by Kilby Blades
“When do I have to be there?” Cella asked.
“The settlement hearing is on Monday afternoon. D-Day with Liz is Monday morning.”
Tears that could be neither helped nor hidden sprang to Cella’s eyes. Monday was the day after tomorrow.
24 The Afterglow
Max awoke the next day to bright sun filtering in through his windows, an empty spot next to him and a bit of a hangover from all the wine. His legs still ached from hours spent standing in the kitchen. He stretched and yawned, still tired despite what his phone confirmed had been ten hours of sleep. His phone also confirmed that it was no longer morning but past one in the afternoon. Even through the lavender fragrance of his clean sheets, Max could not mistake the smell of sweat and kitchen. He changed his bed sheets and took a good, hot shower before going downstairs to see his woman.
It took him a minute to find her. Instead of her usual spot in the kitchen, she had sequestered herself on the steps of his back porch. Cujo lay, happily, next to her. It was a gorgeous afternoon—all breeze and waves and sun so bright that it sparkled off of the water. Her hair blew lazily, juxtaposing what seemed like deep concentration.
“Did they get back okay?”
He moved her empty water glass aside and sat down to join her. Noticing him for the first time, her lips melted into a smile. She nodded affirmation, placing her laptop to the opposite side and tucking herself under his arm. For languid minutes, they sat looking out at the water and feeling the warmth of the sun.
“Did you get Jake’s text?” she asked finally.
He kissed the crown of her head. “Uh-uh.”
“They tallied up the numbers this morning. It came in just over two million, with pledges for another three-hundred thousand over the next five years.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.” He pulled back to look down at her, knowing that the blossoming smile and the victory in her eyes mirrored his own.
“Holy shit.” He couldn’t stop shaking his head. “Holy fucking shit.”
“We did it, Max.”
Yes we did.
His smile faded. He wanted to thank her again, but he knew she was tired of hearing it. “I was an idiot for not wanting to take your help.”
Snuggling back into him, she shifted her gaze back out to the water. “What do you want to do today?”
“Don’t we have to get back to work?”
She shook her head, not lifting from where she lay upon his chest. “Not anymore. The cookbook is finished.”
“It’s finished?”
The words he knew he should say were captured in a dry swallow.
“I sent it off to my editor this morning. Just before you came out here, I put the final touches on the introduction.”
Pulling back far enough to see her face, to tip her chin up until her face saw his, Max spoke sincerely, past a taste that was bittersweet.
“Congratulations, Cella. Tonight we’ll celebrate.”
She looked a bit misty-eyed, which he could understand. Completing something you’d poured your heart into was an emotional thing. The day before, tears had nearly done Max in no fewer than three times.
“Come on, babe. Let’s go out for some hangover food.”
“Girl, why didn’t you tell me?”
Deidre swatted Cella playfully on the arm as she sidled up to their bistro table. Just outside the edge of the barrier that separated the outdoor dining space from the boardwalk, Cujo lay contentedly next to his water bowl below. The tables were high, with Cella and Max across from one another on matching bar stools. On the tail end of lunch at The Sand Dollar, folks had come by to chat at least five times.
“Tell you what?” Cella asked innocently.
“Tell me what…” Deidre put her hands on her hips, the incredulity in her voice matching that which could be seen in her stare. “That Cedric Gaines was going to be there. If I had known, I would’ve worn my good wig.”
Max smiled from behind his water glass. Deidre was quite a card. But he didn’t mind being intruded upon yet again. He liked this version of Cella—really, this version of them—comfortable and open, even in a crowd.
“Are the rumors true?” she pressed. “Did he really get a divorce? I checked his finger last night. No ring.”
“Uh…I don’t think so?” Cella’s words came out like a question.
“That’s what TMZ said.”
Max swept his hand over his face this time to hide his laugh. He could see the mirth in Cella’s eyes, but she was a pro. She always did much better than him.
“You know, I don’t really watch TMZ,” she managed, frowning a little and shaking her head.
“Tell me he’s still in town.”
Cella shook her head. “Sorry. He left last night.”
“The next time you invite your rich, good-looking chef friends to town, you’d better give me some notice.”
After promising twice that Deidre would be her first call if she ever heard Cedric was planning to come back to town, Cella bid the woman goodbye.
“What?” she asked Max when he was still smiling a minute later.
“Nothing.” He shook his head, which made her roll her eyes. She took another sip of sangria, because, apparently, she wasn’t as hung over as he was.
He continued to smile over at her. She continued to sip, looking between he and her drink. He continued to say nothing. With every sip, her eyes narrowed a little more.
“You want me to squeeze it out of you?”
He shrugged nonchalantly, baiting her now.
“Just say it.”
“It’s nothing really.” His voice was light. “I just…noticed that you forgot your glasses at home.”
She blinked, her hand flying to above her ear, checking to see whether her glasses sat anywhere on her hair. From there, she bent her head to rifle through her purse.
“And I haven’t seen your visor in days.” Max continued in a measured voice.
Her eyes changed in a way he couldn’t describe. When her hands returned to the table, her fingers fidgeted. Max leaned forward in his seat and gathered their tips in his palms.
“Imagine that. Two hours in the wild. And every single person who came over to see us came as a friend.”
Something more vulnerable shone through in her eyes. Maybe now was the time.
Stay.
“These people love you, Cella. Maybe you were right—maybe a month ago, you would have gotten stares and some celebrity-whoring, but not now. They’re taking care of you. Just like you’ve taken care of them.”
He didn’t want to push too hard—he just wanted her to see it. So he returned his attention to his plate.
“Take me home, Max.” He didn’t recognize the emotion on her face, but he would oblige her. “I want to spend the rest of the day, alone, with you.”
As he watched her ride back on what he had begun to think of as her bike, he let her take the lead, the better for him to dream of what could become of them after their messy lives were sorted out. He thought of how they might reimagine the restaurant and what time they could spend with his goddaughters and their friends. For as much as he loved Cella, Cujo already felt like their dog. He knew it, down to the marrow of his bones—their lives together could be good.
Max knew it wouldn’t happen tomorrow, and maybe not even soon. But he couldn’t forget Gianna’s words. He was buoyed by the idea that, even in moments when he didn’t trust himself, the one person who knew Cella best had confirmed things he knew were there.
"What do you think of wine tasting tomorrow? I know the winemaker at Fez Estates.” After more than an hour of vigorous lovemaking, they were eating ice cream in bed. Sleeping so late that morning had thrown them off-schedule. The sun was setting and they might have been having dinner, but Cella loved ice cream and he loved Cella, and the workout he’d just given her made it fair game.
“I didn’t know Fez was close by,” she murmured around a mouthful of mint chocolate cookie.
&nb
sp; “He'll let us taste the good stuff,” Wine tasting was a perfect first step in his plan to spend their last week romancing her. “I’ve been promising to stop by for weeks.”
He plucked the pint container out of her hand and placed it on the bedside table, pulling her back into his arms and more deeply in to the bed. He wanted to hold her.
“…but some insatiable person has been keeping me too busy.”
"Oh, yeah? Well, some insatiable person has no one to blame but himself.”
The way she looked into his eyes then and smoothed over his cheeks with her soft fingers—it confirmed everything he thought he knew. She loved him. She wanted this. Something beautiful awaited.
"I'll show you insatiable," he muttered saucily.
And, so it started again. And again after they ordered their half-and-half pizza and cracked open Max’s celebration wine. Max drifted off to sleep that night perfectly content, perfectly sated, and perfectly secure that he would wake up with Cella in his arms the next morning. But he was wrong. The next morning, except for a long box and a short letter, Cella and all signs of her were gone.
Part 3
Gone Girl
25 The Viper Pit
“You gained five pounds.”
Six weeks away and Cella had forgotten Liz’s blunt assessment of her figure. She’d also forgotten how effortlessly cold words could be delivered with air kisses and housewife hugs.
“See what happens when you’re not managing my schedule? I actually have time to eat.” Cella’s observations were delivered with controlled lightness. If it was Liz’s job to be ruthless, it was Cella’s to be likable and composed. Cella needed to be composed if she was going to pull this off.
The second her plane had touched down on the tarmac of the private airstrip in Burbank, something inside her had kicked back into gear. Wiping her tears and rummaging in her bag before applying the camera-ready makeup she hadn’t used in weeks, Cella had donned her sunglasses and scolded herself to get back into Marcella mode.
“Not today,” Liz glanced at her watch. “We’ll brief in the car with the attorneys and do wardrobe and makeup at the hotel. Tomorrow, you’ll go to the salon for a full grooming. The photographer from People will have you for fifteen minutes at twelve-thirty for shots at your apartment. The morning after, I’ve got you in New York doing Good Morning America and The View.”
“Liz…” Cella dialed up her practiced patience. “I didn’t cut my vacation short so I could chat with Barbara Walters. You told me there would only be two interviews.”
“No. I told you I would get you out of this mess. Now, onto the case. Yours is first on the docket this afternoon.”
Liz said the last bit suggestively and shot Cella the look she did when there were too many people around. Suddenly conscious of their audience, Cella turned to thank the flight attendant, who waved to her from the door of the plane and handed the awaiting limo driver the canvas bag on her shoulder. It was all the luggage she had. For the briefest moment, she thought about the house—every item put away exactly where it belonged and exactly as she left it. She wondered what the sight of hired movers clearing out her personal effects would do to Max.
Liz, for her part, made no mention of where Cella had been. She didn’t even compliment her healthy tan. She and her Louboutins were already clicking away from the small jet, crossing to the limo waiting in the hangar. Her fitted chartreuse skirt was tempered by a cream-colored silk top with a geometric neckline and an asymmetric hem. As Cella followed in one of the nicer outfits she’d had in Longport—flat metallic sandals, a peasant shirt and pristine white capris—she felt woefully underdressed. Cella bristled at the certainty that, within two hours, she’d have been styled to within an inch of her life.
“So, what’s the strategy?”
She had to pretend Liz was still in control.
“Intimidation.” The word was spoken as if the driver were hanging on their every word, even through the privacy glass. Liz’s paranoia still knew no bounds. “You going dark was a smart maneuver. It’s making them nervous that they don’t know what you might do.”
“And what might that be?” Cella narrowed her eyes.
“Litigate. Make them think they’ve pushed you past the point of no return, then let them think they’re winning when they draw you back. All you have to do is get them back to offering a settlement. Take what they offer. It’ll be harder for them to rescind it if they make it in front of a judge.”
“I still don’t understand. Why wouldn’t Kevin’s team have backpedaled once they found out the fundraiser involved five other chefs?”
Cella held her breath as something human passed over Liz’s face. This was her chance—the last one—to tell the truth, not that it would change anything. It had become clear to Cella that negotiations were only so messed up because Liz had been talking to Kevin directly, probably making some other back room deal.
“Kevin couldn’t do that without looking weak,” Liz returned resolutely. It was a lie. Cella wondered what other skin Liz had in this game.
She blinked back a final wave of disappointment—the very last she would let herself waste on Liz—as she shifted her eyes out the window. Liz changed the subject.
“Let’s get the attorneys on the phone.”
“No need.” Cella was careful to mask her emotions as she watched scenery that looked entirely too crowded and commercial go by. “I thought it would be better to prep with them in person. I don’t care if we’re late for the stylist. Tell the driver we’re making a stop.”
“You should be getting rest.”
Liz seemed as irritated as she had the moment Cella announced a change of plans.
“I slept on the plane,” she lied. She let her eyes slide to the television panel that told them what floor they were on.
“I wish you would learn to trust the process. I’ve handled everything for you.”
Anger—mostly at herself—churned in Cella’s stomach. Liz seemed so transparent to her then.
“You shouldn’t have to worry about this kind of stuff, Cella. Handling these things for you is my job.”
“No,” Cella said in a measured voice. “Serving as my conduit is your job. And only where I ask you to.”
“All I’m saying is, lean on me. You don’t want to burn out.”
Cella shrugged noncommittally. “It feels good to be more involved. I don’t want to turn into one of those celebrities who falls asleep at the wheel of her own career.”
Those killer instincts that made Liz so good at what she did must have kicked in by the time they reached the forty-seventh floor. Instead of stepping out of the elevator right away, she hesitated a moment, some part of her possibly sensing to postpone some untold doom.
At the front desk, both receptionists stood.
“Good morning, Miss Dawes.” The older one who she recognized from visits in previous months came around to escort them back. “Mr. Webb is waiting.”
When they arrived in the corner conference room and greeted what seemed too large a team of attorneys for a simple meeting, Cella took satisfaction in Liz’s surprise. Piper accepted her client’s warm embrace. Cella had been on a dozen or more calls with the junior attorney the previous week. As a gesture of thanks for the overtime, Cella had gifted her a full-day treatment at her favorite spa.
“Have you gone yet?” Cella asked as she took a seat at the long conference table across from Liz.
“Not until this weekend. They have a month-long wait, but when they realized who it was from, they got me right in. Seriously, Cella—thanks again.”
“What am I missing?” Liz’s face held the uneasy smile of someone who wasn’t in on the joke.
Cella didn’t answer right away, not only to make Liz squirm but also to indulge her déjà vu. Cella still remembered the first time she’d been shown to that room. She’d been on the brink of stardom, though still not accustomed to the fineries of celebrity life. She’d barely been able to believe that one
of LA’s most illustrious law firms seemed eager to represent her. That morning, as she’d waited, she’d stared down at the tree-lined city, daring to dream that her work would be noticed. All she’d wanted was to share her passion for food with the rest of the world. And she’d done it—Cella had done ten times more than she had ever hoped for. But she was ready to take a bow, say her goodbyes, and ask the media world to let her go.
“I’ve made some changes.”
“What changes?” Liz’s gaze darkened as she looked at Piper. “Why didn’t you call me about this?”
“Because they’re my attorneys—not yours. I don’t need your permission to seek their counsel, or to make decisions without you.”
It was Liz who had taught her how powerful a tool silence was in intimidating your enemies. She took another long pause before informing the woman she was in breach of contract.
“That’s—“
Liz didn’t finish her thought, distracted as she was by the sound of papers sliding across the table.
“You can start with the one that acknowledges you’ve been notified of your termination,” Cella said.
“On what grounds?” Her accusing look was now trained on the perpetually calm David.
“False representation.” He informed her. “And abuse of power. You’ve been meeting Kevin with no transparency to Cella. You’ve been negotiating unauthorized terms with him for weeks.”
“I’ve been trying to get him to settle.” Softening, she spoke her appeal to Cella, toning down to a more reasonable voice.
“Those conversations should have been happening between my attorneys and his,” Cella returned, at the same time that Piper chimed in and offered, “That’s not what the surveillance tapes showed.”
“You had me followed?” Reasonable Liz was gone.
“At my behest.” Liz had to be reminded that this was about Cella. “You also failed to mention other offers they placed on the table.”
“I was trying to get you the best deal.”
