Chapter 41
FORTY-ONE
Four days after the book launch, Melody arrived at Cucina Bella ten minutes late, hoping to slip into her usual station without drawing attention. Her hands hadn't stopped shaking since Nate's declaration of love, and the last thing she needed was Marco critiquing her knife skills in this state.
But as she pushed through the door, the familiar scent of garlic and herbs didn't bring its usual comfort.
Instead, she froze, staring at her cooking station—or rather, at the women surrounding it.
Hannah occupied her usual spot, but beside her stood Zoe, who Melody hadn't seen since the writer's workshop. And there, donning a crisp white apron over her designer suit, was Carmen.
"Surprise!" Hannah called out, way too cheerfully. "Look who decided to join our Thursday night therapy session!"
Melody's stomach dropped. "Carmen? What are you doing here?"
Her agent adjusted her perfectly styled dark hair beneath her hairnet. "Marco and I went to the same yoga class back in the day. Amazing what a few bottles of aged Barolo can do to secure a last-minute spot."
"And I," Zoe chimed in, "have been dying to tell Marco how his carbonara could benefit from a more contemporary approach. My readers at the Times would love a story about modernizing classic recipes."
Marco appeared behind them, wooden spoon in hand. "Absolutely not, Ms. Restaurant Critic. Some traditions are sacred." He turned to Melody. "You're late. The sauce waits for no one."
But as he passed her, he squeezed her shoulder, his eyes knowing. Melody had a sinking feeling everyone here knew exactly why she'd been avoiding calls and dodging texts since the launch.
"Well?" Hannah gestured to the empty spot at their shared station. "Are you going to stand there all night, or are you going to help us make Marco's grandmother's lasagna?"
Melody moved to her station like a woman walking to the gallows, hyperaware of the concerned glances being exchanged over her head. She tied her apron mechanically, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought failed her.
"First," Marco announced to the class, "we prepare the ragù. Like regret, it must simmer slowly to reach its full potential."
Melody nearly sliced her finger at the word 'regret.' Images from the launch flooded her mind: Nate's voice steady and sure declaring his love, her own cowardly retreat to the stage, the hurt in his eyes as she walked away. Four days of ignored calls, of staring at blank manuscript pages.
“Easy there, Mel," Hannah murmured, catching her hand before she could mutilate another innocent onion. "Want to talk about why you're trying to dice your fingers instead of the vegetables?"
"Not particularly." Melody switched to crushing garlic, probably with more force than necessary. "I'm fine."
"Sure you are," Carmen said, somehow managing to chop vegetables without compromising her manicure. "That's why you haven't answered any of my calls about the Hollywood deal. Or why you've been ignoring your editor's—sorry, your love interest's—messages about the new imprint launch."
"He's not my—" Melody started, then stopped, the lie sticking in her throat like undercooked pasta.
"Not your what?" Hannah asked, stirring her sauce with deliberate care.
"Not your editor? Because he pretty much torched that bridge when he declared his undying love in front of half the publishing industry.
Not your love interest? Because honey, I've only known you for a week and even I can see you're head over heels. "
Melody dumped her garlic into the pot with enough force to make Marco wince from across the room. "Can we not do this? Please?"
"No," all three women replied in unison.
"You want to know what I think?" Carmen asked, her tone deceptively casual as she diced tomatoes with surgical precision. "I think you're doing exactly what you did after your first book deal fell through. Running before anyone can disappoint you."
"That's different," Melody protested weakly. "That was business."
"Was it?" Hannah's voice was gentle but firm. "Because I remember how you acted after your mom's first diagnosis. Taking that publishing contract in Seattle, saying you needed to focus on your career..."
The memory boiled inside her hotter than Marco’s ragù. Her mother, sitting in her hospital room, trying to smile through the pain as Melody explained why she couldn't stay. "Go," Deborah had said. "Your stories matter more than holding my hand."
But they both knew that wasn't true.
"The sauce is sticking," Marco called out, suddenly beside her. "Like memories, it needs constant attention, or it burns." He adjusted the heat under her pot. "Sometimes, the hardest recipes are the ones closest to our hearts."
Melody blinked back tears, stirring—her movements stiff. "I don't know what you're talking about."
“Oh come on. That can’t be true, can it?” Zoe asked, passing her more herbs. “I mean, you’re Melody Archer! You write romance novels about women learning to be brave in love for a living.”
"That's fiction," Melody snapped. "Real life is messier. Real life is people leaving. Real life is watching your mother fight cancer alone because you were too scared to—" She broke off, her voice cracking.
"To what?" Hannah pressed. "To watch someone else you love slip away? Is that why you ran from the stage when Nate confessed his feelings?"
The wooden spoon clattered against the pot as Melody's hands began to shake. "You don't understand. My career is the one thing that can't leave me. Stories don't get cancer. Books don't walk away like my father did. Manuscripts don't—"
She couldn’t say the word. And Carmen didn’t make her as she nodded slowly.
"No, they don’t,” her agent whispered, her usually boisterous tone soft. “But they don't love you back either, sweetheart."
The kitchen fell silent except for the bubbling of sauce and Melody's ragged breathing. Even Marco stepped back, recognizing the gravity of the moment.
"Your mother," Carmen continued, setting down her knife, "she read every one of your books, didn't she? Even in hospice?"
"Until the end," Melody whispered. The memory surfaced—Deborah's thin fingers turning pages, her voice weak but determined as she offered feedback.
Hannah touched Melody's arm. "Remember what she said, that last week? When you brought her the manuscript with the happy prologue you'd rewritten because you thought it would make her feel better?"
Melody's hand stilled on the spoon. Of course she remembered. How could she forget?
"She threw it across the room," Melody said, a watery laugh escaping. "Said if I wasn’t going to show that love is a much luck as it is two people doing the work, I shouldn't bother writing at all."
"And what did she say next?" Zoe pressed.
The tears came then, hot and fast. "She said... she said that loving deeply means risking loss. But that the alternative—never loving at all—was the bigger tragedy."
Marco appeared, quietly adjusting flames under various pots. "My nonna used to say that the best sauce, like the best love, must be watched carefully. It can burn, yes. But if you're too afraid to tend it..." He shrugged. "Then you are left with nothing but cold pasta and regret."
"Melody," Carmen said, her usual sharp tone softened. "Do you know what your mother told me, the last time I visited her? She made me promise to look out for you. Not your career—you. She said you'd try to hide behind your books, use success as a shield."
Melody gripped the edge of the counter, memories washing over her like waves. "I can't—" she started, but Marco cut her off with an announcement to the entire class.
The greying Italian cleared his throat. "The ragù, it teaches us patience. But too much patience—" he gestured to Melody's now-burning sauce, "—and we miss our moment."
As Melody scrambled to save her sauce, her hands trembled on the spoon. "What if—what if I lose him too? What if something happens, or he changes his mind, or—"
"Or what if you don't?" Carmen interrupted. "What if this is your great love story, and you're too scared to live it? Some critic you've got writing reviews in your head."
"The sauce can be fixed," Marco announced, appearing with fresh ingredients. "Like mistakes of the heart, it is never too late. But first—" he took the spoon from Melody's shaking hands, "—we must admit we have burned it."
The women watched as Melody braced herself against the counter, tears flowing freely now. "I've been so stupid," she whispered.
"No," Hannah said firmly. "You've been hurt. There's a difference."
"You know what the really stupid thing is?" Melody wiped her eyes with her apron. "I've spent four days thinking about every moment with him. Every argument about semicolons, every late-night editing session, every time he challenged my characters to be braver than I was being."
"And?" Carmen slid closer.
"And I thought I was being strong. Thought I was being a fighter. Doing what my mom encouraged me to do..but there’s nothing weaker than this.
” Melody shook her head. "He put everything on the line," she continued, the words tumbling out now.
"His career, his family relationships, everything.
And I just... walked away. Like I always do. "
"Well," Zoe said practically, "unlike this sauce, that situation can still be saved. Unless..." She glanced at Carmen. "Has he accepted any of those offers from rival publishing houses?"
"Zoe!" Hannah hissed.
But Carmen was smiling. "Actually, he's turned down six offers in the past three days. Told every one of them he's committed to building something with an author who challenges him to be better."
Melody's head snapped up. "He what?"
"Oh yes," Carmen continued, casually chopping basil. "Apparently, he'd rather risk everything on a woman who writes about brave love than take the safe route. Sound like anyone else we know?"
Fresh tears spilled as Melody remembered her mother's last coherent words: "Don't let my leaving become your excuse for never staying, baby. Some chances are worth the risk."
"I have to go," Melody said suddenly, untying her apron. "I have to—"
"First," Marco interrupted, holding up his wooden spoon like a scepter, "you finish this sauce. Love stories, like proper ragù, cannot be rushed. And you—" he pointed the spoon at Melody's tear-streaked face, "—need time to think about what you will say. No more running away mid-recipe."
Melody laughed wetly, retying her apron. "Since when did you become a love guru, Marco?"
"Forty-three years of marriage, seven grandchildren, and a lifetime of teaching stubborn students that recipes, like hearts, must be followed with both passion and patience." He tasted her sauce. "Now, we begin again. This time, with less fear and more attention, yes?"
For the next hour, Melody cooked with a focus that surprised even herself. Each ingredient became a memory: the fresh basil reminding her of Nate's criticism of her overuse of nature metaphors, the garlic recalling their first heated debate over character motivation. The wine…
Well, that reminded her of several things she probably shouldn't mention in public.
"You're smiling," Hannah observed. "First time in four days."
"I'm plotting," Melody corrected.
"Good plotting or 'how to hide a body' plotting?" Zoe asked. "'Cause I've got some great recipes for both scenarios."
Carmen checked her phone. "If you're planning what I think you're planning, he's still at his office. Something about reviewing contracts for the new imprint."
"The imprint he created for you," Hannah added pointedly. "You know, the one he announced right before declaring his love for you in front of half the publishing industry?"
"The one I walked away from," Melody acknowledged. "God, I sure know how to screw up, don't I?"
"Yes," all three women chorused.
Carmen appeared at her elbow. "Car's waiting outside. I had my assistant track down his schedule. He's reviewing contracts in the main conference room."
"How did you—"
"Please," Carmen scoffed. "I'm your agent. Knowing everything is literally my job."
Zoe thrust a container at her. "Take the sauce. Nothing says 'I'm sorry I ran away from your declaration of love' like homemade ragù. Plus, if things go well..." She winked. "Carbs are great for refueling."
As Melody stepped into the cool evening air, her container of sauce warm against her chest, she felt lighter than she had in days.
Years, maybe. The Lie that had governed her life—that love would only hurt her, that career was safer than connection—seemed to dissolve in the face of such fierce support.
"Where to?" the driver asked.
Melody clutched her sauce, and her newfound courage. "Carlisle Publishing, please.”
This time, she wasn't running away. This time, she was running toward something. Toward someone.
Toward love.
Just like her mother had always wanted for her.