The Secret Ingredient

by Kilby Blades

  “You did great in there,” Cella praised. Watching Keri recalled the old adage about flies and honey. Liz negotiated only through a mean veneer, but Keri was a softer touch. In place of reactive, immediate demands, she’d said she’d talk things over with Cella and get back to them, and shrouded her reactions in a Mona Lisa smile.

  “I’ve done this a few times.” Keri shrugged modestly, but Cella thought her due more respect.

  “It shows…your clients are lucky.”

  “Life’s too short for bullshit. It’s easy when you work with people you like.”

  Keri waited until they were in her Tesla, a gorgeous car in midnight blue, to ask Cella what eavesdropping ears would want to hear but that only Keri should be privy to know.

  “Did any of the pitches sound exciting?”

  The past few days had filled Cella with a real sense of possibility. It turned out her contract obligations weren’t as binding as Liz had always made them seem. What her current network wanted least of all was for Cella to take her viewers to a competitor. They’d lose advertising dollars, and it would strengthen the foothold of the competing network’s other shows. To keep Cella, they’d negotiate—regardless of what the contracts said.

  “Quite a few,” Cella admitted.

  Unbeknownst to the network, she wanted only the episodes she had yet to shoot for the current season to be the last for Cooking with Marcella. Less time in front of the camera and more time in the kitchen, tending to her restaurant, was her goal. She was open to projects, but nothing that compromised the restaurant.

  “Which ones?” Keri wondered.

  Cella looked out the window. “I liked the documentary about women in the kitchen, and the chance to judge a competition that gave a shot to amateur chefs.”

  “Then why do you look like someone just killed your dog?”

  Because it’s been more than a week since I’ve heard his voice. Then, she did think of his dog, who’d kind of started to feel like her dog, too.

  She wondered whether he’d left for Bolivia yet, and if he had, whether he’d gotten there safely. She wondered whether he’d found a new doctor, or told anyone outside of she and Jake that he planned to reopen the restaurant. Some part of her hoped he’d scream it from the mountaintops, but that didn’t sound like him. If he did it, he’d take his time—fulfill his obligations first—not let anyone down. That was what made Max, Max—taking care of everyone else. But who would take care of him?

  “What did Gianna tell you?”

  “An outlandish tale that seemed full of her own opinions. And nothing I’d believe unless I heard it from you.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  Without an iota of sarcasm, Keri responded. “It always is.”

  “So what happens now?” Cella got back to business.

  “We meet with the other networks. Let all of them think you’re shopping around. Ignore their calls. Sound ambivalent. Make them squirm. In the meantime, you think through your ask. Figure out what you really want. Once you’re crystal clear, I’ll negotiate it for you.”

  Cella shook her head in wonder.

  “You make it sound so easy…”

  “It’s not. They’ll try to sweet-talk you into more than you want to give, and even after you make an agreement, they’ll run you around negotiations for weeks. Someone will think you’re playing hardball for more money and they’ll try to suck you into that game. Until they realize all you really want is to scale back, they’ll offer you the sun, the moon and the stars.”

  “How long is all of this gonna take?” Cella was eager to make plans for her restaurant. She wanted to shoot the rest of her shows, finish her book tours, and, finally, be free.

  “Two months, maybe three.”

  “But you said I could just walk away, right? If I don’t want to negotiate.”

  “You could…” Keri said slowly, weaving her head in the universal gesture for ambivalence. “But they’ll try to recoup their losses if you don’t finish the season. Even if you walk away cold, you’ll be caught up in legal settlements for a while. If you want all-out, today, I’ll get you all-out. But your best play is to give them a little runway. Give them a last hurrah and they’ll be gracious about letting you out.”

  30 The Amazon

  “Come out with us.” Max looked up from his laptop long enough to catch a glimpse of Jennifer’s hopeful eyes. “We’re getting empanadas—they’re your favorite, right?”

  “Salteñas,” Max corrected lightly, shifting his eyes back to what he was doing. “Thanks, but I think I’ll stay in.”

  On a good day, he would have joined his colleagues—maybe even schooled the culinarily-challenged Jennifer on the nuanced differences between Bolivian cuisine and other South American food. But he didn’t want to exhaust himself with a happy charade.

  “Bring you back something, then?” Jennifer asked, her eyes just as hopeful. It was obvious that she had more than a passing interest in him, but she wasn’t reading his signals. The moment was nearing when he’d have to turn her down flat.

  “Sure.” He couldn’t think about it just then. Socializing with his colleagues was not why he’d come. Days off meant transport back to civilization and the rental of group apartments on the company’s dime. High-speed internet was the one and only reason why he’d come for R&R. His dead cell phone was charging in the bedroom. Later, he’d read his texts. For the time being, there was e-mail. Scanning his inbox and his spam filter, Max saw quickly that none were from Cella.

  The videos Britt sent of Cujo playing with her kids buoyed him, if only briefly. Britt and Susan kept his dog when he was away. Linc had sent a check-in about the goings-on at the clinic. Five more e-mails from random sources needed his attention. If he didn’t want the electricity turned off at home, he needed to pay the bill. Jake had sent a staggering six.

  Call me, read the subject line of an e-mail Jake had sent six days before. Where the hell are you? read the subject of the next, written three days later.

  Skype me, Max texted Jake quickly, and waited for the call.

  “Hey, man.” Jake looked calmer than expected for someone who had insisted upon reaching Max. “How’s Bolivia?”

  “Awesome,” Max lied. “What’s got you fired up? You could’ve called the village. You know we have a satellite phone.”

  “You’ve got offers,” Jake got down to business. “Avery’s people called. So did Sierra Sumac’s. They want to use the restaurant.”

  Max blinked. “For what?”

  “Avery wants to use it for cooking retreats. Sierra wants to hold a fundraiser for a non-profit she supports—she even asked whether you could serve as hosting chef.”

  “I’m not a chef.”

  Max hadn’t stopped repeating the words to himself, even though they broke his heart. Chefs couldn’t not cook, but not cooking was what Max had done for weeks. The day after he’d texted Cella, Max awoke with a vow to stop wallowing already and take her advice to heart. Only, when he’d tried, Max found that he couldn’t cook a thing.

  At first, he’d chalked it up to some lovesick inability to function. If not for Cujo, Max doubted he’d have gotten out of bed all those days. Not wanting to cook had first seemed intertwined with not wanting to eat. Every other instinct and ritual came back to him in the week after she left, but not that.

  If he thought a change of scenery might do him good, he’d been wrong. He usually became so immersed in his work that all else fell away. It was easier, when he was in the clinic, to be present in the moment. But down time was proving difficult. He’d declined no fewer than five of his colleagues’ requests to cook one of his famous meals. Finally caving the night before, he’d reasoned that forcing himself through might be what he needed. It was the worst thing he’d ever made and it was just chicken. At least it got him clear on one thing: the head chef of a restaurant wasn’t what he was supposed to be.

  “They’re offering top dollar,” Jake continued.

  “Politely decl
ine.”

  “Max—“

  “I can make the calls,” Max interrupted, knowing that he owed them at least that. “By the time they’re ready to rent it, the property may have sold.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  From the look on Jake’s face, Max saw he couldn’t believe his ears.

  “When I get back…I’m giving Fitch a call.”

  The decision to sell Piccarelli’s was the hardest that Max had ever made. He’d had every intention to give running the restaurant another try. He’d learned a lot from Cella that summer, and he’d thought—just maybe—it had been enough to cure him of the crisis of confidence that made him freeze five years before. But it hadn’t been. At exactly the moment that he needed to be ready to take it on, he’d lost his mojo again.

  “What about Cella?”

  “She’s not coming back.”

  “She might if she knew about this.”

  Max’s glare was full of warning. “When she hears it, she’ll hear it from me.”

  “What happened to giving her a chance to sort her life out?”

  “All of that’s dead, man. She’s gone. And I can’t hold onto it forever.”

  Jake shook his head and looked away, mumbling something Max couldn’t hear under his breath.

  “You’re making a mistake.” Max heard the warning in his friend’s voice. It sparked something he couldn’t keep at bay for long. Even his best friend would hear it in a minute if he didn’t back off.

  “Holding onto it was a mistake.”

  “Maybe when it was unprofitable,” Jake countered. “These two contracts alone will set you straight for the next six months. Why don’t you take them, and buy yourself—buy her—some fucking time?”

  “Time for what? For things to go back to the way they were?” Max retorted hotly. “Back to the way I always said they would be once she left? The way I knew they would be before I had the audacity to believe she might actually want to stay?” His anger was barely contained now. “You were all so busy falling in love with her fame, and courting her for a donation, and drinking up that sweet Kool Aid she served. You were so busy ganging up on me—your best friend of twenty fucking years—to get me to agree to let her help. She was always going to leave. Not one of my so-called friends thought to warn me not to believe the fairy tale. No one wanted to think about what it would mean for me after she was gone.”

  Even through a webcam, Max saw his friend’s face redden. But Max was far from done.

  “The restaurant is running on fumes, Jake. Cella’s friends renting it out as some favor to her is a one-time thing that won’t amount to shit. Just like all those zeroes in our bank account from the fundraiser won’t last a year. You want to keep living in a fantasy land? Be my guest. But don’t tell me to sit here pining after a dream that’s already dead. I’m done trying to save something that can’t be saved.”

  By the time Max finished, Jake’s eyes were blazing. Max didn’t care. His words had needed voice. Once he gave them that he’d realized they’d been brewing for a long, long time.

  “How many years have you known me?” Jake didn’t give him time to answer. “Twenty? Twenty-five? How many years have we been saving each other from doing stupid shit? You think today’s the day I’m gonna stop ‘cause you want me to feel guilty for letting Cella into our circle?”

  Jake leaned into the computer then, giving Max a withering glare through a camera in another hemisphere. Max drew back a little, as if Jake were really in his face.

  “I’m sorry things ended between you the way they did. But I’m not going to let you give up the one thing you’ve ever cared about because some girl broke your heart. Even if she never comes back, Piccarelli’s is meant to be yours. And I’m not gonna let you sell it to a douchebag like Fitch. Aunt Alex would roll over in her grave.”

  But Max was still flummoxed.

  “It’s my choice…” he ground out angrily.

  “Thinking on it won’t kill you,” Jake countered. “If you’re looking for people to let you fuck up your life, you’d better find some new friends.”

  With that, Jake disconnected the call.

  Shutting his laptop so angrily that it jumped a little when he closed the lid, Max pushed himself off of the couch, feeling as he often did when he wasn’t close to the ocean: caged in. It was barely dusk. If his colleagues returned, they’d rope him into hanging out. But Max shouldn’t be around people. And it was too early to go to sleep.

  Grabbing his wallet, his passport, and his phone, Max scribbled out a quick note before distributing all three among different pockets in his cargo pants. He’d traveled widely enough that he’d long-since lost the air of seeming like a tourist. Most places he went, people couldn’t tell where he was from. He liked it that way—liked the sense of anonymity he felt every time he went someplace alone.

  Turning right outside the door of the home they were renting, Max made the opposite way from the main drag. If he had his directions right, the streets were organized in concentric ovals. Max was relatively certain that the way he had taken would cut through diagonally toward a park he had passed. It had been memorable not only for a large playground that was painted in a style of primary colors typical to the country, but also for the outdoor market that was at its border.

  In nearly every Bolivian city, Max had seen such markets, large—nearly unfathomable in their size—and full of half of anything you’d ever want. Surprisingly well-organized for what seemed like informal operations, similar businesses found each other and built mini-neighborhoods. An entire block was lit with hundreds of incandescent and LED bulbs, not hung for decoration, on sale from a litany of lighting stores.

  Turning a corner, he spent two blocks walking past vendors who only sold bed linens. To his right began a street that seemed only to sell children’s toys. Following his nose, he went toward the produce. He liked watching the cholitas, with their bowler hats, long, connected braids, and colorful shawls. Since they were cut, and not washed, watermelon slices were usually safe enough to eat when bought off of the street. If he was feeling better later, he’d grab himself one on the way back.

  He’d been doing this lately. Walking until he thought of nothing. Either that, or only her. Today was one of the her days. He walked the market back and forth, until the cholitas started packing up their wares. Soon, he found himself back in the park.

  Don’t do it.

  He chided himself at least seven times a day. If he wanted to stop doing it, he should stop carrying it around in his wallet. But he never did. Wouldn’t chance losing it. Wouldn’t dare to even take it out in a strong wind. He couldn’t let himself lose her note to him.

  Our time together has been the most delicious of dreams.

  Making magic in the kitchen is what you were born to do.

  My knives are my most prized possession and they are meant to be used.

  And Max had thought about it. God, he had. The dream he’d only begun to allow himself to dream since she’d arrived had spent the better part of the summer spinning a web of possibility in his head. Even knowing she was gone—really gone—he’d let himself believe he could do it alone. She was right in her letter—some part of him understood. However tragic, it would’ve been poetry—he with his restaurant and she with hers—if he hadn’t lost the ability to cook.

  The deeper pattern wasn’t lost on him. He’d been at his best only when orbiting his two women. It hadn’t been the same without Aunt Alex, and it sure as hell wasn’t the same without Cella. Something he might never understand made it so that he couldn’t do it on his own. It was fucking with him—to have gone from so high to so low. To be so unhinged by her—by this. To realize that the memories of not one but two dynamic women sat at the center of his relationship with cooking and food.

  By the time Max returned to the rental, his head was clearer and his colleagues were still out. If he hurried, he could take what he needed from the kitchen and feign sleep in his room. Grabbing h
is laptop, a liter bottle of water, and hastily-heated leftovers, Max sequestered himself behind closed doors.

  The room was modest, and the blanket looked a bit thin for Southern Hemisphere winter. Wanting to crawl in nonetheless, Max multitasked as he simultaneously ate and crafted a mildly-apologetic e-mail to Jake. Only when he went to plug his laptop in for the night did he remember his phone, which he’d left charging on the floor next to an awkwardly-placed outlet. After replying YES to his carrier about accepting roaming fees, he watched the “No Service” space change to say “LTE”.

  His phone started buzzing with eight days’ worth of alerts. He changed into his sleeping layers, but the phone was still syncing as he crawled into bed. He had three-hundred-fifty-seven Facebook friend requests, a byproduct of his name being in public after #CellaGate. Turning off Facebook alerts entirely, he held his breath as he tapped the green bubble that showed he’d received eight texts.

  Seven were from Jake—days-old insistence that Max give him a call. The final one was from Cella. Tapping into it, he saw an image of a coffee mug with mint leaves and cardamom pods floating on top. The text that appeared below it read: nowhere near as good as yours.

  31 Facebook

  For real?

  Clyde Christmas—and that was really his name—had just driven Cella through the gates of a house that couldn’t possibly be a bungalow. The driveway was so long that the house hadn’t yet come into view. She’d asked to see modest beachside homes, though she supposed that “modest” was a relative term in LA. Either way, this was hardly a house—it was a mansion by the sea.

  “How many square feet did you say this was?”

  She wasn’t sure he’d said. He’d talked mostly about the amazing kitchen, a large dining room and spectacular ocean views. Out of fairness, she had told him that those were important features.