The Secret Ingredient

by Kilby Blades

  International Trade and Convention Center

  Savannah, GA

  Scrolling down, he looked at her previous appearance. She’d done a charity event the day before—no, the evening before—in Denver. Cella was on a flight from Denver to Savannah. Looking at the event, Max got a sinking feeling when he realized why Savannah sounded so familiar. Cella was on her way to the pre-release events that would serve as the early debut of their book.

  The discovery recalled fears and insecurities Max had tried so hard to avoid. At that moment, he didn’t care. He’d sign ten-thousand books and do a cooking demonstration for a thousand members of the press if it meant he’d get close enough to say what he had to say to her.

  Max looked at flights. There was a direct route on Frontier, but the times didn’t add up. If she was on the Delta flight that just left, it would have her there in four hours and forty-five minutes. If she was on American, it would take her just over five. According to the event schedule, she was doing a demonstration at three o-clock and a signing at four-thirty. It was just past eleven locally. GPS told Max that driving to Savannah would take him five-and-a-half hours.

  He was already shifting off of the stool in his kitchen before the lid of his laptop even closed. He’d e-mailed himself directions and had Britt on speaker by the time he hopped the stairs two-at-a-time. He needed a shower. When he said what he had to, to Cella, he didn’t want to smell like a bar. Britt picked up on the third ring.

  “Are you around?” he asked bluntly. “‘Cause I need you to watch my dog.”

  39 Go Get Your Girl

  “Badge?”

  A hand pushed Max’s chest as he approached one of three sets of double-doors. The labyrinthine convention center might have been difficult to navigate if there hadn’t been so many signs. From what Max could gather, Cella was the headliner. Signs for other events were understated, but huge banners with a picture of her book—their book—led Max to where he’d needed to be.

  The owner of the hand was a security guard—the real kind—complete with an earpiece with one of those curly wires that disappeared down into his shirt. He wore all black, sported dark glasses and was a few inches taller than Max.

  “Sir, this is a limited event. You need a conference badge and a sticker that shows you signed up for the expo. Did you lose your badge?”

  Max shook his head as he craned his neck to see inside.

  “May I see it?” The guard was starting to sound annoyed.

  Max reached into his back pocket. “I’m the co-author. See? Max Piccarelli.”

  The guard removed his glasses, settling them on his head, and looking skeptically between Max’s driver’s license and the vinyl banner next to them with a photo of the book.

  “Excuse me,” Max said to a woman exiting the room with a blissed-out look and a copy of the book in her hand. “May I borrow this for a moment?”

  Her surprise was evident when he hurriedly plucked the book from her hand. Opening the back cover, he saw the picture of he and Cella—it had been taken on the night of the fundraiser. Instead of his home kitchen, it was the kitchen at Piccarelli’s. They leaned into one another as they smiled at the camera in matching tokes and twin jackets embroidered with each of their names.

  Holding it up for the guard to see, Max waited. The guard looked skeptical even as he waved Max in, not handing the book back to Max, but to the woman. Nodding thanks, Max followed the crowd, driver’s license still in hand. There appeared to be other authors signing other books, but it was clear that the huge line that had formed in the back concealed Cella.

  His phone had run out of batteries two hours before. When he realized his power had dipped below 10%, he’d written down the remaining directions. He’d have missed her call, but he didn’t care. He was going to do this in person.

  Walking a wide berth around the crowd, his heart raced in double-time as he set his eyes on his target. By the time he flashed his license again and got past the guards that flanked the table where Cella sat, she still hadn’t noticed him. She’d just signed a book and was busy taking a picture with a fan.

  The eyes of a young woman at her side widened on his approach. Max couldn’t tell whether it was from recognition or whether from sensing his war path vibe. The woman stepped back, the chair she had casually leaned her hand on now unobstructed.

  “Max!” she said. “I’m Alison.”

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  He returned her startled handshake hastily, sliding into the chair the moment Cella looked up.

  Her hand was suspended in mid-air where it was waiting to take hold of the next fan’s book. From the corner of his eye, Max saw that she was about to drop the book, just as his arrival had caused her to drop her jaw. Reaching over just in time, he placed it on the table in front of him. When he pulled a fancy-looking blue pen from her hand, he could see that tears had pooled in her eyes.

  “Show me how to do this?” he asked tentatively.

  “Max,” she breathed in surprise.

  He glanced up at the fan who was looking between them with interest, then back at Cella, smiling gently and and asking for guidance again. Cella swallowed and kept her eyes on Max for another moment before sniffing back her tears and shifting her eyes to the fan.

  “What’s your name?” she asked. It took a few seconds, but he saw her slip back into her persona.

  “Blair,” the middle-aged woman said.

  Cella smiled, still a bit watery. “I hope you love the book,” she said, taking it back from Max. He watched her write the same phrase on the inside title page before signing her name. She slid the book to Max and handed him his own pen and he signed right below where she had.

  “Would you like a picture?” Cella asked graciously. Blair nodded, but said nothing, still eyeing both of them curiously. A security guard motioned for Blair to come behind the table and positioned her between Cella and Max. It was then that Max noticed some special backdrop in the space behind the table bearing the name and logo of the convention.

  Before she stepped away, Cella smiled once more and handed the woman her book, thanking her again for coming. Max followed suit. The security guard was already stepping toward her, ready to usher her away.

  “Hey…are you two a couple?” she asked.

  The guard grabbed her gently by the elbow just as Alison called, “Next!”

  Max had been behind the scenes in many restaurants, but he’d never seen the bowels of a hotel. The same security guards who had flanked the table whisked them away from the signing area and took them through back channels at the start of their break. They’d been at it for nearly two hours, but had a forty-five-minute pause. When Alison had asked him whether he’d stay for the second half of the signing, he’d cast Cella a tentative glance and said he would.

  To say that Max was shell-shocked would be an understatement. It hadn’t been as scary as he’d thought it would be, but the sheer volume of people astounded him. Twenty minutes before they’d left the room, he’d overheard Alison say there were so many people they’d had to close the line. Cella had a suite at a hotel downtown, but they were being shown to a green room.

  “No visitors, please.” Cella said softly to the security guard, letting Max in but leaving her entourage outside.

  Max ran his hands through his hair. “Wow, that was…” he trailed off, not quite having the words.

  “Overwhelming?” she asked. She kicked off her high-heeled shoes. Grabbing a bottle of water from a table full of refreshments that looked like it could serve about twenty people instead of just one, Cella ignored the very fancy display of sandwiches, nuts and cheeses and downed half a bottle in a single pass.

  Max shut his mouth, not understanding the strange look on her face as she said the words. She shook her head.

  “Don’t worry Max…I know you never wanted this.”

  He frowned, putting two and two together.

  “Is that what this is about?”

  She looked away.r />
  “Uh-uh.” He stepped toward her. “You don’t get to do that.”

  Suddenly, he remembered his speech—the one he’d prepared in his car—the one he needed to get her back. All those crazy ideas she’d spouted…he had to get them out of her head.

  “You think ‘cause you’re famous it’s gonna make me love you any less? You think my ego’s so fragile I’ll only want us to be together if I can outshine you? You are a better chef than me, Cella. I would never begrudge you what you’ve earned. Don’t you understand? I don’t care how famous you are. I’ll take this craziness every day of my life if that’s what it’ll take to be with you.”

  She shook her head. Away from the prying eyes of the public, she did nothing to hide her tears. The first one had already started a slow crawl down her cheek. Her voice came out as a hoarse whisper.

  “You think you’re the first man to tell me my fame doesn’t matter? That we’ll get through it together?” She looked up at him through wet lashes. “You forget, Max. I know how this story ends.”

  She shook her head, and began to use that voice she did when she was about to apologize for something. “I know you mean well. I know you think you know what fame like mine means, but you don’t. Us being together in real life will be nothing like it was over the summer. Not until I get out of the business for real. I can’t be the reason why your cooking career doesn’t turnout like it should.”

  Max was undeterred—buoyed, even, by her use of the future tense. It was proof that some part of her had hope.

  “It’s not you, Cella. It was never you. Haven’t you ever wondered why it took me so long to re-open the restaurant? Aunt Alex died five years ago.”

  “You were in medical school.”

  “I was doing my residency,” Max corrected lightly, running his fingers through his hair and shaking his head. “I dropped out of my program. I was going to open the restaurant. I wasn’t going to wait. I thought I knew enough to be head chef.”

  Max began pacing. Cella’s eyes followed him as he walked short back and forth across the room.

  “But I choked. The night before the reopening.”

  “Oh, Max….”

  “I could’ve just hired a chef. But I wanted to do it myself. And I wasn’t ready. So I went back to my program. In the back of my mind, I still wanted it, but I didn’t know when or how.” He stopped and looked at her. “You helped me remember that dream. You gave me the confidence to want to try again.”

  “So why aren’t you?” Cella wept tears of consternation.

  “I was going to…even with you gone. But after you left…”

  He had to tell her, even though she would blame herself.

  “After you left, I couldn’t cook.”

  Her hands flew to her face and she sobbed, her shoulders shaking at his words. He stepped right up to her then and slid his arms around her waist.

  “What I wanted…” he continued slowly, “…was for us to both run the restaurant. But I realized that every time I pictured it, you were head chef and I was sous.”

  Max slid his hands up to her arms and pulled her hands from in front of her face. Tears stained her cheeks, but she didn’t look away.

  “It’s being in the kitchen I love, Cella. I want the energy of a restaurant. I want to be a part of things. What I don’t want is to be in charge.”

  Cella hiccupped.

  “Really?” Her voice was hopeful. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

  “Because I was ashamed. You spent so much time grooming me…and I spent so much time thinking it was what I wanted. But I worked it out. I figured out how I can have both.”

  Her sniffle was a question.

  “I’m going back to Ed’s practice…but I’m only going part-time. Apart from that, Kaito’s gonna let me help out in his place once in a while. And I might have been happy, Cella. With the money from the restaurant and my part-time jobs and more time with Cujo and the girls, it would have been my almost-perfect life. But you know why it won’t be. I’d have everything I wanted, except for you.”

  By then, Cella’s arms were around his waist and she was crying on his shoulder. It wasn’t until Max tasted salt that he realized he’d joined her in her tears.

  “I didn’t want you to buy the restaurant from me because I knew I would never want it back, that it would just be wasted space. That’s what I meant when I told you I wanted you to let me let it go.”

  Cella lifted her head so she was looking at him again.

  “I wouldn’t have let it go.” Her voice was stronger now. “If you really didn’t want it…” she took a shaky breath. “I would have moved to Longport and run it myself. I would’ve given you a year.”

  But there was something Max had to know.

  “Would you have come back for me, or for the restaurant?”

  “I wanted both. I figured you might hate me after I pulled what I did. I mean, I knew I’d work on you, but there were no guarantees—”

  He wiped her cheeks with his thumbs as he interrupted her. “Yes.”

  Her eyes got that hopeful look again. “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, I’ll sell you the restaurant. Yes, we can get back together. Don’t say no, Cella. This is how it should be.”

  She still looked skeptical, as if all of this were a bit too good to be true. Compared to how they’d left things, he supposed that it was.

  “I do not want to be a head chef, Cella. Ever. And I know you’re really scared, and that all your dumbass exes fucked it up. But let’s be scared together. We’ll make mistakes, but it’ll be awesome. We’ll scare the shit out of each other.”

  Max held his breath, because she didn’t crack a smile. Instead, she had that thinking look on her face again. He was ready to keep pleading his case—he’d even bring up Cujo if he had to—when she blinked up with determination.

  “One condition. You work for me.”

  40 Epilogue

  Six Years Later

  “You’re gonna be late…” Gracie didn’t bother to turn from where she was slicing radishes at her station, nor had she bothered to glance at her watch. Eyeing the clock anyway, Cella saw that Gracie was right. The woman had the most accurate internal clock Cella had ever witnessed. If Cella didn’t get going, she was going to be late for tea at home.

  Tugging at her strings and letting her apron slip off, Cella used it to wipe her hands before making her way to the corner and throwing it in with the dirty linens. Heading to the utility sink to wash her hands, she slipped into the office long enough to grab her purse. Her final stop was the walk-in, where she’d placed a container with dinner for her little family—she, Alex, Cujo and Max.

  “See you Tuesday?” Cella put a hand on Gracie’s shoulder before walking out the kitchen doors. The woman finally looked up, nodding cheerfully as she threw Cella her signature smile. She’d been right about Gracie’s chops. Gracie was also one of the nicest people Cella had ever met. These past years, she’d become an honorary Piccarelli.

  “Give Alex a hug from me.”

  The four-year-old Alexandra held Gracie as one of her favorite people. A preferred grown-up playmate, Gracie had taught the little girl much of what she knew of how to cook. But Gracie had been more than that. Their unorthodox arrangement of sharing the title of head chef had let the things that Cella wanted from her life come to full fruition. She’d opened her restaurant. She’d started a family. She’d mentored the world’s next great head chef.

  On the drive home, Cella yawned widely. She was watching her caffeine these days. It had been an early morning but she hadn’t drunk her morning cup. Little Alex had excellent taste and Cella had been saving her caffeine quota for tea. Alex’s standard service featured a lovely Earl Grey.

  The smell of chocolate assaulted Cella’s senses as she walked in from the garage and hung her bag on the hook inside the door. Cujo had long-since stopped running to greet her, and not just because he was getting up in years. Cujo may have stopped being Max’s dog when Cell
a came along, but when Alex showed up, Cujo had become hers.

  But Cella had come to cherish these quiet arrivals. A silent garage door and music always playing in the kitchen afforded her enough anonymity to enjoy. She would never get tired of this vision—of Max standing tall at the counter, of Alex on the stool Max himself had stood on as a child, of Cujo sniffing around for morsels around the bottom of the stool. When a four-year-old cooked, a lot ended up on the floor.

  “Is it time to dip yet, Daddy?”

  Alex blinked up at Max through smart, tiny glasses. She’d inherited Cella’s vision and had picked out the purple frames herself. From where Cella leaned on the door frame, she could see the biscotti, cooled and cut on a baking sheet. Max had poured chocolate into a prep bowl and the double-boiler sat, empty, on the stove.

  “Almost, sweet pea,” Max said in a dulcet baritone he reserved only for their daughter. “But I think you’re forgetting something.”

  Alex thought about this, looking around. Cella bit back a smile, thinking of how Max was in the kitchen at Piccarelli’s. When food needed to fire, that was not how he talked to the junior chefs.

  “More parchment!” Alex exclaimed. Max handed her the box he’d had at the ready and waited patiently as Alex cut a crooked section with the miniature kitchen scissors they’d ordered especially from France. Max helped her lay the parchment flat and didn’t interfere as he watched her dip biscotti ends, one-by-one. Her daughter’s quiet confidence never failed to make Cella proud.

  “Will you hand them to me, Daddy?” Alex’s hands were covered in chocolate. She left gooey fingerprints on the countertop to steady herself as she stepped down from the stool. Max frowned as it wobbled a bit, but Alex kept talking, as ever bent on asserting her competence. “I can do it by myself.”

  Max lifted the tray with a strong hand and placed it carefully in his daughter’s two. Following her slow shuffle to the other end of the kitchen, he opened the door to the chiller and beamed as she slid it gingerly onto a rack. Cella’s pride for her daughter was rivaled only by Max’s, who thought Alex made the universe complete. Today was the day Cella would turn his universe inside-out.