The Love Goddess' Cooking School (17 page)

Liam stood under the archway in a leather jacket and jeans, his hands in his pockets. How was it possible that he looked hotter every time she saw him? Because she liked him more every time she saw him, she knew. He smiled that smile, slightly crooked, sincere, kind. “Risotto tester here for duty.”

The fact that his smile, his face, his long, lean, muscular body managed to blink out the C-minus she’d given herself on the risotto said a lot.

Like that she was sunk.

“Come on in,” Holly said, handing Liam a fork.

Keep your jacket on. Don’t be planning to stay. Taste and go.

Of course, he took his jacket off and draped it over a chair by the window. Then he came around the center island and stood right next to her, leaned down, and breathed in the risotto. “Smells delicious.”

It did smell good. And when she tasted it, it wasn’t bad-bad, which was why she didn’t give it a D, “I think it’s missing something. Or not missing enough. I just can’t seem to ever get it right.”

He dipped in his fork and she watched it slide into his mouth. “It’s good.”

“Italy good?”

He took another bite. “Restaurant good. Which is saying something, Holly.” As if to prove it, in went the fork for another mouthful.

She appreciated his honesty. He was hired as a tester. “Beer to go with it?”

At his “sure,” she went to the refrigerator for the bottles of Shipyard beer she’d thought to buy just an hour ago for this very occasion. She popped the top and handed it to him. “Can you tell what it’s missing?”

He took a swig of the beer, then set it on the counter. “Let’s see the recipe.”

She headed for the recipe binder on the counter on the other side of the stove, aware that he was watching her, watching her walk, watching her click open the binder rings, watching her walk back, watching her as she handed him the sheet.

“Well, I don’t know anything about beef marrow broth or
saffron threads, but I know about gilded coloring and your saffron definitely has that. One of my farmer clients wanted a gilded quality to the barns, inside and out, so that they’d shimmer and make the livestock happy.”

“I didn’t know livestock cared about shimmer,” she said, hoping he’d keep talking about barns and move on to chicken coops and what made hens happy. She could barely take her eyes off his face. “Do architects have much to do with colors? I thought you guys only designed or took measurements, that sort of thing.”

“When you’re a one-man operation, you do it all. Last year I was hired to create a small farm for an eccentric woman who wanted all the structures to resemble tepees. Orange tepees. It was so ridiculous and near impossible that I earned a fortune on that project.” He drank from his beer, glancing at the recipe again. “One sad memory, huh. Mia told me all about the special ingredients. I’ve never heard of anything like that. You know, maybe your memory for the risotto was too sad.”

“Maybe, but I can’t mess with the ingredients, even the ones you can’t buy at the supermarket. My grandmother was an original. And if I’m going to keep her business going, I have to follow her recipes to the T. Wishes and memories and all. Has Mia shared her memories and wishes with you?” she asked before she could stop herself. It wasn’t a fair question.

“She mentioned that one of her wishes into a bowl of ground beef involved my girlfriend accidentally falling off a cliff. Which I took to mean she wants Jodie out of my life, not so much dead.” He took in a breath and let it out. “Who knew food could be so revealing?”

Holly smiled, deciding to keep her mouth shut.

“What was your memory for the risotto? Unless that’s too personal,” he added quickly.

She glanced at him, then turned her gaze to Antonio, then at her feet, then back at him, then at various bowls and jars and canisters lining the kitchen. “I thought about the man who broke my heart before I came here six weeks ago.”

“Ah. Freshly broken heart, then. I’m sorry. I know what that’s like.” He took another forkful of the risotto. “It
is
good, you know.”

To have something to do other than to fling herself into his arms, she tried the risotto herself again, and yeah, it was
okay.
But not Blue Crab Cove worthy. And it had to be. It had to be Italy worthy.

Liam looked at her. “Maybe the risotto’s trying to tell you something, Holly. Like that you should stop thinking about this heartbreaker so much.”

“A sad memory is a sad memory, isn’t it?” Though she had to admit that the pangs she felt lately were more for Lizzie than John. He’d hurt her so badly, disappointed her so deeply, that lately she just felt anger when she thought of him. His face would float into her mind and she’d think,
Asshole. Jerk. Cheater
. Instead of
I miss you.
But the thought of adorable Lizzie and the way her corkscrew curls would spring sideways after a nap, the way she’d shriek with joy when Holly pushed her high on the swings, how her soft little body felt in Holly’s arms for a hug, these were the memories that poked at her
heart, leaving tiny holes.

“Yeah, but some sad memories are bittersweet,” Liam said. “Like when Mia started closing her bedroom door all the time. I know she needs privacy, of course. But it was upsetting to realize that our relationship had to change from little kid and dad to almost teenager and dad. Upsetting but prideful at the same time. My baby’s growing up.”

Huh. He had a point. “That’s pretty wise,” she said. “I could go bittersweet. I do have several of those.”

“So how badly did this guy break your heart?” he asked, picking up the bottle of beer.

“Bad enough to scare me from falling in love for the rest of my life.”

He took a swig, staring at her pointedly. “I don’t believe that.”

She smiled. “Me either.” He raised his bottle at her in solidarity, and she asked before she could stop herself, “So … how serious are things between you and Jodie?”

He glanced at the floor. Too personal maybe. But given how personal things got during the Mia hunt the other day, it seemed reasonable. “I don’t know,” he said, leaning back against the counter. “Sometimes I think she’s just what I need and then sometimes, like last night, I think she’s from another planet. I thought she’d be so helpful with Mia, be able to give me the girl perspective, you know? But she’s such a different species of girl than Mia is.”

Holly nodded, secretly thrilled that he noticed.

He reached for the bottle of beer and took a drink.
“Relationships are tough stuff, huh?”

“Like this glop,” she said, gesturing at the risotto, and he laughed.

And then there was a moment, the tiniest of moments, but there nonetheless, when their eyes met for just a second longer. A kissable moment.

“I attempted the chicken Milanese, by the way,” he said, the moment popping like a bubble. “I think I undercooked the chicken, though. ‘Browned on both sides’ doesn’t necessarily mean cooked
inside.
So, because the chicken was still kinda pinkish inside, I decided to nuke it for a couple of minutes, but then it tasted like rubber.” He stood up a bit straighter. “I’d like to take you up on that rain check, learn to cook a decent, easy meal instead of relying on takeout and pizza.”

Or Jodie to teach him, she thought. Too happily. She could feel herself beaming. “Any time.”

“Maybe … Thursday night?”

Thursday night. Three nights from then. And the night of her tryout at the Blue Crab Cove. That was good. If she failed miserably, she could use the comfort of a handsome man on whom she had a monster-sized crush. And if she did get the job, she would be clinking champagne with a man on whom she had a monster-sized crush. It was win-win. Except for the pink girlfriend.

• • •

During the next three days, there was nothing but food and bowls and pans and the kitchen, except for the occasional
text message from Mia, who’d seen the dress of her Fall Ball dreams in a magazine and hoped she could find it at Forever 21 or Macy’s in the Maine Mall. Mia reported in that she’d had a great time shopping for Simon’s daughter’s room and was sure the girl would never want to leave her new room, which she and Tamara and Simon had spent only a half hour setting up to utter space-wizard perfection.

Holly appreciated the connection to the outside world, since she’d barely left the cottage, other than to hit up the supermarket or farmer’s markets, worried that she was spending too much on expensive ingredients to ensure the best quality for the tasting. She had sold what came out well (and had heard rave reviews from the reference librarian that the spinach and three-cheese ravioli was exquisite) and dumped what was eh (another attempt at the risotto and yesterday’s crabmeat gnocchi, though today’s was delicious). She went to sleep each night with the recipes and menus scattered over her. And she’d wake at six in the morning, full recipes in her head, itching to get downstairs and make her little flour well, pouring in the egg to create her pasta dough.

She’d taken Liam’s suggestions to heart. Into the white bean pâté she wished for luck, but into the spinach and three-cheese ravioli, she went for bittersweet rather than outright sad, recalling an unexpected weekend with her mother that had brought them closer (if only for a weekend) the summer she’d graduated from high school. Her mother had driven her up to Maine and pulled her own suitcase out of the trunk, which was unusual for Luciana, who usually couldn’t wait to leave Blue Crab Island
and Camilla’s presence. But that weekend she’d stayed, seeming to need something from Camilla, which Camilla seemed to understand immediately. And in Camilla Constantina’s wonderful way, she gave her daughter what she needed without a word about it. A fortune disguised as her opinion. A lamb chop and side of garlic mashed potatoes, her mother’s favorite meal, without a pinch of Italian influence. And cup after cup of strange herbal teas that had soothing properties.

Holly hadn’t gotten much out of her mother that weekend, but apparently there was trouble with Holly’s father, who’d hurt her feelings in some caveman way. And when her mother’s wish into the ordinary margarita pizza they were making was that she hadn’t lost the two pregnancies after Holly, that maybe she would have been a happier person, like Bud Maguire had apparently bellowed the night before Luciana and Holly had left, Holly felt as though she understood her mother a little better. The wishing didn’t seem to help her mother, who finally admitted she’d been devastated to lose the babies, but it had been Bud who’d pushed for a second baby and Bud who now accused her of not being happy because she didn’t have the boy he always wanted.

After that, her mother had opened up some, and the three of them had talked and talked and talked, over food and wine and desserts that melted in their mouths. But the next time Holly saw her mother, when she’d come to pick her up after her month in Maine, Luciana Maguire was the same, as if the magic weekend hadn’t happened at all. And all the prodding and remembering on the drive down to Newton didn’t light a flicker.

Call her now,
Holly told herself. You can’t get closer to someone, feel closer to someone, without reaching out. Holly wiped her hands on her apron and called her mother.

“House burn down?” Luciana Maguire asked.

Why did her mother have to do that? Manage to dig at Holly’s skills
and
be so cavalier about her own mother’s house, the house she’d grown up in. All before even saying hello. Holly suddenly wished she hadn’t called.

“I just wanted to say hello,” Holly said, frowning.

“Oh. Well, I’m glad you called. I’ve been wondering how you’re doing up there. Lonely?”

“Actually, no. I’ve made some friends—my students. And there’s this guy,” Holly dared to add.

“Ah, so that’s why you’re staying. I knew it couldn’t be the cooking class and that snotty community.” Her mother sounded so relieved.

Holly sighed. She and her mother would never understand each other, never be able to talk to each other, hear each other. Holly had no idea how to fix this, how to just say,
No, Mom, it’s not the guy. It is the cooking class and the island, which isn’t really all that snotty, except for the Avery Windemeres.
Her mother wouldn’t understand because she’d been there, done that, and had been miserable for reasons Holly couldn’t understand.

A constant stalemate.

“Mom, my ravioli is burning. I’d better hang up. Tell Dad I said hi.”

Bittersweet, ha. Her relationship with her mother was just plain sad.

She cooked on, tasting, dumping, testing, perfecting. Aware that her mother was wrong. Being here, in this kitchen that made her feel so happy, so challenged, so safe, had nothing to do with a man and everything to do with herself.

That night before the tasting, though, Holly did wish into the saffron risotto that somehow, someway, she would have at least one amazing night with Liam, that she’d experience those lips on her, those hands on her, those eyes on hers. And when she dipped her fork in to try it, the risotto as perfect as can be, she was sure there was something to those bittersweet wishes and memories.

When Thursday dawned a bright, beautiful day, the sun lighting the yellow and orange trees outside her window like the flames under the various pots and pans that were her life now, Holly felt so positive. She had her menu, she had her recipes, and she had Camilla’s Po River stones in her pocket. She set to work on the pasta dough, sure for the first time that she could do this, would do this. Even when Francesca Bean called to say that her mother insisted she include a veal marsala in the tasting, as it was her husband’s favorite dish and most people liked it even if Francesca did not, but her mother had dismissed her as an eccentric. Francesca also reported that the two mothers insisted not a word be spoken at the tasting until they made all their notes and put their forks down.

Veal marsala? No problem. Notes like she was a contestant on the
The Next Food Network Star
? Fine. She was ready.
She’d even hired an off-duty waitress at the hotel to help her bring everything over, set up, clear, and keep things moving smoothly for two hours.