The Secret Ingredient

by Kilby Blades

  She crossed her arms over her chest and regarded him with put-on suspicion. “I know it’s around here somewhere.”

  “What am I hiding?” He leaned is hip against the counter and mirrored her posture, an amused smile in place.

  “Your chef’s uniform. Your diploma from culinary school. The deed to the secret restaurant you own.”

  When he laughed, Cella cracked a smile.

  “Glad you’re impressed, but it’s just trial and error. Every once in a while, I uncover a gem. Most of my experiments are a disaster.”

  “Name one.” She plucked the spoon out of his hand and stepped closer to the pan so that she could have another taste. But he didn’t step back. He was doing it again—not keeping his distance, not shy of getting in her space.

  “Last time I was home, I tried to make a milk tea green curry. I figured jasmine milk tea instead of coconut milk, right? It was a total disaster—soupy and off-balance. I tried it three different ways, but I couldn’t get it right.”

  “Original idea…” Cella mused. “What was the problem?”

  “I couldn’t thicken the sauce. The last version tasted okay, but the sweetness was too blunt and the sauce was way too thin.”

  “Whole milk?”

  “Cream top.”

  “Chicken or tofu?”

  “Chicken.”

  “We should try it with tofu instead and a mixture of cream and evaporated milk.”

  “Should we, now?” He smiled.

  “We should.”

  “There’s a technique I can teach you to dry out the tofu a little, in a way that absorbs a lot of the liquid—and the flavors—in the sauce.

  They went back to work. As Max poured the reduction into a prep bowl, Cella turned her attention back to her earlier task. She couldn’t decide whether the photo that would go in the book should show the tomatoes and cheese in a dramatic stack, or whether to use a fresher mozzarella, a softer one that would pull out in less-organized pieces, looking more folksy, like everyday food. She was just about to ask Max what he thought when he riffed off of something she’d already forgotten she’d said.

  “And the deed to the secret restaurant is in the safe.”

  When she turned back to him, she saw the emotion in his eyes. If Cella had any doubts before, in that single sentence they had vanished. Now, Cella was sure. Some part of Max—maybe a part that had been neglected—really wanted to cook.

  “Piccarelli’s.”

  “My aunt left it to me.”

  “Max. That’s amazing.”

  “It would be if I did anything with it.”

  She heard the guilt in his voice.

  “I’d eat there if you were the chef…” She said it casually, but meant every word.

  He went back to slicing basil, his intense gaze on his knife. “I think I’d need a lot more training for that.”

  “You’re closer than you think,” Cella replied.

  Max chopped silently for another minute. Sliding his finger down the knife to deposit errant bits of basil onto the chopping board, he answered her unspoken question. “Aunt Alex’s shoes are too big to fill.”

  But if anyone could fill them, Max could. A memory hit her, of a defining moment in her own career. She’d been a waitress in an understaffed little Austrian restaurant. For a year, she’d taken to helping the kitchen with prep. One afternoon, the chef had over-salted the goulash, an error that would set him back by hours. To her abject surprise, he’d listed four entrees and tasked her with readying them for dinner. When she’d stammered out reasons why she shouldn’t, he’d commanded an answer to one question.

  “Do you want to be a chef or not?”

  Cella had her own commanding voice, though she hadn’t used it in months. No sooner had she spoken the question to Max than she saw it had its desired effect. Max stopped chopping and regarded her with fear she’d seen from others before. It came for even those who thought they wanted it—the moment when they comprehended what it meant, the moment to really decide.

  “It’s yours for the taking,” she continued evenly. “I’ll invest the time to teach you. But only if you really want to learn.”

  “I want—“ Max cleared his throat when his voice caught, and he started over. “I want to learn.”

  “What?” She put her hand next to her ear, pretending she hadn’t heard him.

  “I want to be a chef.” He said it more loudly, more confidently that time.

  She nodded. “Good.”

  Cella picked up a rag and began wiping the counter, contemplating her new approach. She’d been easier than she would have been on a pupil, seeing as how he’d been volunteering his time. On Monday, she would amp things up—give him more responsibility. He had no idea what a great teacher she was.

  “Speaking of the restaurant…” he piped up a minute later. “I need to go there this weekend. Get it cleaned up. We do an annual fundraiser for the Longport Preservation Society. We hosted even back when Aunt Alex was alive. We bring back her recipes and everything.”

  “I hope I’m invited.” Her voice had returned to normal.

  “I’ll add you to the list.”

  9 The Interloper

  “You’re early!”

  Max was patting on aftershave in the bathroom mirror when he heard his doorbell ring. Cocking his head to eye his watch, which sat on its side on his counter, he saw that it was only seven forty-five. Jake wasn’t due for another fifteen minutes, and since Jake was never on time that meant he wasn’t due for another half hour. Max wrapped a towel around his naked lower half when he heard the bell ring a second time.

  Jogging downstairs, he stopped in his kitchen to grab his keys. “Coming…” he called on his approach. When he swung it open, he found not Jake, but Cella. His lips melted into a smile the second he saw her, and widened into a grin when he saw the liberal sprinkling of freckles on her nose.

  “Cella.”

  She was even more beautiful than normal in a fitted lightweight white shirt, a pair of dark-washed jeans, a baseball cap and no makeup. But her gaze didn’t meet his, not at first. Her eyes were busy roving their way up his body. He’d have paid good money to read her mind.

  “Sorry,” she murmured when he caught her looking. She could check him out all she wanted. He didn’t think anything would come of it, but it made him feel less creepy for looking at her the way he sometimes did.

  “I didn’t have your number,” she continued. “Or else I would have called. I’m here to help. With the restaurant. I figured paying you back for helping with the cookbook is the least I can do.”

  He leaned against the doorjamb, content to let her prattle on if it would deepen her gorgeous blush.

  “It’s dirty work. A lot of cleaning. I’ll need to make a trip to the hardware store if there are repairs.”

  “Good thing I know my way around a toolbox and a mop.” Her shy smile was adorable.

  “Marcella, I wouldn’t have expected anything less.”

  As she made what had become her daily walk to the kitchen, he had his daily feast of her ass. Her hair was pulled through the hole in the back of the baseball cap and the loose ponytail swung in the rhythm of her gait. It was the first time that he’d seen her in anything other than a skirt.

  Damn, does she look good in jeans.

  “Jake’s coming over.” He threw his keys back on his kitchen counter. “He’s lending me his truck. He’ll be over to drop it off and take my Jeep. If the doorbell rings, that’s who it is.”

  “Have you had your coffee yet?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  “I’ll make us something good.”

  Fifteen minutes later, he was headed back downstairs, dressed in the black twin of a gray henley he’d worn earlier in the week, one he’d gotten the impression Cella liked. He’d also opted for better jeans, and a pair of old Vans. When he walked into his kitchen, the smell of sweet coffee filled the air and Jake and Cella were drinking out of glasses that contained somet
hing light. Between them sat a half-empty plate of avocado toast and the leftovers from the Caprese they’d made the day before.

  “Hey, man.”

  He and Jake did the bro-handshake thing before Max himself took a stool and watched Cella pour him a glass from one of his pitchers. He smiled at the taste.

  “Thai iced coffee…”

  She looked blissed as she took another sip. “It’s like dessert for breakfast, but I love it.”

  “Turns out your girl can cook.” Jake winked at Cella and gave her a smile as he picked up a slice of avocado toast.

  “She dabbles.” Max picked up his own piece and noticed that Cella looked not at all fazed by being called ‘his girl’.

  “This sauce on the Caprese is amazing…” Jake praised Cella.

  “Actually, that was Max. Most days, it’s him teaching me.”

  “Maybe you’ll talk some sense into him.” Jake said it to Cella but looked at his friend. “He’s an okay doctor, but he’s a great chef.”

  Max took a seat, trying not to let it get to him. Jake had been giving him shit about re-opening the restaurant for years.

  “Tell me more about the coastline,” Cella turned her attention back to Jake, her question confirming that Max had caught them mid-conversation.

  “Oh, yeah,” Jake picked up. “Between the money we spend on conservation and cleanup, and the funds we need to lobby against bad legislation, the foundation depends on the money. It’s gotten more complicated as families who have lived here for generations sell houses to outsiders who aren’t invested in donating.”

  “Like the house I’m renting next door.”

  Jake nodded. “Kids who are from here can’t afford to live here. Most people who buy use it as a vacation home in the summer and rent it out the rest of the year. Only 60% of our real estate is owned by families who live here year-round. It’s tricky, because most of us own businesses that cater to tourists. No offense to your situation, of course.”

  “None taken.” Cella rolled with it.

  “And don’t let Max fool you,” Jake went on. “He’s modest, but he’s done a lot to get us plugged into non-profit resources, given that he works for one. He’s not here often, but the work he does for this town really counts.”

  “Alright, Jake.”

  Max wasn’t sure whether his friend was appealing to Cella for a donation, but he didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable. He also didn’t like the way Jake was laying on the praise—Max wasn’t a saint; he was just a guy who liked to help. He changed the subject to the logistics of the car swap. After they agreed that he’d drop it off at Jake’s place on Sunday, Max gave him a few Tupperware containers full of things he and Cella had cooked, and ushered him out the door.

  “Tell me he didn’t ask you for money.” Max cringed as he walked back into the kitchen, finding Cella petting Cujo and sitting where she was when he’d left.

  “He didn’t ask me for money…” Max was just about to let himself breathe a sigh of relief when she said, “…but you should have. This place is a treasure. You should know that I’d love to help.”

  “I’m not asking you for money.”

  “Fine. Don’t ask. I’m offering.”

  “We’ll make it. We’ve seen hard times before.”

  He thought he heard her mumble something about hard-headed Italian men under her breath as she turned her attention back to petting Cujo.

  “Cella. Helping me get the restaurant ready will be more than enough.”

  10 The Restaurant

  Ten minutes later, they were in Jake’s truck, driving down a road that hugged the coast, the passenger window halfway open. Cujo stood contentedly on Cella’s lap. Max’s speed was leisurely and both Cujo and Cella were enjoying the scenery. The little dog’s nose poked out the window as he panted happily. The areas north of Highland were flatter, and patterned with farmlands, but they were headed south, where the land that flanked the sea gave way to rolling hills. Cella vaguely remembered the restaurant from years before—remembered its views from a stunning seaside cliff.

  They reached a grand wrought-iron gate that still held the name Piccarelli’s, though she suspected the spotlights off to the side hadn’t illuminated its name in a long time. Max hopped out of the truck and grabbed a key from his pocket, opening the enormous lock that held the chain together on the gate. When he drove on, she felt like she was entering another world.

  The first thing she noticed were the tall cypress trees that lined the driveway, one so long that the restaurant wasn’t yet in view. They weren’t native to that part of the country, but she recognized them well from her time in Italy. They had to have been at least fifty feet tall. The driveway meandered downward, falling below the level of the road. After three quarters of a mile or so, the trees ended, and the driveway gave way to lush gardens on the left. They were vast and overlooked the sea. A long stone wall served as the barrier between the gardens and the edge of the cliff. A matching walkway alternated long stretches and short steps, leading to the restaurant.

  Even with it darkened and empty, something about the building was majestic. This was the part Cella remembered—the unique place that gave the illusion of being built into the cliff. The driveway they were on veered right, leading to the entrance of the restaurant, the top floor of which was on the same level as the road. Yet, the bottom floor seemed built into the mountain. Its one exposed side was the one that led out to the garden. Cella now remembered with clarity—she’d enjoyed a wonderful dinner right there on the back patio.

  “It doesn’t look abandoned,” she murmured. “It still looks…really magical. I expected something less-maintained.”

  Max ignored the lines of the parking spaces, and pulled Jake’s truck right up to the door. When Cella looked over, she couldn’t read the emotion in his eyes.

  “I try to do it justice.” His voice was quieter than usual. “Aunt Alex wouldn’t have wanted me to let the place go. In her will, she told me to find a nice Italian girl and make babies to help me run it.”

  “I love that.” Cella smiled.

  By the time Cella had rolled up the window and was reaching for the door, Max had jogged around the side and opened it for her. It was a far jump for Cujo, and Max set him down on the ground before reaching out an assisting hand to Cella. She expected him to walk to open the restaurant doors, but he kept her hand in his, leading her to look down over the garden. Cella couldn’t remember the last time someone had held her hand.

  “I let people in town rent it out for weddings and stuff. See right down there?” He released her hand to point to a beautiful gazebo in front of a flattish section of the lawn. “That’s where people like to get married. We set up a bar on the patio, sometimes people put up tents. And the caterers use the kitchen to cook, or keep the food.”

  “That’s really nice.”

  “When she was alive, she did the same thing. If anyone we knew wanted to hold a function here, she’d close the restaurant, even on a Saturday night. Piccarelli’s was hers, but she treated it like it belonged to the whole town. I think that’s why people have tried to help me keep it all these years. No one ever forgot her for that.”

  Cella got a sick feeling when she understood his words. He must’ve seen it in her eyes, from the sad smile he gave.

  “It’s really expensive to maintain.” When he turned, she followed him toward the door and watched him rummage for his keys to let them in. “A couple of landscapers from town help with the gardens when they can. I can call my friends if I need to pull together a crew for repairs. I still have to pay an arborist to maintain the trees. But there are other expenses. The taxes, the inspections…it adds up for a place that isn’t bringing much money in.”

  As he opened the outer doors, Cella thought of a dozen ideas for how he could make enough to keep the place. But Max was a smart guy. He’d have thought them through.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Probably hire a business manager. Start op
ening it up to the public for renting it out. I’ve got a standing offer from a guy who’s been bugging me for years to sell.”

  “But you don’t want to do that.”

  He shook his head.

  “This guy—Fitch is his name—has had his eye on it for years, like, since Aunt Alex was alive. He’s out of Louisiana…owns some high-end hospitality empire. I like that he’d keep it a restaurant. He calls me every few months asking about it. The guy must be made of money. His offers get better every time.”

  “So why haven’t you sold?”

  Max still looked troubled. “Mostly I think I’m just not ready. But even if I was, I just don’t think I could sell it to him. I’ve been to two of his restaurants. His clientele just…aren’t like us. Piccarelli’s was world class, but it was affordable, and accessible. It wasn’t stuffy, you know? It was a family place.”

  “In a perfect world, what would you do?”

  He stopped leading her through the dining room with its unclothed tables and upturned chairs. He took a good look around him.

  “I’d clean this place up and find a way to run it myself.”

  11 The Memories

  Max had gone downstairs, to the janitorial closet, presumably to bring up cleaning supplies. The whole truth was that being back there always got him. Memories of his parents, and his aunt, and summers spent in every inch of this place were bittersweet. Cella said it didn’t feel abandoned, but, to him, that was exactly how it felt.

  Not keeping the restaurant open had been among Max’s biggest regrets. When she died, he’d been in the middle of his residency at a hospital 1,500 miles away, and crumbling under the pressure of being in charge. Feeling strongly that the restaurant shouldn’t close its doors, he’d taken the baton, buoyed by the town’s support and the encouragement Aunt Alex had always given him. It had overwhelmed him—not only the Herculean task of maintaining her taste and quality—the insecurity.