by Kilby Blades
“That says what?”
She put her hand on her glass but didn’t pick it up, spinning it slowly with nails he noticed were no longer manicured.
“It would have to specify the criteria that will cause you to sell. You’ve already named a few. No heavy development. Intentions to let the main building remain a restaurant. And I’ll be honest with you, Max—I’ll do my best to screen, but we’ll really never know. Still, we can take prospective buyers through an application process.”
Max liked this idea, and the next half hour was spent brainstorming on questions that should be on the application. He was impressed by Natalie’s other ideas—she knew providers who could take professional photos and do 360-degree virtual tours.
“Send me a bill for your expenses,” he said as he rose to go. He knew it wasn’t standard. All of the time and elbow grease a realtor devoted to selling a property was usually part of the commission. When they got to the door, she paused, looking at something on the ground before meeting his eyes.
“Hey Max…this will be a national search. You could’ve found someone in Atlanta…” she trailed off.
“Yeah, I could’ve.”
She didn’t move.
“I didn’t think…” Natalie trailed off, and sighed. “After the way I’ve treated you…it’s better than I deserve.”
Max’s hand was on the door but he didn’t move to open it. He chose his next words carefully. “Kaito’s a good guy.”
Her eyes widened. “He put you up to this?”
“Give yourself some credit, Nat. You’re the best realtor in town. And like you said, everyone deserves a fresh start.”
The fall in Longport was still beautiful, not for its sunshine but for crisp breezes, lingering flocks of orange-billed gulls, and rolling clouds in gray skies. Cujo liked the whipping wind, the firmer sand, and the bull kelp that washed ashore. Max liked the low temperature, the salt air, the feeling that he could breathe. These months, he’d relied on the sea to grace him with its peace, though leisure time with Cujo had been hurried of late. Utilitarian walks had let Cujo get just enough exercise to keep him sane and let him do his business.
But Max’s new normal was already taking shape. He’d begin half-time at the clinic next week. Even that couldn’t have turned out more differently than he’d expected. He’d imagined that politely turning down Ed’s offer to buy it would mean several more months finding it a permanent home. No one had foreseen how dearly Ed would approve of Linc, or of Linc loving Longport so much that he wanted to stay.
Weeks of ordering takeout had partially cured Max of his aversion to cooking. It had come one morning at the market, when he’d found himself motivated to buy chanterelles. He’d even taken to watching the Culinary Network again. Longport didn’t have a Spanish restaurant, and if he wanted patatas bravas or paella, Max was going to have to make them himself.
Yes, Max knew. It had taken time, but things were finally settling. Thanksgiving was coming and Max had plenty to be thankful for. He’d moved back to town. He’d figured out how to let the restaurant go. And falling in love with Cella had given him something to aspire to. It hadn’t always felt good, but change never did. Hadn’t the caterpillar sat, uncomfortable and dark in his chrysalis, before becoming a butterfly?
Max was halfway up their stretch of beach when Cujo stopped his leisurely sniffing and broke out in a barking run back toward the house. When Max got closer, he saw a dark figure on the back porch. He kept his slow pace, disbelieving his eyes as long dark hair and bitten lips came into focus. Watching him with unreadable eyes was the one person he wanted most to see again.
"I missed you too, boy…" Max heard her say to Cujo, her voice carrying on the wind.
By the time Max climbed his steps, her eyes were fixed on him, the gaze that had smiled upon him so many times now tentative and unsure. It was so raw—so genuine—so unlike anything she gave away in the dozen times he’d seen her on camera. He reveled in its complexity. His Cella had returned.
“‘’Bout time.”
For the moment, Max ignored the things that needed to be said between them. Some tender relief lit in her eyes a second before he pulled her into a tight hug. When she melted into him and slid her hands around his waist in that way she always did, Max remembered how perfectly she fit into his arms. He smoothed her hair, maybe out of habit—definitely from a need to touch her again. Inhaling deeply to take in the scent of her, it was a long while before he released her on a sigh.
Before he could think of a graceful way to ask her what she was doing there, she bent to reach for an object from a small paper bag he hadn’t seen at her feet.
"Hot off the presses.” She handed it to Max to inspect. A lump rose in his throat as he plucked the book from her hand. It was one of the most beautiful objects he'd ever seen. Pride surged through him as a photo he'd taken, in his kitchen on his china graced the cover.
"Cooking with Love: A Tribute to Your Grandmother's Italian Kitchen” He read the title aloud, but stopped short as he read on.
by Max Piccarelli and Marcella Dawes
He touched the book affectionately, carefully, like the precious thing that it was, both cherishing it and afraid that if he opened it he might break this delicious spell.
“You credited me as an author.”
“Co-author, technically.” Her voice was soft.
Max shook his head slightly, as if to clear it.
"Just open it," she pleaded quietly. "Read the dedication."
To Max, for teaching me the secret ingredient.
"I will treasure this," he uttered finally. “Will you sign it?”
“It depends.” She looked nervous again. “Are you going to invite me in for coffee or leave me out here to freeze?”
Max’s kitchen wasn’t the disaster area it had been in those first weeks following her departure, but it was much changed from what Cella had ever seen. Before he put the water on, he hastened to swipe the Chinese takeout containers off of his counter and into his trash can, to take the pizza box that sat, empty, on the counter to his recycling bin in the garage.
When he returned, Cella sat at his kitchen island, as she had so many times before. Keeping his composure, Max muted the part of him that swelled with joy at having her there in the flesh. But standing on his hind legs, with his tail wagging frantically and his little tongue lapping at her hands, Cujo was completely losing his shit.
“Good boy,” Max heard Cella coo. His back was turned to her and he faced the sink. As he filled his kettle, questions he’d been too startled to ask himself flooded his mind. Was the cookbook the only reason she’d come? How long would she stay? How was he supposed to ignore their still-crackling chemistry? What would he do when she left? Five minutes in her presence had awakened every dark feeling he’d fought to suppress.
“Do you have a pen?” She asked it shyly just after he’d finished grinding the beans. It was a look he didn’t often see on her—a look he missed. The only version of her he’d seen lately was the television version—all makeup and smiles and clothes she would never wear.
“You know where the pens are,” he chided lightly, even as he reached into the drawer next to the refrigerator and pulled one out. Sliding it to her, he tried on a smile. Cella returned her own apprehensive smile before opening the front cover and turning her attention to the book. Max disappeared to the garden to pull fresh mint and added the cardamom just as her cup was nearing the end of its drip.
He smiled for real when he passed her the mug and she took a deep inhale. She looked at the cup reverently, her own lips melting into satisfaction before she took her first steaming sip.
“Better than mine, as usual,” she murmured. Then she closed the book and slid it toward him. He sat next to her with the beer he’d pulled from the fridge. He’d have enough trouble sleeping that night anyway—no sense in making it worse with a dose of caffeine.
“You look good,” she lied.
He gave her a don’t-bull
shit-me look a second before he let out a deep chuckle.
“I’m serious!” Her laugh charmed him just like that first time. “A bit paler than the last time I saw you, but…I don’t know, rested.”
“The winter look suits you,” he returned, scanning his eyes from her cute fuzzy boots, up her fitted dark skinny jeans to the cropped parka with the fur-lined hood that sat draped over the back of her chair. He thought of the flattering pink on her cheeks when she’d come in from the cold. “But you know this isn’t the Arctic Circle, right?”
She put down her coffee. “You can take the girl out of California, but you can’t take the California out of the girl.”
Max swallowed bitter reminders of her life in California with a drink of sweetish stout.
“So, catch me up. I’m starving for information.”
All humor left her face. “I’m sorry. With the travel, and the time difference…”
“I know. We keep missing each other’s calls.”
“I’m sorry…” she apologized again.
But her world worked differently than his—always had, always would.
“I’ll take you however I can get you. Seriously…how’s house-hunting been?”
“Not as productive as I’d hoped,” she admitted, seeming to refocus. “‘I’m on my second realtor. The first one kept trying to upsell me. More house means more commission, you know?”
Max did know.
“I just want a simple place on the water. Not some huge, gated mansion. The second one’s been showing me better places, but the open neighborhoods aren’t secure.”
Max hadn’t thought of that. Of course Cella would need to live in some gated place. LA was paparazzi central.
“Couldn’t you just buy a huge plot of land? One that owned the surrounding beaches?”
“It didn’t come to that.”
Past tense. Which meant she bought a place. It gutted him as much as it had when he’d heard from Natalie that Linc put an offer on the place next door.
“After living next door to you, I kind of liked the thought of having a neighbor.”
Max’s eyebrows raised. “Not that kind of neighbor!”
He commanded himself to make light of it as he took a long pull of his beer.
“Cella, you can have any kind of neighbor you want.”
She played with the handle of her mug before looking at him again, her wan smile belying some complex emotion in her eyes. “How’s Natalie? Enjoying the single life?”
“Ennis fucked her over big time when he left—cleaned out her bank accounts and took every last piece of furniture in the house.”
Cella’s hands stilled on her mug. “Are you serious?”
“Not many people know.”
When Cella’s eyes widened, Max realized what crazy ideas she must be thinking about how he knew.
“Don’t feel sorry for her yet. Kaito’s been more than a shoulder to cry on.”
Cella’s face morphed into a different kind of surprise.
“The divorce isn’t final, so they’re keeping it on the low.”
“She’ always did like a man who can cook,” Cella mused.
Max got quiet, debating over whether to tell her that he no longer ranked among that list. Not eager to talk about his restaurant, he opted for asking about hers.
“Did you at least settle on a space for your restaurant?”
She sat back in her chair and groaned. “Don’t even ask.”
“That bad?”
“I don’t just want some space on a commercial row. I want it to be special. Something like Piccarelli’s, except…you know, on the west coast.”
Max missed a beat in offering some platitude as her words dealt unwitting grief.
“Actually…” She twisted her body and reached into a stylish messenger bag she’d hung over the back of the chair. “That’s another reason why I wanted to talk. Things went a little sideways with Kevin in court.”
He frowned. “Sideways, how?” He eyed the folder she placed in front of him.
“It’s a long story,” she hedged.
He crossed his arms. “I’ve got time.”
“They had pictures, Max. Of you and me. Liz tipped them off to the fact that we were…involved.”
Max felt sick at the idea that an investigator had followed them.
“That had nothing to do with your case.” His voice rang with irritation.
“His legal team spun it up—they tried to say that colluding with you placed me in breach of contract.”
“Colluding on what?”
“On buying Piccarelli’s. The contracts were written in a way that prevented me from hopping to another project if I simply lost interest in a partnership with Kevin.”
Max swept his hand over his face as Cella continued.
“He agreed to settle if I could furnish evidence that we never had those talks. I made a statement on record, but they need a sworn affidavit from you.”
Max tried to wrap his head around how he had somehow become a pawn in Kevin’s war against Cella as he opened the folder and began to read the document within.
“It needs to be notarized…” Cella continued. “And I think you need to have a witness. I know it’s a pain in the ass, but would you please do this for me?”
He shook his head slowly as he scanned, comprehending the legalese and realizing what the contract was asking: not that he wasn’t in negotiations with Cella—it was asking him to swear the restaurant itself was not for sale.
“You won’t?” Hurt colored Cella’s voice.
He closed the folder. He had seen enough.
“I’ll sign a statement saying we never discussed it, but I can’t sign it the way that it’s worded.” He looked her in the eye as he said it. The moment had come. “I’m selling Piccarelli’s.”
“What?” It was a cross between a gasp and a whisper. Her eyes registered betrayal. He closed his eyes, not having wanted it to be like this.
“Why the hell would you do that?”
He shook his head and opened his eyes, taking his beer bottle back into his grip. “It’s not part of the plan.”
“But you said—“
“Things changed.” The last thing Max wanted to have to do was explain himself again. He’d already gotten shit for it from everyone in town.
“If it’s the money, you don’t have to worry. Your royalties will be a few hundred thousand in the first year.”
“My royalties?”
“That’s the other reason why I came.” She dipped back into her bag again. “Since you have a byline, the publisher needs you to confirm you’ll give them your rights. There’s other stuff—you know, tax stuff, forms about where they should send the checks.”
But Max was still stuck. A few hundred thousand in the first year? As she slid a second folder toward him, all Max could do was stare.
“You don’t ever need to sell the restaurant.” Her words held a heavy dose of persuasion and even a little hope. “If you take that money and invest it, you can maintain the restaurant for years.”
She stared openly now, with pleading eyes. But what she wanted would never happen. He had to stop her from getting ideas.
“Holding on to a restaurant I’m never going to reopen does me more harm than good.”
“If it’s not the money—”
“It’s a lot of things. I’ve thought this through.” He said it as gently as he could.
“Then at least tell me why,” she begged. “Is it Fitch?”
It’s because I don’t want to do it without you. And I’m so useless in the kitchen right now, I literally can’t.
But he wouldn’t say it out loud. When he didn’t answer, her pleading look hardened to a glare.
“You’re making a mistake.”
He sighed again, looking out into the inky darkness of night.
“It’s my mistake to make.”
“He’ll never sell it back to you. When you realize what you’ve done, it’ll be too
late.”
He looked back out the window, grasping to think of an explanation that would sound plausible to her. Then his eyes fell upon their book. He put something together then—something so powerful it made more sense of things, even to him.
“The restaurant wasn’t her legacy, Cella—it was her food.”
Still, she brooded in a hurt that Max could barely understand. He knew she had dreamt this for him. He knew that she had only put so much of her energy into mentoring him because she’d known it was his dream.
“You don’t know how much it meant to me that you taught me all you did. I still can’t believe you gave me your knives…”
He stopped when tears began to fill her eyes.
“Cella—”
He rose from his chair at the same moment she slid herself off of hers. She didn’t look at him as she silently left the room. A few seconds later, he heard the door of his hallway bathroom shut.
Cujo followed her. Max could hear his dog’s soft whimpers from down the hall. She didn’t come out again for a long time. On heavy feet, he went to the drawer that held her knives. Carefully untying the fastening, he unrolled the set, taking in their finery—their meaning—for the last time. By the time she emerged, it had been minutes since he’d opened her messenger bag and used what little space was left to place them inside.
She didn’t sit this time, but walked up to where he leaned on his hip at the counter, aching in ways all his own. Her face was clean and dry, but it was obvious she’d been crying. She didn’t hesitate this time as she slid her arms around his waist, laid her cheek on his chest and let him engulf her in a hug. He stroked her hair and kept at bay words she wouldn’t want to hear. Something about the way she hugged him told him this was another goodbye.
“Stay,” he murmured into her hair. “Cuddle in my bed with Cujo. I’ll sleep on the couch. By morning, maybe you’ll like me again.”
Lifting her face to regard him while remaining in his arms, her eyes held all the sadness in the world. “You don’t know how good that sounds.”
His hand rose to cup her jaw, and he let his thumb stroke her face. If she could be vulnerable, so could he. “I don’t know how to do this, Cella. I’ve never cared about someone with a life like yours.”
