Grill Me, Baby

by Sophia Knightly

  Michaela remembered the countless times she and Tiffany had made this trek as children. They had crammed inside Aunt Willow’s red Volkswagen bug and headed for the palm-fringed beaches of Crandon Park in Key Biscayne where they lolled until sundown, grilling burgers, collecting seashells, playing volleyball and feasting on ripe mangos and watermelon. Aunt Willow had always worn her multi-colored macramé bikini, which she had proudly made herself.

  As she drove along the Rickenbacker Causeway, the sun was beginning to rise slowly over the horizon, glistening on the silvery blue water with specks of gold. Along the bridge, weathered fishermen were already casting their reels, joggers were sweating, and a trio of cyclists were attempting the steep ascent. Ahead, the thirty-eight acre Seaquarium was ready for busloads of tourists that would soon be coming to visit Lolita the Killer Whale. Perhaps she could interest some hungry shark in Paolo as a tasty treat…

  She arrived at Key Biscayne, turned right on Crandon Boulevard, and followed it down to Mashta Island. A CREW sign pointed left and she followed it to a huge ornate iron gate with a man standing guard outside. The number on the concrete wall matched the one on the email.

  “Good morning, I’m Michaela Willoughby,” she said.

  The guard pushed the remote in his hand and waved her in. Michaela followed the winding path of sea grape bushes that led to the Bahamian style mansion. Chalk-white with blue-shuttered windows and flowering bougainvilleas in fuchsias and pinks, the house had a lush, vacation feel. She wondered who were the lucky ones who lived there.

  Michaela’s iPhone rang just as she parked her car on the crushed oyster shell driveway, alongside two trucks. She answered it right away when she saw it was Lisa. “Hi, Lisa.”

  “Hey, just wanted to wish you luck,” Lisa said. “Break a leg or an egg or whatever they say in TV land.”

  “Yeah, I need all the help I can get,” Michaela muttered.

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Paolo blew it last night. He arrived too late for a run-through and by the time he got there, I was so mad at him, we had a fight.”

  “Oh, no,” Lisa groaned.

  “I am beyond furious with him. We’re taping today and we haven’t even had one rehearsal together!”

  “That’s unforgivable, but don’t fret, you’ll do great anyway. Much better than Paolo. Remember, he’s not nearly as organized as you are,” Lisa said loyally.

  “Thanks, I hope you’re right. Last night I babysat his nephew so his sister could get some rest while Paolo was at a so-called business meeting.” She paused and drew in a sharp breath. “He had the nerve to show up reeking of a flowery, sweet perfume.”

  “Ew, I hate Bernice’s perfume, don’t you?” Lisa said, surprising her.

  “How do you know it was Bernice’s perfume?” Michaela’s stomach took a nosedive as her suspicions climbed.

  “Yesterday, I drove by the Bella Luna parking lot and saw Bernice with Paolo while he was opening the restaurant door.”

  “What?” So that’s where he’d been—schmoozing it up with the producer’s wife! Just when Michaela had begun to let down her guard and trust Paolo, he pulled a fast one. “Are you sure it was Bernice?”

  “Yes. She was draped all over him with her hands over his eyes, giggling and whispering in his ear.”

  Michaela’s ire went from simmer to full boil. It was a miracle steam didn’t shoot out of her ears. She forced herself to take deep, calming breaths before she choked out, “Thanks for the heads up, Lisa. I’m here now. Gotta go.”

  “Knock ’em dead, honey. You deserve to win. I know you’ll beat Paolo.”

  “Beat doesn’t even describe what I’d like to do to him right now,” Michaela said grimly before hanging up. She got out of her car and slammed the door. How would she deal with Paolo—roast, broil or barbeque? At the moment, a slow roast sounded the most torturous and it was exactly what he deserved! Squeezing her eyes shut for a brief moment, she told herself not to let her red-hot temper get the best of her—not today. There was too much at stake and she, not Paolo, would be the one to suffer if she didn’t rein in her temper.

  She pasted a courteous smile on her face as she greeted the uniformed valet who opened the door before she knocked. As soon as Michaela entered the mansion, the full waterfront view overlooking an infinity pool made her gasp. She felt as if she had stepped onto the pages of Architectural Digest. Every detail was luxurious and expensive looking. It even smelled rich, she thought, momentarily amused before she turned her thoughts to today’s taping.

  How would her family behave? Tiffany had tried to talk Dad out of bringing his new trophy girlfriend, but he hadn’t agreed not to. If he did show up with her, her mother would be livid. Aunt Magda would be there too. She had been raving about gorgeous Paolo to the whole family. According to Tiff, Aunt Magda had decided Paolo was the perfect match for her niece, contest or no. Aunt Willow had also promised to be there. Thank God, Willow would provide emotional support; she always did. And that left Tiffany, who would be cheering her on, but Tiff tended to run late…

  This was the most important event in her career. She had to focus and stay on top of her game. Today was the clincher, it was now or never to shine. She was not going to let Paolo’s dalliances with the producer’s wife rob her of this dream come true.

  Breathe deeply. Stop stressing over what you can’t control, she told herself. Think of the opportunities. You can finish repaying Mom and Dad. The cookbook will be a hit and you’ll get brand endorsements and appearances at the Wine and Food festivals in South Beach and NYC. Michaela ended her personal pep talk with a fervent prayer filled with all kinds of well-intentioned promises if she nailed the audition.

  She paused for a moment to visualize herself as the winner as she patted her pants’ side pocket where she hid a secret. Today was war and Paolo would be in for a surprise if he thought he could distract her from winning with any of his “gimmicks”. The gloves were off. She’d distract the hell out of him with her own gimmick!

  Paolo arrived a few minutes late for the pre-taping session, but it wasn’t his fault. The spare tire he’d replaced his flat tire with last night had taken a nail on his way to Key Biscayne. Luckily, he passed a tire store en route to the Rickenbacker Causeway, and within thirty minutes, he’d bought a new one, had it aligned, and was on his way. He felt ready to take on the world, despite very little sleep last night thanks to Mikey, who kept waking up every two hours.

  He had Señora Fuentes, the elderly Cuban widow two doors down from his apartment, to thank for his peace of mind this morning. She had stepped out to pick up her newspaper just as Paolo was leaving. When she heard Mikey crying and learned that Claudia was alone after giving birth, the kind woman insisted on staying with her until Paolo returned. With that huge concern taken care of, Paolo felt relaxed and ready to wow the audience today. After their argument last night, Maki would probably still be in a snit, but he would deal with her later. Today, he was on a mission and nobody, not even delectable Maki, would stand in his way. With growing excitement, he made a mental list of all the benefits he would gain from winning today’s taping.

  I’ll be able to pay for Claudia and Mikey’s bills, send money to Mamá, launch my new grill pan idea and become a celebrity chef. This taping will be such a success, even Maki will benefit. She will have to concede defeat, but she’ll get good exposure from it.

  From the look on Michaela’s face when he strolled into the pool patio, he wouldn’t be surprised if she had been the one to leave a spike beneath his tire last night. But there was no way that he’d let the little rabiosa ruin his chances today! Underneath her icy façade, she was probably simmering with resentment. Somehow, he had to get her to relax enough for their segment to be fun and entertaining for the audience gathered there. With a friendly wave, Paolo breezed by the group of fifty or so audience members who were listening carefully to the young
production assistant’s instructions on applause and enthusiasm.

  Paolo approved of the cooking set-up that consisted of a long, tile-covered island, complete with a wood-burning oven on one end, gas burners on the other end and ample prep space in between, including a deep, stainless steel sink. Behind the island was a spacious, oblong pool with a cascading waterfall and Jacuzzi and behind that, a panoramic expanse of the inviting ocean, topped by a blue, cloudless sky.

  He smiled at the audience, took his place behind the counter and greeted the tech crew. Beside him, Michaela looked rigidly composed in an aqua top and tan slacks. She gave him a curt nod that spoke volumes. He raised an eyebrow at her hands, noticing how tightly they clutched the counter in front of her. Maybe she wasn’t as composed as he thought. Small wonder they weren’t curled into fists ready to take aim at him.

  Ignoring Michaela’s biting stare, he gave her a wink. “Ready, nena?”

  “Don’t you nena me,” she hissed beneath a frozen-in-place smile. “Look at the first row, lover boy, your girlfriend’s there.”

  Paolo’s eyebrows shot up when he noticed Bernice sitting in the front row making eyes at him. She gave him a fluttery little wave with her long fingernails and blew a kiss. Bernice’s toothy, flirtatious grin was turning his stomach sour. That and the fact that Mr. Blumenthal was watching him like a shrewd hawk made him wish he could pop an antacid.

  Paolo and Michaela acted in forced camaraderie for Mr. Blumenthal and the audience’s sake as they went through the motions of a run-through. Once their positions were marked, the director, a goateed, stocky man in faded jeans and a Rolling Stones T-shirt, gave them specific notes. As soon as everything was clarified, the cameras began to roll.

  Ten minutes into their presentation, it was clear Michaela was incensed with him. Despite Paolo’s attempts to lighten the mood with a few jokes, she was not buying any of it. The more he clowned around and had the audience laughing, the more daggers she sent his way when the camera was on him and not her. He completed a dance move to show how easy it was to prepare the gnocchi and ended it with a flourish, which drew another enthusiastic round of applause.

  “And that, my friends, is how easy it is to make a delicious gnocchi that will melt on your tongue.” Paolo savored the pillowy dough in his mouth with a look of bliss and smacked his fingertips lustily.

  While the camera filmed the audience’s animated reaction, Paolo caught Michaela surreptitiously reaching into her pants pocket to extract a white paper. When the cameraman turned the lens on her, she smiled and seamlessly explained how to make low-fat Mediterranean vinaigrette with fresh herbs and tiny capers while she lowered her hands beneath the counter top. Puzzled, Paolo watched her pull the backing off thick, double-sided tape on the piece of paper she had taken out of her pocket. Was she going to consult a recipe? he wondered, surprised that an accomplished chef would have to revert to that.

  Then suddenly, surprisingly, Michaela slapped her right buttock and proclaimed, “This vinaigrette will never fatten your booty and neither will the dreamy dessert I’ll be serving up later. So, girls, you can wear your favorite pair of skinny jeans and still eat happily.”

  The audience clapped, but only Paolo could see the paper Maki had attached to the seat of her pants. BITE ME taunted him in bold, black letters and he would have happily obliged if he thought she really wanted him to. Caramba, was that her idea of an insult, he wondered, grinning wickedly at the pleasure he would have doing just that. He leaned into her space, drawing her immediate attention.

  The cameraman moved in for a close-up of the two.

  Paolo’s gaze lowered to Michaela’s cute backside and back to the camera. With a suggestive wink, he bared predator teeth in a broad smile and goaded, “Just one bite, Maki? There you go again, skimp, skimp, skimping in the name of dieting!”

  From behind the counter, he squeezed her right bottom cheek as he tore off the paper and crammed it into his shirt pocket with a wolfish smirk. Michaela gasped and stomped her foot. Ouch! Her sharp heel landed on Paolo’s instep, almost causing him to lose his balance. He quickly recovered and was amazed when she went right into her segment as if nothing had happened.

  “Lemon is an ingredient I include when making my feather-light gnocchi,” she said. “Just one squeeze will bring radiance to the simple little dumpling.” Paolo leaned in closer just as she squeezed the lemon and a drop landed in his eye.

  “Argh!” Paolo roared, covering his stinging eye with the guilty hand that had just squeezed Michaela’s sweet cheek. “Damn.”

  “Oh… I’m sorry,” Michaela said.

  The cameraman turned his lens on Michaela, whose left eye was twitching out of control.

  “Cut,” Jim, the director said. “Let’s go to commercial.”

  Paolo splashed cool water in his eye to wash out the lemon juice. “That was a low blow, Maki,” he muttered under his breath. “Try that again and I’ll drown your ‘feather light’ gnocchi in a pound of butter.”

  “It was an accident and you know it. It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t been hovering over me,” she retorted, her face turning pinker by the minute. “And don’t think you can get away with groping me, you…you…”

  “Then don’t paste tasty notes on your behind. Next time I’ll follow the instructions.”

  Red-faced, she snapped, “Paw me again and I’ll fry you in a vat of lard!”

  Jim advanced upon them with a disapproving frown. “Let’s keep things civil, Miss Willoughby. This is a cooking show, not a showdown.”

  “Precisely what I was thinking.” Paolo gave a disapproving shake of his head.

  It was all Michaela could do not to fling herself at Paolo and pummel his chest.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Michaela refused to heed the knock on her door when she looked through the peephole and saw Paolo standing there with a self-satisfied smile on his face. The nerve of him to show up! Hadn’t he bedeviled her enough during the taping? Was he planning to rub it in that he’d been the victor today?

  “Maki, open up. I know you’re in there,” Paolo called out.

  “Go away!” she yelled, turning from the door and walking away.

  “I have something important to tell you. I hear your footsteps.”

  Michaela ran back to the door. “I said go away!”

  She didn’t want to see Paolo, or anyone else, for that matter. All she wanted to do was burrow in her kitchen and eat a pound of chocolate, especially since she was still tormented by visions of her family’s dismayed faces in the audience. She closed her eyes against the memory of her father’s stern and disillusioned look. He had made an impatient hand motion she was all too familiar with that said, “Focus. You’re making a fool of yourself, Michaela!”

  Mom’s reaction hadn’t been any better than Dad’s. She had caught her mother rolling her eyes and shaking her head in disapproval when it became increasingly obvious that Paolo was outperforming her. Mom’s presence in the audience had dredged up unpleasant memories of when she had attended Michaela’s high school government debates and sat in the first row of the audience, rigid with steely determination for her daughter to win.

  “I’m not leaving until you open the door and hear me out.” Paolo lifted a magnum of champagne and held it in front of the peephole. “We have reason to celebrate.”

  Michaela wrenched the door open and stared at him in disbelief. “Are you some kind of a sadist? We have nothing to celebrate, now please leave.” She struggled to get the words out through clenched teeth. When he didn’t budge, she demanded, “Is this your idea of celebration? Showing up here to gloat?”

  “That’s not why I’m here.” Nonplussed, his black eyes regarded her beneath furrowed brows. “I never realized what a little rabiosa you are.”

  “Don’t call me names. What is a rabiosa anyway?” she asked, giving in to perverse curiosity, even
though by the way he said it, it was certain not to be a compliment.

  He shook his head. “A rabiosa is a bad-tempered firecracker like you. Now be quiet and let me tell you why I said we should celebrate.”

  “Forget it. You should be here to apologize, not celebrate!”

  Paolo threw his hands up in the air and gave her an incredulous look. “Me, apologize? For what? You are the one who didn’t play fair today.”

  “Why should I play fair when you are a womanizing trickster?” The thought of him and Bernice together made her want to clobber him.

  “Now who’s calling whom names? You owe me an apology, Maki,” he stated evenly, his eyes sharp lasers of accusation.

  “Forget it! I know you’re half-Italian, but that doesn’t give you the right to grope a girl’s behind. You did that to trip up my performance.”

  “You stomped on my foot and then almost blinded me with lemon juice,” Paolo countered, chucking her under the chin with a flick of his forefinger.

  “I already told you the lemon was an accident! It was your fault for crowding over me. Don’t you have any sense of personal space? Now, thanks to you, the producers think I’m unprofessional and bad-tempered.”

  “I doubt that.” Paolo gave a dismissive shrug and strolled past her with loping strides, entering her kitchen as if he owned it. While she gaped at him open-mouthed, he deftly opened the champagne, poured it into two flutes, and handed one to her.

  He lifted his flute in a toast to her. “Lucky for you, I’m in a generous mood. I forgive your quick temper, Maki. I know you don’t like to be outshined,” he taunted devilishly.

  Michaela’s hand tightened around the glass stem. How could he tease her over something that meant so much to her? Paolo had not only outdone her with his over-the-top performance, but now he was acting like she should be celebrating his success!