The Secret Ingredient

by Kilby Blades

  “Good to finally meet you,” Max lied. Because even though selling the restaurant was the right decision, nothing about this felt good. “Come in. Let me show you around.”

  Ushering Buddy inside, Max started in on basic statistics. Since Aunt Alex had built it herself and never put it on the market, there was very little on record to describe the space. Buddy had eaten there when it was a restaurant, but couldn’t have known the square footage of the dining room or the kitchens, or features like the dumbwaiter or the bottle capacity of the cellar. As Max ran down the list, he couldn’t quell his irritation. Buddy’s acquiescent humming was so ill-timed, his “listening” made it clear he wasn’t listening at all.

  “Let’s see the kitchen,” Max ground out. That barely went better. Max had taken the time to verify that Buddy still had restaurants in his portfolio. Based on the questions he wasn’t asking, Max was skeptical that Buddy had ever set foot in a restaurant kitchen in his life.

  “What cuisine were you thinking?” Max quizzed, but Buddy missed a beat.

  “American Fusion.”

  “Do you have a particular chef in mind?”

  Buddy waved Max off with the hand that held his cigar. “Good chefs are a dime a dozen.”

  Max gritted his teeth as he led them downstairs, hastening to show Buddy the dining room, the storage space and the downstairs bar. But Buddy seemed eager to wander outside—to discuss the rest of the acreage.

  Apart from the landscaped areas used for parties, the remainder was undeveloped. Aunt Alex had only bought so much land because she wanted the restaurant to be insulated from the sounds of the road. She’d wanted it to be an experience—uncrowded and pristine, away from everyday troubles. Max had no illusions about how prized the acreage would be to a developer. Whatever Buddy’s story, his heightened attention as soon as Max started talking about the land told him everything he needed to know. Max could practically see the dollar signs in Buddy’s eyes.

  “Have you done a structural assessment?” Buddy asked.

  “I’ve never had a need.”

  “I’d like to send someone out, if you don’t mind. Standard procedure.”

  Did Buddy think Max was born yesterday? Max muttered that any standard inspections would be fine before walking Buddy back into the building and upstairs. A brief twenty minutes after they started, they found themselves back at the entrance, just inside the door.

  “Like I said, I want to have my boys take a look. If everything checks out, the offer still stands.”

  As Buddy said it, the ash of his cigar fell to the ground. When he lifted the edge of the rug in front of the hostess stand with one foot before brushing the ash underneath with the other, that was Max’s last straw.

  “That won’t be necessary. This just isn’t the right deal for me. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

  Buddy smiled, his tenacity showing once again. “So gimme a price.”

  “It’s not about the money.”

  “It’s always about the money. You could buy an island for what I’d give you—live there and forget about this place.”

  Max opened the door, very much wanting this man off of his property.

  “I’ve made my decision. The property is no longer for sale.”

  He chose those over more spiteful words: The restaurant is for sale—just not to you.

  33 The Departure

  “Sorry. I’ve got to take this.”

  Even if Cella had been in the middle of the best showing she’d been to yet, she would have taken Gianna’s call. But this was not the best showing she’d been to yet. The restaurant was too small. The kitchen was cramped, the walk-ins were awkwardly place, and she hadn’t known what Clyde had been thinking, showing her a space that lacked an office. Not for the first time, she wished things hadn’t gone so wrong with Kevin. For that one, they’d built from the ground-up and gutted an entire space.

  “This is painful,” Cella complained after she had sequestered herself to the outdoor deck. “Ocean view, my ass. This place is, like, ten blocks back.”

  “How many have you seen?” Gianna asked.

  “Today? Three.”

  “And altogether?”

  “Ten?” Cella didn’t even know anymore.

  “You know how LA is,” Gianna lectured lightly. “Everyone with a checkbook and a dream wants to be a restaurateur. Restaurants close every day. Give it six months. Something you like will come up.”

  “I don’t have six months,” Cella groused. Tacking on remodeling and planning to that time frame, and she wouldn’t open until next summer. With the time she’d wasted with Kevin and, God, the time she’d wasted with Edward, and the total time she would have spent trying to open a restaurant would add up to five years.

  “And the house-hunting?” Gianna’s tone was optimistic. That made one of them.

  “None of them were right.”

  “How many did you see?”

  “Seventeen.”

  Cella had to hold the phone away from her ear to save her ears from Gianna’s responding cackle.

  “And you did not like a single one? You forget. I have seen the places you live. You are not that picky.”

  “This isn’t some temporary place. It has to feel like home.”

  Cella had been repeating this mantra to herself for weeks.

  “So you remodel, like everyone else. You don’t like something? You change it. Don’t let one or two things keep you from making a house into something you love.”

  “It’s never just one or two things,” Cella grumbled.

  Gianna sighed airily. “Then the houses are not the problem, my darling. You are the problem.”

  “I’m just particular.”

  “O mangiar questa minestra o saltar questa finestra.”

  Cella knew the proverb, which amounted to “you have to piss or get off the pot”.

  It wasn’t as if Cella hadn’t thought it. Clyde’s professional veneer was beginning to crack. No realtor wanted a nitpicky client who never failed to find something wrong. It was time to cut him loose, if only out of fairness to him. She peered back inside, careful of listening ears.

  “I think I need a new real estate agent.”

  “I think you need a new plan,” Gianna came back indignantly. Then, “How is Max?”

  Her intention in connecting the two was said without an iota of shame. Cella leaned her hip against the railing.

  “He’s okay.”

  “Just okay?” Gianna’s voice took on a serious note. Gianna liked Max. Hell—everybody liked Max. And it seemed that everyone liked she and Max together.

  “I mean, he seems okay.”

  “He seems or he is? Men are fragile, Cella. They are afraid a strong woman like you will make them break.”

  “I do break them,” she said quietly. “Why do you think I left?”

  “The others you broke because they couldn’t break you first. Max would not have tried.”

  “Exactly,” Cella said too quickly. “I can’t think of a single time when anything Max did wasn’t for someone else.”

  Gianna scoffed. “You finally learn to stay away from men who suffocate you, yet you leave the only one who let you breathe?”

  “It wouldn’t have been right for me to breathe if it meant I was suffocating him.”

  “Oh, mia Cella.” Cella could practically hear Gianna shaking her head. “Just because we are famous doesn’t mean we don’t deserve to be loved.”

  Cella heaved a sigh, hearing the sense in Gianna’s words as she stared out at the tiny sliver of ocean. Her niggling inner voice repeated the question that had spun on a loop: was she searching for a man who didn’t exist? A kind mogul or a loving prince who wanted a quiet life in a house by the sea and was utterly un-threatened by her fame?

  “Remember this,” Gianna said in that tone she used when she was ready to drop something—but not until she had the last word. “The day will come when things are quiet. When you are only Cella—not Marcella Dawes
. And the things you gave up on the way—the things you need the most—they may be long gone.”

  Book conferences exhausted Cella. The lines were long, and the chairs were always uncomfortable. Some fans waited in line for hours, not merely for a picture and an autograph, but to spend minutes debating proportions and ingredients she chose for her food. A lot of them had good suggestions, but three hours had taken a lot out of her, and all she wanted to do was go back to her room.

  There would be no chance of that tonight—she was scheduled for dinner with her publisher. Keri would do most of the talking, but it was customary for authors to attend. The cookbook she’d written with Max was ready to go to press and marketing was underway. His rights to the photos, among other plans Cella had, were among the growing list of reasons why she needed to talk to Max.

  With shaking hands and a thundering heart, she’d called him two days before. She hadn’t dared to leave a message beyond a quick request to call her. The things she had to ask him—from book rights to the affidavit—were the kinds of things that you didn’t leave a message about. She longed to hear his voice, and their voicemail-tag left her feeling dejected, if not reinforced her every objection to having attempted a long-distance relationship.

  “Nice menu,” she commented, nearly to herself. The hotel restaurant wasn’t well-known. From her table, she could see into the open kitchen. She could tell from the way he was barking orders which one the head chef was. She could also tell the sous chef, who worked with a rhythmic cadence, floating from station to station to direct the more junior chefs. Cella was mesmerized as she watched the respect the woman commanded as she patiently worked her kitchen.

  She looked young—maybe in her mid-twenties, and Cella was impressed. Despite the frenzied chaos her head chef wrought through his tough antics, she managed to wrangle him. For such a young chef, and a woman at that, to be so skilled at leading from behind kept Cella’s attention. Regardless of what dishes she chose, the kitchen was likely to send out a few extras that it considered to be its specialties. Suddenly, she was glad she hadn’t feigned illness and returned to her suite.

  Alison and Gil were reps from Pepper Pot Publishing. Cella listened with half an ear as they worked out the details of the media tour and release logistics with Keri. Bored from the predictability of it all, she stole glances at the chef, remembering when she herself had been so early in her career, and thinking about her forgotten hopes. The food came. The oysters were amazing—all of it was wonderful, but the flavors in the seafood dishes really stood out. She wanted to meet the chef. She wanted to walk away that night with just a little piece of hope that she once had known.

  Her gaze slid back to her companions when she heard something about South America. Catching up, she realized Alison was saying something about going there to research her next book.

  “We know you wanted to make some changes…” Alison was saying, “…and we thought it could be good to stick with the theme of authenticity. How do you feel about a book about traditional peasant food?”

  “No.”

  Before she registered her full intention, the word had been spoken. She must have said it loudly because all of them stopped and looked. Alison cast a glance at Gil, her boss, before turning back to Cella.

  “It doesn’t have to be South America—we were thinking something on the British Isles could also—“

  Cella cut her off. “No more books.”

  Alison and Gil looked at one another uncomfortably, and then at Keri, who smiled. Cella spoke to Alison.

  “We’ve had a good run, but this one will be my last.”

  The head chef chose that moment to stride over, now a pussycat compared to the tiger she’d seen moments before. With rehearsed humility, he focused on Cella as he asked how they liked the food. As she paid her compliments and introduced the others, Cella glanced into the kitchen, where other chefs watched expectantly. She looked just in time to see the sous-chef slip out down the hallway, toward the restrooms.

  “Excuse me.” Cella climbed out of the booth, but not without thanking the chef again. Walking briskly, she hoped to catch the other woman. Finding the ladies’ room empty, Cella backtracked to her only other option, pushing open a heavy exit door. All restaurants seemed to have these—places where the kitchen staff could escape to take their breaks. Cella found the chef seated and smoking a cigarette, her legs dangling below a sharp drop on the wall of a loading dock.

  “You impressed me back there.”

  The woman looked up, realizing only after Cella spoke that she had company, stumbling to her feet when she realized who her company was.

  “Thank you, chef. I’m glad you enjoyed what we served.”

  “The food was outstanding.” Cella took a step toward the woman. The name embroidered on her jacket read Chef Cortez. “But what I meant was that I was impressed by you.”

  Chef Cortez blinked.

  “I’m Cella.” She extended a hand, which the woman shook firmly.

  “Gracie,” the woman returned.

  “Did anything I tasted tonight happen to be yours?”

  Please say the oysters.

  “The salt-crusted branzino,” Gracie admitted.

  Cella smiled, because that, too had been excellent.

  “And the oysters…”

  Cella’s smile widened.

  “Dessert hasn’t gone out yet, but the ice cream sandwiches with the chocolate dipping sauce are mine, too.”

  “How long have you worked here?”

  “Three years.”

  “Are you happy?”

  When Gracie hesitated, Cella knew.

  “‘Cause I have this new restaurant. And it’s looking for a great head chef.”

  34 Cella's Return

  “Hey.”

  Natalie blinked in surprise to see Max standing on her porch. Coming over unannounced wasn’t something he often did. She looked better than the last few times he’d seen her around town. Her disposition had been as cloudy as you’d expect a newly-divorcing woman to be. Some new sadness had shone on her face, despite hair and makeup that always seemed polished and put together. Ennis was long-gone by then. Where he’d gone, Max hadn’t a clue. But Natalie was changed—her ostentatious ring had disappeared, along with her flirty demeanor.

  “Got a minute?” His hands were in his pockets. Either Kaito wasn’t there or he’d taken Max’s advice and parked his car in the garage.

  “Come in.” She stepped aside, revealing a space that had very much changed. Rumor had it that Ennis hadn’t left her with much, but this…this was extreme.

  She smiled at him ruefully, as if reading her thoughts. “He left me the house. Literally. Only the house.” A house that was all but bare. Where impeccably-coordinated furniture had once completed a well-designed interior, entire rooms stood empty. Where pictures had hung, large squares and rectangles were a slightly darker hue than the paint of sun-bleached walls.

  “Let’s sit.” She waved her arm, motioning for him to follow.

  “Shit, Natalie, I’m sorry.” He said it as she set two glasses of water down for them and joined him at her kitchen table.

  “You know, I’m glad for it?” It came out as more of a question than a statement. “Him being this spiteful actually makes it easier. I’m not sure I liked who I was when I was with him. The memories are what makes it so hard to start over.”

  She said it in a way that told him she wasn’t only talking about herself. At some point, he’d realized that Natalie knew the score with Cella. The house Cella had rented had been Natalie’s listing. It was possible that Natalie had known when Cella was leaving before Max even did. It was a mark in her favor. Natalie wasn’t one to spread people’s business around.

  “I could use your help.”

  “Oh, yeah?” she asked. “Don’t tell me you’re selling your house. The market’s shit. The Sanford place has been on the market for 200 days.”

  Max liked that she hadn’t called it Cella’s house. Every
one else still did.

  “Not my house…” he trailed off, taking a long gulp of water. It never got easier for him to say it out loud.

  “The restaurant?” She looked surprised. “Alright. Let’s talk.”

  Max ran down the list of specs. Unlike Buddy, Natalie wrote down details and asked good questions. Pulling out her laptop, she looked up market data on costs per square foot and price per acre on comps. Her number came in close to the number the independent appraiser Max had hired had delivered to him that morning: $12.5 million.

  Max saw her eyes widen when she looked up from her phone. She’d had to have known it would add up. The standard seller’s commission was 6%. If Natalie sold at the appraised value, she stood to earn the commission of her life: some $750,000.

  “Why won’t you sell to Fitch?” It was no secret that he’d been sniffing around. Aunt Alex’s wasn’t the first property in Longport that Fitch had tried to buy.

  “Because I won’t sell to just anyone.” Max leaned in to the table and gave her his most serious look. “You know what developers are doing to this town. I’ll only sell to someone who won’t overdevelop the land and keep the restaurant, a restaurant.”

  It was no secret that Natalie was among a large faction who shared Max’s views. She wasn’t the only realtor in town, but she had the best reputation for selling to people who were interested for the right reasons. There was no way to confirm it, but Max suspected that was part of why it had taken so long to sell the Sanford place. It was too small a lot to be developed, but Mrs. Sanford would have wanted it to go to someone nice.

  Like Cella.

  “There are some risks to that approach.” Natalie interrupted his thoughts. “You don’t have to sell to just anyone, but you have to steer clear of accusations of discrimination. You can’t refuse to sell on the basis of race, religion, sexual orientation…anything like that. You’ll cover your ass, legally, if you draw up documentation.”