Page 14 of The Cupid Chronicles

That’s why I started cooking. I was a young, idealistic chef with a mission toconnect people through delicious food.

But that’s not why I cook now.

Now I cook because the kitchen is the only place where life makes sense.

I walk the familiar path around to the back of the building and enter through the kitchen. My manager, Val, is standing near a counter next to our pastry chef, Nicola, and their best friend, the espresso machine. It’s the smaller one, mostly used by staff, relegated to the kitchen when we upgraded to a much larger, fancier machine last year.

Nicola convinced me that genuine Italian espresso was an essential part of the dessert experience, and she was right. The machine has paid for itself two times over already.

“Chef!” Val calls as I walk in.

I wave as she holds up what will be my second coffee of the day. It’s routine by now, a rite of passage, as if the only way to gain access to the kitchen is to accept the fine gift of espresso.

It’s the same every day. And I like it that way.

No surprises.

Nicola faces me. Her blond hair is pulled into a tight ponytail, and she’s wearing an expression I instantly recognize—the look of success.

I don’t say anything as she produces a small plate from behind her back. On it sit three cannoli, the recipe Nic’s been trying to perfect for months.

I can see the flakiness of the crust, the creaminess of the filling. . . wait. That’s custard. Not ricotta. It’s also baked, not deep-fried.

Venetian. Not Sicilian.

Judging by the smug look on her face, she’s confident she’s finally done it, but she and I both know I’m the only one who can judge whether she’s figured out Grandma Vivi’s recipe.

I motion for her to hand it over, and when I take the first bite, I’m instantly transported back to big family dinners and holiday parties, to hiding under the kitchen table when myparents thought I’d gone to bed just to sneak another cannoli when nobody was looking.

Ever since she started at Aria about a year ago, Nicola has had one task—to perfect Grandma Vivi’s cannoli. I gave her no recipe, only a blindfolded taste, and finally, after manynearly thereattempts, I think she got it.

But I let her sweat for a few more minutes as I slowly chew another bite.

She and Val are both staring at me now, wide-eyed and hopeful.

“Comeon, Teo,” Val says. “Did she get it?”

I pause, letting the flavors settle as I look for every key ingredient, including the Marsala wine she’s left out so many times.

She stares at me, hopefulness on her face, waiting, until finally, I reach out and give her a Paul Hollywood handshake. “You got it, Nic.”

Nicola gasps, grabs my hand and shakes it, then picks up the rest of the cannoli and finishes it off in one bite. “I got it!” she says, mouth full. “Woo-hoo!”

She and Val do a celebratory dance as I take a sip of coffee, then pick up another cannoli and take a bite. It’s Grandma Vivi in a dessert. My heart pangs with grief, a reminder of the love I’ve lost.

Food has a way of awakening things, bringing the past into the immediate present.

“Did the produce arrive?” I ask, setting down the mug.

Val stops dancing and looks at me. “You know, youcouldcelebrate for a tiny second.”

I frown. I don’t celebrate. She should know this.

Val widens her eyes with a weird nod toward Nicola, then back to me. There’s a hidden message here I’m supposed to pick up on, but I have no idea what it is.

She sighs. “Really proud of you, Nic. You are amazing.” She says in what I’m guessing is an impersonation of me.

“That’s what I sound like?” I muse.

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