Grill Me, Baby (34 page)

“Did I just hear you mention me and a rocket, Magda dear?” Mom inquired, strolling into the dressing room. Her keen blue eyes glinted with purpose as she took the situation in. 

“Why aren’t you in the audience, Sylvia?” Aunt Magda asked, straightening before the mirror. She patted her shiny auburn bob in place as she gave her eldest sister a questioning look.

“I’m finished spying,” she announced imperiously. “I know how you are going to be the victor, Michaela.” Sylvia Willoughby’s razor-sharp gaze zeroed in on Michaela with the same vigor she had used to push her daughter to win the national Constitution gold medal her senior year in high school.

Michaela felt the aggressive energy emanating from her mother. “How?” she asked.

Suddenly transformed into a dynamic courtroom litigator, Sylvia took center stage as everyone’s attention riveted to her. “You nail that sucker with precision. Be cool under fire. Impress them with your skill and knowledge all the while luring them with your self-confidence.” Her blue eyes burned with fiery zeal. “The men in your audience will want to be charmed just like Paolo is doing for the ladies. However, there is one caveat…you must do it better than Paolo. He is losing points by not being precise about the measurements and cooking instructions. Oh sure, the women are having a ball out there, but at the end of the day, it will be the producers who decide. And if they deem Paolo cannot give adequate and accurate instruction in a cooking show, he might not win.” She paused for effect, her gaze sweeping the room as if she were facing the jurors. “You will be the winner!” she cried, pointing at Michaela as she finished her discourse with a triumphant jut of her chin.

“Mom,” Michaela said wearily. “I hope you’re saying this for my benefit. I don’t want Paolo to do badly. I just don’t want to look like a fool out there. I want to do great too.” She also wanted Paolo to be proud of her. It warmed her heart that he genuinely wanted her to do her best, in spite of everything they were competing for.

“Don’t let your feelings for Paolo get in the way of your ultimate goal, Michaela! You
will
win or my name isn’t Sylvia Willoughby,” Mom said, not listening to a word Michaela had said. 

“Wow,” Aunt Willow breathed, her eyes widening. “You certainly were born for the courtroom, Sylvia.” Willow loved to tell the family that she had always been in awe of the depth of Sylvia’s ambition. Not that she ever wanted to be like her, she had added, she just enjoyed seeing her big sis in action. “I love the way you champion Michaela. She certainly deserves it!”

“Well?” Mom asked Michaela without even glancing at Willow. “Are you up for the challenge?” She placed both hands on the makeup counter and leaned forward to peer into her daughter’s guarded eyes. “Are you going to make us proud?”

Moaning, Michaela edged away from her mother’s fierce interrogation. “I feel queasy and a little faint. What should I do?” she blurted out, hating the way her mother’s fervor dwindled to disappointment in mere seconds. 

“Put your head down and let the blood flow to your brain. I’ll get a ginger ale from Kraft services,” Aunt Magda said. “And maybe some saltines. Be right back.” She took one last glance in the mirror to smooth her fitted tan skirt over her trim hips before leaving.

“Hmph. More than likely Magda’s gone off to snare the silver fox,” Aunt Willow drawled with a knowing look.

“Maybe she’ll get lucky.” Tiffany exchanged an amused look with her aunt.

“I don’t know what you two are babbling about,” Mom said testily, “and, frankly, I don’t care. All I care about is pulling Michaela out of the doldrums and putting some steel into her spine!”

Seconds later, Dad walked into the room. “How is our star doing?”

“Our star is in the throes of stage fright,” Mom reported, looking to the ceiling in disbelief and then back to her husband. She gave him a pointed look. “Michaela is having major self-doubts.”

“Our over-achieving daughter?” he asked Mom incredulously. 

When Mom nodded grimly, Dad turned to Michaela. “Seriously? You’re not raring to get out there and trounce your opponent?” He regarded her as if she were his alien daughter. “This is your road to stardom, hon.”

Michaela gave a feeble shrug. 

“Mic is freaking out. She’s worried that she’s lost her mojo,” Tiffany said. “She needs a strong shot of something to boost her. Forget about ginger ale. Magda’s probably going to take a while anyway. Can we get her a shot of vodka?” 

The thought of having any liquor made Michaela’s stomach roil. “No, I’d rather sip some ginger ale.”
And curl up in a ball,
she added silently.

“Rubbish, Tiffany. Her mojo is intact,” Dad said in a no-nonsense voice. “Better buck up, Michaela. There’s a long line of guys outside the studio door waiting to meet you.”

“Has Hugo arrived yet?” Michaela asked, hoping with all her heart that Dad would say “yes” and she could at least relax about that part of her show. 

“I don’t think so. If he is here, he hasn’t announced it to the culinary producer yet,” Dad said. “I’ve asked several times.”

“Oh, God, I think I’m going to be sick,” Michaela said, reaching for the trash bin.

Paolo smiled and bowed before the thunderous applause. He waited until the cameras stopped filming before he descended into the audience and greeted the women, allowing them to kiss him on the cheek and give him congratulatory hugs. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Michaela, white and still as a glass of milk, standing to the left of the stage watching him. He motioned for her to come over, but she shook her head and gave him a wan smile, her eyes huge in her pale, anxious face. 

Paolo quickly wrapped things up and ran up the stairs toward her so he could explain about Hugo before he appeared on her show, but when he got there, she was gone. He tried to enter the dressing room, but Mr. Willoughby barred his entrance, saying Michaela needed time alone to center herself before the show. 

Feeling frustrated, Paolo went to his dressing room and changed into jeans and a polo shirt. He dreaded appearing on
The
Pleasure Palate
as Hugo. Michaela had not looked well just now. In fact, she had looked awful, her usually radiant face drawn, her sweet body slumped. Nevertheless, the moment they had locked eyes, her love had reached out to him from across the room, warming his heart. 

Paolo’s spirits plummeted when he thought of what was to come. Very soon, Michaela’s love would disintegrate when she saw him arrive as Hugo St. Paul. She would probably think he had written the email to sabotage her show. There was only one way to salvage things, Paolo decided, his heart surging with excitement at the prospect. 

He descended the stairs, two steps at a time, until he reached his mother. When he finished telling her his plans, Rosa was overjoyed. 

Now he just needed to convince Michaela… 

Chapter Twenty-Six

“Feeling better now?” Aunt Willow asked, patting Michaela’s hand gently as she lay on the couch with a cool rag on her forehead. 

“Yes, amazingly I do. Sorry about the gross-out earlier.” Michaela smiled sheepishly at her gathered family. “I guess I had to purge what was making me sick inside.” 

She didn’t mention that she actually felt bolstered by seeing Paolo just a few minutes ago from across the room. She had been headed to the ladies’ room to brush her teeth after being sick to her stomach and had paused to watch him interact with his audience. The love in his eyes had told her they were going to make it, regardless of who won the
Miami
Spice
competition. When she saw him motion to her and head her way, she had left quickly because she didn’t want to be distracted anymore. 

Funny, she remembered how she’d initially disliked him the first time she’d set eyes on Paolo in Mr. Blumenthal’s office because he was competing for what she wanted most in life. Of course, she still wanted to win, but Paolo had won her heart and she wanted
him
more than anything else. Whatever today’s outcome, regardless of the victor, their relationship would survive and thrive for having crossed the hurdle together as a unified couple. Michaela was sure of it. That certainty gave her such a rush of strength that she suddenly sat up and pulled the rag off her forehead.

“I am ready to get out there and give it my best,” she announced to everyone’s relief.

“Good girl! Hugo is finally here. Thank God the stage manager told you, Aunt Magda,” Tiffany said. “Did she mention what he looks like? Is Hugo hot?”

“No, I wish she had given more details,” Aunt Magda said. “All she said was that Hugo St. Paul had just called and was entering the building now.”

“I’m no longer nervous,” Michaela announced, stiffening her backbone. “I don’t know what got into me earlier, but it’s out now!” 

“That’s my girl,” Mom said. “Dad and I have never said this to you, but we are proud of the fine chef you are and the strong young woman you’ve become. Whether you win the show or not, you are a winner in our eyes.”

“Thanks, Mom. That means a lot to me,” Michaela said, touched deeply. She smiled at her assembled family. “I’m going to try to make all of you proud. Thanks for being there for me. I couldn’t have done it without you. Really,” she added, tearing up.

“Don’t cry or you’ll ruin your pretty makeup.” Aunt Magda brushed the tears from her eyes.

“Yeah. I didn’t slave over you so you could smudge it by getting sappy on us. You’re not the only one who has a vested interest here. I’m hoping to get future business out of this. Thousands of fans are going to be texting and e-mailing me after the show,” Tiffany teased. “They’ll ask are you the genius who did Chef Michaela’s website and makeup?”

Michaela smiled. “You’re the best, Tiff. Thanks.”

“Now you’re going to make
me
cry,” Tiffany said, giving Michaela a tight hug. “C’mon guys, we need a group hug.”

Led by Tiffany, Aunt Magda, Aunt Willow, Mom and Dad held hands, forming a circle around Michaela and hugging her tight. “Break a leg!” everyone took turns calling out before they left the dressing room. 

Michaela took a deep breath, said a prayer and went in search of Dan and Elliot.

Paolo watched Michaela’s entrance from the sidelines. He had just had a harrowing moment trying to explain to Mr. Blumenthal, Ted Marton and the studio director why he had to appear on Michaela’s show as the mystery guest. With no time to lose, the producers had retreated to what they referred to as the video village just off the set, where they would sit and watch the monitors during the taping. Paolo would have to clear things up with them after the show. Once everything was straightened out, they’d see why he had to go on as Hugo St. Paul.

Paolo was in agreement with the audience when they rose to their feet and greeted Michaela’s arrival with hearty applause and a few wolf whistles. She looked beautiful in a flame-colored mini dress that set off her luminous skin and highlighted her slender curves. Her hair shined like copper in the studio lights and her wide aquamarine eyes glowed beneath long, dark eyelashes. Two pink flags on her cheeks suffused her creamy complexion, the only indication that she was excited and nervous. 

Filled with pride, Paolo watched and listened as Michaela conducted the first few minutes of her show and talked about her love of food and her quest to keep things delicious for the palate, yet light in calories and fat. So far so good, he thought, impressed by her poise as she competently read the teleprompter, keeping the mood light-hearted and informative. 

Michaela faced the camera with a big smile. “I want to thank all of you in the audience today for being here and for writing in to participate in my show. As you know, one contestant was chosen for his unique email. He will now read it as he enters. Everyone, please welcome my mystery guest, Hugo St. Paul.” 

A drum roll sounded and loud applause followed. 

Paolo took a deep breath as he tightened his tenuous hold on the email he had printed out earlier. Feeling like a Catholic schoolboy about to say penance, he read in a clear voice, “I am a closet glutton, but for health reasons, I must reform. I have great love and respect for butter and cheese, lots of it, and I doubt I will ever be convinced otherwise. Chef Willoughby, I love your approach to healthy eating and I want to believe!”

When he looked up, Paolo saw the myriad of severe emotions cross Michaela’s face—confusion, betrayal, disbelief and then gut-wrenching hurt. If her heart was breaking, his was already severed in half, Paolo thought, wanting to take her in his arms and make things right. 

Paolo hesitantly smiled as he approached her, his eyes trying to convey that he understood the awkwardness of the situation, but Michaela was having none of it. She refused to meet his gaze, keeping her blazing eyes focused on his forehead as if she’d like to send a dagger through it. 

Michaela froze and her heart nearly stopped when she heard Paolo’s voice reading the e-mail. When he appeared onstage, she thought she was hallucinating. What was he doing there? She blinked several times and tried to say something, but her throat felt paralyzed when she realized that the love of her life had played a dirty, rotten trick on her. She wanted to scream,
why, Paolo, why?
Staring at him now, so damn confident and good-looking yet trying to fool her with a rueful look on his face, she felt pathetic for having believed in him. She was living her worst nightmare before the eyes of her family, her audience and the producers—it was devastating! She had trusted him with her love. 

Summoning her last shred of dignity, she turned to face the camera with a smile that made her face ache and her heartache even worse. She could hear Ted’s voice in her ear prompting her to
say something
. Michaela’s face flamed feverishly and her eyes burned with the effort to hold back tears. She helplessly glanced at her family in the front row of the audience. Dad mouthed
focus
and sent her a fortifying wink. Mom gave her a firm thumbs-up signal. Aunt Willow held up her Tibetan mani stone and rubbed it. Aunt Magda and Tiffany were huddled together in shocked disbelief.