The Secret Ingredient

by Kilby Blades

  “You were trying to get you the best deal.”

  “How? It’s not even tied to my commissions.”

  “No.” Cella crossed her arms and raised her chin. “But your story about wanting me to settle to avoid a public scandal is bullshit. You didn’t want me to move forward with the restaurant, but you still wanted me to get media coverage. That’s why you told me to let Kevin come to the table with a proposal—so he could parrot the plan you’d already worked out with him.”

  Liz closed her mouth, looking shell-shocked. Her abject surprise was mildly insulting. Had Liz really thought she wouldn’t figure it out?

  “Beyond the false representation…” David leaned in. “…there are six other areas of the contract where we believe there to have been a breach.”

  “Speaking of which…” Piper continued, “…we’ve also taken measures to remediate data breaches discovered by our IT teams. And we’ve notified all parties you’ve been in contact with as Ms. Dawes’ agent that you’ve been discharged from her employ.”

  “You won’t get away with this.”

  No, Liz, you won’t get away with this.

  Cella saw the shine of tears in Liz’s eyes, tears that opposed her look of fierce resolution. Piper had been right about the burnt bridges between she and other clients. Cella had been the only one left.

  “I’m not signing anything.”

  “You don’t have to sign anything now other than acknowledgement that these documents were received. If you refuse, we can have the courts serve you papers.”

  Lifting her chin, she cast her eyes away from the papers, leaving the folder where it sat. She didn’t give Cella or the others a backwards glance as she stalked out the door with little more than her designer handbag and her arrogant pride.

  26 The Letter

  Max awoke with the kind of feeling you get when you’re sure you overslept. Except it was summer and it had been weeks since he’d set his alarm. Instinctually, he scanned for Cujo. Had Max slept so late that his dog had come to his bedside, begging to be walked? It didn’t seem likely. Cella’s side of the bed was cold. If Max wasn’t up, and she was, she would have done it.

  Max had to pee, so he did, but skipped brushing his teeth. Pulling out a pair of boxers, he slid them on and eyed the time as he fastened his watch on his wrist. Plodding downstairs, he heard nothing. Didn’t even smell coffee. It was only ten o’clock. Cella must have had something to do back at her place. Thinking he’d go to the kitchen and send her a text, he stopped in his tracks when he heard Cujo. Restless and whining, his dog stood watch at the front door.

  “What is it, boy?”

  Cujo turned briefly to Max, casting him a look that was full of despair before turning and beginning to paw at the front door. He hadn’t done that since he was a puppy, having been well-trained to keep his paws off of things that would be worse for wear from his scratching. Cujo barked and Max opened the door.

  No sooner than Max had cracked it the width of his little dog’s body did Cujo bolt, tearing across Max’s front lawn to reach Cella’s porch. Max blinked, unable to go after him because he was only still in his boxers. Leaving his front door ajar, he walked briskly into his kitchen. Fuck texting her. He was going to call.

  Then he saw it. The letter. His name in her elegant scrawl. Next to it, the waxed gray canvas roll with its worn leather cord.

  “No.” He stopped in his tracks.

  Suddenly, Max was breathing as if he’d just run a mile. Without picking up the letter, he knew. If she was coming back, she wouldn’t have done this. There wouldn’t have been a need. Plans would have been made. Hugs would have been exchanged. In place of a “goodbye”, there would have been a “see you soon”.

  Weak on his feet now, Max sank into a chair—the one he’d come to think of as hers. The plans he’d had flashed before eyes that were blind with tears. He thought he’d been so clever—so calculated—his stupid game of chess. He’d convinced himself that convincing her was about slowly luring her in. But she’d been playing chess of her own. All those calls to LA he hadn’t liked had been Cella moving the pieces. In the end, she’d protected her king.

  And she’d played well. Because Max hadn’t had a clue. Hadn’t thought it in her to leave like this. Not after she’d seen how things were between them. Not given his reciprocated love. When he blinked, his tears fell.

  Checkmate.

  Dear Max,

  I know you deserve better than this. I won’t list out the reasons. Some you might expect, and others I haven’t burdened you to know. Our time together has been the most delicious of dreams. Leaving like this is my backwards way of preserving it. I wanted my last memory of you to hold the sweetness of all our yesterdays, not the bitterness of goodbye.

  The thing is, Max, you know the most important parts of me. I know the part of you that doesn’t hate me for this understands. You know what it means to live the way we do. You know how it feels to get back on the road and leave people behind. You know there’s a price and that, on our worst days, our pockets run empty for the toll.

  I leave here today with empty pockets on a road that may never end. Your road is different from mine—better than mine. It is lined with people who love you. And it leads to a magical garden restaurant by the sea. Please, Max—take that road. Medicine is your talent, but cooking is your passion. Making magic in the kitchen is what you were born to do.

  That brings me to my gift. They are not a token—not some trinket to remember me by. My knives are my most prized possession and they are meant to be used. They were given to me, not by a famous chef, but by a great one. And now I am giving them to you.

  You don’t know how much more I want to give you. Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll figure out how. Maybe if I’m even luckier you’ll let me. I wish it didn’t have to be someday. I just know it can’t be now.

  Love,

  Cella

  27 In Court

  “In the case of Marcella Dawes LLC vs. Kevin LaRue, the Honorable Judge William Scott is presiding. Proceedings may now come to order.”

  Cella was careful to keep her eyes, first on the court stenographer, then on the clerk who spoke the judge’s introduction. It was all she could do to stop herself from glaring at Kevin.

  “Please be seated.” As he settled in behind the bench, Cella saw the judge was hulking in stature, an older man with movie star looks befitting of this place. It was obvious that, in his younger days, he’d been athletic. It was possible he still was, though he looked like he’d been doing the job for a thousand years. David knew Judge Scott, and had mentioned earlier that thirty years on the bench was likely to work to their advantage.

  “Shoot straight if you’re questioned directly,” he’d said. “That guy’s bullshit tolerance is zero.”

  “I’ll hear from Miss Dawes’ counsel first,” Judge Scott said.

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” David fastened the front button on his jacket as he stood. “My client, Marcella Dawes, invested $1.3 million toward the development of a jointly-owned restaurant with Mr. LaRue. After learning that Mr. LaRue misstated facts about his finances, Miss Dawes expressed intention to withdraw. Mr. LaRue refused to accept the terms stated in the contracts and declined other settlement offers throughout the past four months. We believe that Mr. LaRue is exploiting a contract clause that would prevent Miss Dawes from opening a different restaurant in an attempt to incentivize Miss Dawes to settle. We ask that you issue an injunction against Mr. LaRue to prevent his continued obstruction of justice.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Webb. Ms. Nathaniel?”

  Kevin’s attorney stood.

  “Your Honor, my client came under investigation with the IRS more than six months after contracting with Miss Dawes. He also invested $1.3 million and has maintained the required cash reserve. Mr. LaRue’s IRS case is still pending. He has neither been charged with, nor convicted of a crime. Mr. LaRue is willing to settle at a price that would fairly compensate him for lost revenue of $5 milli
on due to the diminished value of a venture that would not be attached to any chef with a fan base as large as Ms. Dawes.”

  Five million? The amount was higher than any number that had been floated. Cella’s hands trembled with rage as she picked up an elegant pen. As well as her emotions would allow, she wrote two words on the legal pad that sat in front of her before sliding it to David.

  Hell no.

  “Ms. Nathaniel, do you have documentation from the Internal Revenue Service showing the dates of action taken against Mr. LaRue?”

  “Yes, your honor.”

  A junior attorney handed Kevin’s lawyer the papers, prompting her to approach the bench and give them to the judge.

  “The first letter from the IRS is dated November of last year. Contracts between Miss Dawes and Mr. LaRue were signed last May.”

  The judge looked up from the documents, to the table where Cella was sitting with her attorneys.

  “Mr. Webb, do you have evidence that would prove that Mr. LaRue had prior knowledge of financial troubles?”

  David stood again.

  “Mr. LaRue appears to have been involved in three legal matters in the State of New York. Two were settled out of court and the court records for a third are sealed. We also learned that Mr. LaRue has been banned by a regulating body in the City of New York that grants restaurant permits.”

  “Why were these not discovered prior to executing the contracts?” the judge asked.

  “We performed due diligence on pending litigation, not prior litigation, though we believe that the contract language—not to mention basic ethics—would have required Mr. LaRue to disclose this information.”

  “Uh-huh…” the judge murmured.

  “Finally, your honor, the contracts stipulated that Miss Dawes be notified of any compromising financial matters that occurred after the signing of the contracts, which Mr. LaRue failed to do. Our team learned of his troubles only following a negative editorial published in the New York Daily Herald. Mr. LaRue’s undisclosed activities have placed my client at untenable risk of reputational fallout, or worse, potential seizure of Mr. LaRue’s half of the business by the IRS.”

  “May I see the paperwork?”

  Piper had already slid a folder full of papers to David, who was approaching the bench. Cella tried not to fidget as the judge slowly perused the documents.

  “Mr. LaRue, please rise.”

  “Good morning, your honor.”

  Cella finally let herself look over at him. His air of false humility made her want to punch him in the face. It didn’t help that she hadn’t slept the night before and was still riddled with guilt over leaving Max.

  “I tend to agree with Miss Dawes’ counsel.” Cella slid her gaze back to the judge. “Can you name any good reason why you did not disclose this information?”

  “Your honor, at the time that the contracts were signed, we complied with the diligence process.”

  “So you told a lie of omission.”

  Cella didn’t see that Piper had scribbled out her own note until a different legal pad floated into her vision.

  Get your popcorn. This should be entertaining.

  Cella managed not to smile. She hoped Kevin got his ass handed to him, and good.

  The judge leaned forward in his seat, which only made him look more menacing. “Can you explain why you’ve refused to settle?” he pressed.

  Kevin had the decency to look nervous. “I was fully prepared to honor a verbal agreement made with Miss Dawes on June 28th.”

  “Then why are we here?”

  The judge was really beginning to look annoyed. Ms. Nathaniel stood quickly.

  “It came to our attention that Miss Dawes was in breach of contract, for pursuing a separate restaurant deal while under contract with Mr. LaRue.”

  But she’d been prepared for this.

  “Miss Dawes, is this true?”

  When Cella stood, any nerves she’d felt earlier had disappeared. If she was trembling, it was only from anger.

  “No, Your Honor. I participated in a charitable event at a vacant restaurant that was once very popular. It’s been held at the restaurant for going on fifteen years. I do know the owner, and he plans to re-open and serve as the head chef. The restaurant is not up for sale.”

  Now David stood.

  “Your Honor, we have signed affidavits from two other chefs who participated in the event, Gianna Barone and Avery King, as well as three other well-known chefs who are willing to confirm their participation. We believe this claim to be yet another tactic designed to pressure Miss Dawes to settle at a higher price.”

  Ms. Nathaniel pinned David with a smug look.

  “Our investigators have found evidence of private conversations between Miss Dawes and the owner of the restaurant, Max Piccarelli.”

  The judge’s eyebrows raised.

  “Piccarelli’s? The one in North Carolina?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. Surely you can understand our concerns that Miss Dawes had dealings with the owner of a vacant restaurant in a previously successful location,” Ms. Nathaniel continued.

  “The burden of proof this would place on Miss Dawes is unreasonable, Your Honor,” David put in. “She can’t prove that she hasn’t had conversations, or produce paperwork that doesn’t exist. And we’d be interested in seeing evidence that shows the contrary. Mr. Piccarelli was a neighbor during Miss Dawes’ time in the town of Longport, where she rented a house to write a cookbook. She submitted it to her editor three days ago. Miss Dawes’ life is here—this is where she tapes her shows, and where she has resided for more than five years. Mr. LaRue’s claims are baseless speculation.”

  Miss Dawes’ life is here.

  Knowing what David was doing didn’t make the words hurt any less. She hadn’t been gone twelve hours, and she knew they weren’t true. But this was the decision she’d made—to give Max the space he needed to be who he wanted to be.

  “Mr. LaRue, can you provide evidence that Ms. Dawes and Mr. Piccarelli have transacted or are in negotiations?”

  “Your Honor, we have photos of Miss Dawes and Mr. Piccarelli having lunch or dinner together in public spaces.”

  “It’s not illegal to have lunch.” Still standing, Cella glared over at Kevin’s attorney.

  “We have reason to believe that Miss Dawes and Mr. Piccarelli have entered into a romantic relationship.”

  Cella’s stomach dropped.

  “What reason?”

  “Elizabeth Post, Miss Dawes’s former agent, is willing to testify to such a relationship.”

  It had barely been three hours, and, already, Liz was playing dirty. Cella began to tremble for real.

  “Miss Dawes…is this true?”

  David put his hand on her wrist, a silent signal to let him answer. She wouldn’t have been able to if she’d tried. Her eyes cast downward, she saw the note that Piper had slid over for her to read.

  Liz is in violation of her NDA.

  Cella was sure that was true. But with her anger so fresh, nothing to lose, and motivation to hurt Cella, Liz would go after Max.

  “Your Honor, Miss Dawes is an international celebrity. To the extent that her private life has the potential to draw media attention, we ask that you not require her to go on record with anything that would subject she or personal friends to scrutiny.”

  The judge removed his glasses and swept a hand over his face.

  “Miss Dawes, you maintain that you neither agreed to, nor were in negotiation with Mr. Piccarelli, to have any business relationship to his restaurant?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. And I’ll echo Mr. Webb in saying that I don’t wish to draw attention to any friend of mine who hasn’t chosen this life. The media can be cruel.”

  Judge Scott looked at her, some modicum of sympathy in his eyes before turning his attention back to Ms. Nathaniel.

  “What was the previously negotiated agreement?”

  “Miss Dawes agreed to helping Mr. LaRue find a new chef and to rem
ain involved for a period of a year. The public would be aware that Miss Dawes was no longer the head chef.”

  “Is your client still open to this agreement?”

  David looked to her, and she nodded.

  “And your client’s only reservation is whether she’s in negotiations with Max Piccarelli?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Miss Dawes, are you willing to swear to this court, under penalty of law, that you will not have any business dealings with Max Piccarelli, or the restaurant he owns for at least a year?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Are you willing to obtain a sworn affidavit from Mr. Piccarelli stating that he is not in negotiations with you?”

  Cella nodded. “Yes, Your Honor, though he’s planning a trip out of the country for six weeks.”

  Judge Scott nodded. “Given your sworn testimony, I’ll require the affidavit be furnished within ninety days.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” Cella and David said it in unison.

  “Mr. LaRue, I see no reason why this matter can’t be settled immediately.”

  “Your Honor—,” Kevin stood again, clearly ready to object, to what, she hadn’t a clue.

  “We’ll start the paperwork,” Ms. Nathaniel said, Judge Scott glaring at her client all the while.

  “You’ve got two weeks to dissolve the contract. This court is adjourned.”

  “I love your show.”

  The blushing, young production assistant complimented Cella in a whisper as she fastened the microphone to the inside of Cella’s blouse. She’d forgotten how much she disliked this part of the job. Being handled by a dozen strangers as they did her wardrobe, her hair, her makeup was overstimulating. She hadn’t done this in weeks, and this was her third interview of the day.

  Microphones were among her least favorite intrusions—having someone fix an uncomfortable battery pack to her pants and a microphone to the inside of her collar felt tantamount to being groped. The PAs who helped her were always discreet and professional and it wasn’t really them she resented. This part of the business had simply lost whatever luster it ever had.