by Kilby Blades
The town knew him—had watched him grow up, summer by summer—but most of the staff hadn’t. The years prior to Aunt Alex’s death had been caught up in schooling and internships and he’d never even lived there full time. He knew the food—knew cooking—but hadn’t worked in the kitchen for a long while. He hadn’t been sure that key staff would stay under his leadership, or whether customers would even keep coming. He’d spent weeks practicing her recipes, weeks getting up to speed, weeks paying idle staff the equivalent of what they would have made at Piccarelli’s to deter them from going elsewhere. But on the night of the dress rehearsal, he’d frozen.
So he’d run away, like a coward, knowing he wasn’t ready and announcing vaguely that he would reopen at some future point. Max’s complacency weighed on him. Next week it would be exactly five years since Aunt Alex’s death. It didn’t escape him that learning from Cella might be some cosmic event. Aunt Alex had always believed in that stuff—believed the universe sent you gifts, but not until you were ready for them.
When he returned upstairs, Cella was near the hostess stand, inspecting photos taken over the years. Most people who came in liked to see the photos of Aunt Alex with various celebrities, but Cella was focused on the family pictures.
“You were adorable.” She took her eyes off of a photo for only a second to smile at him warmly.
Max tried to ignore the way the back of his neck tingled at the fact that she had picked up on his favorite. It was a picture of Max, four years old at the time, seated in a booster seat in the family’s private dining room next to his aunt. She was angled to face him and her gaze was on his. Both of them were laughing as he shoved a messy fistful of pasta in her mouth. He didn’t remember the day, but he remembered the tradition. Every afternoon, before the restaurant opened for dinner, they would sit for a family meal.
“Past tense?” he quipped.
She elbowed him lightly in the ribs. He really liked it when she did that.
“And modest, too. You never fish for compliments.”
She lifted her hand to point with her finger at another photo a foot or two away. Max was older in this one, maybe six. He was laughing as he bent at his waist to peekaboo from below a half-closed metal door.
“What kid doesn’t like to travel by dumbwaiter?”
After she’d had her fill, he took her by the back of the shoulders and steered her into the kitchen. It was not only large, but open. Various stations bordered two walls, a third opened to the family dining room, walk-in refrigerators, and a door to an outside path. Beyond the place where staff took smoking breaks, there had been a garden where herbs and vegetables still grew wild. The final wall that bordered the dining room held the serving window. Max watched as Cella feasted her eyes, walking in slowly and taking in every inch of the room. He noticed the reverence with which she ran her fingers across countertops. She spun a little as she looked toward the racks that still hung pots and gadgets. “This is amazing…”
“Real estate was a lot cheaper in the ‘80s, and Alex had it built to her spec. She updated it over time, but, yeah, her staff always loved how much space they had to work with.”
Max also ran his finger over a counter top, and held it up for her to see. It was covered in dust.
“Let’s get started.”
Max headed over to a corner and flipped on the ancient hundred-CD changer, which was full of the same music he had listened to a thousand times. He was pleased when the random shuffler put on a tango album he liked. Together, they found the same rhythm in cleaning as they had in cooking. She never stopped, never complained, and even after four hours straight, when he suggested they go back to town for lunch, she insisted she wasn’t hungry. She surprised the hell out of him when she pulled a few protein bars out of her purse and a thermos of the Thai coffee she had made.
Max had budgeted two days to get the work done, but he hadn’t factored in Cella’s help. By the time the sun was setting, the dining room, the bars, and the kitchen were spotless. He did hear Cella’s stomach growl then and Cujo had been antsy for an hour—Max felt guilty for having kept them there for so long.
“Can you hold out another ten minutes? I need to make a list of repairs. Then I’ll take you to dinner.”
She looked down at herself.
“In this?”
“I don’t think you’ll make it if we try to stop home to shower.”
“Max…I can’t go out like this. I’m sweaty. I’m not wearing any makeup. I’ve got streaks of dirt on my shirt.”
“You look beautiful, Cella. You always do.”
Her eyes widened, but she shook it off quickly. “I wasn’t exaggerating, about what happens when I don’t look a certain way when I go out. Before we even pay the check, there’ll be pictures of me online.”
Max didn’t like the fact that Cella spent so much time hidden away. It wasn’t healthy for her.
“There are places I can take you where no one will take your picture.”
“Never underestimate the power of one asshole with a cell phone.”
Her voice, as ever, was controlled—making light. The hard glint in her eye gave her away.
“It’s like I said—when you’re with me, you’re a local. The more people see that you’re my friend, the more they’ll protect you.”
“It’s tourist season…” She was quiet for a minute before uttering a soft, “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing? It’s not your fault people are jerks.”
“Being friends with me can be a little…complicated.”
What he liked less than the idea of not having dinner with Cella was the resignation on her face. He could see it—could see how isolating her lifestyle was.
“There’s a place I know where we can go. I can get us a very private table.” When he saw she was considering it, he pressed. “Let me make a call.”
Thirty minutes later, they’d entered through the back door of Kaito’s, a popular karaoke restaurant after hours and the best Japanese grill in town. The main dining room was downstairs, but there was an upstairs that wouldn’t be opening for the dinner rush until eight. The owner, Kaito, was a friend of Max’s who worked with him on the conservation Board.
“Will this work?”
Their four-person table pushed up to a balcony. Cella looked over the edge at the people dining below. The lights upstairs had been dimmed to lower than the levels of the lights below, and tiered tea candles in an elegant holder adorned their table. He hadn’t meant for it to be romantic, though he supposed his friend had only followed his directions. Cella needed no help from candle light to make her look stunning, but this detail lit her lovely face with a more beautiful glow.
“It’s perfect.” When she said it, she was relaxed. It gave him no small modicum of joy. He thought her to be a bit paranoid—not once at the market or anyplace else had he seen her be approached—but he could tell that this was within her comfort zone. As they eased into their meal, he couldn’t wipe the smile off of his face as her eyes lit with joyous recollection of her travels to Japan and a crazy story about a famous comedian who she’d gotten to know on a weeklong sake brewery tour.
He wanted this—a simple life in his little town and someone to enjoy it with—more passionately and achingly than he’d wanted anything in a long, long time. He needed a light to shine through his darkness and to bring joy to a life that had become filled with so many sorrows. He thought about what Ed had said about walking away, and about what it might mean to think about a life lived with more than a canine companion. As her eyes sparkled with laughter when he told his own story about a comedian he once met, he dared to dream of a life like that.
It was preposterous to picture Cella’s face in visions of his future that had, until then, involved a faceless mystery woman. Nevermind that they had everything in common, from cooking, to music, to too many people around them putting them on a pedestal. She even had the approval of his dog. But their lives were worlds apart. He’d be leavi
ng again in a few weeks and he’d just met her a week before. Just because they were becoming real friends didn’t change the basic fact of things—Cella Dawes was way out of his league.
"Can I ask you a question?" Her voice was tentative for the first time since she’d accepted the invitation to join Max and Cujo on their nightly walk on the beach.
"Anything, Cella.” He was still slightly buzzed from the beer they’d had with their Japanese food.
"Why isn’t there a Mrs. Piccarelli?” Her voice was calm curiosity, but there was something he could not read in her brown eyes.
"There was, once. Britt. We were married for three years. For a lot of reasons, it didn't work out."
She nodded, but didn't speak. They walked a few more steps. There was something she wasn't saying.
"Anything, Cella," he coaxed.
"Are you still in love with her?"
He smiled, but shook his head. "No."
They stopped when Cujo did, watching the canine splash in the moonlit surf.
"When I was younger, a lot of what I did was about pleasing my father. He wasn’t like Aunt Alex. He wanted the American dream for me.”
“And she didn’t?”
“Her version of the American dream was about creating your own destiny. But my dad was different. When they moved here from Italy, he got picked on so badly, he lost his accent, became a banker, and married a blue-blooded American. But he had a lot of internalized racism. I think half the reason Aunt Alessandra insisted I spend the summers with her was to get me away from him.”
“So, they didn’t get along?”
“No, they loved each other a lot. She was his little sister, you know? He was still Italian and family was everything. It took me a long time to understand, but a lot of the ways he pushed me were to protect me. He made sure I went to the best schools, and pressured me to do things that would earn me status.”
“Which is why you became a doctor…”
“I could’ve been a lawyer or a stock trader, but being a doctor fit the best. It was also how I ended up married to Britt. Our parents were friends, we went to prep school together where I grew up, near Philadelphia. For all intents and purposes, it was an arranged marriage. It didn't take long to figure out that we didn't have a future together—not a happy one, at least."
“So, where is she now?”
“Married with two kids, to a woman named Susan. They live twenty minutes away. When I’m out of town, they’re the ones who watch Cujo. They got married at the restaurant.”
He chuckled at the look on her face.
“I guess it’s funny, the way things turn out.”
“It sure as hell is.” He stopped walking and turned to look at Cella meaningfully. “But all of that taught me an important lesson. I promised myself then that I wouldn't settle for anyone less than who I really wanted."
“But you’ve never found that person.”
“I'm never in any one place long enough to grow roots."
"You have roots here.”
“Cella, the only woman interested in me in Longport is Natalie McGregor.”
Cella blinked in surprise. “The real estate agent? Doesn’t she live on our street?”
Max nodded. “Next door to me, on the other side.”
“She’s got, like…a gigantic wedding ring,” Cella said with some alarm.
“Yeah. But Ennis is a dick.”
“I guess it makes sense,” Cella mused. “Her husband’s an ass, so she fantasizes about finding a nice guy.”
“Jake always tells me I’m too nice,” Max informed her. “Apparently pompous jackasses are what women want.”
She smiled slyly. “I’m starting to kind of like the fact that you ignore Jake’s advice.”
She started walking again and he followed suit.
"How about you?" he asked, attempting to sound as casual as she had. "Why isn't there a Mr. Dawes?”
"Honestly, Max? The few relationships I had all started out good…this last time, I even came close to being engaged. But once they find out what it's really like—the crazy schedule, the travel, even living in my shadow—none of them are in it for the long haul. It usually ends with the same ultimatum: it's either me or your career. Mike was clingy. James was controlling. Edward was jealous. I'm like a magnet for insecure men."
“It takes a certain kind of man to be with a powerful woman. Uncle Rocco—Aunt Alex’s husband—he never resented her for her fame. Whenever she got attention, nobody cheered louder for her than him.”
“He sounds amazing.”
“I think that’s what I’m holding out for. Something like what they had.”
She looked sad again, for the both of them, when she looked back up into his eyes.
“I admire your optimism.”
He didn’t like the way she said it—as if she’d once had it and now it was gone.
“You’ll find it, Cella.”
She shrugged and looked down, toeing circles in the sand with the toes of her bare foot.
“Maybe, maybe not. For now, I’ll keep dodging bullets. If I had to choose between a bad relationship and no relationship, I’d rather be alone.”
12 The Spy Mission
“Shit. I’ve got to take this. It’s work”
Cella pouted a little, and Max smiled at her antics. He had on that Brazilian music she liked, but it was on his phone and he needed to answer the call.
“After my call is over, I’ll put it back on.”
He picked up and wandered into his living room.
“Hey, Heather.”
“Hey, Max!” she said enthusiastically. Heather was the scheduling coordinator for his non-profit and was, no doubt, calling to give him details on his next trip.
His Spanish was good, the timing was right, and Costa Rica seemed as good a choice as any. It was one of the few countries his non-profit served where he’d never been.
“How’s everything at the office?”
“Same old, same old. How’s vacation? Getting a lot of rest?”
“Just working on some projects at home.” He glanced back in the kitchen and looked at Cella. “Is Costa Rica all set?”
“That’s what I’m calling about…” He heard the apology in her voice. “I hate to pull you from the project, but Costa Rica is fully-staffed and I’m down two plastic surgeons for a different trip.”
“Who backed out?”
It wasn’t the first time Heather had relied on Max to make a last-minute change. She’d never said it, but he knew that he was her go-to.
“There’s been an Ebola outbreak in the Congo. Natalie and Gabe are down.”
“Shit. Are they okay?”
“Not until the government says they are. They seem fine, but they’ll be in quarantine for a month.”
“God…” Max ran his fingers through his hair, hoping his colleagues would be okay. Ebola was nothing to mess with.
“If you can’t do it, I can call Linc. This one leaves in four weeks. You won’t be back ’til early September.”
Dr. Sam Lincoln was a long-standing colleague of Max. They’d gone to medical school together and it was Linc who had recruited Max to their non-profit.
“No, I’m flexible. It’s actually better that this one leaves later than Costa Rica. Put me wherever you need me.”
“Thank you—that’ll be a big help.”
“Where to, then?”
“The Bolivian Amazon. You’ll red-eye through Miami into La Paz and then have a layover before you head to Cochabamba to acclimatize before heading to the jungle. Have you ever been?”
“No.”
“La Paz airport is at about 13,000 feet. The first village will be at 11,000. We’ve called in Diamox to your local pharmacy. You’ll have to take meds. Have you ever had problems with altitude before?”
“No, but I’m allergic to Diamox. You’ll have to do Dexamethasone.”
“Alright. We’ll get that changed. You’ll also need antimalarials and some of your vaccina
tions will need a boost. If I send you the list, can you get them taken care of?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. The sooner the better. You’re only three weeks out, and we want them to take.”
“How long is the assignment?”
He’d been scheduled to go to Costa Rica for just under two months. He hoped this one wouldn’t be much longer. Not liking that the new doctor was only in town two days a week, he didn’t want to be gone for too long. He’d already made calls to make sure Dee Moran knew a midwife in the area. The nearest hospital was forty minutes away, and he didn’t want to think about what could go wrong if she had a fast labor on a day when the doctor wasn’t on call.
“It’s quick. Just five weeks.”
“Even better. I want to get back. A few things are going on at home.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah, but I might want to extend my R&R when I get back.”
“I’ll handle it. Thanks again for being flexible. Have a good trip, Max.”
He hung up the phone after saying his goodbyes, then navigated to the number to Ed’s old office.
If memory served correctly, this was one of the days the new doctor was in town. He expected to hear Clara pick up—Ed’s longtime medical assistant—but on the other end of the phone was a different voice.
“Doctor’s office.”
“Hi. This is Dr. Max Piccarelli. I need to order some travel vaccinations and find a day early next week to come in.”
“Dr. Khan is booked out for the next four weeks. I can get you something in the first week of August.”
“It’s a bit more urgent than that. In four weeks, I’ll be on a plane.”
“For urgent medical matters, Dr. Khan is referring patients to the emergency room.”
“The ER doesn’t administer travel vaccinations. I need to be seen in the clinic. And I don’t need to be seen personally by Dr. Khan. They can be administered by a nurse.”
“He won’t order the vaccination without having seen you first. The best I can do is put you on the cancellation list.”