The Love Goddess' Cooking School (31 page)

Holly took both her hands and held on to them. “What I’ve learned, Mia, and what my grandmother always said, is that the whole point is the wishing and remembering—not if what you want happens, not if remembering hurts. Because when you wish for something, you’re asking. And when you ask, you’re trying. And all anyone can really do is try, right?”

She shrugged a bit. “I guess. I just wouldn’t mind getting what I want.”

Holly smiled. “That goes for everyone.”

“Well, the good news is that my dad and I have done a ton of talking the past week—real talking, about my mom and what happened two years ago when she left. And how he’s changed as a person and a father, etcetera, etcetera, and how he wished he could make every one of my dreams come true, but sometimes, he just won’t be able, that life will step in or whatever, and that all he can do is be there, always.”

“That sounds good to me, Mia. Right and good.”

She nodded. “Yeah. I guess I get it. I feel better about everything, anyway. Oh—do you know who has turned out be a really good boyfriend? Daniel. Even though his parents are happily married, he really helped me understand some stuff.”

Maybe that’s why Daniel Dressler had been in Holly’s dream. “Sounds like a keeper.”

Mia brightened and followed Holly into the kitchen, where she put down her backpack and tied on her apron. “He’s
awesome. Oh, hey, I never did get to show you a picture from the Fall Ball. Do you want to see one?”

“I’ve been waiting and waiting,” Holly said, tapping Mia’s nose.

Mia smiled and reached into the front section of her backpack, pulling out a soft photo album. She flipped through several photos of herself solo, of her and her dad, and a few of her parents during their two weeks of … discovery, Holly had come to think of it, and then Mia pulled out one of herself and Daniel in front of the trees outside her house. Mia looked so beautiful in her lavender dress, her hair slightly curled in long tousles, the beaded earrings glinting in the setting sun. Daniel, a very good-looking kid with alternative rocker hair, wore a suit and tie with black Converse sneakers.

Holly grinned. “You look great together.”

“Talking about us?” Tamara asked as she and Simon walked into the kitchen, hand in hand with matching we’re so-in-love goofy smiles.

Mia’s mouth dropped open. “Omigod, are you two a couple now? That’s so cool! When did
that
happen?”

“Well, we were actually both standing in the pasta aisle of the supermarket—I was reaching for penne and Tamara for fettucine and we both realized who we were at the same time, and I said something about always overcooking the penne, and Tamara invited me over to her place for a penne-slash-fettucine cookathon, and yadda, yadda, yadda, we’re a couple.”

“You yadda yadda yadda-ed over the best part,” Tamara said
and they burst into laughter.

“Uh, am I missing something?” Mia asked, glancing at everyone. “Is this about sex?”

“Old
Seinfeld
TV show reference,” Holly said, handing Tamara and Simon aprons.

“Is everyone over thirty this weird?” Mia asked.

Simon dramatically dipped Tamara as though they’d been dancing the tango. “Yes.”

“So I guess it’s just us four,” Tamara said as Simon pulled her up. “Did you know that Juliet went home with her husband, Mia?”

“No, but I’m really happy to hear it. I hope she won’t be so sad anymore.”

“That goes double for all of us,” Holly said. “Well, we’ve got some osso buco and risotto alla Milanese to make. The kitchen awaits.”

“So, are you and my dad in love or what?” Mia asked as she unwrapped the veal shanks that Holly had bought from her favorite butcher in Portland.

“We’re taking things slow,” Holly said. “One day at a time. Getting to know each other.”

Simon shook flour onto a large plate. “That’s smart.”

Tamara checked the recipe, then seasoned the flour with salt and pepper and dredged the veal in the flour, laying each shank on a clean plate. “I love that Simon and I got to know each other as friends first instead of going on a bunch of awkward
dates. Our first kiss was so natural, like an extension of our friendship, but with firecrackers and a marching band.”

“Do you really hear a marching band when you kiss?” Mia asked, raising an eyebrow as she carefully crushed a clove of garlic.

Simon leaned over and dipped Tamara in a kiss, getting flour all over his apron. “The answer is yes.”

“Really?” Mia asked, turning toward Tamara. “You too?”

“Yup,” Tamara confirmed.

“So it’s like that for everyone?” Mia asked. “Even adults who are used to kissing? The first time Daniel kissed me—on the lips—I heard the roaring of the ocean. I almost fainted. And then every time after, it’s like my iPod has turned on and a song just comes on, even if we’re standing in that alcove between locker banks and the only sounds are people yakking and the principal droning announcements over the loudspeaker.”

“Old people fall in love too,” Simon said. “Even, gasp, old people over thirty, like me. And I’m thirty-
four.
”

“So’s my dad,” Mia said. “He hears his iPod too?”

Tamara flipped the veal shanks at the stove. “I’ll bet he does.” She slid a smile at Holly.

“My eighty-two-year-old grandparents hear music when they kiss,” Simon said. “Love strikes at any age. And you know what? When your heart is full of gooey, mushy love, sad memories get pushed really far back in there. So since the ossco buco calls for a sad memory, I’ll put into this sizzling skillet having to leave Tamara last night because my neighbor called and said her crazy cat had crawled from her little terrace
onto mine and into my window and wouldn’t be coaxed out even with leftover salmon that she put on her terrace. So I go home to free the cat, and guess who used my living room as a litter box?”

Mia laughed. “Not all cats can be as cool as Antonio.”

They all glanced at the cat, sitting on his carpeted window perch, licking his paw and swiping his face with it.

Holly smiled as she peeled a lemon and placed the rind on the plate with the orange rind. “Into this gremolata of lemon and orange rind and crushed garlic, I put my sad memory of how Antonio hated me when I first moved here. He wouldn’t come near me. But now he loves me. Don’t you, Tony?” she cooed, going over to his perch and scooping him up for a kiss on the head. And instead of desperately trying to get away, as he did in September and early October, Antonio rubbed against her chin, purring.

“My sad memory, Mr. Veal Shank,” Tamara said into the sauté pan, “is seeing the bridesmaid dress my sister expects me to wear at her wedding.” She removed the browned veal and placed it on a large plate, then added the vegetables and wine to the pan and turned up the heat, re-adding the veal. “My perfect younger sister of the
usually
good taste chooses a taffeta dress with a big honking bow on the butt. Why? The one time I wish my mother would overrule her, and of course she loves it too.”

Everyone laughed, then oohed and ahhed at the delicious smell of the osso buco as it mingled with the garlic and oil. Mia reported that the broth was simmering (Holly was using the easy version of the risotto recipe, which used canned broth
instead of marrow), and poured the oil and arborio rice into a butter-coated pan, and when the pan began to sizzle, Mia added the saffron threads, turning the rice a beautiful golden yellow. She was careful, per the recipe, to slowly add the broth, watching over the rice as it absorbed the liquid, adding, stirring, adding, stirring, until the consistency was just right, slightly firm yet tender. What a student—apprentice—she’d turned out to be. The risotto called for both a wish and a sad memory, and Holly wondered what Mia would say.

“I wish I’ll forget the sad memory of telling Holly I hated her because it’s really not true,” Mia said, looking from the pot to Holly and back again. “I was just so mad. I’m still a little weirded out about my father having girlfriends but if he’s going to like someone besides my mom, I’m glad it’s you.” She stared at Holly for a moment and it seemed she wanted to say something else, but she just took a deep breath and smiled.

Holly pulled Mia into a hug. “Thank you.”

And then Mia poured the gremolata over the osso buco, Simon ladled the almost-perfect risotto, and they sat down to eat, everyone declaring the sad memories among the most delicious yet.

At ten o’clock that night, Holly’s cell phone rang. She’d been too wired to attempt sleep, and so she was trying to hang her new fancy curtain rods for the velvet drapes she’d bought. The rod looked slightly higher on the right. Huh. Who knew she’d need a carpenter—or maybe a hot architect—to put up
something as simple as a curtain rod.

She rushed to the phone. Liam, of course.

“I’d like to take you on another official date,” Liam said. “But this time one that does involve food.”

She smiled and moved over to the window, looking out at the stars, at the almost full moon. From her bedroom window she could see the treetops that lined Cove Road. She could almost see the bay, a sliver of it. “Does it involve a rowboat in November?”

“Nope. Feel free to dress up too.”

A dress-up date. She left the slightly crooked curtain rod and slid under the covers and turned off the lamp, wondering if he was planning on a restaurant or a fancy picnic in the woods. She slowly drifted off to sleep with visions of herself in a ball gown and Liam in a tux, spinning around in a wooded clearing full of wildflowers.

Holly’s dressiest dress was a red wrap dress that made her look curvier than she actually was, so she went with that, pairing it with simple, sexy, black high heels. She dusted on some makeup, fluffed her hair, and spritzed on a bit of her grandmother’s Italian perfume. And when she looked in the floor mirror in the corner of her bedroom, the woman staring in disbelief at her was not the same brokenhearted woman who’d taken the red-eye from California, clutching all her possessions in a pathetic duffel and a plastic bag.

Holly rarely thought of John Reardon these days, but she did
often think about Lizzie. She could only hope the administrative assistant was a lovely, kind person.

At seven the doorbell rang, and there was Liam, looking gorgeous in charcoal gray pants and a black wool overcoat. Where were they going?

He stared at her for a moment. “You look beautiful, Holly.”

Her heart tingled. “Thank you. You too. Do I get to know where we’re going now?”

“Nope. It’s a surprise.” He took her hand and led her to his car, and they sped off toward Portland.

The lights of the city always filled Holly with excitement. Portland was small, but a sophisticated little city full of a world-renowned museum, five-star restaurants, galleries, theaters, and beautiful parks. “Well, the only thing I know for sure is that you’re taking me somewhere indoors.”

He turned to her and smiled. “Actually, outdoors.”

Outdoors. In mid November. Granted, it was in the high fifties, flip-flops weather for hearty Mainers, but it wasn’t exactly beach weather.

She let herself just enjoy the drive as Liam took back roads into downtown Portland, the Arts District, where Holly and her grandmother had spent much time over the years at the museum and the art galleries Camilla loved to walk through. Liam parked on the street in front of the thirty-story new Portland Lights Hotel. Was he taking her on a tryst? Did being naked and ordering room service and making mad, passionate love all night require getting dressed up? Oh wait, she thought. Their date was outdoors.

She raised an eyebrow, and he laughed, then took her hand, and led her inside the beautiful art deco–inspired hotel, her heels clicking on the marble floor. He nodded at the concierge, who nodded back, Holly noticed, and stopped in front of the elevator marked rtg.

What was he up to? “RTG?” Holly asked.

“You’ll see.”

Because the elevator had only one destination, the RTG, Holly had no idea what floor they were going to. Up, up, up they went and finally the light pinged and the doors opened into a foyer with a huge Renaissance oil painting of a man and a woman, a wrought-iron stand holding dozens of red roses underneath it.

To the left was a door, and Liam held it open for her, and when Holly stepped through, she gasped. It was a rooftop garden (duh on the RTG), with one elegantly set table for two with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket, two glasses, and two menus. High above, heat lights glowed down, and it was so warm that Holly took off her coat and wasn’t the slightest bit cold. A waiter appeared, opened the champagne, poured, then bowed and disappeared.

Liam handed her a glass and they clinked and both took a sip, then he set both glasses down and pulled her close against him.

“Alone at last,” he said, his arms at her waist.

Holly clasped her hands around his neck. “This is pretty romantic. And wonderful.”

“As are you,” he whispered. “I’ve put you through a lot,
and I just wanted to say thank you, for sticking by both me and Mia. We haven’t been the easiest people to care about.”

“Yeah, you both have,” she said.

She didn’t think the rowboat could be topped, but this seriously rivaled it.

Twenty-Two

The next afternoon, as Holly was working on a new pasta salad involving three different kinds of olives for Fandagos Café, her number one client, the bells jangled and Holly headed into the entryway and stopped in her tracks. A very thin, glamorous woman wearing sunglasses and a silk scarf wrapped around her head like she was Audrey Hepburn in a convertible was peering into the refrigerated case at the pastas and sauces.

“I do love a good Bolognese,” the woman said. “Do you offer a trial taste? I’m quite particular about my Bolognese.”

Holly stood behind the counter for support. Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. She’d know those dark modelesque bangs and collagen-enhanced pouty lips anywhere. This was Mia’s mother, Veronica.

“Um, sure,” Holly said. “Let me just go get a little cup and spoon.”

“Oh, hell, I was going to pretend to be a customer interested in the sauce to sort of spy on you, but I should just introduce myself.” She took off her sunglasses and slid them into her huge purse. “I’m Veronica Feroux, Mia’s mother.”