The Secret Ingredient

by Kilby Blades

  “You have sick people to treat. And a fundraiser to plan. We can do all of it if we work as a team.”

  “I can’t ask you to do that.”

  “You’re not asking—I’m volunteering. Dr. Khan’s still staying on, on his days. On the days when he’s not in, we can cook in the morning and work here in the afternoons. Clara said she’d be willing to help out with the phones on the days when I’m not in. I’ve thought it through, Max. I know it can work.”

  He looked at her in disbelief. She’d expected no less. She’d blindsided him.

  “You’re on vacation,” he pointed out.

  She laughed then, shaking her head. “Max. So are you. I’ve never met a single person so hell-bent on helping everyone but himself.”

  “Cooking doesn’t feel like work to me. Me helping you cook is different from you slogging through an administrative job, stuck in this office all day, all alone.”

  “Except I wasn’t alone today. I spent about half the day at the front desk. You were right, you know…about the people here.” She looked down at her fingers. “I know it may not be much to you—doing everyday things with everyday people, feeling connected to the rest of the world instead of looking down at it from an ivory tower. But for me, answering phones and doing something that mattered…it was really nice.”

  Max’s eyes softened as he looked at her, understanding. “Cooking matters, Cella. Sharing nourishment and connecting with people…hasn’t anyone ever told you that food is love?”

  “If food is love, this is, too.”

  Another look passed over his face, this one more complicated.

  “I’m not saying no,” he said finally. “But I’m not saying yes until you sleep on it. I love that you want to help, but you came here with a job to do. I don’t want you to wake up tomorrow and feel like you got sucked in.”

  I’m already sucked in.

  Part 2

  The Clinic

  14 The Need-to-Know

  Shit.

  Cella groaned as she closed the one eye she had opened in order to peek at the screen of her phone. It confirmed what every part of her had known—the before-dawn phone call was from Liz. She had prophesied such a call—an earful from your agent was exactly what you got when you brazenly gallivanted in public instead of following the rules.

  It’s not gallivanting.

  The reasonable part of Cella’s brain talked back to her paranoia. In the three days since she’d been working at the clinic, the two voices had been fighting in her head. Sitting behind the reception desk and answering phones was hardly scandalous. But it was the least private situation she’d placed herself in, in years. If anything, she’d been surprised how not recognized she was. Maybe she was jaded from living in LA for too long.

  “I can explain.”

  She had to look back at the phone to make sure the call was still connected when she heard only silence on the line.

  “Liz?”

  Silence gave way to keystrokes in the background. They were enough to tell Cella she’d given something away. If Liz knew what she was dealing with, she’d have already torn into whatever good talking-to she thought Cella might deserve. But Liz was clicking. Which meant she was Googling. Which meant she was forming an opinion on exactly what might be going on.

  “Liz…”’

  By then, Cella was sitting up in bed, shivering a bit from having exited the cozy goodness of downy comforters and sliding on her glasses. She didn’t bother to turn on the bed side lamp.

  “The network offered you a three-season deal hosting Sliced. While you chew on that, I’m going to sit here and look up what you should have told me in the first place so I can figure out what the hell you’re apologizing for.”

  Double shit.

  “If that’s not what you’re calling about, it didn’t make the papers.”

  “What didn’t make the papers?”

  The only person Cella had told was Gianna.

  “Really…it’s nothing. I’ve just been out more often, you know?”

  “No. I don’t know. Because there’s something you’re not telling me…and you usually tell me things.”

  A mild stab of guilt pierced her stomach.

  “I’ve been volunteering at the local medical clinic.”

  Silence. The typing had stopped.

  “It’s just a few hours a week. But, you know, there are patients. No one’s made a big deal out of it, but—“

  Liz cut her off. “Why don’t you tell me these things? If you tell me, I can get ahead of them.”

  “There’s nothing to get ahead of.”

  “Are you kidding? Famous chef donates time to a small-town community. I’ll prepare a press release.”

  “No. No press release. That’s not why I’m doing it.”

  “It’s that doctor.”

  “His name is Max. And, yes, I’m helping him out. It’s the least I could do. The cookbook’s coming along, thanks to him.”

  “How close are you on the cookbook?”

  Cella’s misdirection had worked. The trump card with Liz was always to talk business.

  “I still need a good four weeks.”

  “We have to act fast on Sliced.”

  Cella wrinkled her nose. “I thought Thad had another season left.”

  “The network just dropped him. A sexual harassment story is about to break. You were already in the running for when his contract ended, but they’re sensitive about being on the right side of the scandal. They want to have his replacement be a woman.”

  “Great. Now I’m winning contracts because I have a vagina.”

  “No,” Liz intoned in a measured voice. “You’re winning contracts because you’re good.”

  “What about my restaurant?”

  “Cella, we’ve talked about this.”

  “What about my restaurant?” This time her voice was biting. She hated the thought of putting it off. Again.

  “You can have a restaurant when this is all over. Right now, you have to focus on parts of your franchise that create passive income. TV is where it’s at. After the initial run, you’ll be syndicated. You’ll be collecting royalties from this for years.”

  “Where are we with Kevin?” Changing the subject seemed like a better idea than losing her shit with Liz. Cella had approved a buyout amount that made her want to cringe.

  “He didn’t take it.”

  “It was 5% above his last asking price.”

  “I know.”

  “There’s no winning this game. We have to take him to court,” Cella insisted.

  “We talked about this.”

  Cella gritted her teeth. “In the context of settlement. This isn’t settling—this is extortion. It’s time.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s your secret weapon?”

  “Talking to him might make a difference. Maybe he’d be open to more if it came from you.”

  Liz had floated the idea before.

  “Negotiating with men…” Liz continued, “…it’s all about pride. Make him feel like he’s got some of the control, and he’ll bend.”

  Cella hated the idea of having to talk to him. But Liz’s idea had merit. If Cella had a dollar for every male ego she’d had to stroke on her ascent to the top, she’d be even richer.

  “Say whatever you have to, to make him go quietly,” Liz insisted. “What he’s most afraid of now is losing face.”

  Cella sighed, because she hated when Liz being right meant she had to do something that went against every shred of what she stood for.

  “Ten minutes,” Cella ground out. “If he can’t see reason after that, I’m litigating.”

  “Alright,” Liz said. “Ten minutes. And Cella? Whatever you’re doing out there, don’t lose perspective. In four weeks, vacation is over.”

  Cella was still brooding in the shower, then again as she watched the sun rise while she had her morning coffee, every sip tasting bitter on her lips. Angry with the situation with K
evin, and angrier still about Sliced, she seethed. She’d never understand why Liz couldn’t accept that walking through the bigger doors that opened wasn’t a foregone conclusion for her. It took every ounce of courage—every bit of strength she could muster from deep inside her—to paste a smile on her face when she breezed through Max’s front door.

  “Did you manage to get any sleep?”

  Cella asked it casually as she breezed into the kitchen, her large wicker baskets full of supplies resting solidly in her elbow. Max looked up from where he was sitting at his kitchen counter, reading his newspaper, already smiling that sexy smile before she’d even fully walked in. He was dressed in well-worn jeans and a dark-gray fitted V-neck that did amazing things to accent his arms and chest.

  “A little.” His yawn was right on time, answering his questions much better than words ever could. “Did you?”

  They hadn’t gotten back from the clinic until eight that previous night. In lieu of cooking, they’d ordered a pizza and made it only halfway through a movie before they’d both started to doze.

  “I would’ve. My agent called me at 5AM.”

  He winced. “You should’ve texted. We could’ve started later.”

  “No…” she trailed off vaguely as she opened the fridge. “We’ve got work to do.”

  As she emptied the contents of her basket, Max sprang into action, reassembling his paper, then glancing curiously into her basket before heading back to his coffee station near the sink. A minute later, he was seated back at the raised countertop on the island in the middle of his kitchen. She’d joined him there, and he’d placed an appreciated cup of his special coffee in front of her.

  “What’s on the menu?”

  He asked it casually enough, but she could tell he knew that something was wrong. She was grateful that he also knew not to grill her about it.

  “Pizza and piadina.”

  “Not garlic, sausage and jalapeño, I hope.” Max hadn’t ceased to rib her about the toppings she liked on her pizza.

  “Not cheese, either,” she shot back. “What are you, five?”

  “It’s a poor man’s Margherita,” he argued, nudging her a little.

  “Mmm-hmm,” she hummed.

  She pulled out the worn leather journal she’d carried for years. The way he leaned in to inspect it took her mind off of things for a second. The smell of his aftershave, the way he filled out his shirt, and his sheer proximity were hard to ignore.

  “What is this?”

  “My recipe book.”

  When he asked with his eyes, she nodded, but felt her heartbeat quicken for a different reason. She had guarded this book like a treasure. No one else had ever touched it, let alone had a look inside. But some part of her wanted him to see. She watched as he handled it with reverent care. This was what had bothered her all morning—stronger than her annoyance over Liz’s attempt to turn her work in the clinic into a media opportunity was resentment over Liz’s sacrificing of her dreams.

  He took his time going through, stopping her at points to ask her about this or that. Some of the recipes—like the one she would use for the pizza and piadina—were variations on classics. But most of them were her ideas—new concepts she hadn’t dared to try. There were reasons, of course. Some recipes were too off-the-wall for her producers and her publisher always steered her toward titles that were likely to sell the most books. That’s what her restaurant venture had been about—branching out and taking risks.

  When Max closed the back cover, he slid the book back over to her and looked her squarely in the eye.

  “This is what you ought to be cooking.”

  She blinked. “I know.”

  “I’d kill to have this many recipe ideas.”

  He didn’t need to ask it aloud: Why aren’t you?

  “It’s complicated.”

  Closing the book thoughtfully, he slid it back toward her and pulled his mug back in front of him, but he didn’t pick it up to drink. His eyes drifted out the windowed wall of his kitchen as he looked toward the ocean.

  “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  Swallowing thickly, she nodded.

  “Do you need the money or something?” His eyes shifted back to her then. “Because you already told me you’re not in it for the fame.”

  Still unable to speak, she shook her head.

  “I mean…don’t get me wrong—it’s gonna be great. We both know it’ll fly off the shelves. But why are you writing a cookbook about Italian cuisine?”

  It was a repetition of a question he’d asked her nearly two weeks before. She didn’t dare to repeat the answer. Some part of her did want to rediscover her Italian roots. But the bigger part of her was just doing what her publisher was telling her to do.

  “It’s complicated.”

  It came out as a whisper.

  “Just…” he struggled for words. “Just don’t sell yourself out, okay? You’re so much more than they think you are. You’re not a television personality. You’re Marcella fucking Dawes.”

  “Reinforcements.”

  Kaito made the announcement as he set down the bag. Since word had gotten around that Max was seeing patients on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, lunch and dinner had started showing up from various restaurant owners on the days they were around.

  “There don’t happen to be any dumplings in there…” Cella trailed off, the aromas from the weekend before already infiltrating her senses.

  “Don’t tell Max about the double order,” Kaito said conspiratorially. “The extra ones are for you.”

  Cella wasn’t shy then, about opening the bag. Lunch had been hours before. Max still had three patients waiting, and the way she saw it, it wouldn’t hurt to have a taste. Kaito lingered, as if waiting for her to approve his concoctions, which Cella was more than happy to do. She moaned a little as she tasted the first dumpling.

  “The dough…I can never get mine like this. It’ so delicate, even with the weight of the filling.”

  “It’s the flour recipe.” Kaito seemed eager to give away his secret. “You’re renting the house next door to Max’s, right? There’s a Board meeting at his place day after tomorrow. Come over beforehand. I’ll walk you through.”

  “A Board meeting?”

  Kaito nodded. “For the Preservation Society. He didn’t tell you? That’s how I know Max.”

  “I didn’t realize he was on the Board. I thought he just helped with the fundraiser.”

  Kaito laughed heartily, plucking one of Cella’s healthy protein cookies from the plate that now had a regular spot at the reception desk. Cella had taken to setting out healthy snacks that patients could nosh on while they waited to be seen. “Of course Max would tell you that. Do you know how much I did in fundraising for the Board last year?” he asked after he had finished chewing. Cella shook her head. “One hundred and fifteen thousand. That’s five times as much as most other members. Do you know how much Max raised?”

  She shook her head.

  “Seven-hundred thousand. And that doesn’t even take into account what we made through the fundraiser at the restaurant. That’s only what he’ll take credit for. Max is the Board, honey. He’s never even lived here full-time, but nobody loves this place more than him. He’d sell his house and live in a van if he thought it would do something for the people of this town.”

  She frowned. “Then why won’t he let me help?”

  “You’ve offered?”

  “Nearly every day for the past week.”

  Kaito frowned. “He isn’t the only Board member, you know. If you want to help, I’ll take your money.”

  “What about the rest of the Board?”

  “They like donations, too.”

  “I’ve been thinking…” Cella voiced something that had begun to form in her mind. “That I have something to offer that’s better than money.”

  15 The Ex Wife

  Shutting the door to the break room microwave, Max set his lunch to cook for a minute a
nd twenty seconds. He’d cleanly bypassed the sandwiches in the fridge for Tupperware from home. He was beyond appreciative of the lunches that had been showing up—gifts from his grateful town—but nothing that anyone had brought held a candle to what Cella cooked.

  She’d taken to letting herself into his house in the early hours of morning. He’d come downstairs from his shower to find her busy in his kitchen twice. She never started the cookbook work without him, but she had taken to making breakfast and brewing the coffee. The previous morning, he’d been greeted with the vision of the cabinet drawer that held his trash can open, teeming with tomatillo husks, and Cella fastening the lid on his crock pot. Hours later, after their cooking was done, his kitchen was filled with the aroma of what he’d soon find was the best Chili Verde he’d ever had.

  The woman could cook anything to perfection—her Mexican food was at least as good as anything he’d ever tasted from campesinas in the north of the country. She made kugel with the skill of a rabbi’s wife and schnitzel like an Austrian hausfrau.

  Even her rice is outstanding.

  Max helped himself to a heaping forkful. This woman fed him in a way that nourished his very soul.

  His two-fifteen had been a no-show and there was no one booked for two-thirty. What he should do was get back to making calls to find a new doctor. At a dead end so far, despite hours of late-night work and calls in-between appointments, he was ready to call in a huge favor to his work friend, Linc. But he wouldn’t call right then—after his lunch, he’d go hang out with Cella.

  Content to eat for the moment, Max was halfway to turning on the TV. Hundreds of channels were a rare luxury. His hand was frozen above the button when the sound of familiar female laughter from the front mingled with Cella’s.

  Britt.

  His ex-wife was in the waiting room.

  “Oh, God.”

  Abandoning his lunch, Max made his way toward the front, lingering in the doorway. He wanted to eavesdrop for a minute. It shouldn’t have made him nervous—his gay ex-wife and his crush shouldn’t have set off alarm bells. And it wouldn’t have if he didn’t have an inkling of what might be going on.