by Kilby Blades
“Have you ever thought about culinary school?” she asked, after complimenting his cooking for the third time.
"Once upon a time, I considered it.” It was only half a lie. “But I hardly have time to spend at home as it is. Plus, it would mean more time away from Cujo."
Her expression became pensive. "It sounds like you're open to more experience..."
"More than open." He wondered where she was going with this.
"So, I have an idea—and I won't be offended if you decline—but..." Cella lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes conspiratorially. "How would you like to be my assistant?"
2 Mise En Place
Cella did her best to walk casually as she made her way back to her rental, not bothering with the long stone walkways in favor of cutting across their lawns. She felt Max’s gaze upon her and chanced a glance back toward him as she turned to climb the stairs. Sure enough, there he stood, leaned against a painted wooden pillar, looking sexy as all get-out, coffee cup in hand.
"Tomorrow morning," she called affably, glad that she was in the habit of pulling on dark lenses. Hot or cold, rain or shine, when Cella went outdoors, sunglasses covered her eyes.
He raised a neighborly hand to wave, but didn't move. Max Piccarelli was staring at her. She kept her decorum as she stepped inside, making it to the kitchen before releasing a long-held breath.
He was totally checking me out.
Not that she hadn’t been checking him out. Perfect bone structure notwithstanding, he was nothing like the men in LA. When was the last time Cella had seen a tan that was real? Tousled hair that had gotten its highlights from the sun rather than from a bottle? Defined muscles that didn’t come from a trainer at a gym?
But Max was exquisite in his realness. He cooked with calloused, unmanicured hands. The beard he’d sported the day before had been rugged and ungroomed. Cella had been sorry to see it go. Alright—half-sorry. With his beard shaven, it was all the better for Cella to see his shallow dimples. When he smiled, his juniper eyes lit from within, each dimension more flattering than the one before.
And his body hair—God. Men in LA didn’t have it. Half the men Cella had dated had skin that was softer than hers. They were usually prettier and skinnier, too. At a size twelve, Cella was an average American woman. LA was running as short on those as it was on strapping American men.
Get it together, girl.
And she needed to. Because if she’d be spending time with this man, she couldn’t forget who she was. She'd given her standard response when he'd called her a celebrity, but both of them knew the truth. She was a recognizable public figure. And he was still just in Stage One.
Cella had been doing this for long enough to recognize the patterns. She called Stage One "shock and awe." People who knew who she was fell into a kind of disbelief at being near her. It was the weirdest stage. People had seen her on TV, maybe tried out her recipes. Some people bumbled through conversation, others were struck dumb. Nearly no one in this phase could help their glassy-eyed looks.
For Cella, it created a strange combination of flattery and discomfort. It gratified her to know how many people appreciated her work. But it was disorienting. Being so recognizable meant that it was rare for Cella to meet anyone who didn't have some preconceived notion of who she was. Cella couldn't find it in her to complain about her extraordinary life, but she wished she had a chance at knowing whether any man would ever look at her the way that Max had because he was enamored by sassy, amazing Cella—not just star struck by Marcella Dawes.
The ringing of her phone broke Cella out of her thoughts, and she looked toward the microwave to see the time. It was well past twelve o'clock. Looking at her phone's display, she saw that she had two voicemail messages from her agent, Liz.
She picked up. "Hey."
"You sure slept late," Liz remarked. "Getting plenty of rest, I presume?"
"I was next door. My neighbor lent me some coffee."
"Did you get my e-mail this morning?"
Cella walked to the kitchen table where her laptop sat, fingered the mouse pad to wake it up, and saw the e-mail from Liz. Scanning it quickly, she shook her head before the words left her mouth.
"Absolutely not."
"They're offering two million dollars, plus a pretty good royalty on the sales."
"I told you: I don't want to do merchandise. It's weird. Do you know how creeped out I get every time I go to the supermarket and see Avery's face on that barbecue sauce?"
"Marinade is much classier than barbecue sauce."
Cella cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. "Is it?"
"Why do I represent the only celebrity on earth who acts like she's allergic to money?"
"I have more than enough money."
"As your agent, I only have 10% of 'more than enough.' Just think about it."
"It's a no. And this isn't why I picked up. You know what I'm waiting on."
Liz's silence wasn't a good sign.
"You've got to be kidding me." Cella groaned, walking toward the fridge for a glass of water. "What is he asking for now?"
He was Kevin La Rue, Cella's soon-to-be-ex business partner, who was battling her for control of their fledgling restaurant project. Kevin was the driving talent behind one of New York's most successful hospitality groups. When he met Cella at the opening of a restaurant he'd designed, he revealed that he was looking to strike out on his own. Familiar with his work and enraptured by his aesthetic, Cella had admitted that she was considering opening a restaurant in LA. From there, a partnership was born.
The plan had been for her to break him into the LA market, while Cella served up her own flavor of amazing. It was common for celebrity chefs to barely set foot in restaurants bearing their names. But Cella—eager to shift away from doing so much TV—wanted to get back in the kitchen, where she belonged.
And she'd almost pulled it off. That was, until she'd discovered that Kevin had overstated his assets and was in trouble with the IRS. From there, she'd taken steps to call it off. Kevin’s deception had been discovered late, which made exiting the deal tricky. He'd already ponied up half of the money and was entrenched in the preparations. Their plans had been announced, and they’d been scheduled to start serving on September first. It had placed her solidly at odds with Liz, who worried about media scrutiny.
"He wants to change the name."
"To what?"
"CellaRue."
"He's delusional."
There was no way she would let him use her name, let alone some cheap combination of hers and his. It was almost as tacky as Bennifer or Brangelina. Cella wanted to sell to the highest bidder, which would have let them at least break even. But Kevin needed more than to break even—he needed a revenue stream. So he was holding on—making it difficult for Cella to sell her half back and arguing over a fair price.
"This is a negotiation. You need to make a counter-offer."
"My counter-offer is 'no.' I’m not responsible for the consequences of his dishonesty. If he needs a judge to remind him of that, I'll see him in court."
"You'll win in a court of law. He'll win in the court of public opinion."
"Not if he loses the case."
"He won't lose until the end. By then, everyone will have made up their minds. If the media pities you, you come out looking like the sucker who got walked all over by yet another business partner. If they flame you, you're the greedy celebrity bitch who keeps taking people to court."
"I don't care what the press says."
"The network does. Your endorsement brands do," Liz pointed out, in full-out bulldog mode. "A court battle will only give him a bigger microphone. And don't think he won't bring up Edward, because he absolutely will."
Cella bristled, not wanting to think about Edward—especially not now, when yet another failure loomed. Both of her attempts at opening a restaurant had gone sideways. Unlike Kevin, who was just her business partner, Edward had been her partner partner. It had been three years
since they'd parted ways. The relationship might have survived if Cella’s bright, rising star hadn’t been such a threat to Edward’s lesser fame.
"Okay," Cella conceded. "It's only ten on the West Coast. Set up a call later with the lawyers."
"Speaking of calls, you've got one of your kitchen assistant candidates today at two-thirty for a phone interview. She has a restaurant background—ten years in Italian cuisine. I'll send you her résumé."
"Oh!" Cella said. "I forgot to tell you. I met someone who will be perfect and offered him the job."
"Him?"
"My neighbor from next door. His grandmother was a legendary restaurateur. Do you remember Piccarelli's?"
"The place that was up for a Michelin star?" Liz responded cautiously. "I thought it closed. Is it still around?"
"No, not anymore. He's just the nephew. But he really knows how to cook. He made me the most amazing breakfast. A chocolate croissant, and these eggs that were perfectly balanced."
"Cella. I think you need a pro."
"To write a cookbook about pasta? You're overthinking this."
Cella didn't like the silence that stretched between them. Meeting someone new inevitably led to Liz warning Cella off of whatever fun Cella might be looking forward to. It only made her feel more alone.
"How much do you know about this guy?"
Liz viewed outsiders as predators: opportunists who were only interested in Cella because of her fame. She may have had a point; plenty of people who had seemed benign enough at first had taken advantage. Nothing too unflattering had ever surfaced, but the photos and stories of acquaintances that Cella made sometimes found their way online. Cella tried not to be cynical, but Liz was always in the background, doing the thinking for both of them.
"Liz," she started in her most controlled voice. "I'm the one who moved in next door to him. He's not some crazed fan boy who's seeking me out. His aunt was a legend in Italian cuisine—I could probably learn a few things from him. And we've got bigger fish to fry. So, please, just handle Kevin. And let me handle the rest."
Cella didn't think she would ever get tired of East Coast sunrises. In L.A., she only got sunsets. Not that it made any difference anymore. She'd given up her bungalow in Santa Barbara when she realized how stupid it was to maintain an empty house. When she was in LA, she stayed in the apartment the network provided her in the city.
But this house, she loved. She thought of the foolish rush of hope she had felt when Max mentioned that it was up for sale. She hadn't known anything about that—only that it had stood out from other rentals. She’d been open to any location, as long as it was by the beach in a quiet town where there was access to high-quality ingredients. When she saw that the location was Longport, Cella remembered having visited once before. The fact that she remembered colorfully-painted houses, a world-class market and an adorable artsy downtown was a testament to how much she already liked the place.
The house had a little bit of everything: an impressive kitchen, a dining room that could accommodate twelve, and an open floor plan that was great for entertaining. Cella loved a good dinner party and had always dreamed of having a house that would allow her to throw them. Not that casual dinner parties were easy given her lifestyle, but it was still a goal.
The wooden deck out back was perfect for lounging, al fresco dining, or relaxing in the built-in Jacuzzi. A well-groomed flower garden flanked the wide lawn that lay like a long, striped runway that stretched to the ocean. It was private, with hedges and secured gates that closed off the sanctuary to the open beach beyond.
Even from her bedroom, the ocean felt close enough to touch. The bed was oriented in such a way as to give a clear view of the horizon. She needn't have left the warmth of the covers if she hadn't wanted to. But Cella preferred to venture out onto the terrace, to let the saline breeze that felt slightly warm even early in the morning swirl around her.
In the full light of day, her troubles would find her, but never in the calm of morning. Today, her usual serenity was tinged with a sort of electric optimism. She enjoyed the process of writing recipe books. It always changed her, somehow. With six more weeks of summer, she’d have plenty of time to do work and spend lazy afternoons in the sun. It would do her good, to have time to think. She’d already done some thinking during the first half of her summer, in Italy. Her stay with Gianna had been delightful, if not flaunted a few questionable life choices in her face. Thoughts of Gianna reminded her that she owed her friend a text.
Grabbing her phone, she snapped a picture of the rising sun before tapping out a message.
Was so busy enjoying this that I forgot to text yesterday. I arrived safely and all is well.
The reply came quickly. Grazie. You know I worry.
Cella didn't like that she'd worried Gianna, but she felt warm in the knowledge that her mentor-turned-friend looked out for her.
The house is gorgeous and the neighbors are nice.
Cella had known Gianna for going on ten years. She was the most celebrated woman chef since Julia Child. Not only did she write cookbooks and host television shows, she also had restaurants bearing her name on every continent. Cella envied her happy home—her husband, Pietro, who loved her to pieces, and two beautiful young boys.
"Come on, boy." A familiar voice was followed closely by a sharp whistle, jarring Cella from solitary thoughts. Her eyes dropped from the horizon to the waterline beyond the dunes. The familiar baritone voice told her who to look for.
Max.
He was emerging from the waves and calling down the beach to Cujo, who was chasing some tiny thing in the sand. Dressed in nothing more than board shorts, Max's chest was bare, his dark hair was slicked back, and she could see how, when wet, it curled at the ends. She watched Cujo run to his master and saw Max drop down to one knee, rubbing Cujo behind the ears as the smallish canine basked in the attention. It was a beautiful moment, and somehow extraordinary to witness. It held an element of simplicity Cella rarely saw in her everyday life.
She thought back to the day before—of Liz's apprehension about inviting a stranger into her process—but seeing this strengthened Cella's resolve. There was something so appealing about him. Cella’s judgment told her Liz had no need to worry. You could tell a lot about a man's character from how he was with his dog.
When Max stopped, Cujo shook the cylinder of his body, ridding his fur of excess water in a way that thoroughly sprayed Max. She saw, more than heard, the moment when Max's body shook with laughter, and Cella found one more thing to envy: she really wished she could have a dog.
When Max turned his head to look down the beach, Cella followed his eyes. Only then did she see the approach of an older couple walking. They stopped for a minute to greet Max. She would have liked to have known what they said to one another, though from the looks of it, it was light conversation. But it felt precious to Cella, something as longed-for as it was sweet.
She had long since surrendered to the notion that her lack of anonymity had killed any shot she may have had at a private life. She'd tried living discreetly, and simply; it hadn't lasted for long. Vicarious moments like this were why she sequestered herself in idyllic little towns.
3 The Legacy
When he awoke that morning, Max still couldn't believe his luck. He’d jumped at the chance to be Cella’s assistant. He'd refused her money, of course, insisting that the honor would be his.
He gave himself a good talking-to that morning as he shaved. He'd practically drooled on the poor woman the day before. And the flirting. Jesus. Max hadn't flirted with anyone in a long time. But she hadn't come there to be wooed by an infatuated neighbor. Her stay in Longport was temporary, and when he returned from his next trip she'd be gone.
"So where do we start?" he asked Cella as he handed her a steaming cup of coffee, laced with cardamom and mint again, at her request.
"Pasta.” She fixed into his gaze with eager resolve. "It's an imprecise science with more nuances than most cookbooks
handle, but I want to really tackle it."
The pair sat side by side on stools at his kitchen island. As it turned out, she had rented the house next door on account of its fabulous kitchen, but Max's was so much better that he had agreed to let them work out of his. She'd sheepishly admitted that she liked the idea of cooking in what had been Alessandra's kitchen. Max had laughed when she'd said it should be protected as a culinary landmark.
He nodded in agreement. "Pasta is simple but not easy—it's just flour and eggs, but it feels intimidating."
"We have to make it feel accessible," she agreed. "And choose shapes that require as little special equipment as possible."
"So tagliatelle, tagliarini, pappardelle..." he began, thinking of wide cuts that could be done with a knife.
"Mezzalune, orecchiette, farfalle..." she trailed off.
"Gnocchi, cavatelli..."
"Whoa, Mario Battali—now you're just showing off."
"Cosa ti aspetti? Sono italiano." Fuck. He was flirting again. "You know how we Italians are," he translated when she didn't answer right away. She raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms.
"Come potrei dimenticare?" How could I forget?
God, did he like this version of her. Compared to how she was on TV, this Cella was feistier, wittier, smarter. Her Italian accent that was just good enough to impress him but just bad enough to be cute, charmed him beyond reason.
And so they began. Max found her process to be surprisingly scientific. Cella had come prepared with no fewer than five different flours and six different cartons of egg. She explained to him the tradeoffs one made in writing a cookbook. The best ingredients were ones that most people couldn't get a hold of or that were too expensive for everyday budgets. There was a fine balance among requiring what would work best, what was the most authentic, and how much people were willing to spend.
They started by making variations of basic dough with each of the flour and egg combinations. After screening a portion of each, Cella eyed the Kitchen Aid on his counter.
