Hadley becketts next dis.., p.19
Hadley Beckett's Next Dish, page 19
“And she’s hating every minute of it!”
Max’s breath caught in his throat for a moment, but that cleared quickly. “You don’t know anything, Leo. You don’t know a single thing.”
“Oh, that’s adorable, Max. Okay, sure. Yeah . . . you got where you are because I don’t know anything.” He resumed his earlier posture, finger in Max’s face. “Trust me when I tell you she won’t hesitate to step on you or whoever else is in her way. She’s focused on getting to the top, and I’m the guy who’s going to get her there.”
Max took a step back. “You’re wanting to start representing Hadley?”
“I’ve been representing her for about a month.”
No . . . that didn’t make any sense.
“Leo, don’t you think that’s an enormous conflict of interest?” Max wasn’t really sure that it was. Half the top-name chefs in the country were probably represented by Leo. But Hadley? “I mean . . .” He took a deep breath. “How can you possibly do what’s right for both of us, when . . .”
When the best thing that ever happened to her career was the worst thing that ever happened to mine . . .
“I got you on Renowned, didn’t I? I’m doing right by you. At least I’m doing the best I possibly can. But the position you’re in? Well, you have no one but yourself to blame for any of it, Max.” Leo sighed and placed a hand on Max’s shoulder. “Sorry, pal, but you just can’t come back from this one.”
The words rang in his ears, and they stung anew with each and every ring. You can’t.
Those were the words that had gotten him to drop from the baseball team so he had time to take home ec. They’d gotten him to turn down an academic scholarship in order to take his chances on culinary school. And they were the words that had helped him decide to sell everything he owned to pay for one month’s rent at his first restaurant.
“You can’t” was nothing more than a challenge.
Max closed his eyes again, but he didn’t see Hadley. Instead, he saw his dad, standing on the street in front of their house, as Max’s 1998 Ford Escort drove away. He’d never regretted leaving Cincinnati and heading to New York. Not once. But he’d always regretted leaving on a morning when his dad was actually sober. The odds had been against it, but of course he’d had the bad luck for that to be the day. As much of a lying, manipulative waste of space as he was when he was drunk, at least when he was drinking, he wasn’t mean.
It was as if he thought Max’s reaction to him telling him how little he believed in him and all the things he wasn’t capable of, over and over, would fill the temporary void left by sobriety.
“Why haven’t you dropped me, Leo?” Max knew the answer, he just wanted to see if Leo had the decency to confess it.
“Because, in spite of it all, I care about you, Max. You know that. We’ve been through a lot together, and if I were to drop you right now, well . . .” He offered him a half-smile that Max thought was supposed to pass for compassion. “No one else will represent you. No one else will touch you with a ten-foot pole, truth be told. I want to give you some time to rebuild.”
Ah. So it has nothing to do with the massive royalties you get to continue collecting for years of To the Max syndication? Good to know.
“That’s good of you, Leo. Thanks.” He put his hand out and Leo shook it. “Let’s talk again sometime soon.”
“I’ll keep doing my best, pal. If there’s any way at all to salvage this, you know I will.”
20. Sear evenly and rapidly.
HADLEY
“Thanks again to my very special guests, Nicole and Keith, for spending some time at home with me today. And thanks to you, friends. Be sure to check out hadleybeckett.com for bonus recipes, including my sacred family recipe for chicken and dumplings. It’s legit. You won’t want to miss it.”
“And we’re out,” Stuart called out. Walking over to me, he said, “Well, that’s a new one. I didn’t know there were any sacred Beckett family recipes. How far back does it go? It’s not Twyla’s, is it?”
“Of course not!” I laughed at the thought. “I believe my grandmother’s chicken and dumplings recipe would just involve some canned chicken and a box of Bisquick.” Who was I kidding? “Or, more likely, she’d place an order at Cracker Barrel. This one is just mine that I created.”
He gasped in mock horror. “Hadley Beckett! Did you just lie to your audience?”
“I didn’t lie! It is a sacred family recipe. Just . . . for the future. Trust me, if I ever have kids, my chicken and dumplings recipe is what they’re going to be fighting over when I die.”
“Well, we’ll set up a time to get a crew here to film the heirloom of the future and some other online content, but other than that, we’re good to go. That got us up to the hiatus, so you’re free to focus on Renowned for the rest of the run.”
My eyes flew open. “That’s it?” I glanced at the clock on the wall and sighed in relief. I was so tired. We had all been up late the night before, prerecording my insufferable special segment with Keith Urban and Nicole Kidman. Keith and Nicole didn’t directly cause the suffering. They were lovely. But there wasn’t enough coffee in the world to help me enjoy watching Keith Urban butcher my recipe for beef stew until nearly midnight. “Thanks, Stu. You’re the best.” I took off my apron and threw it on the countertop. “So what are you going to do during the break?”
He laughed. “After you’re done cooking—considering all the times you don’t know how the appliances work, or when you burn au gratin potatoes—”
“That only happened once!”
“—the shows don’t just magically go on the air in a way that makes you look like you actually know how to cook. You do know that, right? It’s important to me that you know that.”
I smiled. “Yes. I know that. Point taken.” I grabbed my sponge and began cleaning my station.
“How are you feeling about tonight?” he asked as he checked things off his clipboard.
“Good. Nauseous.”
“Perfect.”
“Just nerves.” I smiled. “It’s not all that often in your life that you get to achieve one of your lifelong dreams.”
“Well, I think it happens to you more than most people, so maybe don’t say that on the air. With the hot streak you’re on, it could make you look a bit lofty.”
I nodded. “Good note.”
“But I’m sure you’re going to be great. And, I mean, tonight’s not such a big deal, right? You already filmed last week.”
“Yes. Thank goodness I don’t have to meet Marshall Simons for the first time ever again. But tonight’s the first real filming for an episode. As in, tonight we start filming the episode that will air on Sunday. Sunday! This Sunday, Stu. Can you believe it?” I hardly could.
“Of course I believe it. You deserve this, Had! I’m just sorry you have to share—”
I cut him off with a groan. “Oh, let’s not do that again.”
I hadn’t updated him on any of the more friendly developments between Max and me. I knew he wouldn’t be pleased, and I just didn’t want to mess with it. The friendship, the kissing, the practice . . . Stuart wouldn’t like any of it.
Thirty minutes later, the entire crew was gone, my kitchen was ship-shape, and I was exhausted. Miraculously, I had time for a quick power nap. I hadn’t taken a nap in years, I was pretty sure. But I decided to afford myself the luxury. I wanted to appear rested and refreshed on Renowned. A girl—even this blessed-beyond-belief girl—only gets to tape the first episode of her season of the show she’s been watching since childhood every so often. She should look her best when she does.
I jumped off the couch with a start when a bell rang. I looked around in confusion, and I seriously had no idea what was happening or where I was. I certainly had no idea where I was supposed to be, and I didn’t even understand where the ringing bell was coming from. I looked around for my phone and found it on the floor beside the couch, but that wasn’t the annoying sound culprit. I hadn’t set an alarm because I was only going to rest for a few minutes, I remembered. I did note the time when I picked it up, though, and that’s when the real confusion and panic began. It was 4:45. Wasn’t a car supposed to be there about then to pick me up?
The door!
I finally understood where the ringing was coming from, and I ran to the door and threw it open.
“Ms. Beckett?” the man at the door asked as I squinted into the setting sun and tried to make sense of everything. “I’m with the car service and was sent to pick you up. Are you ready?”
Was I? I glanced down at my bare feet. “Give me five minutes!”
I slammed the door shut and realized, as I was walking away, how much nicer it would have been to invite him inside. Let him have a seat, and maybe a glass of lemonade. But I didn’t have time to rectify my rudeness just then. We were filming our first episode on location in Nashville, and I had grievously overslept.
I ran to my bedroom and made the mistake of looking in a mirror. I’d gotten a haircut over the weekend, and overall, I was enjoying my shorter hair. But it certainly didn’t leave as much room for low maintenance. I ran a brush through it in an attempt to at least tame the flyaways. While I brushed my hair with one hand, I brushed my teeth with the other. My clothes were okay, if slightly wrinkled, but the problem was I knew I shouldn’t appear on two television shows in the same outfit.
“Ms. Beckett?” I heard the driver call out. Was I hearing him through the door or out the window? “I’m afraid we really have to be going.”
I groaned and began riffling through my closet. I grabbed a red plaid flannel shirt and changed into it, as I took a quick peek down at my jeans. I was relieved to see they were just plain, boring jeans, and had no distinctive characteristics that would be detected by discerning viewers.
“On my way!” I shouted down as I took one last look in the mirror. Not good. Not good at all.
Two minutes later we were on our way, though I still had no idea exactly where we were heading. But by a couple minutes after 6:00, we had navigated our way through Friday evening Nashville rush hour, and I was being dropped off at the Bluebird Cafe.
When I arrived, Max was standing outside, talking to Chef Simons, who smiled when he saw me and rushed over to greet me.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said to Chef Simons.
“No worries, my dear. We’re all set up. We’re going to film a few minutes inside, to try to really capture a true Nashville vibe, and then we’ll move on to dinner elsewhere.”
“We’re going to dinner?” Max asked. “I thought we’d be cooking dinner ourselves. On a show that is supposed to be centered on our culinary skills—”
“Well, we’re probably going to spend some time in the city, enjoying the culture and the traditions. At least, I know that’s usually part of the first episode. Right, Chef Simons?” I chose to believe Chef Simons and I had reached a silent understanding the week prior. I would not be calling him Marshall.
“Right you are, my dear,” he said as he patted me gently on the back. “This is very much within the scope of all seasons of Renowned, and of course we’ll be going to New York next week, and experiencing the culture and traditions of your home, Chef Max. But for now . . . when in Nashville, do as the Nashvilleians do.”
He pronounced it Nashville-ians, but I was still temporarily lost in thought with the fun idea of a group of Southern bad guys called the Nashvillains, who go around wearing fringe and rhinestones, singing country music, and adding sugar to everybody’s iced tea.
“Well, aren’t you the teacher’s pet this evening?” Max muttered to me under his breath. “What happened to not letting them pit us against each other?”
“What are you talking about?”
He adopted a Southern drawl and said, “Yes, Chef Simons. Pick me, Chef Simons. I know the answer, Chef Simons.” I laughed as he continued in his normal voice. “Way to show me up, Beckett.”
I shrugged. “Well, it wasn’t intentional. But all the same . . . sorry. I guess now we’re even.”
Max crossed his arms, and a smile slowly spread across his lips. “I guess we are.”
I nudged him with my elbow. “Hi, by the way.”
“Hi, yourself.”
“Did you have a good flight?”
He shook his head. “I drove. I’ll explain later.”
“Excuse me!” Chef Simons called out from just inside the doorway, accompanied by an impatient snap. “Time is of the essence.”
“Sorry, Chef Simons,” Max and I both called out in unison, in our best teacher’s pet voices. We looked at each other and then quickly away, suppressing our laughter. Our newfound secret alliance was potentially going to be more trouble than our rivalry.
“Have you ever been to the Bluebird?” I asked Max as we walked in.
“Pardon me, darling,” Chef Simons said, “but we’ll be filming soon. Could you please hold off on the conversation, so you and Chef Max have something to talk about? I certainly wouldn’t want you to say something interesting to each other without us getting it on camera.”
Well, this was a strange version of life.
I nodded. “You bet.”
Max leaned in and whispered, “What were you thinking? Using all your best material off camera. I mean, asking me if I’d been here before? That was television gold, Hadley.”
I giggled. “I know. Silly me,” I whispered back. “I almost blew the shoot.”
We reached our table, and he pulled out my chair for me.
“Thank you.”
He pulled out the other chair at the tiny two-top and sat next to me, both of us facing the stage. As he scooted his chair in, I got a whiff of him, and I couldn’t help myself—I leaned in just a touch to confirm the scent was coming from him.
It most definitely was.
“Golly, you smell good,” I said. I instantly regretted it, of course, but unfortunately, I’d still said it.
He smiled. “Thanks.”
He was so nonchalant about it. So cool. He was clearly used to people commenting on how good he smelled—and that was understandable. He smelled like wide open spaces mixed with bergamot, a lot of sunshine, and what I imagined Harrison Ford smelled like when he stepped out of the shower after an action-packed day filming Raiders of the Lost Ark.
“I don’t remember smelling it before. Is it new?”
He shuffled in his seat so he could lean in somewhat and we could hear each other. The crowd was growing, and the noise was increasing proportionately. “Nah. It’s what I always wear. I just don’t usually wear it in the kitchen.”
“Why not?”
He tapped on the tip of his nose.
I cocked my head to the side and laughed. “Okay, so you really think your nose is your greatest tool?”
“Not just mine. I think it’s every chef’s greatest tool. Don’t you?”
I considered that for a moment. “You mean beyond your taste buds?”
He chuckled. “No, actually. Including taste buds.”
“Well then, no,” I said. “I mean, you’re right . . . the nose is so important. Absolutely. But more important than my sense of taste? Seriously, Max, I can’t even wrap my head around that.”
I scooted my chair a smidge his way, to get out of the path of a woman who kept walking from the stage to the back of the room, and then back again.
He nodded and smiled. “I get it. And I felt the same way until I went to Morocco for the first time.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back and I could almost see him being transported there. “The spices, Hadley. The spices are everywhere. And they blend together, and yet they’re all so distinctive at the same time. I’d walk through the markets and it was just like I didn’t have any choice but to close my eyes. The colors, the people, the fabrics . . . they all just stood to distract me from the scent.” He opened his eyes and was seemingly back in Nashville. “Have you ever been?”
“To Morocco?”
“Yeah.”
I shook my head. “No. I’ve never really been anywhere. At least not like that. I went to culinary school in Denver for a while, and I used to film in Brooklyn, of course. And I went to Canada once.” I shrugged and he laughed.
“I love Canada. Well, I love parts of Canada. I’m not a big fan of the always-cold parts. But there are other places you should go. As a chef, I mean. Morocco is one of them.”
“Hey, you two,” Lowell interjected himself, crouching down between us. “The singer is going to be out here in just a few minutes, and you can see it’s getting pretty crowded. I need each of you to scoot in about half a foot.” We did as we were told, and I did all I could to focus on our director’s last-minute instructions, rather than “Yummy Indiana Jones” by Dior, which was now just a few inches away and intoxicating enough to make me wonder if I had indeed underestimated the importance of the sense of smell. “We can only have one camera on the back of the stage”—he pointed to it—“and this way we can get you both in the shot.”
“Got it,” I said, while Max gave a very forced thumbs-up, which made me chuckle. Max Cavanagh was not a thumbs-up kind of guy.
“So, Hadley,” he said, taking me off guard. Not the words, just the proximity of them. “Why don’t you get out more?”
“My grandmother has been asking me that for years.”
He laughed. “No, I mean on your show. Why don’t you get out of your kitchen once in a while?”
He suddenly smiled and raised a cool, confident hand in acknowledgment to someone behind me. I turned around to see who was there and caught four college-aged girls giggling and, I think, attempting to flirt with Chef Cavanagh. I turned back toward Max and discovered he had moved on after offering his polite, indulgent greeting.
“Your kitchen is spectacular,” he continued, paying no attention to any of it. “But there’s so much to taste and see and smell outside of your kitchen. Outside of Nashville. And now’s probably the time to get the network to send you wherever you want. For however long you remain the golden child, I’m sure they won’t hesitate to add a plane ticket or two onto their mortgage payment.”
