The Secret Ingredient

by Kilby Blades

  “Walking right into my trap, it seems.”

  “What trap is that?”

  “The one where I convince him to let me hold his sick baby while he gets some sleep. That man shouldn’t be behind the wheel of a car.”

  “That bad?”

  “She didn’t sleep last night, which means he didn’t sleep last night.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  Cella wrinkled her nose. “You know…I forgot to ask…”

  Max chuckled. “Too busy singing him a lullaby?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Too busy getting Maddie to stop crying and bringing him some food.”

  “You fed him?”

  “He was in bad shape,” she protested.

  Max just chuckled again.

  “Best. Medical assistant. Ever.”

  She was glad the room was dark so he couldn’t see her blush.

  Then, instead of walking out the door and doing whatever she’d thought he’d do next, Max came close. Reaching his hand down toward Cella’s shoulder, her breath caught for a moment before she realized its destination. He placed the back of his fingers lightly on Maddie’s cheek and then her forehead.

  “Fever doesn’t seem too bad,” he said. “Did Brody mention how old she is now, or were you too busy fattening him up?”

  “Five months.” She gave Max a look. “She won’t eat, won’t sleep and won’t take her pacifier.”

  “It’s probably teething. When she wakes up, I’ll take a look.”

  He didn’t back away. So they stood there, looking down at little Maddie.

  “There’s a lactation room, you know.”

  “There is?”

  “Yeah. It’s a room for nursing moms.”

  “I know what a lactation room is.”

  “It has a glider. We could sit in there. I’ll fix up the sandwiches Judy brought.”

  Five minutes later, Cella sat in said glider, rocking the still-sleeping baby when Max came back. As he removed their sandwiches from their bags, unwrapped them and laid them out on paper, he informed her that Brody was still out cold in the other room.

  “So where’s the mom?” Still not wanting to move the baby, Cella insisted that Max eat first.

  “She’s around. They’re going through kind of a hard time.” Max wiped his mouth. “She broke their engagement. Thought that since they had a baby now, Brody’d settle down.”

  “He didn’t?”

  “He runs a motorcycle shop. She’s fine with him selling bikes, just not riding them anymore. His best friend had a bad accident last year and it’s got her spooked.”

  “Ah.” Thinking back to her first impressions of him, Cella realized that he looked the part. The tattoos and the haircut had given away somewhat of a wild vibe. “I guess I can understand that. No woman with a child wants to worry about whether her husband will come home alive.”

  Max wiped his mouth.

  “He wants her to stop working. His business does well and they don’t need the money. But she loves her job.”

  “Why don’t they just put Maddie in day care or something?”

  “He thinks she’s too little. He wants Kate to take time off until Maddy’s old enough to go to school.”

  “Why doesn’t he take time off if he feels so strongly about it?”

  Max gave her a look.

  “That’s what she says. But he doesn’t want to quit his job. He wants to be the one to make the money and provide for her.”

  “I’ve been there before,” she muttered.

  Max wiped his hands and motioned for her to hand over the baby. She stopped the glider from rocking and rose slowly to place Maddie in Max’s arms.

  “Yeah…” he continued as she picked up the plate he had fixed her and dug into her lunch. “It’s pretty 1950. He doesn’t know how lucky he is. The guys I know would love to share responsibility more equally with their wives.”

  She stopped chewing and swallowed thickly. “That’s just something men say ’till they learn what it means.”

  “I think you’ve been dating the wrong kind of guy.”

  “Agreed,” she conceded. “But not everyone grew up with an Uncle Rocco and and Aunt Alex as an example.”

  “Maybe not.” His thumb stroked Maddie’s back lightly as he held her still. “But men are just as trapped as women by tradition.”

  “How is that even remotely true?”

  “Telling women their job is to raise kids is just as shitty as telling men their only job is to be the breadwinner.”

  “Max. Most guys don’t want their wives to be the smartest person in the room. Not one woman I know has a husband who stays home with the kids and drives a minivan.”

  “You have to look deeper, Cella. The basest human desire is to feel connected.” He wasn’t looking at her anymore. As he said it, his hand moved from rubbing Maddie’s back to lovingly stroke her hair. “If you think guys don’t want more of this—right here—you’re wrong.”

  Cella quieted as she took in the palpable tenderness of Max soothing the little baby, his gentle hands striving to leave her feeling safe and loved even in her sleep. Her ovaries may have quaked a little when Max pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of Maddie’s head. In that moment she knew that somewhere along the line, Max had sailed through Stage Three, and that where she stood with him now wasn’t anywhere she’d ever been before.

  17 The Ambush

  Max resisted the urge to primp as he dressed for dinner. He didn’t want to seem like he was trying too hard. A trip to anyone else’s house would have meant a pair of nice jeans, canvas shoes, and maybe a short-sleeved button-down. That’s why Max didn’t know what he was doing in dark khaki shorts and a navy blue linen button-down with the sleeves rolled up, inspecting himself with the insecurity of a pimple-faced teenager on his way to the school dance.

  Still inside his closet, he eyed the fedora that was eye-level to him, a fine raffia weave with a navy stripe, but brushed off the thought. A change of venue was not the same thing as a change of intention. Cella had said it herself—she was simply eager to return the hospitality. They would have dinner, same as always, only at her house instead of his. It’s not like this was a date.

  Downstairs, he opened his wine refrigerator, choosing an old vine Zinfandel. All she’d said was that Asian food was on the menu, so he prepared for flavors with a bite. He grabbed his phone from where it was charging on the counter and plucked his keys off of the hook. Cujo watched him with unmistakable pity and a ‘Dude, you are so screwed’ look on his face as Max bustled around the kitchen. A second before he made to walk to the front door, Max looked his dog squarely in the eyes.

  “Shut up.”

  The second Max closed the door behind him and walked toward Cella’s house, he knew something was awry. At least five cars Max recognized were parked in the driveway and next to the curb in front. As he approached, he peered upward toward windows that were lit, and saw familiar silhouettes milling around. Jake. Kaito. Deidre and JP. He’d have bet money that the other form he couldn’t make out belonged to another member of the Board. It explained why he’d gotten a text from Kaito saying that month’s meeting was postponed until further notice.

  This is an ambush.

  And he already knew what it was about. Cella wanted to help with the fundraiser. She’d been bugging him about donating money for the better part of a week.

  “Max!” she was overly-enthusiastic as she used one hand to swing open the door. “Come in and say hi. I invited a few friends. I thought it would be nice to have a dinner party.”

  “With the members of the Board?” He raised an eyebrow and stayed where he was.

  “Are they?” she lied. “What an uncanny coincidence.” As he crossed the threshold, she held up the tray she was carrying with her other hand. “Hors d’oeuvre?”

  He plucked what he easily recognized as one of Kaito’s dumplings off of the plate before whispering in her ear, “I’m on to you,” and popping it into his mouth.r />
  He was still chewing as he sauntered into the kitchen and put down the wine. If he’d known about the array of guests, he’d have brought three or four bottles. For the time being, he accepted the proffered cocktail Cella slipped into his hand a minute later, her lips curved in a sheepish smile. One-by-one, Max greeted his friends. Cella had, indeed, gathered every last Board member of the Preservation Society and a glance into the dining room paired with the wonderful smell in the kitchen confirmed that she’d prepared a full-course dinner. Apparently, they had a lengthy evening ahead of them.

  Max joined in the conversation—nobody from town had been in the house since Mrs. Sanford’s kids had remodeled and put it on the market. The others were busy admiring the pristine bamboo floors, sleek inlaid shelves and the many accent pieces that popped against minimalistic design. It was a bit modern for Max’s taste, but they’d done a good job. Scrutinizing the kitchen, Max agreed with Cella’s earlier assessment that his was more suited to the cookbook job, but he could see how Cella would have chosen a house with a kitchen like this.

  In a minute, Max would step in beside her, helping her get dinner plated in the kitchen, but he hung back. For the moment, he was watching her interact with the others. It filled and hurt his heart in equal measure to see that all were thoroughly charmed.

  What am I going to do when she leaves?

  But this wasn’t the time to grapple with such weighty thoughts. This was a time to compliment Cella’s cooking and concur with comments about how well the remodel had turned out. Then he saw Jake.

  “Did you do this?” Max grabbed Jake’s arm just as he finished his drink, some sort of lychee martini. The party was moving from room to room as they checked out the house and the others had milled on.

  “Kaito beat me to it, though I wish I’d thought of it first.” His friend, who never minced words, gave him a sharp look. “If she wants to help, you should let her.”

  Before he could school Jake on the dozen reasons why that would be a bad idea, Cella called them to start sitting. Letting it go, he gave his friend a final warning look before moving to the kitchen. Unable to stay away any longer, he didn’t bother to ask whether she needed any help. Instead, he fell in next to her, plating and garnishing in silent lockstep with her before they served.

  “I move that we call this meeting to order,” Jake offered around a mouthful of pork bun.

  “Second,” said JP. They were seated at the table.

  “All in favor?” Deidre asked. All but Cella raised her hand.

  “The minutes will reflect that a special guest was not only invited to the meeting but donated this wonderful meal.” Jake smiled kindly at their host.

  “To Cella.” Kaito led the others in raising their glasses and they echoed his toast in a chorus of ‘Hear, hear!’

  Cella was attentive, but silent as they delved into business. As President of the Board, Jake asked for updates by sub-committee. Deidre was in charge of advertising the event, selling tickets and collecting items for the private auction. J.P., who gigged with his band on weekends, was in charge of entertainment. Kaito was in charge of logistics—from tent rentals, to safety and security, to parking attendants. Max was in charge of catering, and by extension of using Piccarelli’s, was also in charge of opening the venue. Jake was in charge of coordinating it all.

  “How’s the food coming along?” Jake asked finally, having saved Max for last.

  “I just need a headcount to finalize the order.”

  “What’s on the menu?” It was the first time Cella had spoken.

  “Same as it is every year,” Max looked down the long table at her. He and Cella sat at opposite heads while the others filled in the middle. “I modify the most popular dishes from my aunt’s restaurant into bite-sized hors d’oeuvres.”

  “You know what I’m going to say.” She was speaking to the whole table, but looking at Max. “Why wouldn’t you want to attach my name to the event? Max Piccarelli revives the menu of the famous Alessandra with Cella Dawes as the celebrity sous-chef? My name would help sell tickets.”

  All other eyes swung to Max, who looked not at his colleagues, but at Cella, some silent debate playing out in their eyes.

  “I would be honored to cook next to you,” she continued.

  “I don’t mean to seem ungracious. You know that.” His voice was gentler than it had been even a moment before. “I only keep turning it down because I’ve thought it through. It might triple the number of tickets we could sell, but it would also create more costs. Private security. Portable bathrooms. The event licensing fee would double. We’d have to make other changes to get everything up to code.”

  “We could sell VIP tickets,” JP mused, seemingly aware that he had to tread lightly. Keep the main event outside and then have a private dining event with Cella and Max. We could make an easy $100,000 by charging $5,000 a plate.”

  Deidre shook her head. “I agree with Max on this one. There’s tension between tourists and locals. The only people who can pay those prices are people from outside. We can’t afford to alienate locals. They’re all we have for the long-term.”

  She had touched on the bigger point Max wouldn’t let himself say. Turning it into a celebrity event would set a precedent they could never uphold. The following year, Cella would be gone and the event would pale in comparison. Other funding became more complicated, too. If they pulled in enough money with this one fundraiser, it would create the illusion that the Preservation Society was more stable than it really was. He worried about them losing grant funding from longtime supporters the following year.

  “What if we give preference to people with a long-term commitment to the organization?” Cella asked after a minute. “The private dining event could be a raffle. A five-year commitment gets you a chance. Long-term supporters would be eligible to enter now—“

  “—and new supporters would have to make a five-year recurring commitment,” Jake finished with a smile.

  “It’s a good idea,” Max admitted. “But if a specific amount doesn’t buy you in, we can’t guarantee a lot more money.”

  “Then we make it up in the silent auction. How about, for every high-priced auction item that sells, a long-time supporter is entered to win an identical prize? Like, if a wealthy donor bids $10,000 for a private cooking lesson from me, I’d do one for that donor and a second one for a long-term supporter.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “Of course I’d do that.”

  Once more, the others fell away and it was just Max and Cella.

  “Let me work with Deidre on the private auction, Max,” she pleaded softly. “I’ll come up with some really cool prizes. It’ll bring in a lot of money for you.”

  Max was beginning to regret having not just let her donate her money. This level of participation would fundamentally change the event. But he knew when he was beaten. Even Deidre seemed to have gotten behind the plan. And crushing the hope in Cella’s eyes might just kill him.

  He sighed. “Okay.”

  “You wash, I dry?” Max asked, finally making his presence known.

  He’d been watching Cella from the door for a good few minutes, since he’d come back in from walking Jake outside. Cella had gotten her way, but Max had read Jake his bigger concerns. Swiftly, Jake had clapped back that they could recruit another celebrity chef for the following year if that year’s model worked well.

  “And that’s if we even need to,” Jake had said indignantly. “Cella might agree to do it again.”

  Max’s arms had been crossed when he’d glared at his friend. It baffled him that he kept having to state the obvious. “A year from now, she’ll be long gone.”

  “Not if you pull your head out of your ass, she won’t. You’re a fucking idiot if you think all the shit she’s doing is because she wants to save the dolphins.”

  “She loves dolphins,” Max had said with a completely straight face.

  “—And be a little more gracious,” Jake cut ri
ght back in. “She’s doing it for you. You’d do well to take your own advice.”

  Max had gritted his teeth. “And what advice would that be?”

  “To treat her like anyone else. She’s just a girl. And you’re the boy she likes.”

  Except no girl Max had ever liked made him certain she would break his heart.

  “I know it’s not the celebrity thing,” his friend had pressed. “Growing up in the restaurant made it so you’ve been around celebrities all your life.”

  What Jake didn’t know was that Max was closer to letting something happen than anyone knew. They were stupid attracted to one another and the deeper things they shared revealed themselves more each day. It was only a matter of time.

  “That’s not it.”

  Jake had pinned him with a look that demanded a reason.

  “I’m letting her take her time. She has enough people in her life rushing her into things she might not want to do.”

  “Oh, she wants to,” Jake had retorted a bit cheekily. “Though, waiting doesn’t seem too wise. Time is the one thing you don’t have on your side.”

  Try as he had, Max hadn’t been able to shake off Jake’s words—not as he walked back into the house and not as he watched Cella work in the kitchen. She moved swiftly and methodically, putting leftovers in Tupperware and filling the deep sink with plates. If he had more courage, he’d have told her that she looked beautiful that night.

  “There’s this new invention called a dishwasher…” she quipped, looking at him with the same tentative smile she’d been trying with him for hours.

  “What can I say? I’m old-fashioned.”

  “Then you wash,” she said, throwing him a sponge a second before she took off her high-heeled shoes. They were the fancy ones he’d seen other women wear, with the red bottoms. Only when he saw her wince and rub her feet did he realize they must have hurt.

  “How about you sit?” Coming up behind her, he placed his hands on her shoulders. He poured her a glass of wine and sat her on a stool at the bar.