Chapter Thirteen
The morning sun streams through the window, and I groggily sit up, rubbing my eyes. Today is the day we’re supposed to go paddleboarding, but my mind is elsewhere. Luciano casually mentioned after the bridal shower that he’d love to try a few more dishes from La Mariposa.
“Maybe something savory this time,” he had suggested with a smile. “It’ll give me a better sense of what your restaurant could bring to the table.”
It’s barely seven in the morning. The idea of making something spectacular feels daunting, especially since I know I’ll need help. And that means waking up Valentina.
I push myself up on the cot, the springs creaking beneath me, and look over at Valentina. Her hair is an untamed mess, splayed across her pillow as she lies sprawled out like she hasn’t a care in the world.
“Val,” I whisper.
Nothing.
“Valentina,” I try again, louder this time.
She groans and pulls the blanket over her head. “If this isn’t an emergency, I’m going to end you.”
“It is an emergency,” I reply, standing and tugging on a sweater. “Luciano wants to try another dish today. We need to cook something savory. I need your help.”
“Seriously?” she mutters from beneath the blanket. “It’s barely sunrise, Isa and we have to pick up Miss Piggy before paddleboarding. Can’t this wait?”
“We have time to do both,” I insist, pacing the small space. “Please, Val. We made a deal.”
She lets out a dramatic sigh and sits up, her hair sticking out in every direction. “Fine. But you owe me—big time.”
“I’ll make it worth your while,” I promise. “I’ll… I don’t know…carry your paddleboard later?”
She does not seem impressed.
* * *
The kitchen feels almost eerie in its stillness.
The catering staff isn’t here yet, and the space seems too big, too empty, but also charged with potential.
I glance at Valentina, who’s leaning against the counter, cradling her a fresh coffee like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Her hair is still a wild, tangled mess.
“Okay,” she sighs, setting her mug down with a dramatic thud. “What’s the game plan, Chef?”
“We’re making ropa vieja,” I say, pulling out the flank steak and vegetables from the fridge. “It’s a classic Cuban dish, slow-cooked shredded beef in a tomato-based sauce with peppers and onions. It’s hearty, flavorful, and exactly the kind of dish Luciano will appreciate.”
Valentina tilts her head, studying me. “You’ve clearly thought this through.”
“I have. This dish means a lot to me. It’s one of the first recipes my dad taught me how to make. It’s simple but soulful.”
She smiles faintly at that, and I feel a flicker of warmth in my chest before I shake it off.
“Okay, what do we do first, boss?” she asks, rolling up her sleeves, clearly letting me take charge this time.
“First, we need to sear the meat,” I say, reaching for a cast iron pan and placing it on the stove. “Grab the olive oil.”
Valentina rummages through the pantry, pulling out the oil with a flourish. “Your wish is my command.”
“Try not to spill it everywhere,” I mutter, pouring a thin layer into the pan.
She smirks. “You’re so uptight. Relax.”
The steak sizzles as I lay it in the pan, and the aroma fills the air almost immediately. Valentina stands beside me, leaning a little too close as she watches the meat brown.
“You’re crowding me,” I say, nudging her with my elbow.
“Am I?” she teases, not moving an inch. “I’m just trying to learn from the expert.”
“You run a kitchen too, Val. Don’t act like you’ve never browned a steak before.”
“True,” she admits, grinning. “But it’s more fun when you do it.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the small smile tugging at my lips.
As the steak sears, we chop the vegetables together. Valentina slices an onion with quick, confident movements, while I tackle the bell peppers.
“Your knife skills are impressive,” she says, glancing at my precise cuts.
“Thanks,” I reply, focusing on the rhythm of the chopping. “It’s called practice.”
“Or obsessive perfectionism,” she quips, and I glare at her.
“Do you always have to get under my skin?” I ask.
“Only because you make it so easy,” she replies, her grin widening.
I shake my head, unable to suppress a laugh. “You’re impossible.”
Once the vegetables are prepped, we remove the steak from the pan and set it aside.
I toss the onions and peppers into the same pan, stirring them as they soften and release their aroma.
We add garlic, tomatoes, and spices to the pan, the rich aroma building layer by layer.
The chaos of cooking grows around us—used utensils, spilled spices, and vegetable scraps scattered across the counters.
I feel the familiar urge to stop and clean, but Valentina’s voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Leave it,” she says softly, noticing my hesitation.
“But it’s a mess—”
“Let it be,” she insists. “Sit down for a minute.”
Reluctantly, I sit on the counter beside her, the clutter surrounding us. I glance at the chaos, my chest tightening, but when I look at Valentina, her calm presence steadies me.
“It’s just a mess, Isa,” she says gently. “Not the end of the world.”
I take a deep breath and lean back, letting myself be still for a moment. The kitchen feels alive, the chaos humming around us, and for the first time, it doesn’t feel overwhelming. It feels…peaceful.
When the dish is finally done, we plate it carefully. The shredded beef is tender and coated in the flavorful sauce, the vibrant colors of the peppers and tomatoes making it look as good as it smells.
As we step back to admire our work, Luciano enters the kitchen. His presence immediately fills the space, his confident stride a stark contrast to the messy kitchen and our slightly disheveled appearances.
“What’s this?” he asks, his eyes lighting up as he sees the dish.
“Ropa vieja,” I say, handing him a fork. “We thought you might like to try something new.”
He takes a bite, his expression shifting to one of pure delight. “This is incredible,” he says, savoring the flavors. “The depth of the seasoning, the tenderness of the beef—it’s exactly what I look for in a dish. The two of you make quite the team.”
I glance at Valentina, who gives me a small, knowing smile. My heart flutters, but I quickly look away, trying to focus on Luciano’s reaction.
“This,” he continues, gesturing at the plate with his fork, “is the kind of food that tells a story. It’s rooted in culture, in family. That’s what I love to see in a restaurant. It’s what makes it stand out.”
His words land heavily, and I feel a wave of conflicting emotions—pride, relief, and a gnawing sense of imposter syndrome. My palms feel clammy as I force a smile.
“I’m glad you like it,” I say, my voice steady despite the storm inside me.
“I more than like it,” he replies, his tone serious now. “This is the kind of dish that makes people come back for more. If this is the level of care and quality you bring to your food, I can see a lot of potential for La Mariposa.”
Potential. The word hangs in the air like a challenge, and I feel the weight of it settle on my shoulders. I glance at Valentina again, and for once, she doesn’t say anything, letting me process the moment.
Luciano’s expression shifts slightly, his brow furrowing.
“But I need to see more than just good food, Isa. Running a restaurant is about vision, about being able to plan for the future. I need to see your business plan—how you intend to expand, what your numbers look like, and how you’ll make this sustainable. ”
I nod, swallowing hard. “Of course. I’ll have it ready soon.”
Luciano holds my gaze for a moment, his intensity unwavering. “This is about showing me that you’re ready to take this to the next level. Don’t just impress me with your cooking—impress me with your strategy.”
The gravity of his words hits me like a punch to the gut. This isn’t just about one dish or even one meal. This is about proving that I belong here—that La Mariposa belongs here.
“Understood,” I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper.
As Luciano leaves, I feel a knot tighten in my stomach. The stakes have never felt higher.
Valentina steps closer, her teasing grin returning. “Well, that sounded serious.”
“You think?” I snap, my nerves getting the better of me.
“Hey,” she says gently, placing a hand on my arm. “Relax. You’ve got this.”
“I don’t know how to write a business plan,” I admit, my voice trembling. “I’ve been winging it this whole time, Val. What if I can’t do it? What if he sees right through me?”
“You’re not winging it,” she says firmly. “You know this business better than anyone. I’ll help you figure it out.”
* * *
I’m not so convinced. She bumps me on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s go pick up that piece of junk you call a car.”
* * *
Her playful tone breaks through my tension, and I can’t help but laugh despite myself. “I'm telling her you said that,” I say, shaking my head.
* * *
It wasn’t until I arrived here at the camp that I realized what paddleboarding is.
I mean, I’ve seen the photos of fit people on social media living their best life, making it look super easy.
They just stand on these flat boards on the water.
Some would say it’s like lazy surfing. That someone would be me.
Now, with Miss Piggy safely back at camp, I take in the paddleboards lined up along the shore.
It feels different standing in front of one in real life, but I’m excited to try it out.
It can’t possibly be that difficult, right?
It’s not like I have to worry about sharks or large waves pummeling me into the water.
My biggest concern is figuring out how to get back on the board if I fall off.
How does one climb up on a floating surface without the ground to boost themselves up?
Maybe I finally understand why Jack couldn’t get on the door with Rose after the Titanic sank.
“So, are you ready?”