The Marriage Recipe

“Marriage to me wouldn’t be that bad,” Marco said with a smile. “At least you’d get something permanent in return.”

“Who says I’d turn over my recipes then?” she demanded. The gall of the man.

He seemed taken aback by her outburst. “As I’ve always said, husbands and wives share everything. And when you became pregnant and stayed home to raise our children, your replacement would continue your work. I don’t see what the big deal is.”

Pregnant? Stay home and be barefoot in the kitchen? What had she seen in him? “You are archaic.”

“Tradition is part of my heritage.”

“Oh, please,” Rachel scoffed. She was sick of the charade. “Enough of this. You’re a third-generation Brooklynite whose trips to Italy are all for show. Give me a break. You’re not getting my recipes, which by the way originated from my grandmother’s cookbook. Not your kitchen.”

“Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be,” Marco said. He stood and gestured. “You’re overwrought. Perhaps I shouldn’t have gone to Italy. I should have wooed you more. Made amends. I’ll call Anthony and have him cover for me tonight. We’ll go out. See a show. You can pick out a new piece of jewelry.”

“No.” Rachel placed both hands on his desk and leaned forward. “This is over. You and I are through. T-H-R-O-U-G-H.”

He stepped around the desk, as if sensing the situation was spiraling out of his control. “Rachel, please calm down. Be sensible. I’m not your enemy.”

“No, Anthony is.” Rachel waved the letter in front of Marco. “Well, we’re not playing this game. You will not steal my recipes.” She got up and stalked to the door.

“Rachel, this will get ugly,” he warned.

She whirled around. “It already has,” she told him. “You’re an egotistical creep. The worst kind of human. I don’t want to be around you. I quit.”

His indignation was immediate. “You can’t quit. Who will bake your cakes? And you won’t work anywhere. I’ll see to it.”

She couldn’t contain herself. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Don’t kick a sleeping snake.”

“You and your stupid quotations. I always hated those. You’re like a walking Bartlett’s.”

“Good, then hate this. You can’t threaten me. You have no hold over me. None. You won’t get my recipes, so just leave me alone, Marco. I’m out of your life.”

She stormed out of his office, and didn’t realize he’d followed her to the kitchen until she heard his footsteps behind her.

“You will not walk out of here until you give me your recipes,” he shouted. “That letter says you must.”

Faces appeared around stainless-steel pots and pans. The kitchen, normally a crescendo of clattering, quieted as spectators watched the show.

“You can’t demand anything from me. I just quit,” Rachel said, her voice notching upward.

“I can and I will,” Marco warned. “You’ll deal with my lawyers. Anthony’s lawyers.”

She rolled her eyes. “Please. Neither you nor your brother scares me. This isn’t some silly TV show. It’s real life. In fact—” her gaze lighted on the chocolate cakes she’d left out to cool “—you want my recipes?”

“They are Alessandro’s property,” he reiterated.

Rachel smiled. “Fine. Have them.” She dug her hand into the nearest nine-inch cake pan and drew out a still-warm chunk of moist chocolate cake. Within seconds, the huge mass had found a new home on the front of Marco’s suit. She stood there, defiant. Marco took one step forward, then stopped, aware of the avid audience. “Replacing my suit will come out of your final check,” he said.

“In that case…” Rachel shrugged, reached into another cake pan and hurled another gob at him, this time nailing him on the neck. Brown crumbs clung to his jaw, catching on the evening stubble. “Now, that’s worth every penny.”

Marco glared at her but didn’t say another word. Instead he turned, retreated, and moments later the door to his office slammed, the sound resonating throughout the kitchen.

The staff looked at Rachel in obvious appreciation before quickly returning to work. Only Glynnis followed Rachel to her locker. “Never would have believed that if I hadn’t seen it. You’ll be the talk of the crew for days. Can’t say he didn’t have it coming to him.”

“You’ve been great to work with,” Rachel said, her adrenaline beginning to ebb as the reality of what she’d done crept in. She removed her Alessandro’s apron and tossed it on a table.

“Call me if you ever need me,” Glynnis said. “I’d come work for you anyday.”

“Thanks, but I’ll have to let you know. I’m somewhat unemployable at the moment.” Rachel tugged her coat from her locker and grabbed her purse. She dumped the padlock and key into her bag, then she reached up to the top shelf and took down the only other item in the locker. She kept most of her recipes at her apartment, but she’d made copies of the desserts she baked for Alessandro’s and stored them here in a small notebook.

“You’re giving him those?” Glynnis asked.

“Hell, no,” Rachel said with a wry laugh. “He’s not going to sue me, and he can rot somewhere hot if he does.”

“So what will you do? You don’t have the money to fight him if you can’t work,” Glynnis said, obviously concerned.

“Oh, I’ve got a job waiting for me,” Rachel declared, not wanting Glynnis to worry. Rachel would have to put her tail between her legs to ask for the position, but once she walked in the door, she knew the owners wouldn’t turn her away.

“You got a job? Where?” Glynnis asked.

“Kim’s Diner,” Rachel said, the idea taking hold.

Glynnis appeared confused. “Kim’s? Is it in Jersey?”

“No. Morrisville.” Rachel saw her expression. “Indiana.”

“Never heard of it,” Glynnis admitted.

That was the kicker. “No one has.” The adrenaline of the moment had worn off completely and Rachel trembled as she digested the implications of her rash decision. She’d hate leaving New York. She loved the city. She vowed to make her exile only temporary. She plastered a brave smile on her face.

“You know what the tough do when the going gets rough?” she asked.

Glynnis shook her head.

Rachel picked up her bag and gave Glynnis a hug. Hopefully, she’d see her friend soon. “The tough go home.”

Chapter Two

“Who would have thought coming home would cause this much stir,” Rachel said as she put away the last of the clean dishes.

“Now, don’t let all the gossips get you down.” Her grandmother Kim said as she handed Rachel one last plate. The diner was only open for breakfast and lunch, and as soon as longtime patron Harold Robison finished his last cup of coffee, the workday would be over. Harold liked to linger, and for years had ignored the sign indicating that Kim’s closed at precisely three o’clock. “Everyone’s just glad to see you, that’s all.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Rachel told her grandmother. She’d been back in Morrisville for two full days now. Once she’d stormed out of Alessandro’s, she’d been a woman of action. One day and two phone calls later and she’d had her place sublet. One more phone call had gotten her car out of its Queens storage lot. A week after tossing cake on her former fiancé, Rachel had been on the road, driving from New York to Indiana with her personal possessions loaded in the trunk.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t escaped town quickly enough to avoid a courier-delivered envelope from Anthony and Marco Alessandro’s lawyer. Not only had they docked her final paycheck for the cost of replacing Marco’s suit, leaving her with a mere six dollars and ten cents, but they’d also given her thirty days to turn over her recipes or face civil action.

The amount they’d valued her recipes at had been astronomical. The morning after the cake flinging, Rachel had prayed that Marco would see how stupid and silly they were both being, but apparently, he was determined to punish her.

She no longer had rent expense, but she did have credit card debt. Now she was about to add legal bills to an already stretched budget. She refused to take charity from her mother and grandmother—it was bad enough she was back in her childhood bedroom, which had pretty much remained unchanged since the day she’d left for New York City. Her window still faced the Morris house; the only difference was that Colin Morris, her friend since childhood, no longer occupied the room across the way. As youngsters, they’d used flashlights and Morse code—get it? Morse/Morris code, they’d laugh—and sent messages to each other until late at night.