Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Twenty-five years ago, my dad took on a sort of protégé. He was a promising young up-and-comer who was just fifteen but had already graduated from high school, and the things he could do with food were remarkable. Both his parents were famous chefs. He was born in New York, but raised half in France and the other half in Italy. Both cultures knew how to romanticize food and make history with it.
He was a master, a bigshot, a trust fund rich kid who had everything in the world.
And then…
Isn’t there always an and then?
There was some kind of scandal, and his parents looked for a place to bury him for a while so the world could forget.
It turned out sleepy, unassuming Marietta was just the right place. I’m not even sure how they found our family bakery and knew my dad just happened to be looking for the right kind of person to come along and create magic. Then again, our pies had a national following back in the day, so maybe it wasn’t that hard to find the place at all.
Maybe my dad should have had an inkling of the tragedy and fallout that was coming, but the truth was, Luca truly was magic. If a mermaid or a unicorn or even a baby dragon landed on my family’s doorstep, they couldn’t have been more smitten. It was kitchen love at first sight. Luca could work miracles with just a flick of his finger.
My dad fell in love. My mom fell in love. The whole freaking city, my grandparents, and the very building itself seemed to be in love.
The bakery was a family tradition, and my parents had no children at the time. They’d tried for a while and had pretty much given up hope. Luca was the future. He was the peach in my dad’s fantasy pie world. Over time, Luca became more than just my dad’s protégé — he was family. The brother my dad never had, the best friend he trusted with everything.
Until he left.
The long and the short of it is that when Luca’s banishment was up, he was recalled by his parents. He chose them, though I suppose family is family, and blood is thicker than promises to friends. He left, taking my dad’s secrets, his passion, and his heart with him.
After that, not all of the light went out of the place, but it significantly diminished.
My dad never won another blue ribbon for his pies. It was a shocking fall from grace as our family held the title for fifty-eight years consecutively. My great-great-grandfather never meant to open a bakery. It was a sort of happy accident. After winning that first blue ribbon, the demand for his pies was such that he basically had to open up a shop to keep up, and the rest is history.
Now, we might be history.
Dad clasps his hands in front of him, a sheen of moisture glistening in his dark eyes. “You have to go to New York.”
“Um, what?” I just about tumbled right out of the chair he insisted I sit down in before we had this conversation. “What’s that right now? To get financing? I do know a few people who might be able to help.”
“Not for financing.” Dad lurches forward a few steps and gets down on his knees in front of me. He clutches my hands in desperation. My heart is two seconds away from tearing out of my chest. I have never seen my strong, proud, capable father this way. Certainly not down on his knees, studying me plaintively like I’m his last hope. “You have to go to New York and break the curse. It’s the only way.”
“Dad, no,” I groan, shooting to my feet and tugging him up so he does the same. I fumble with my apron strings, which are tied tightly around my middle and my neck. Right now, I need oxygen. “Not the curse again. That isn’t real.” I pitch the apron onto the stainless steel prep counter to my right.
“It’s real,” Dad insists vehemently.
I would say, at best, that it’s metaphorical.
After Luca left, my dad lost his passion. His grief poured into his pies instead of hope and love. It was as simple as that, and people could taste the difference.
“It’s not real, Dad.” I still can’t catch my breath. I tear open the first few buttons on my white chef’s coat. “We can do this.” I force a confident expression, faking it until I make it. “We can get our title back. I’ll make sure it happens. We’ll work twice as hard and come up with something ingenious. The thing about our family is that we’ve always been willing to take chances and experiment…”
That’s what my dad stopped doing. In addition to not being able to pour his heart and soul into his craft, he stopped taking risks. He fell back on the same old, same old while the world moved on ahead without him.