by Kilby Blades
“Thank you.”
Cella said it with a gracious smile just as Chet Chesterton settled in his chair. On television, it would look as if she and her interviewer sat where a wall of windows gave a stunning view of Central Park. In reality, they sat atop two bistro chairs at a high table in front of a green screen and she was in LA.
The cameras rolled. Cella plastered on her television face as Chet said his intro and gave the camera a 1,000 mega-watt smile. She might have felt relieved at how well she was pulling this off, but pretending didn’t feel good. At least Keri was there, her only source of comfort.
“Thank you for having me. I’m happy to be here,” she lied, right on cue.
“The last time we had you on the show, you did a segment on making the perfect soufflé, though I have to admit, mine didn’t come out like yours when I tried it at home.”
“Keep at it.” Cella laughed her television laugh and rocked in her seat a little. “I had to do it twenty times until I got it right.”
“Well, I wish you were cooking for us again, but today we’re not in the kitchen.” Chet’s face turned serious. “Social media has gone wild with rumors that your Venice Beach restaurant is a no-go. For weeks there’s been speculation that it wouldn’t open for its Labor Day debut.”
“It’s been difficult to remain silent.” Cella gazed at Chet intently. “And because the restaurant was a partnership, how and when to talk about changes wasn’t entirely up to me.”
“I can’t help but notice that you’re speaking in the past tense. Does that mean the rumors are true?”
“The restaurant will open, but without me serving as head chef.”
“In March, the day that you and Kevin LaRue announced your collaboration, your website got half a million visits. Within two days, reservations were booked out for a full six months. What do you say to people who planned trips and made reservations? Or, worse, to skeptics who’ve called it a publicity stunt?”
She’d known it was coming.
“A lot of chefs attach their names to restaurants they never set foot in. I think it’s a testament to my integrity that I’m being transparent about how much I’ll really be involved.”
“What about speculation that you’ve abandoned this project in order to buy a different restaurant on the East Coast, formerly belonging to the late chef Alessandra Piccarelli.”
Don’t bring his name into it.
“I did have the honor of cooking in Alessandra’s kitchen this summer as part of a fundraiser for the Longport Preservation Society. I should mention that I did so with five other world-renowned chefs including Gianna Barone, Avery King, Cedric Gaines, and others. So far as I know, none of us has plans to buy the restaurant.” She plastered a smile on her face, and looked into the camera with mock reproach. “So don’t believe everything you read on the internet.”
Chet chuckled as she looked back toward him. “Fair enough.”
“On a serious note, I would like to offer an apology to those who were as excited about the restaurant as I was. No one is more disappointed than me about my participation falling through.”
“So, what’s next for you?”
“Well, I just finished a recipe book on Italian cuisine that will release in February. Apart from that, I’ll keep shooting my show.”
“And we’ll all keep watching. And thanks for coming in and clearing things up.”
28 The Aftermath
“Keep the change.”
The large pizza Max had ordered came in just over $21. As usual, he handed the pimple-faced teenager who delivered it $30, a nice kid named Eric.
“Thanks, Dr. Piccarelli.”
Max went to close the door as Eric turned to go.
“And I forgot.”
Max halted his motion.
“Tina thought she heard you ordered plain cheese, but we made your regular order—you know, the half and half.”
The regular order Eric referred to was the one he and Cella had taken to calling in that summer. “That’s fine, though next time you can tell Tina to go back to the old order.”
Two minutes later, Max had declined apologetic offers to have a new one delivered, waving Eric off and assuring him again it was okay. It didn’t feel okay when Max opened the box of hot deliciousness that should have at least smelled good to him. Seeing sausage, garlic and jalapeño on her half of the pizza only made him miss her more.
Cujo stood by the sliding doors of his kitchen, tail wagging slowly as he looked hopefully at Max. They’d eaten nearly every meal on his back patio for all the weeks that Cella had been there. Since her departure, Max hadn’t been out once.
“Not today, boy.”
Grabbing two slices of plain cheese, Max’s arms felt heavy as he grabbed a plate from his cabinet. He’d spent the morning in his garage lifting weights. It might’ve been from the ache of his strained muscles, but Max knew that wasn’t all of it. Everything felt heavy to him now. It had only been three days.
Flopping down on the couch, he grabbed the remote and flipped on the television. He’d already erased all the culinary documentaries he and Cella had fallen asleep to. That—and all other attempts—to stop thinking about her were abject failures, including all the action movies he’d set to record on his DVR.
He was chewing his first tasteless mouthful and waiting for his menu to load when he stopped, mid-bite. He’d forgotten about the settings that instructed his box to record any show with Marcella Dawes. Sitting right above The Fast and the Furious were three talk shows he never watched. Their episode descriptions all noted Cella as the main guest. Worse yet, a red dot told him one was currently recording. It was a late morning news talk show that taped live. Before he could stop himself, he navigated to the show, which took him to the live feed. And there was Cella, looking lovely, but nothing like herself.
She wore tailored slacks and an expensive-looking blouse. It struck him that he must have seen her dressed like this on other television interviews. At that moment, she looked eerily unnatural to him—her smile too wooden, her eyes too dull, her face washed out and too made up. No hints of the healthy tan he knew was underneath.
The hostess was busy praising the fact that the last cookbook Cella had released had just achieved week twenty on the bestseller list. Cella was busy accepting the compliments with modest grace.
“Now I have to ask you about some rumors.” Max’s ears perked up, already hating the way the hostess made what was sure to be a line of intrusive questioning sound benign. “#CellaGate has started trending on Twitter. Is what they’re saying about your restaurant true?”
Cella looked entirely too jovial for someone under attack.
“Well, I stay away from social media, Robin. The rumors take on a life of their own. At some point, it becomes impossible to keep repeating the truth.”
The hostess leaned in, a bit hawkishly, Max thought. “And what is the truth?”
Cella’s face took on a solemnity that still looked a bit put-on to Max. “That I will no longer be head chef at my Los Angeles restaurant. And I want everyone out there to know how sorry I am about the change. I also want people to know that, even though I won’t be cooking every day, I’ll still be involved.”
What the hell does that mean? She’d never mentioned this—had only made it sound like returning to LA was about cutting ties with Liz. Not bowing down to Kevin. She was supposed to be opening her own restaurant. Following her own path.
“What prompted this?”
“I realized it just wasn’t feasible for me to be there the majority of the time. From there, it became a moral dilemma of advertising it as my own when I wouldn’t be there as often as I wanted.”
Max clenched his teeth, because she was lying through hers…wasn’t she?
“How do you plan to remain involved?”
“By giving a mentorship opportunity to an up-and-coming chef.”
“Sounds exciting. Please, say more about that.”
Cella leaned forward,
suddenly looking more like herself, some light appearing in her eyes. It gave Max emotional whiplash, the feeling of having to reconcile real Cella from fake Cella, all within the span of a minute.
“Every chef needs a break. I wouldn’t be where I am today unless Avery King and Gianna Barone hadn’t given me a shot. That’s what I want to do now. Through the restaurant, I’ll be a hands-on mentor to her.”
“Her?”
Cella smiled. “It’s important to me that I mentor a female chef. I’ll be in the background, but I really want her to shine.”
“So who will the lucky chef be?”
Cella smiled coquettishly. “You’ll be the first to know.”
Robin laughed. “I’ll hold you to that. Final question: can fans at least expect to see you in the restaurant from time to time?”
“Of course. I still live in LA. Don’t count me out just yet.”
Max didn’t hear the key in the door, nor did he hear it open or close. His only clue that Britt had arrived came when he registered her voice somewhere behind him, cooing to Cujo. Max remained glued to his seat, watching the final news interview that had made its way onto his TV. She said the same thing in all of them. She’d still be involved in the restaurant. She’d still do book tours and tape her shows. After all that talk, she was still in her routine.
Also in front of him now was his laptop. He’d heard the word #CellaGate enough times that he’d wanted to survey the damage himself. And so he sat, torn between being furious with an unforgiving public who roasted her for doing whatever she goddamned well pleased with her life, and disappointed with her, for not fighting for them, which only made him furious with himself.
“I saw.”
Britt settled in next to him, side-saddle on the sofa, with compassionate eyes and an affectionate hand that took a single pass through his hair.
“The things they’re saying about her…” He choked it out through a throat that felt raw and dry.
He’d read through thousands of posts that had accused Cella of staging an elaborate publicity stunt. But it had all been Kevin. If Max had to be furious with anyone, it should be him.
“Everyone’s broken up about it.” He swung his gaze to meet his ex-wife’s for the first time. For all her high jinks, Britt liked Cella and Max could see that she was upset. “Deidre took to it a few hours ago. She’s been contacting all of Cella’s fan clubs. She’s sending out news articles about the fundraiser and waging a counter-campaign with the hashtag #LeaveCellaAlone.”
“I want to call her.”
Britt knew better than to ask the obvious ‘why don’t you?’. He didn’t mention his fears that she might not pick up.
“How’d you leave things?” Britt asked instead.
He didn’t want to tell her—didn’t want to be the one to say another bad word about Cella, and he had a feeling Britt wouldn’t approve of the way she’d up and left. Some part of him still held out hope that Cella would be a part of his life. If that happened, he couldn’t have all his friends hating her.
“The way I always thought we would. We finished the cookbook. She went back to her life.”
Except, he’d let himself hope for a different ending.
“You told me something once. Do you remember?”
But he didn’t. Because her leaving had shredded him and he hadn’t thought straight in three days.
“You said you didn’t want to be just some vacation fling. That maybe what she really needed was just one uncomplicated friend.”
Max’s heart ached, not for himself this time but for Cella.
“If you meant that…” Britt continued carefully, “…maybe it’s time to make good. I’ll bet she could really use one right now.”
Max thought about it, long after his barely-touched pizza had been thrown away. Long after Britt was gone. Sitting on the stool in his kitchen, he watched afternoon fade to evening and evening fade to night. He read her letter a dozen times. It was the only thing he had left.
At some point, he realized it was past midnight. On the west coast, it was only just past nine. That was when he rose silently and crept past a sleeping Cujo to open the sliding doors and slip out onto the porch. Not before picking up his phone.
29 The Two Things
Before getting out of the car, Cella thanked Keri again for moral support during an entire day of grueling interviews. Given Keri’s heavy-hitting client list, it couldn’t have been easy to clear her schedule. After a long, warm hug, Keri instructed her to focus on getting good sleep and ignoring social media. It was nice, but it wasn’t the hug she really wanted.
Please tell me you’re okay.
The text came in a second after she’d set her phone down on the counter of her un-lived-in kitchen, sterile for its lack of personality. Cella was hungry. Her weeks in Longport had gotten her out of the habit of carrying a packet of almonds to munch on when she had a long day and the going got tough. She’d had some Peanut M&Ms in one of the green rooms. That had been some time in the morning. The fridge had been stocked, but only with her usual set of ingredients that would let her make anything. A second before her phone buzzed, she was silently lamenting how unmotivated she was to cook.
But, that text…in seconds, it stopped her heart and sent desperate fingers to grip her cold marble counter. When she sobbed out her next breaths, it couldn’t have been clearer that she was not okay. She’d fired her agent, admitted the failure of her restaurant, become a social media pariah, and left the man she loved. Gianna’s daily calls had helped, but it was Max’s shoulder she longed for most.
Her first impulse was to call him. Her better instincts knew that would be a mistake. She was already in tatters. Even if she made herself stop crying, Max would hear tears in her voice. And what did she want him to do, anyway? Save her? He would tell her to come back—and she’d be tempted. But he had his own path to follow. And it was time for her to save herself.
I’m sorry they brought your name into it. I tried to misdirect them.
Bouncing dots in a gray bubble confirmed that he was typing back.
That’s not what I asked.
She had written this man a Dear John letter. He should have been furious with her. Instead, he’d reached out to ask her how she was. Thinking, she took a good, long minute to answer.
I never am on days like this.
As she sent it off, she had an impulse to ask how he was. Though, she was pretty sure she already knew. She was also pretty sure that if she typed out the I’m sorry that was on the tips of her fingers, he would know what that meant, too. Before she had a chance, another text came in:
Will you be?
She tapped out “I don’t know” then changed her mind. She didn’t want him to think she was a hot mess, even though she kind of was. But she was the one who had left him behind. She wouldn’t martyr herself now on her shitty situation and become the victim.
Eventually. Most days aren’t this shitty.
He didn’t write anything for a long while, and she wondered what would come next. She hadn’t expected to hear from him any time soon. She’d explained herself as well as she could in the letter—said what she’d thought she had to in order for them to have a shot one day. She hadn’t made him any promises, or been so bold as to ask him to wait.
It wasn’t like this was the first time she’d had to make a choice, though she’d never felt for her exes what she felt for Max. She’d learned enough to know that tethering him to her life would be inhumane. The long-distance thing never would have worked. Sooner or later, they all resented rarely being able to see her—the hours it took for her to return texts and the fact that she never picked up the phone.
I can’t accept the knives.
Having left him her knives was one of the only things keeping her going. Just like her, he wanted his restaurant. Just like her, he had to shut down other things in his life to make space. Max was always so busy orbiting everyone else, she wanted him to finally seize what he wanted.
&n
bsp; If you don’t, I’ll be deeply insulted.
She waited for him to respond. He seemed to start, then stop, then start, then stop. Finally, a text came through.
They’re too much.
Her answer was immediate, and clear.
They’re everything.
He didn’t write anything back then, and Cella wondered whether that was it. As she wracked her brain for something not-heavy to say—something that would simply keep him connected for longer—another text came through.
There’s something you need to know. When my friends call, I come. No matter where in the world I am, Jake knows how to reach me.
Even though it was just a text, her mind could practically hear him saying the words. She didn’t deserve his generosity. Tears were falling by then.
I might take you up on that.
No sooner had Cella pressed “send” than did she reach to her face to sob into her hand.
I’m back on October 2nd. There’s a satellite phone, but I won’t have a chance to sync my cell more than once a week.
Before she could tap out an “Okay”, another text from him appeared.
Take care of yourself, Cella. Don’t let them tell you who you are.
She had advice of her own.
Don’t let them suck you in. Remember what it is you’re supposed to do.
There was more—so much more she wanted him to know, but none of it would be right.
“One down, two to go.”
Keri squeezed Cella’s hand and threw her a reassuring smile. The meeting with the network had gone well. While the Internet was busy losing its shit over #CellaGate, Cella’s business partners had been busy losing their shit over Liz’s departure. From their perspective, a change in agent meant a change in direction. Couched in requests to see her now that she was back, and to meet her new agent, what they really wanted was to know her plan.
It was a strong position for Cella to be in. When distributors thought their talent was getting antsy, they worked up new ideas. It took only the first meeting for Cella to fathom just how many opportunities Liz had never bothered to share. A lot of what they pitched her were things she’d have jumped on a few months before.