The Love Goddess' Cooking School (29 page)

The moment Lenora Windemere left, Holly went to a copy center in Portland and made two copies of the binder. The original would always remain in the kitchen, where it belonged, but she’d have the copies up in the attic just in case Madeline Windemere grew up with notions of stealing the recipes one day. It was almost comical to think about, but Holly wouldn’t put anything past those Windemeres. On the way back, as she drove past Avery W’s bistro, she thought about stopping in with the binder and confronting Avery somehow. She knew Avery was the thief—and there was only one reason why Avery would feel threatened by that binder. Because Holly’s previously dissed skills were serious competition, after all. But the fact that Lenora Windemere knew Avery had stolen the recipe binder—whether to use it for her own Italian segment or to simply leave Holly recipe-less, or
both
—was all the satisfying justice Holly needed.

Back at the bungalow, Holly was layering the lasagna (she’d used store-bought sheets of pasta) when the bell jangled. There was no way she was leaving her béchamel to turn into sludge another time, so she called out, “Come on in.”

Two animated young women, one with striking white-blond hair and the other with a mass of auburn curls practically to her waist, stopped under the archway. “Hi, we heard you offer a basic Italian cooking class?” said the blonde.

Holly finished whisking the white sauce and layered it on, then added another layer of meat sauce. “That’s right, I do. My name is Holly Maguire, and I inherited Camilla’s Cucinotta from my grandmother, who taught the class for decades. The fall course is in session right now, but the winter course will start in January.”

The redhead said, “We heard she used to be called The Love Goddess and told fortunes. Do you tell fortunes too?”

Holly added the final layer of pasta, sprinkled on just a bit of Parmesan, having learned the hard way that too much would turn bitter. “No, I didn’t inherit my grandmother’s gift of fortune-telling, but I did inherit her gift of cooking.”

Well, well. She’d said that with a straight face. Holly smiled. It was true. She
had
inherited her grandmother’s gift. In her own way, her own style. She belonged in this kitchen.

“Oh, too bad,” the blonde said. “We both just got dumped by our boyfriends. Well, not boyfriends so much as jerks we were dating and thought were our boyfriends. We were hoping we could learn to cook our favorite kind of food
and
find out what was in store for us.”

Holly smiled. “Sorry about that. There’s no fortune-telling in class, but if you read the brochure, you’ll see that each recipe calls for special ingredients, like a fervent wish or a happy memory. It seems that wishing and hoping and dreaming and
remembering can be even more helpful than knowing what’s going to happen.”

The pair looked at each other and smiled. “I love that. So can we sign up for the class? We’re roommates and seniors at USM and we’re totally sick of ordering Chinese food. We’d love to learn to make that, for instance. Lasagna? It smells amazing.”

“It just so happens I’m planning to put this lasagna on the first week’s lesson for the winter/spring course, which will start the first week of January.”

“Awesome. Sign us up.”

As the girls handed over checks for $120 each and wrote their names and telephone numbers in Camilla’s old ledger, Holly realized she’d done it, she’d officially signed up two total strangers for the course. Herself.

“If you don’t mind my asking, where did you hear about my course?”

“We were having lunch in DoodleBop’s Café in Portland, and I had the most delicious pasta salad with sausage and sun dried tomatoes, and when I raved about it, the owner mentioned that a woman on Blue Crab Island makes it and that she also offered an Italian cooking class and that your information was up on the bulletin board. So here we are. Do you have any of the pasta salad today? I’d love to take a container home.”

Holly slid the lasagna into the oven, then accompanied the young women into the entryway and showed them the pasta menu. They each bought a pasta salad.

And she’d earned these students with her own cooking. With
her own recipe.

Thank you, Nonna,
she said silently up to the ceiling.

Liam called that night. And the night after. Each time they had the same conversation, nothing more and nothing less. But his voice was becoming familiar to her again.

On the third night, she stared at the old-fashioned alarm clock on the bedside table, willing it to turn to ten o’clock, when he usually called, and anticipating the chimes of her cell phone. But it was the doorbell that rang.

And there he was, standing on her porch in his leather jacket and jeans, his hands shoved in his pockets, his expression saying
I need to be with you.

She pulled open the door and he stepped inside, then she took his hand and led him upstairs to her bedroom.

As they stood in her room, standing across from each other holding both hands, Holly asked, “When will you turn into a pumpkin?”

“Not till tomorrow at three thirty, when Mia’s bus pulls in. She’s staying at her mother’s hotel tonight. I told Mia that her mother and I would not be getting back together, and she was upset and furious and crying, and then her mother came and picked her up to assure her that she was staying this time, that even though we weren’t getting back together, she was committed to being her mother, to living in Portland. I don’t think Mia believes that. I think she needed the wedding to believe that.”

“I can understand that. Poor Mia. This has to be very
difficult stuff to go through at twelve. I’m just glad her mother is committing to her. Do you think she’ll really stay?”

“She did buy a house. That’s something. And it’s one of those deals in which she’ll lose a chunk of money if she backs out. She’s serious.”

“Well, I’m very happy to hear that, for Mia’s sake.”

He held one of her hands up to his face, then kissed her palm. “I’ve missed you, Holly.”

“I’ve missed you too.”

He pulled her against him, and Holly closed her eyes, happiness flooding her from the tips of her toes to her brain, which wasn’t saying anything but
okay.
Even her warring shoulder angels hadn’t made an appearance.

And in less than a minute, their clothes were once again a tangled heap on the floor.

Holly woke at three a.m., likely because a strong arm was slung across her stomach. She was startled for a moment at how unexpected it was to find Liam beside her, in her bed. She stared at the fringe of dark lashes against the tops of his cheeks, noted the way his dark wavy hair tousled over his forehead. She leaned over and gently kissed his slightly stubbly cheek, taking in the utter gorgeousness of him.

She tried to sleep but it was useless, so after a half hour of tossing and turning and fearing she’d wake Liam, she got up and went downstairs to make a cup of chamomile tea. She brought it into the living room and picked up her grandmother’s diary.

May 1965

Dear Diary,

I have a boyfriend. Oh, how silly it feels to use that word. His name is Fredward Miller. He is not Italian. He is not Armando, not even close, but I like putting on my lipstick and perfume and being taken out to a restaurant on Saturday nights. After dinner, he likes to take me to the beach and stroll along, skipping pebbles in the water. He talks a lot about how the ocean is so vast that it reminds him to dream big. He’s a candy salesman, of all things. He supplies chocolate bars and lollipops and those Necco wafers I just love to accounts all over the New England area. You can imagine how much candy is in the bungalow for Luciana. She hasn’t met him yet; I’m not sure I want to introduce them. Right now, I like my Saturday nights, and he’s away selling his candy most weekdays.

Fredward thinks I’m exotic, but I’m not. I suppose for here, I’ll always be the Eye-talian from Italy with the heavy accent. I’m so at home here on Blue Crab Island that I don’t feel so different from everyone else, until of course, I feel someone’s eyes on me, and I’ll find Lenora Windemere staring at me from across the street or up the aisle in the general store.

I know how things will eventually end with Fredward. I also know that I’ll have many other boyfriends and that none of them will be anything like Armando either. But I am not looking for love, just companionship. I have this feeling, although Luciana is only seven, that she will seek something other than a great love. She will look for companionship, in lifetime form, and that is okay. I know that Luciana will be fine. Fine for her, which is all that matters.

What I know about love is this: when you have it, you know it.

I know it, Nonna,
she thought,
but I’m scared of it.
What if Liam changed his mind again? What if he went back to Veronica? What if, when Mia learned that her father and her beloved cooking teacher were involved, that she never forgave Holly?

What if, what if, what if?

Holly set the notebook down on the sofa and patted the space beside her for Antonio, who’d waddled into the living room. He jumped up and sat down practically on her lap, resting a paw and then his little gray chin on her thigh.

She had no idea her grandmother had had boyfriends. It wasn’t something Camilla had ever discussed. And the few times Holly had asked her if she’d ever thought about dating or getting married again, Camilla had said she’d had her great love and there would never be another like Armando and she’d never settle for a lesser love. Though she’d been widowed so young, Camilla Constantina had never remarried. But she’d had her boyfriends, her companionship, her heart full of her memories of her Armando.

It was scary to think that Holly would have married John Reardon and been living a completely different life in California, had he asked, of course. She would not have met Liam Geller. Actually, she likely would have. She would have come to Blue Crab Island when her grandmother died and she would not have been able to sell the house and let Camilla’s Cucinotta go. She would not have done that, John Reardon or not. Not that she had any idea how all that would have worked. But it was a moot point, anyway.

And what she felt for Liam was different than what she’d felt for John, even in the beginning, when she’d been so madly in love she’d uprooted herself three thousand miles away. She’d been crazy about John. But Liam was inside her heart in a different way that she couldn’t quite explain to herself.

“’Night, Antonio,” she said to the cat, giving him a pat on his head.

And then she headed back upstairs to her bedroom, where Liam lay sleeping, his arm up over his head. She crawled in beside him, took his hand, lay it back across her stomach, and closed her eyes.

Twenty

The next day, instead of floating like last time, Holly felt her feet were firmly on the floor. There was something very eyes-wide-open about last night. And this morning, after they made love again and showered together, steaming up the shower door more than the hot water. She made him Juliet’s scrambled eggs, which he pronounced delicious, and gave him two strong cups of Camilla’s espresso, and then he left to go home and get dressed for three-quarters of a day of work. He wanted to be home when Mia’s bus arrived, unsure what her mother may have told her.

Her one true statement into the eggs:
I hope Mia will be okay.
Holly wasn’t sure if she’d turn up for the class that night or if she’d rage at her father for the evening instead.

At six o’clock, Tamara and Simon arrived—giggling. Holly mock-narrowed her eyes at them and said, “I noticed you arrived together last week too. Is something going on I should know about?”

“Oh, something is going on, all right,” Simon said, taking Tamara’s hand and kissing it.

Well, well, indeed. Holly smiled. “You make a fine couple.”

“We’re taking things very slow,” Tamara said. “Not rushing in like fools.”

“Even if I
was
invited to a family wedding three months from now,” Simon said, grinning.

“They don’t call this The Love Goddess’ Cooking School for nothing,” Tamara added, smiling at Holly.

My cup runneth over,
she thought. Until Juliet walked in, a tall, handsome man beside her with world-weary eyes. Her husband. Now her cup had tipped. “Hi, Juliet.”

Juliet was not wearing gray. Or black. Or dirty-beige, as Tamara called khaki. She wore an almost iridescent lavender-colored sweater over dark jeans, her feet encased in brown suede boots and not her usual gray skimmers. “Hi. Holly, this is Ethan Frears, my husband. Ethan, Holly Maguire. And this is Simon March and Tamara Bean.”

Hellos and handshaking later, Juliet asked if Ethan could audit the class, since they were leaving the next day, going home to Chicago, and Juliet wanted Ethan to meet the people who helped give her back her spirit.

“Oh, Juliet,” Holly said, running up to her and squeezing her slight body into a hug. “I’m so, so glad. And, yes, of course you can stay for the class,” she added to Ethan, who was holding on to his wife’s hand.

Holly glanced at the clock. Almost six fifteen, and no Mia. She collected the recipes for tonight’s class and handed them out.

“Lasagna,” Ethan said. “I’ve always wanted to know how to make that.”

“And it’s my special recipe,” Holly said. “With a little help from Juliet on the final ingredient.”

Holly noticed Ethan’s gaze slide down the recipe. One true statement. He squeezed Juliet’s hand.

And so for the third time that week, Holly set out to make her lasagna. She didn’t have to go over the steps for making the pasta; she heard Juliet teaching her husband how to make a well in the pasta and crack in the egg. Once he had his ball of dough, Simon, who joined the pasta team in his delight at having another guy around, showed Ethan how to knead it, to fold it and twist it until it was elastic.

“So you’re leaving tomorrow?” Simon asked the Frears. “Which is worse, the Chicago winters or the Maine?”