The Key Ingredient (4 page)

Listening to my parents making each other miserable, I vowed that once I married, it would be forever. I would never get a divorce. It's just too hard on the family.

My parents' “forever” lasted until Kyle was eighteen and I was ten. Dad went all the way to Costa Rica and built a surf camp on a crescent-­shaped curve of white sand, fringed by palm and coconut trees,
zopilote
birds circling overhead. The camp consisted of palm-­thatched huts and an outdoor kitchen.

You would think it would be awesome to have a beach in Costa Rica to visit when you went to see your dad. The reality wasn't awesome.

It was hot and there were mosquitos. Sure, I went crazy over the fresh fruit and produce—­papaya and plantains, mamones and marañón, starfruit, zapote and coconut, most of it simply plucked from the gardens. But when it rained a lot, horrid-­looking alligators would congregate at the mouth of the river where it flows into the ocean, and surfing would be called off for that day.

Worst of all, Dad had a girlfriend. Imelda. It seemed totally weird to me, hearing him speak Spanish to a woman who was a complete stranger. She had waist-­length hair and big boobs and absolutely no interest in discovering who I was. At night when they would go off together to the room they shared, and I would be left with the loneliest, most left-­out feeling in the world.

Even now, years later, when I see my father, I struggle to keep my resentment at bay. He and Mom drifted apart. It happens, especially when you marry young the way they did.

The one thing I loved unequivocally about my time in Costa Rica was the day I visited a cacao-­bean grove. I'm determined to film a
Key Ingredient
episode there one day. During a day tour, I chatted up one of the cacao growers, with Dad serving as our interpreter. The grower had never left his village, because everything he needed was right there—­food, family, security. He'd never been to school; his education consisted of working alongside his elders, gathering, fermenting and drying the cacao beans in an endless cycle of nature and labor.

I still remember the sense of shock I felt when I discovered that not only had he never tasted chocolate, he wasn't even sure what was being made from his beans. When I gave him a bar of single-­origin dark chocolate, made with nothing but cacao, sugar and cocoa butter, he peeled back the wrapper and held it in his hand for a long time. Then he broke off a piece and tasted the chocolate, and his face lit with wonder. He had no idea that the beans he grew and fermented under heaps of banana leaves could be transformed into something so rich, complex and delicious. The smile on his face was unforgettable, completely genuine and filled with joy.

It was one of those rewarding moments I hope to find for the show, when something unexpected and utterly charming presents itself. I can picture exactly how I would film and edit the scene, scoring it to highlight the farmer's surprise and delight when he tastes the fruits of his labor.

Now, as we're muddling through today's filming, I'm not sure about anything. A feeling of devastation curls around my heart.

Martin is taking a break at the catering table now, chatting with the local caterer contracted to keep the crew fed during the shoot. The two women aren't much younger than I am, yet they seem like children as they babble and practically faint in the presence of Martin Harlow.

Although I'm standing nearby, they don't even see me. During filming, if you're not the star or director, you're invisible. So I just hang around and observe. By now, I'm used to Martin's good looks and charm, but I do remember seeing him for the first time and being struck by his Texas-­born-­and-­bred handsomeness and the utterly magnetic pull of his charm when he makes eye contact with you and smiles.

“I'm always starving after a long trip,” he confesses to the catering girls. “This spread looks amazing.”

There's an urn of fresh coffee from a local roaster and a tray of caramelized delicata squash with burrata cheese lightly drizzled in balsamic, an abundant bread basket, smoked trout and a salad of organic greens.

I've always believed hunger can mean different things. Sometimes you're just hungry, like after cardio training. That's when you crave carbs—­fettucini covered in parm,
pommes Anna
made with paper-­thin potato slices, butter and herbs, or salted rosemary sourdough with a wedge of cheese.

Then there's the hunger that can't be filled by food. The cravings of the heart and spirit are not so easily satisfied.

One of the caterers talks about her studies at the U in Burlington. “I'm a nursing major,” she says. “I want to specialize in critical care.”

“Wow. Makes my job sound pretty lightweight in comparison.” Self-­effacing charm. That's
his
specialty.

“You've got millions of fans on YouTube who'd disagree with that,” she says. “That's why I signed up for working this event. I wanted to meet you in person.”

“Hey, really? You don't say. That's cool.” The aw-­shucks delivery is totally natural. Back when we first met, I couldn't get enough of it. I still can't, come to think of it.

“I've been checking out the show's website. I love the whole concept behind it, the way you'll be highlighting the key ingredient of each episode and building the story around it.” She's almost but not quite gushing. Is gushing even allowed on set?

“That's our special sauce,” he says, appropriating a phrase I'd used in pitching the show to the production company. “We're hoping it will become the thing that sets us apart from all the other stuff that's out there. Glad you like it.”

“It's great. It's going to be so different from run-­of-­the-­mill cooking shows.”

“I'm all about keeping it fresh,” he declares. His assistant comes over and steals him to get him miked up again for filming.

The caterers keep talking.

“ . . . almost instantly became a YouTube sensation,” one of them says. “That's what I heard. With looks like that, you don't have to wonder why he got so many views.”

The caterers have no idea I'm the show's creator, so they speak freely in front of me. They don't even seem to notice me. I'm a ghost.

“ . . . those videos online. They're addictive, aren't they?” says one of them.

“What I heard was that some talent scout spotted the guy working at a food cart in Central Park and made a film and put it up on YouTube,” the other says in a gossipy voice. “I read all about it in
­People
.”

Wrong, wrong and wrong. It wasn't a talent scout who spotted him. It was me. And it wasn't Central Park; it was Washington Square.

I shouldn't get my knickers in a twist over the inaccuracies. The show is going to be a hit. Nobody will care how it came into being. But God bless
­People
for picking up on the buzz and spreading the word through nail salons and waiting rooms around the country.

“I love all the places they're going to take the show,” she says.

I love my job. There is absolutely nothing to complain about. Assuming it's as big a hit as Martin's YouTube videos, we'll soon be able to toss the budget to the wind and go fishing for blue grenadier in Tasmania or head to that cacao grove in Costa Rica.

By the end of today's shoot, I no longer love my job. Nothing went right. Mud, rain, noisy equipment, take after take of shots that just weren't working. I hold back tears as I say goodbye to my mom and brother.

While I'm melting down, Martin steps up. “Listen,” he says, touching me beneath the chin and looking into my eyes. “You don't have to do everything. We have a postproduction team now—­a good one.”

And then something happens between Martin and me. It's been happening for a while, but as my pulse accelerates, the simmering attraction turns into genuine caring and regard. He leans down and kisses me, and it feels exactly right. I feel as if he's rescuing me from drowning. Somehow, he makes my heart start beating again.

Back at the Century City studio, the postproduction team works to create the magic that was lacking during the shoot. I can't eat or sleep or even breathe during this process, because it's impossible to imagine turning the Switchback disaster into something viewers will want to watch. Martin and Melissa pitch in with voiceovers and dubbing. Even though I know a good post-­production job can correct a multitude of sins, I'm nervous about the final cut.

The lead editor doesn't rest until she finds the perfect soundtrack, one that complements our opening theme. It's a simple, clean melody that stays in your head—­in a good way—­and holds your attention. The ending sequence runs like a music video to “Autumn Sweater” by Yo La Tengo, choreographed by editing magic. It's a risky move, but the show is meant to appeal to a younger demographic than traditional cooking shows, and so we go for it.

While the final cut airs, I sit in the editing suite at the studio in a rolling chair, not daring to move. Since we didn't release the episode early for critics, the whole world gets a first look at the same time. My heart is full to bursting. I don't dare to breathe. Staring at the screen, I can't tell if it's a disaster or a hit. Panic pulses through me.

Then Tiger comes in with her smartphone and laptop. “Check it out,” she says, showing me a long list of social-­media feedback. “Viewers are totally loving it.”

As the closing sequence finishes and the credits roll, Martin comes in with a bouquet of flowers. He scoops me up out of my chair and kisses me, and we go to his place. We're so high with exhilaration that our lovemaking is filled with as much laughter as passion.

The next morning, we wake up early to check the news.

“They loved us,” Martin says, staring at the screen with his eyes aglow with Christmas-­morning wonder. “Baby, they
loved
us.”

The
LA Times
features a photo of Martin leaning against the rough lumber wall of the sugarhouse, sampling a fried doughboy dipped in freshly rendered syrup, warm from the evaporator pan. “Harlow's infectious love of food will make you hungry,” the caption reads.
Variety
shows a publicity shot of Melissa, noting her charming relish in preparing a dish and the seductive way she invites viewers to sample it.

The ratings are respectable. Better than respectable, according to the executive producer. Online views of the trailer pile up, hour by hour. Views of the full episode on the network's website surpass anything they've ever aired before. ­People are watching. More importantly, they're
sharing
. Clips and links are making their way into ­people's homes, into their friends' homes, and into the cubicles of ­people at work all over the globe. According to the ratings ser­vice we're subscribed to, the link is traveling faster than the speed of light through the digital ether, reaching around the world.

Even though I'm supposed to be a stoic New Englander, the tears stream down my face. “You did it,” I tell him. “You saved my dream. I was so worried it would flop.”

“
We
did it,” he says. “We're a great team.”

The network orders another thirteen episodes to follow the original eight. We'll get a bigger budget and more creative input, too.

Martin is with me when we get the news. I slump against him, boneless with relief and gratitude. “You're right,” I say. “We
are
a good team. I'm so full of ideas, I might explode.”

“Don't explode,” he says. “I've got some ideas of my own. Let's celebrate.”

He organizes everything, refusing to let me lift a finger. All I have to do is show up at the executive producer's Malibu beach house wearing something nice.

My “something nice” wardrobe is limited. I've been working so hard on the show that I haven't had time for anything else. Sorting through my closet, I come across my favorite date-­night dress, which I haven't worn since . . . since Fletcher. It's a fitted sheath in the yummiest shade of royal blue you ever saw. The last time I wore it, I was dancing in Fletcher Wyndham's arms, having no idea we were about to fall apart.

Determined to make new memories, I put on the dress and add my favorite necklace, a fiery opal pendant that used to belong to my grandmother.

The gorgeous cliff-­top beach house is deserted. I check my phone, worried now that I got the day or the time wrong. But no, there's Martin's car in the driveway. He drives a BMW roadster convertible. “Sometimes I have to spoil myself,” he told me when he bought it a few months ago.

I knock at the front door, and Martin himself answers. For tonight, he's dropped the super-­cool, scruffy-­chef look in favor of slacks and a fitted white dress shirt, open at the throat, the cuffs rolled back. He's had a fresh shave and a haircut. He looks amazing.

“Where is everybody?” I ask, glancing around the house. Incredible aromas waft from the kitchen, but there's no one in sight. “Am I horribly early?”

“You're just in time.” He bends down and gently kisses me.

“I don't get it.”

“This way.” Taking my hand, he leads me out to the deck overlooking the beach. The lights are like a diamond necklace along the shore. Blooming belladonna trumpets waft their intoxicating scent into the air. Music drifts from unseen speakers.

At the edge of the deck is a beautifully set table with a white linen cloth and candles in crystal chimneys. To one side is a silver ice bucket with a bottle of bubbly. Something's wrong. The table is set for two.

“Martin.” I balk, feeling suspicious. “What's going on?”

“We're celebrating.”

“I can see that. So where's everyone else?”

“It's just the two of us. Leon said we could use his place.” He takes the bottle from the ice bucket—­Dom Pérignon. I've never tasted it before. Then he picks up a saber and, with classic panache, slices the top off the bottle. The cork disappears over the cliff, and the froth at the top of the bottle sprinkles the deck. Martin turns to me with a grin. “One of my favorite party tricks.”