by Kilby Blades
The Secret Ingredient
A Small Town Curvy Girl Culinary Romance
Kilby Blades
Contents
I. In the Kitchen
1. The House Next Door
2. Mise En Place
3. The Legacy
4. The Market
5. House Calls
6. The Pesto
7. The Apology Dinner
8. The Taste
9. The Interloper
10. The Restaurant
11. The Memories
12. The Spy Mission
13. The Assistant
II. The Clinic
14. The Need-to-Know
15. The Ex Wife
16. The Guy with the Baby
17. The Ambush
18. The Sauce
19. The Change of Plans
20. The Next Morning
21. The Barbecue
22. The Fundraiser
23. The Countdown
24. The Afterglow
III. Gone Girl
25. The Viper Pit
26. The Letter
27. In Court
28. The Aftermath
29. The Two Things
30. The Amazon
31. Facebook
32. Kaito
33. The Departure
34. Cella's Return
35. Cella's Maneuver
36. Reviewing Applications
37. In Court
38. The Setback
39. Go Get Your Girl
40. Epilogue
About Kilby Blades
Also by Kilby Blades
Copyright © 2018 by Luxe Publishing. Original publication date of 2019. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between characters, situations, places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental. References to songs are cited with credit to the original artists.
For permission requests and other inquiries, the publisher, Luxe Publishing, the independent publishing label of independent author, Kilby Blades, can be reached at: [email protected].
ISBN: 978-1-7338674-0-5
Editor: Plot Bunny Editing
Cover Design: Elizabeth Mackey Design
Part 1
In the Kitchen
1 The House Next Door
It was a delicious sleep, the kind that could only be achieved when the day was settling and the breeze swirled a mix of warmth from the sun and coolness from the sea. The hammock upon which Max napped swung lazily with his weight, the pages of his forgotten book stirring in the wind. He had missed this, his cozy home on the water, but his field work in foreign places kept him away. Now he had a month—four glorious weeks!—to unwind and enjoy his peaceful home.
It was Cujo's faraway bark that roused him—far away, not as in faint through the haze of Max's dream; far away, as in no longer in the vicinity of his master. He woke himself fully as he realized that his dog must have wandered off of his property. When not terrorizing sand crabs or chasing gophers, the feisty beagle liked helping himself to the vegetables in Natalie McGregor's garden. Max did not relish the thought of knocking on her door, though if Cujo had misbehaved, apologizing would be the only decent thing to do.
Slipping on his leather flip-flops, Max placed his book on the porch's edge next to half a bottle of beer that had long-since gone warm. He pocketed his sunglasses as he set his lips just so for a long, loud whistle. The houses were close enough that he might see evidence of Cujo's movement. If Cujo wasn't nose-deep in Natalie’s snapdragons, he'd be stalking snails or pawing around for moles. Max looked left, scanning the near corner of his neighbor's yard in search of a piebald coat, surprised when the answering bark came from the right.
He blinked in surprise, not knowing how he hadn't seen it that morning. Lawn furniture and other signs of life now graced the adjoining yard. It was prime waterfront real estate, but with a down economy, it was no surprise that such an expensive house had sat on the market awhile. But it must have sold while he was away. His new neighbor had arrived.
Making his way across his own back lawn, he followed Cujo's bark, ducking through some hedges along the property line that afforded each home a bit of privacy. A woman whose face was obscured by a wide-brimmed sun hat and wavy dark hair sat sideways on a lawn chaise, facing his dog.
She was scratching his scruff and serving him morsels from her plate. The little beagle's tail wagged happily behind him. Cujo licked the woman's hand before relieving her of what looked like a succulent cube of beef. She looked up, but before Max could thank her for her grace in sharing her dinner with Cujo, he froze. The sheepish smile belonged to Marcella Dawes.
Cooking with Marcella was more than a television show, it was Max's religion—and he worshipped at the altar of its hostess, chef extraordinaire and goddess of the kitchen, Marcella Dawes. Though he traveled weeks at a time for work, he found solace from an emotionally taxing job through perfecting the art of cooking. He braised; he flambéd; he fricasseed. He paired his creations with fantastic wines. Indulging his every culinary whim was Cooking with Marcella.
Marcella was everything a woman should be: all confidence and curves, and a true classic beauty to boot. He had often admired her generous proportions and everything that perfected them—those vibrant eyes, that gentle voice, and her mane of thick, dark hair.
"In my defense, he's got some of the best puppy-dog eyes I've ever seen.” A gorgeous blush stained her cheeks. "I hope you don't mind that I fed him."
Already, Max was smitten.
"Cujo is shameless. His begging left you with little choice."
"Cujo? Really?" She bit the corner of her lip to conceal what might have become a wide smile.
"You didn't know him as a puppy.”
"Well, he seems like a sweet little thing now." She refocused on petting his dog lovingly.
"Please let me know whether his begging ever becomes a bother," he recovered. "He enjoys food nearly as much as his master."
She held her smiling gaze upon him as he drank in her face. He admired the faint sprinkling of freckles he'd never noticed on TV, the way the sun lightened the ends of her hair, and the familiarity of her espresso eyes.
"I'm Max.” He held out what he hoped was a steady hand. "And I'm sorry if I stared. I've seen you so often on television, as a celebrity, that it's strange to think you've bought the house next door."
"Kim Kardashian is a celebrity. I'm just a woman who likes to cook. And I'm just renting. I'll have it for the rest of the summer."
She stood, returning his handshake, smelling of citrus and jasmine. Her light-colored skirt billowed in the breeze, shifting against lickable calves.
"Well, I really enjoy your show.” Not wanting to come off like an obsessed fan boy, Max cleansed the hero worship from his voice. Few things were more shameful than a thirty-three-year-old man who sounded like a twelve-year-old girl with Bieber Fever.
"You cook?" she asked with interest.
"I dabble." He shrugged modestly.
"Outstanding. So I can count on you if I ever need to borrow a cup of sugar?"
Her teeth closed
down on a succulent bottom lip.
"My kitchen is at your disposal."
The faint sound of a bell came from the direction of their houses. She frowned a bit when it rang.
"Well, it's nice to meet you, Max. Sorry to cut it short, but I need to go check on my pie."
"Marcella...the pleasure is mine."
Even Cujo seemed disappointed when she started up the pathway. Max wouldn't have blamed his dog for abandoning the only home he'd ever known and trotting after her. Turning slightly and looking back over her shoulder, she removed her hat and shook out her hair before fixing her eyes on him again. Another delicious wave of her aroma crashed on his wanting shores.
"You can call me Cella."
Max was a slave to epicurean delights, and no place offered such hedonism as home. Luxuriating on his pillow-top mattress and 1,200-thread-count sheets was welcome respite from the hard cots and sleeping bags he dealt with while he was traveling. In place of needing bottled water to brush his teeth, he swirled and rinsed his toothbrush with water that came right out of the spigot. The double-headed shower and water that stayed steaming hot for minutes felt divine. After a wonderful shave, he made his way to his beloved kitchen.
Never one for subtlety, Cujo stood expectantly next to his empty bowl. Max pet him adoringly before measuring out his dog’s food and changing his water. The sounds of happy canine chomping could be heard as Max started in on his coffee. He didn't use a machine—didn't believe in them. Max only ever brewed his morning cup with a gravity drip. Grinding, then spooning, three-and-a-half scoops of the aromatic beans into a bleach-free paper filter, he set the kettle on a high flame to boil.
The slow brew of his coffee would allow him just enough time to whip up his favorite breakfast. The butcher in town sold a delectable thick-cut Applewood-smoked bacon. He liked to have it with a cream-scrambled egg and freshly baked pain au chocolat. Summer was ideal for taking his breakfast outside. Catching a glimpse of the house next door as he set his table, his curiosity about Cella returned.
She’d seemed humored to be called a celebrity—surprising since he’d seen her cookbooks in foreign bookstores nearly every time he went abroad. He loved how eager she’d seemed to connect around cooking, despite her skills being way out of Max's league. It had been a long while since Max had found such ease in talking to a beautiful woman. Intense travel to remote villages meant that Max rarely met women socially, if at all.
Making quick work of his dough, Max started in on his bacon and eggs. He was appreciating the tang of fresh chives awakening his senses when someone knocked on his front door. He’d only been back for two days, but word would’ve spread. In Longport, if someone wanted to see you, they’d just stop by.
But it wasn’t a long-time neighbor. When Max opened the door, his lips melted into a delighted smile.
"Ready for that cup of sugar?" He eyed the glass measuring cup in Cella’s hand.
"Can we make it coffee instead?" She looked shy, freshly awakened, and lovely.
"I just ground the last of my roasted beans.” He waved her inside.
She had on another flowy knee-length skirt, this one darker but just as flattering. Her sandals were pretty leather thongs with colorful beading that looked like ones he'd seen Moroccan women wear.
"You roast them yourself?"
"A friend in Tanzania sends me berries from his farm."
When they entered his large, modern kitchen, he searched her face to take in her reaction. He'd poured his heart and savings into the remodel; it was the soul of his home and his pride and joy. Her eyes scanned the double-door, stainless-steel fridge, the magneted knife wall, the full-size wine refrigerator and the industrial chiller. They blinked disbelievingly at his professional-grade stove, complete with a pot filler, and a double oven that flanked its side. They scanned foot after foot of countertop—light granite fit for preparing a feast much larger than his dining room would allow. Finally they circled back around to his.
"You dabble?" she accused.
"Maybe we can talk over coffee?" He tried not to sound too eager. "And you're welcome to stay for breakfast. It's just eggs and bacon, but I have plenty."
She gave the kitchen another once-over before sitting on the proffered stool at the island where he worked. He brought her the steaming coffee that had just finished dripping.
"I put in mint and cardamom. Is that alright?"
She nodded.
He repeated his ritual of scooping grounds and pouring water to make a second cup, then resumed chopping chives before lowering the heat on his griddle.
"This is wonderful, Max.” She hummed as she took her first sip. “Please tell me...how did you learn to cook?"
"My Aunt Alex had a restaurant just outside of town.”
Recognition lit Cella's face. "Your aunt's name didn't happen to be Alessandra Piccarelli...?"
So she's heard of the restaurant.
"Piccarelli was her maiden name. She named it for my grandfather."
"You're a Piccarelli," Cella said incredulously. "That restaurant was legendary. I ate there once, about a month before it closed."
"Then you were one of the last to eat there before Aunt Alex passed."
"So she taught you?" Cella’s eyes softened.
"See that over there?" He pointed to a weathered wooden stool that had once been yellow but was now graying from the years. "I stood next to her on it for two summers before I was tall enough to reach the counter. I couldn't have been much help at five years old, but she always made me feel like I contributed. She never used recipes, though. She cooked with her senses, and I learned how to do the same. She taught me how to feel the food."
Max navigated the kitchen with ease, adding a little here and there to his unbeaten eggs.
"So is this what you do?” Her gaze followed him around the kitchen. “Yesterday, you made it sound like a hobby."
He buttered a hot frying pan, tilting and turning it until the pan was coated.
“No.” Max ignored the pang he felt any time he thought about cooking professionally. “I’m a doctor.”
“What’s your specialty?"
"Cosmetic surgery."
"Hmmm…I guess that makes sense."
"It does?" He laughed.
She covered her face with her hands. "Don't make me say it!"
"Now you have to."
She groaned in embarrassment. “You’re like…perfectly symmetrical.”
“So you think I’ve had work done?”
“Alright. I’m gonna shut up.”
She blushed prettily as he added more seasoning to the eggs.
"I owe my bone structure to my mother,” he said as he stirred. “And I don't do Botox and boob jobs. I do reconstructive surgery for children with cosmetic birth defects.”
"Wow, that's..." She seemed impressed. "That's really important work."
He shrugged off her reaction before smiling, uncomfortable from her praise.
“My patients are in the third world. I just got back from Bangladesh. I travel for a few months with a non-profit, and then I'm off for a month or two at a time."
He set his bacon on the griddle. Before plating their eggs, he uncovered his dough and began to roll it out. She raised a questioning eyebrow.
"Pain au chocolat.”
"May I help with anything?"
"Uh-oh... am I doing something wrong?" he half-joked.
“No…you’ve got really good technique.”
Her praise made him swell with pride, as did the idea of her cooking in his kitchen.
"Not this time. This morning, you're my guest."
Five minutes later, they were seated on his back patio, digging in. Cujo sat happily at Max’s feet with a treat from the butcher. One of his favorite parts of Cella's show came at the end, when it was time for her to taste. Watching her was the visual embodiment of how Max felt when he himself savored wonderful food.
"How about you, Cella...what brings you to Longport?"
“I’m writing an Italian cookbook," she said around a small mouthful of food. "I never had an Aunt Alessandra, but my grandmother was Italian.”
"She taught you how to cook?"
"I wish. She died when I was a teenager, but she left me her cookbook."
"Her recipes weren't passed down through your mother?"
“Believe it or not, my mother never learned how to cook. Her father was traditional, and she was a free spirit. She rebelled against everything, growing up. When her mother died, she hadn't been back to see them in years. I never really knew them.”
At recounting the tale, Cella had a sad kind of look.
"Anyway... my show only tapes six months out of the year. The rest of the time, I spend researching or writing. I just did the research part, in Siena. Now, here I am, in a peaceful town with great produce, and a beautiful place to write my book."
“You don’t prefer to cook at home?"
She shrugged and looked down at her plate.
"Chefs are pretty flexible to cook in any kitchen. And I'm kind of between homes right now. I figured I’d make it a working vacation.”
"Well, I'm glad you’re here.”
"And I'm very glad to have met you, Max."
They spent the rest of the meal talking about her. She was self-taught until the age of twenty, when she finally went to culinary school after serving as the sous chef in a popular Seattle restaurant. It was extraordinary to have landed such a position without a culinary degree.