CHAPTER 38
Willa stood outside the restaurant for a second, taking a deep breath. She’d told her parents that she was going to take the risk, no matter how scary it was. She was going to make her living freelancing as a foodie, essentially, or die trying—even at her age, even in her situation. Despite all odds.
But the real risk, she realized, wasn’t going for a contract or competing in the content-generating machine of social media or anything like that. It was reaching out for help, something that seemed as impossible as crossing the Grand Canyon on a tightrope. And equally terrifying, if she was honest with herself.
She squared her shoulders. She’d been working harder, just trying to survive, for too long. Steven had always been the dreamer, and she’d never begrudged him. Now, it was her turn to dream. Which meant it was her turn to open up.
“You gonna block the door, or what?”
She startled, then looked over her shoulder. Nat was grinning at her, and she grinned back, immediately giving her a big hug. “Missed you,” Willa said immediately, her throat clogging for a moment.
“Yeah, well, whose fault is that?” Nat said, but there was no heat behind it. “C’mon. The gang’s all here.”
Willa let herself be led into the restaurant. It hadn’t opened yet—Tuesdays were dinner only, no lunch service—but the staff was moving like a dance company, a blur of well-choreographed motion that had a beauty all its own. Chef Marceline had always played French music, a throwback to her home country. Willa found herself crooning under her breath and smiling.
“C’mon. Chef said we could use one of her private rooms,” Nat said, tugging her along.
“What? She didn’t have to do that,” Willa reflexively protested.
“She wanted to,” Nat said. They went down a dark wood-paneled hallway before Nat opened a door.
Willa was greeted with a burst of excited chatter and happiness. As she stepped in, overwhelmed, she recognized faces that she hadn’t seen in years. Chefs who had worked the line at Fox Lair, Steven’s restaurant, or the Cloisters, or any number of other restaurants she knew of through Steven and through her own days helping create menus. Friends from college. Even the Sexy Chef himself, Sam, had come up from LA. He looked overwhelmed but happy to be included. They cheered, calling out her name.
She made her way around the table, threading through the small crowd, hugging people and fighting tears. “Thank you,” she said more than once. She’d hoped that people would be able to show up, but she hadn’t expected this .
When things finally settled down, they sat at the table with her at the head. Nat sat at her right side. Chef had even prepared some nibbles for them, ridiculously beautiful-looking appetizers and snacks, which Willa hoped she’d let Willa pay for. The assembled group looked at her expectantly.
She took another deep breath, closing her eyes, trying to get her balance.
Sometimes, it’s a different kind of family. She let the breath out, slowly, letting the shame and the echo of clawing desperation ebb with it. This was it. The leap of faith.
She had nothing left but to jump.
“I guess you’re wondering why I called you all here today,” she said, in her best mocking business tone, and was gratified when they laughed. “Seriously, though. It’s been ... well, it’s been a rough few years.”
She then sketched out what had happened. Steven’s progressing illness and her struggles with being a caretaker, pulling her out of cookbook ghostwriting for the most part. His medical debt. She didn’t touch on the strain to her emotionally, or to their relationship, but from the understanding looks they were trading with each other, she got the feeling they read between the lines whether she wanted them to or not. She finished with her moving to the island, to Aunt Caroline’s. Finally, she took a drink of water. This was probably more than she’d said to a group in years.
“What can we do to help?” Rene, the sous chef who was now an executive chef in his own right, asked while she paused.
She saw the rest of them nodding, talking among themselves ... except for Sam. He was looking at her nervously.
“You okay?” she asked before she could think about it.
“I feel guilty,” he said. “I mean ... I didn’t know. It’s not your fault that word got out that the cookbook was being ghostwritten. My agent said that some other guy, one who was angling for a contract, was bent because of my deal and went in to deliberately screw me. I didn’t think of how it would screw you to be taken off the project.” He bit his lip, looking, as usual, his fully adorable yet sexy self. “I, um, think that they’re using some of your recipes for another chef. They might even adapt the entire concept. With some changes, obviously.”
Now another explosion of chatter, angry this time. Most of them being “Sue their asses!” or similar. She sighed.
“You can’t copyright recipes,” she said, cutting through the din. “You guys know that, right?”
The shouts bubbled down to a dark mutter.
“Anyway ... I’m disappointed, and I’ll definitely be mentioning it,” she said, “and I’ll go over my contract again.”
“You’ll contact a lawyer.”
Now there was silence as Chef Marceline walked through the door and made her pronouncement in a ringing voice. She glanced at the person sitting at the opposite end of the table from Willa, and they immediately stood, giving her the seat and standing against the wall with a few others.
“I will help you pay for it if need be,” Marceline added with a nod, “and you can pay me back if you feel you must, but we all know this is criminal, and I for one won’t stand for it. Especially given your current situation. That’s unacceptable, and it will be addressed immédiatement.”
There was a low chorus of “Yes, Chef” from those who had worked with Marceline or had simply worked in a restaurant and knew of her. Sam, Willa noticed, was staring at her with wide, uncertain eyes.
“What else do you have in mind?” Marceline said. Well, perhaps more like demanded .
Willa pulled out her phone, looking at her list. “In a perfect world, I want to stay on the island,” she said, her voice low. Then she gritted her teeth for a second.
Confident. Take the leap. Ask for what you want.
“That means I want to take on gigs where I can work remote,” she said. “I’m not looking to work a line, that’s never been my thing. But I can help with menu development. I can write recipes. I can write cookbooks. I’ve never done video content,” she said, looking at Sam, “and I sincerely doubt I’d be good at it, but at this point, I’m willing to try anything. And the kids of a friend of mine had some good suggestions on that front.”
Sam nodded at her encouragingly. “I can help with that.”
“So if any of you need anything in that realm, anything at all ... I’m looking for work.”
There. Was it embarrassing? Yes. Her mother would probably want to die of shame, listening to her air her private problems so bluntly, and her father would be mortified. But dammit, this was her life, and she needed to do what she had to.
They were quiet, and for a second, she wanted to die. It was one thing to say What do you need ? Or How can I help ? But it was another to actually offer help. She’d wanted so badly to be self-sufficient. To not need anyone. To not show that she needed anyone. It seemed to prove weakness. To prove that, as her family had feared, she was somehow fundamentally broken ... that she could not survive on her own, that she’d managed to screw up the very quintessential job of being an adult.
She waited, still as a statue.
Marceline looked deep in thought, and the others were also pensive. Then Nat broke the silence, pulling out her purse.
“I’m going to contact BluGrow.”
Willa blinked. “Who or what is BluGrow?”
“They’re a vegetable brand,” she said. “Big agro, sure, but they’re always looking for recipes, and they pay pretty well. They reach out every year, looking for new stuff.”
“That’s ... thank you,” Willa said.
Just like that, it was like the floodgates opened. There were other recipe-writing opportunities. One or two of the chefs worked the line at bigger restaurants and knew they were looking for ways to promote them, so fun food content might work for them if she could produce it. The ideas were flying fast and furious.
She felt overwhelmed with gratitude, almost dizzy with it. She’d leaped, and they’d done more than provide a safety net ... they were actively building a bridge for her to walk across the chasm on.
She knew, realistically, that not all the ideas would work out. It wasn’t like her future was suddenly assured. But the fact that she had people who wouldn’t shame her, that she could count on ... tears pricked at her eyes, and she tried to surreptitiously dab at the corners with the napkin in front of her.
She caught Marceline looking at her. The chef held her hand up, and silence hit.
“I have been considering a cookbook myself, for many years,” she said, as casually as if she’d considered getting a haircut.
Willa couldn’t help it. She gaped at her.
“I simply do not have the patience to write it,” Marceline continued. “It might be a fun project for the two of us. And I have been irritated with you for being away for so long. You come see me. We’ll drink too much wine and go over some memories, and perhaps we can sell this thing.”
“I ...” She stopped herself from saying I couldn’t, this is too much . She’d said that too often in the past. She’d cut herself off from any chances, or from reaching out. Now, someone was reaching out to her, and she was grabbing on with both hands. So instead, she simply nodded. “I would love to, Marceline.”
Marceline toasted her with the water glass in front of her. “Now, let’s see what else we can come up with ...”