Chapter 1
The dining room was deserted, the cracked red leather of the
banquettes sagging sadly over the snowy white, tablecloths.
From here, she couldn’t tell that those linens were
all fraying at the edges, but she could see every chip,
every indelible scuff mark, in the gorgeous black and white
tiles covering the floor.
Jules Cavanaugh peered out the round glass window cut into
the kitchen door and remembered another night when
Lunden’s had been empty, just like this. Only tonight,
there was no blizzard. No storm. No snow.
And no customers, either.
Mind full of the worries that had become all too common over
the last year and a half—is it time to talk Gus
into shutting down lunch service? Do we really need four
servers on Thursday nights if we don’t get more than
ten covers all night long? What am I going to tell Gino when
he calls about next week’s beef order? They’re
not going to extend our credit forever, even if Gino’s
great-grandfather supplied the first steaks ever cooked at
Lunden’s—Jules had managed to tune out most
of the commotion behind her.
A kitchen full of chefs with nothing to do was a recipe for
trouble, and the Lunden’s crew was no exception.
The long, dull nights of boredom and inactivity,
interspersed with pockets of chaos and action when a
customer did happen to wander in wore on the men and women
who kept Lunden’s back-of-the-house operations going.
Well, mostly men, Jules acknowledged, turning around to
survey her ragtag makeshift family.
It was quite the sausage fest in the Lunden’s kitchen,
she mused. And sure, it was weird for her sometimes, being
the lone hen in a crowd of cocks, but mostly she felt like
one of them.
Winslow Jones, always the first to get bored, was
entertaining himself by trying to con, charm, and weasel
personal info out of their newest hire. Chef Beck, first
name unknown to anyone other than Gus, who’d
presumably seen his paperwork, gave Win back the stone
faced, crossed arms routine he gave everyone—but Jules
thought she detected a slight softening around his eyes.
She sympathized. It was hard not to soften up around
Winslow, who had the kind of infectious good humor that was
so sorely lacking around here, these days. Even Phil
hadn’t been able to—...Jules cut off the
thoughts of her ex before they could begin.
“How long do you think they’ll stick around if
Dad can’t make payroll?”
Jules jolted free of the endless circle of worries and fears
and slanted Danny a glance. “Don’t talk like
that. We’re not there.”
Yet.
Danny gave her the look that meant he heard everything she
wasn’t saying, loud and clear, but he let it go.
Twisting his hands in the white cloth looped through his
apron strings, Danny slumped against the kitchen door beside
her, his head dropping forward so all she could see was the
pale, vulnerable back of his neck. Danny always took so much
on. Too much, and he refused to lean on anyone. Only Jules
got to see the exhausted, careworn side of him—and
that, only when he was too tired to hide it from her.
“Your dad has a plan,” Jules reminded him
brightly, ignoring her own misgivings.
Danny hissed out a sigh, lifting his head to bang it once
against the door. “Judas priest. Don’t remind
me.”
“The Rising Star Chef competition could be the answer
to all our problems,” Jules argued. “Every
restaurant that’s ever won it has turned in a huge
sensation—reviews, publicity, and most of all,
customers. Think about it, Danny. All the business we can
handle, and then some!”
“You sound just like Dad.”
Jules bit the inside of her cheek for control. “I
believe in Gus. Wherever he leads, I’m going to be
right behind him. A hundred per cent.”
“Even if what he wants is for you to follow Max?
”
Damn it. Danny knew her too well. Meeting his watchful gaze,
Jules admitted, “Okay, maybe ninety per cent. You know
I don’t think we need Max to win this thing.”
He knocked his head against the door one more time in
agreement, a twist to his mouth that tugged at Jules’s
heart. “Mom’s calling him today anyway, whether
we like it or not. But hey, the good news is, he probably
won’t come home. How could home be more fun than
backpacking around Asia, living by his wits and a wok? And
Dad doesn’t want Max to know about...how bad the
restaurant’s doing.”
Danny’s moment of hesitation was like flimsy aluminum
foil covering a heavy pot full of boiling, seething,
steaming resentment, worry, love, and worst of
all—fear. Jules knew, because she felt the same way.
It wasn’t only the restaurant’s dire straits Gus
intended to hide from his oldest son.
Facing forward and pretending to watch Winslow tease Beck,
she cleared her throat and said, “How’s your dad
feeling? Better?”
“He insists he’s fine,” Danny murmured.
“He doesn’t want to talk about it.”
They lapsed into silence. Jules took in the demoralized
kitchen crew leaning against their cold, empty stations. She
thought about Gus and his hopes for the restaurant, and
Danny, trying desperately to hold everything together, the
weight of his own legacy bearing down on his shoulders. She
remembered that snowy night six years ago, and how much she
owed this family.
She’d do anything she could to save Lunden’s
Tavern, up to and including working side by side with the
guy who’d occupied most of her teen fantasies.
How bad could it be, right? After all, she was completely
over him. Over men, in general, after Phil. So there was
nothing to worry about. Not a thing.
Beck began to show signs of irritation with Winslow’s
increasingly hyper bouncing. But as Jules moved in to rescue
him, glad of the distraction, she couldn’t help but
notice that the shiver running down her spine at the mention
of Max wasn’t all dread, or even resignation.
It was anticipation.
#
The streets of Tokyo were a blur of dizzying colors, sounds
too loud to understand, and smells that usually made Max
Lunden want to tackle the nearest vendor for a taste of
whatever mysterious meat on a stick was putting out that
rich, fragrant smoke.
Today, though, Max’s normally ironclad stomach was too
jumpy to risk street food. Ducking out of the swift,
relentless current of foot traffic into an arched stone
doorway, he looked down at his cell phone for the hundredth
time, making sure it was on, had full bars, was ready and
waiting to receive the most important call of his life.
For the last hour, Max had been elbow-deep in dough the
first two times, struggling to learn how to cut perfectly
straight, even ramen noodles, and sucking at it because all
he could concentrate on was his silent phone.
Once he finally gotten his hands free and clean, and
apologized to a very grouchy Harukai-sensei for being so
distracted during his lesson, Max took to the streets to try
and walk off his frustration.
He kept his finger wrapped around his phone inside his
pocket, so he’d feel it the instant it started to
vibrate.
Ring. Ring. Ring, for shit’s sake!
As if by magic, he felt a buzz against his fingertips,
followed by Steven Tyler’s unmistakable, if tinny,
voice singing about living on the edge.
Heart in his mouth, fingers suddenly slick with sweat, Max
got the phone free of his pocket with only one
near-catastrophic fumble. Centering himself with a deep
breath, Max hit the button and lifted the phone to his ear.
“Hello? Yes?”
Silence, punctuated by a bit of static and some breathing.
Cursing himself, Max cleared his throat. “
Si?
Pronto.”
They were the magic words, unleashing a volley of rapid fire
Italian Max had to struggle to wade through.
“
Si. Si. Si,” he kept saying, feeling
like a moron and not sure what he was agreeing to, until the
gruff voice on the other end exhaled sharply.
“Italiano. You learn. Fast. I teach nothing until you
understand my language.”
Max’s ribcage expanded with joy like a helium balloon.
For a moment, he was honestly afraid his chest would pop
open and spill his heart onto the street.
“You’ll teach me, then?” He had to
clarify, had to be sure this wasn’t a mistake or a
misunderstanding.
A long pause. “When you came to see me, two summers
before...you were not stupid. Not completely. I think you
can learn.” Vincenzo Cotto’s thick, accented
growl went even rougher and lower. “So long as you
learn to speak...and more important, to listen, in
Italiano.”
“I’ll learn,” Max promised. “I
swear, I’ll be fluent by the time I see you.”
“Hmph. You have four weeks.”
Calculating frantically, Max immediately started listing in
his head all the things he’d have to do—finish
his lessons with Harukai-sensei, pack up all his gear, find
a place to stay in the tiny Italian village that housed
Cotto’s famed macellaio, the butcher shop where he
sold his award-winning cured meats and sausages, and also
occasionally took on an apprentice.
Very occasionally. Rarely, in fact, so rarely that Max could
hardly believe the last two years of intermittent
campaigning by letter and visit had finally paid off.
Once he’d learned what Cotto could teach him about
prosciutto, pancetta, and fresh pasta, Max would be versed
in the skills of every major cuisine. And a lot of the minor
ones, too, since he tended to veer off course whenever
curiosity beckoned, but this final piece of the puzzle?
Max had waited a long time to slot it into place.
“Four weeks,” he repeated, like a vow.
“I’ll be in Le Marche in a month.”
Cotto grunted again, sounding satisfied, and hung up,
leaving Max to stare out at the rushing river of
pedestrians, bicycles, mopeds, and buses that clogged the
Tokyo steet.
He was moving on again, on the to the next new thing, the
next challenge—and maybe this time, it would be
enough. Maybe he’d find the place where he could stop
for a while, and feel at ho—...
His phone rang again, almost vibrating itself right out of
his hand.
Shit. Did Cotto change his mind already?
Dread clutching at Max’s heart, he thumbed the phone
on and said, “Pronto.”
“Max?”
The uncertain voice didn’t belong to a mercurial
Italian butcher savant.
“Mom! I’m so glad it’s you. I was just
about to call, I’ve got amazing news.”
“Do you?” The alarm in her voice sliced neatly
through Max’s euphoria. He frowned.
Something had wigged his normally un-wiggable mother.
“Mom? What’s up?”
“Nothing, honey, tell me your news.” The clear
nerves in her voice twisted Max’s tension a notch
higher.
“Mom, you’re freaking me out, here. What’s
going on?”
“Max. You need to come home.”
The world stopped.
“Did something happen?” Max forced out through
numb lips.
Nina’s pause was enough to get Max’s heart
jackrabbitting in his chest, but she said, “No, of
course not. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare
you, honey.”
Max’s lungs jerked into motion again. Relief made his
voice sharp. “If everybody at home is fine, then
what’s this all about?”
“Don’t take that tone with me.”
Max winced. Nina rarely busted out the steely grim, but when
she did, no one was dumb enough to cross her. “And
you’d better not be saying the only way you’d
come home is if someone’s dead or in the
hospital.”
Mad worked at smoothing out his tone. “No, of course
not, Mom.” Although that was kind of true,
wasn’t it? His conscience reared its ugly head, but
Max sat on it. He’d left home for a reason, and he
hadn’t looked back.
“So you’ll come home.”
“Mom. Seriously. Do Dad and Danny even know
you’re calling me?”
“Of course!”
Her overly bright confidence set off Max’s bullshit
meter. “Oh yeah?”
Her sigh was clearly audible, even over the somewhat crackly
reception he got on his international cell phone.
“Your father wants you home. Your brother’s not
thrilled about it, but deep down, he knows I’m right.
We need you, Max.”
Max sighed. It was entirely lame, but for one brief,
glittering moment he’d actually allowed himself to
contemplate the possibility of his family being ready to
forgive and forget.
Sure, he’d talked to his family since he left
home—casual, careful conversations, chit chat. It was
okay with Dad, if stilted. With Danny, though? Not so much.
The kid knew how to hold a grudge. Every conversation was an
emotional minefield.
“Sounds like nothing has changed,” Max said,
trying to keep his heart open and yielding, rather than
bitter and shielded. It was harder than usual. “And I
don’t have time to come home—I have to be in
Italy in a month.”
Even in the midst of arguing with his mother, anticipation
thrilled through him.
“What? Honey, that butcher you’re always going
on about? The one who never takes on an apprentice.”
“Almost never,” Max clarified, grinning into the
phone. “I need a crash course in Italian, because
I’m going back to Loro Piceno in four weeks. And this
time, I’m staying until I learn everything Vincenzo
Cotto has to show me.”
“I’m proud of you. I know you’ve wanted
this for a long time,” Nina said, and she did sound
happy for him. Her urgency had dimmed somewhat. Max hoped
he’d made his point.
“So you get it? I’d love to come visit, Mom, but
I can’t miss this opportunity. Vincenzo Cotto is the
best in the world, and he picked me.”
As if it could be that easy.
“A month is all we need.” Nina rallied quickly.
“You’ll be back on the road before you know
it.”
“Mom—...”
“Maxwell Gerard Lunden. You had better not be thinking
about hanging up that phone.”
Max hesitated. The note of steel had re-entered his
mother’s sweet voice. Nina Lunden might look like a
cream puff, but she was filled with sterner stuff than
vanilla-flavored pastry cream, for sure.
“If I show up at the restaurant,” he said,
trying to be reasonable, “it’s going to be a
fight. You know I’m right.”
“It’s not right for you and Danny to be at odds.
You’re brothers. It’s past time to fix things
between the two of you. And your father might surprise you.
Besides, we don’t need you to work at the
restaurant—where we need you is on the team for the
Rising Star Chef competition.”
“What?” To Max’s knowledge, Lunden’s
Tavern had never participated in any culinary competitions,
let alone the largest, most prominent one in the United
States.
“We’ve put together a team, and we could really
use your competition experience. Your father’s even
willing to give you his spot on the team for the first leg
of the competition—that’s how serious he is
about winning.”
Max leaned back against the wall, trying to take it all in.
Sure, he’d been making his living for years by
entering culinary challenges around the world, winning
enough cash prizes to give him the freedom to apprentice
himself to whatever master of the local cuisine could teach
him the most. But those were single competitor challenges in
small cities and even villages, not a huge national
competition like the RSC.
And the idea that his father could admit, even obliquely,
that Max might be better at something...Max couldn’t
help the grin that spread over his face.
As if sensing a weakness, Nina immediately segued into
wheedling. “Come on, honey. I’m sure after so
many wins, you must have lots of tips and tricks you could
share, strategies that could help your brother and the
others!”
Max laughed. “You’re laying it on a little
thick,” he told her.
He heard the smile in her voice. “Is it working?
”
Sighing, Max knocked his head against the rough wall behind
him. “Kind of,” he admitted. “I’d do
anything I could to help you, and the chance to make things
right with him, with Dad—I won’t lie. It’s
tempting. But...”
Nina wouldn’t be reasoned with. “Things change,
honey. People change.”
“In our stubborn family? No. Not really.” If Max
knew anything, he knew that. He’d given up on hoping
for more a long time ago.
“Fine, but situations change. If you don’t join
the team...Max, we can win. We have a good team, but
they’re green. It’s imperative that we pass the
initial qualifying rounds and get chosen to represent the
East Coast. Once we’re over that hurdle, I think
we’ll be okay, but to get there, we need your help.
I’m pulling the mother card here, Max. Give me some
credit; I haven’t seen my oldest son at home in six
years, but have I nagged you about visiting? No. I’ve
even flown out to see you a couple of times. But now
I’m not asking, I’m telling. Whatever it takes,
whatever happens after you get here, we’ll work it
out. I just...you need to come home.”
Max’s throat tightened in defense against the almost
undetectable quiver in his mother’s voice. Not so
steely, now, and he couldn’t remember the last time
he’d heard her sound like that. Maybe when his
grandmother died. Something was up, something more than this
sudden obsession with winning the Rising Star Chef
competition. And whatever it was, it was bad enough to make
the strongest woman Max had ever known sound like she was
about to cry.
“Just for the qualifying round?” Max clarified,
wanting to be sure he understood what she was asking.
“I get you a spot in the competition, and then
I’m on a plane to Italy.”
“That’s all I’m asking,” she said,
cautious hope coloring her voice.
Gripping the phone tightly enough to make his fingertips go
numb, Max breathed in the hot, wet air of Tokyo, heavy with
the scents of fog and car exhaust, and said,
“I’ll be on the next flight out.”