by Kilby Blades
She sighed, and put her hand over his.
“Do I get to visit you?” he asked. Because, months later, Max still didn’t know where he stood.
“Of course you do,” she breathed.
Do I get to kiss you?
But she was too close and if Max started thinking that way, he might slip. Reluctantly, he released her from his arms.
“I told you, I’m shitty at phone calls,” she said. “It’ll be best if we just plan a trip. Hanging out for a few days is how I catch up with my best friends. Let’s settle on a date.”
Fifteen minutes and one other long hug later, she was putting on her enormous coat, giving Cujo a vigorous pet, and reaching for her bag. Max had signed the contracts for her publisher and disappeared to his office for a few minutes to make copies of his driver’s license and social security card. He’d proposed that they spend Thanksgiving together and she’d vowed to make it work.
When he opened his front door to let her out, he saw that a black Suburban awaited. The moment she emerged, a driver got out of the car.
“So, where to?”
“New York. There’s a book convention tomorrow morning.”
“Where are you flying out of?”
She shook her head. “There are no more flights tonight.
He frowned.
“I’m used to it.” She waved it off. “I’ll sleep in the car.”
He hugged her again and squeezed her hand, watching her walk away with a look in his eyes he suspected was sadder than his dog’s. It wasn’t until three full days later that he realized what she’d done. No note, this time. She’d said her own proper goodbye. But her knives had mysteriously reappeared in his drawer.
35 Cella's Maneuver
Cella did not sleep in the car—not until she’d had a good cry and questioned every single one of her life choices. What had leaving the one man she could have seen herself being happy with for the rest of her life achieved if he didn’t care about the sacrifices she’d made? No, that wasn’t fair. He hadn’t known what she’d done. But he knew himself. And she hadn’t been wrong about his dream. The Max she knew would not give up on that, let alone sell his precious restaurant.
So why do it now, when he finally had the confidence to see in himself what she’d seen in him? A world-class chef who could hold his own with the best? There was something he wasn’t telling her. She’d seen it in his eyes. Adding her heartbreak over the restaurant to her heartbreak over seeing him again—of remembering how precious he was to her—was too much. It had healed her to be under his loving gaze, to be ensconced in his arms.
Love.
If she’d had any doubts as to whether that’s what it was, seeing him again had banished her doubts. If she was honest with herself, that was what had scared her most. It had only seemed right to hand-deliver the book, to talk about things in person. But what would she have done if he’d gotten over her? It would’ve ruined her long-term plan. She’d thought they’d each stay the course for now, run busy restaurants for a while. If they never forgot each other during all that time, they might actually see their someday come. But, what now? Without a busy restaurant to run, Max might actually move on. And he’d said it himself: he had no idea how to be friends with a woman like her.
She supposed she had only herself to blame. He wasn’t the first person in her life to not know where he stood. She always thought it was obvious when she liked someone—when the bonds of friendship she built with someone were lasting. But the way she left…she hadn’t realized how much of a job she’d done on him. She hated that she’d caused him to doubt what they had, however undefined it may have been.
Ten minutes after the car passed the sign that welcomed her to Virginia, Cella wiped away the last of her tears and fished out her phone. By then, she was an expert at looking at real estate online and she had an app installed. Her search for restaurant spaces in Longport, North Carolina yielded only one result. Seeing the listing brought back her tears. She swiped through picture after picture, each one better than the last. The listing was well-written and irresistible.
The app let users indicate their interest, “liking” specific features and even submitting their interest directly through the app. She hit the button that told her to tell the seller she was interested without a second thought. Not a minute after she did, her phone display showed that a new e-mail had come through. Opening it, she saw it was a form letter from none other than Natalie that explained in an upbeat, but firm way that in order to be considered, a special application had to be filled out.
Cella opened the attachment, not knowing what to expect, praying that it wouldn’t ask for personal information, but resolute that if it did, she’d find some way to get around.
What is your intended usage of the property?
Please provide information about other commercial property you or the company you represent own.
Will you tear down the original building?
Will the land be used for a single purpose or will it be parceled out for multiple uses?
Cella saw this for what it was—he didn’t want to sell to a developer.
Thank God.
Because if Max was being picky about the buyer, she had an advantage. No—two advantages: she could show that her vision aligned with keeping it as a restaurant and keeping the land pristine; and, unlike other buyers, she could pay nearly any price.
But time wasn’t on her side. The listing had been on the market for only ten days and the app showed it had more than a hundred “likes”. Good thing that, for now, Natalie was probably knee-deep in bids. Cella could fill out the application quickly enough, but doing so would mean violating a judge’s order. Cella knew what she had to do—she had to go back to court.
36 Reviewing Applications
“Nice table,” Max complimented, blinking in surprise as he entered Natalie’s vestibule. What he’d wanted to say was: what the hell happened to this room? Though he could see through the open doorway of the living room that it still sat bare, the dining room was completely redone. A stylish, modern table…an antique sideboard…even a new chandelier.
Natalie blushed. “Kai said he wanted a place to serve me dinner—that if I didn’t have one, he’d get me one himself.”
“Kai?” Max’s eyebrows shot upward, because no one ever called his friend that.
“He’s good to me,” she said, with a bit of a dreamy look in her eye.
“Looks like it,” Max said weakly, glancing once again at the well-appointed room before following Natalie back to her kitchen. It had been their office for the better part of three weeks.
“Anything good?” He settled down into a chair and opened the folder she had waiting. She’d made it a habit of printing out the better applications. She’d received more than sixty, but Max’s folder had never held more than three per day. It soothed him—to read about other peoples’ dreams.
“Look at the one from Nicole Partridge.”
Max liked the look in Natalie’s eye. He could tell that she was excited. She’d been neutral so far about the ones she had shown him. He didn’t know whether to be scared or relieved that Natalie thought he’d found his match.
Max had to admit—the application was impressive. She was a young chef who had come into an inheritance. She was doing well as the sous-chef in a noted restaurant Max had heard of in Miami. Still, she couldn’t give up the chance to use her windfall to buy her own restaurant.
Word-for-word, he read her application. She seemed young, maybe in her twenties, but her passion for food was clear. Her cooking was experimental, and she admitted that she didn’t see her menu fitting into a specific cuisine, but she had a passion for tapas and wine and envisioned a menu that was affordable, and that did pairings with small plates.
Feeling that she might just be too good to be true, Max googled her, working quietly to figure out who this person was as Natalie looked on. Nicole checked out. Every little detail, every tiny morsel of what she’d shared in her
application rang true. She’d even supplemented the application with a personal note saying how honored she would be to take over a restaurant as formidable as Piccarelli’s.
If nothing else, that was what had given Max pause. The profile didn’t mention its legacy, or his name. She would have had to have known it by sight. Closing his folder, and his laptop, he looked at an expectant Natalie.
“I think we might have found our match.”
“Max Piccarelli?”
“This is he,” Max said. He’d answered his phone with a simple hello. With the restaurant sale, strange numbers had been coming in for weeks.
“This is Alison,” an enthusiastic young voice clarified. “I’m with Pepper Pot Publishing. If you have a minute, I’d love to go over a few details.
“I’ve got about ten.” Max eyed his watch. He’d used the same handyman for years and Muhammad was always on time. Max had to be at the clinic in an hour so he’d have to make quick work of running down the list of fixes. He’d go work his shift and leave Muhammad to start the work.
“Perfect!” Alison bubbled. She sounded about twenty years old. Who knew? Maybe she just had a young voice. Max remembered seeing her card among the documents he’d signed for Cella.
“Is this your first book, Max?”
He chuckled and swept his hand over his face, some part of him still disbelieving he would soon be a published author.
“Yeah, it is.”
“Congratulations!” she exclaimed. “I’m here to walk you through. We already have good art, so at least that’s done.”
“Art?”
“You know…pictures of you and Marcella. We got rights from the photographer who shot the charity event.”
“Oh…great.”
For the next few minutes, Alison asked mundane questions, verifying the spelling of his name, and reading a biography they’d written up. It must have been something they’d drawn up before Cella’s visit. He had to ask Alison to reword the part that named him as owner of Piccarelli’s.
“Onto the book tour,” Alison continued. Muhammad’s truck came down the restaurant’s driveway. “There are ten US dates, but we don’t expect you to do them all. You don’t have to do any if you don’t want—but if you’re going to come, we need to plan.”
“Like…book signings?” Max hadn’t thought of any of this.
“Mmm-hmm,” Alison hummed.
“Will Cella be there?”
“Yes. There’ll be a pre-release signing in a few weeks, and a press event the day after. The other dates don’t start for two months. There’ll also be interviews. Just Good Morning America and a few morning shows, and probably some press that’s local to you.”
Max scratched the back of his head. “What would those entail?”
“You and Marcella would introduce the book, probably do a cooking demonstration and answer questions. The live press event will be small—only about two-hundred-fifty attendees. The pre-release signing is where you’ll get a thousand people. That one is scheduled for a big convention in Savannah. But signings are easy—just ask people their names and sign their books.”
But it didn’t sound informal to Max.
He sighed. “Would it help Cella?”
He liked the idea of seeing her more, though it didn’t sound like quality time. With her schedule, it was possible he wouldn’t even have time with her before or after each event. The other week, she hadn’t even had enough slack in her schedule to stay the night.
“It will help both of you. The more relatable you are with the press and with readers, the better the book will sell.”
“To be honest, I’m a little gun shy…” Max admitted. He did well one-on-one and in small groups. But two-hundred-fifty people for the press tour alone?
Muhammad gave Max a small wave as he got out of his truck. Max waved back and held up a finger. He wanted to see more of Cella, but he’d committed to half-time at the clinic. It wouldn’t be right to leave Linc in the lurch.
“The other signings will be smaller…” Alison hedged. “We could leave the press event and the pre-release signing to Marcella and bring you onboard for some of the smaller events. All expenses would be paid by Pepper Pot, of course. If that still sounds like too much, I hope you consider at least attending the signing at Book Bugs in Longport.”
Guilt washed over Max as he realized how ungracious he must sound. When he thought about how he was about to earn a six figure income from her generosity in making him a co-author, Max knew what he had to do.
“Alright,” Max decided. “I’ll be tied up with my own business for the next month, but send me the dates for the smaller signings. I’ll make them work.”
“Fantastic!” Alison exclaimed. “And don’t worry—we’ll totally be supportive. In a few days, you’ll be hearing from our media coach.”
37 In Court
“This court will come to order, the Honorable Judge Kirk Scott presiding in the case of Dawes vs. LaRue. Please rise.”
Cella smoothed her olive pencil skirt and stood on nude patent leather pumps. It had taken her half an hour that morning to coordinate her ensemble, which she’d finished with tasteful pearls and a cream-colored blouse with an angled cowl.
“Be seated.” Judge Scott looked just as stern as he had that first day.
“Mr. Webb, you’ve requested a revisitation of the agreements made at the July 12th proceedings. Please make your opening statements.”
“Your Honor, my client committed to returning to the court with a signed affidavit from Dr. Maximilian Piccarelli, affirming that the restaurant in question would remain under his ownership. On October 23rd, Dr. Piccarelli placed the restaurant on the market for sale. My client maintains that she had no knowledge of Dr. Piccarelli’s intentions. In light of new information, Ms. Dawes wishes to bid on the restaurant and retract her statement that would forbid her from business transactions with Dr. Piccarelli for the period of the year.”
“Miss Dawes, please rise.”
Cella stood on shaky feet.
“Good Morning, Your Honor.”
“Are you aware that retracting your former statements will nullify the settlement agreement you made with Mr. LaRue, dated…” Judge Scott looked at some papers in front of him, “…on July 25th?”
“I do, Your Honor.”
“Do you understand that Mr. LaRue will be entitled to pursue a new agreement, or to litigate, with terms and expenses that may be unfavorable to you?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Do you understand that failure to take an action ordered by the court places you in contempt, the consequences of which may be jail time or a fine?”
Cella swallowed thickly at the mention of jail time, but lifted her chin. “I do, Your Honor.”
“Do you wish to say anything on your own behalf?”
Cella paused, not so much gathering her thoughts, but composing herself to speak from her heart. “Your honor, Piccarelli’s has been in Max’s family for more than thirty-five years. Piccarelli’s is an institution in the culinary community, and a local treasure to the town. The property sits on twenty-four acres of oceanfront land. It’s come to my attention that the majority of bidders are land developers who intend to tear it down.
“I believe that Dr. Piccarelli is acting rashly in his decision to sell, that he will regret seeing the land become subject to multi-unit development, and I also believe that such development is counter to the interests and desires of the community. My primary intention is to buy the restaurant and hold on to it should he later have a change of heart. Should Dr. Piccarelli decide against buying it back within a reasonable period of time, my plan would be to relocate and run the restaurant myself.”
Even as Kevin’s lawyer stood, quick to wage her complaints, Judge Scott’s eyes remained trained on Cella.
“Your Honor,” Ms. Nathaniel began. “Ms. Dawes lied to this court in order to reach a settlement with Mr. LaRue. We ask that you change the severity of your contempt of cou
rt ruling to a more fitting one—a perjury charge.”
But Piper had prepared Cella for this and David had a plan. He spoke again on Cella’s behalf.
“Mr. LaRue clearly intends to further obstruct justice by calling Ms. Dawes’s character into question should the case to go to trial. If necessary, we can subpoena Dr. Piccarelli, who will attest to the fact that Ms. Dawes knew nothing of his plans to sell at the time of the July 12th hearing.”
“Ms. Dawes is the one who has sought to obstruct justice,” Ms. Nathaniel said coolly, glaring directly at Cella. “Mr. LaRue settled with Ms. Dawes in good faith and has followed the agreed-upon plan.”
“Your Honor, we have new evidence,” David said in a voice that commanded attention. Right on cue, Piper produced a folder from her bag and slid it to the space in front of David.
“Please approach the bench,” Judge Scott said, at the same time Ms. Nathaniel issued a hostile, “Why wasn’t I told about this?”
Ignoring her, David handed Judge Scott the folder.
“What am I looking at?” The judge slid on his glasses.
“A September 7th ruling from a different court, regarding a non-disclosure agreement between Ms. Dawes and her former agent, Ms. Elizabeth Porter.”
“What is its relevance?” Instead of looking irritated, Judge Scott seemed curious.
“The line of questioning that led to Ms. Dawes being subject to demonstrate her relationship to Mr. Piccarelli to this court was predicated on testimony that mentioned Ms. Porter as Mr. LaRue’s informant.”
Cella kept her lips tight, forbidding them from settling into a smile as Piper’s smart heels clicked against the floor as she returned to her seat. Piper had just delivered a copy of what the judge was reviewing to Ms. Nathaniel’s hands. A flush washed over the attorney’s face and Cella saw her hiss something stern to Kevin, who was craning his neck to see and seemed to already be asking questions.
