, finger-combing it with one hand and looking for the card key with the other. It would have to do. She didn’t want to keep Simon waiting any longer.

  The elevator ride to the lobby was on psychological time, each floor pinging by at lengthier intervals than it had going up. She crossed her arms to hold herself steady. What would she say to him?

  The lobby was less crowded than before without the throng of journalists, but she didn’t see Simon. Isabel checked all the corners and chairs and moved on to the bar, where she found him talking to the barman.

  Simon jumped off the barstool and stopped in front of her, a wide smile on his face and his eyes warm and bright. How she’d missed that smile, the bracket dimples, and the familiar expression.

  He took both her hands in his. “Isabel.”

  “Cristina just told me. I didn’t know you were here.”

  “I tried to get hold of you.” He leaned toward her. “I had to see you.”

  A few patrons held their phones up and Isabel faced the other way for a moment.

  Simon turned to the barman, still holding one of her hands. “Pedro, is there a room we can use for some privacy?”

  “The breakfast room is not being used.” The barman gestured to an adjoining room with a large decorated Christmas tree, its lights off.

  Simon led Isabel by the hand to the far wall of the breakfast room, where a low window opened to a panoramic view of Lisbon across the river. The rain and fog had lifted and the city was dressed in twinkling lights flashing in colored bursts.

  They sat in the upholstered bench that anchored the window.

  “You saw the competition?”

  “You were amazing, Isabel. I’m sure the judges had a hard time deciding who got first place.”

  Her cheeks heated and she brought a hand to her collar bone. “I’m glad I didn’t win the first place. The publicity schedule is going to be crazy. And when they start building the restaurant, they’ll be making a show out of that as well.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Did you not enjoy being on TV?”

  She shook her head. “I think I’ve had enough of that, although I still have to do some interviews and photo ops when I start the internship in January, but I asked for no special treatment.” She looked out the window and took a breath. “I was furious on Monday when Dr. Varela told me about the embezzlement.” Simon tugged her hand and she stopped.

  “You’re cleared.” He smiled.

  She straightened. “What?” Did she hear him right? “How?”

  “I knew you hadn’t done it. I just needed to prove it.” Simon explained how he’d laid a trap and caught the culprit using a fake copy of her card. “Once I had that information, we turned it in to the authorities. They’ll be picking up Filipe Macedo for questioning soon.”

  A sense of relief washed over her. “I worried a lot that first night, you know. How was I going to keep working at the academy with the chairman and the board suspecting me? It was just an impossible situation.”

  Simon looked away for a moment, then back at her. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t tell you. Dr. Varela decided everyone was under suspicion and had me sign a confidentiality clause about it. He didn’t want anyone to know I was hired to trace the person responsible for the embezzlement.”

  She nodded. “You were just doing your job. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.”

  “You don’t have to worry about it anymore.” Simon stroked a thumb across her knuckles. “But how did you decide to apply for the competition? I thought you didn’t want to.”

  Isabel glanced down at their joined hands. “I prayed, Simon.” She raised her eyes to him. “In all honesty, I prayed like I never prayed before. I’ve been so casual about the church since my grandmother died. It was easier when we went together.” Avó Marta’s unexpected death had been a blow. “I’m not proud to say that I wavered after her death. Praying didn’t come easy to me and without her gentle support, I lost the will to do it. I still went to church, but more out of duty to her, as a way to honor her memory and the relationship we had. It was the last meaningful thing we’d done together, and I didn’t want to lose that.”

  Simon shifted closer to her and nodded, his gaze unwavering. His quiet, confident expression encouraged her to go on.

  “But on Monday, when everything seemed to be crashing down… It was something I had to go through, as hard as it was.” She wiped a tear with the tips of her fingers. “And now this new path has opened up to me…” She sighed.

  “One day at a time, Isabel.” He touched her arm. “Sometimes we find out we are the strongest through the hardest experiences in life. It’s when we discover we’re not alone.”

  Isabel let out a steadying breath and straightened. “When are you going back to London?”

  His expression relaxed. “The lease on the apartment doesn’t expire until January 5th, so I have some time.”

  A ray of hope lit inside her. “Does this mean you’re staying for Christmas?”

  He smiled crookedly. “Unless you have any arguments against it?”

  “None whatsoever.” She smiled back.

  As hard as Christmas was going to be without Avó Marta, Simon’s presence would be a comfort to her. The closeness she’d felt at times with him—she hadn’t imagined it. His eyes held a promise she recognized in herself, something that went beyond the attraction between them and was worth taking further. Isabel wanted their friendship to deepen, very much so.

  She sat straight. “I just remembered. I might have a friend come to visit for Christmas as well.”

  “Your friend is welcome to join us. I don’t mind.” Simon winked at her.

  Would he feel the same if he knew Elliot was not a girlfriend?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  To: elliotbestpenpal@mail.com

  From: ameliefaithfulfriend@mail.com

  Dear Elliot,

  I’m sorry I didn’t email you sooner. I couldn’t get to a computer for a few days.

  I did it! I was on a national cooking competition and I won second place. Thank you for your encouragement and your prayers. They meant so much to me.

  Well, I’m going to be crazy and tell you that if you want to see the competition, I’m not going to stop you. I attached a document with the link to it.

  Or you can call me instead. Maybe it’s time.

  Your friend always,

  Amélie

  P.S.—My number is 01-614136.

  *

  Simon pulled the scarf tightly around his neck. The rainy weather had cleared into bright blue skies and cold temperatures, and he was still trying to decide which he liked better.

  When he turned the corner, Isabel’s street came into view, her apartment building halfway down on the right side. He smiled. He’d come to cook and watch a movie with her on Saturday. On Sunday, after attending church together, Simon had brought the ingredients to cook a family favorite for her, macaroni and cheese in the oven. Something Mom had made lots of times when he was growing up.

  His relationship with Isabel had strengthened in the past days, a little more each time they met. Simon had found himself giving her disguised clues pointing toward Elliot: silly stories about his university days, a conversation about his favorite books, and even a shopping list written in long hand.

  Several times he’d seen the hesitation in her eyes, a question that didn’t make it to her lips, a frowny smile he’d wanted to kiss away.

  How he wanted to kiss her.

  But he’d held back, wanting her to know everything first. When he arrived at home on Sunday night, Amélie’s email was sitting in his inbox. It was like a confession, the last piece in the puzzle formed of all the parts that gave evidence to her true identity. The letter she’d been holding when they’d crashed on the street was only the beginning, and over time the feelings in his heart and the impressions in his
mind had told him what he needed to know. The Spirit’s strong declaration had cemented all the little parts into a cohesive one. He’d run out of excuses. They were ready to meet in person.

  Part of him was elated. He’d woken up early with the excitement barely contained in his chest. After all these years, he was meeting Amélie, his dearest, best friend. That he’d been able to find her in the first week of his new job was a miracle he hadn’t expected. As he got to know Isabel, the little doubts had slipped away one by one and in the process, he’d fallen in love with her.

  Now here he was at her door, about to take the biggest chance in his life.

  Simon stared at the building’s door. It was Monday, in the middle of the day, and he hadn’t thought how to get past the locked door. Isabel was at the Tivoli, signing contracts and going over the schedule for the internship, and he’d told her that he had errands to run. Which he had, first shopping for Dad and mailing the package to London, then shopping for Isabel, including a postcard of a certain spot in Lisbon, a card he now held in his hand. The plan was to get it in her mailbox so she could see it when she arrived home in the evening, but first, he had to get inside the building.

  After a few minutes of waiting, with nobody coming or going, he rang the bell to Isabel’s next door neighbor. Maybe she kept odd hours and with some luck, she’d be home at lunch time and—

  The intercom shrilled and a voice said something in Portuguese.

  He bent down near the speaker. “It’s Isabel’s boyfriend.” Well, he hoped to be, if everything went well. “Can you open the door, please?”

  The buzzer clicked the door open and he approached the row of built-in mailboxes on the wall. He scanned the labels until he found the one he wanted: third floor, forward apartment.

  He slid the postcard in.

  *

  Dearest Amélie,

  Indeed it’s time.

  Tomorrow at 1pm, at the place on the front of this postcard.

  Yours,