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“Tell me,” she says, “what do I need to make this life-giving concoction?”
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Magdalena. Or Mags. Why?”
“Magdalena. Of course it is,” I mutter, imagining her as her namesake, a delicious Spanish cupcake. “Well, Magdalena, I need to speak to the chef who made this before I tell you. Give me a minute.”
I leave her seated at my table with my half-eaten linguini.
“Cecilia,” I approach the manager, “permission to enter your kitchen? I have a question for the chef about the clam drink.”
Cecilia, who had been my manager for over a decade and is still a good friend, stands on her toes to put her hands on my shoulders. “Stirling, isn’t that like an alcoholic having just a little taste? I don’t know if it’s a good idea to let you back there.”
“Darlin’, even if I was tempted to pick up a knife, lawyers would be all over me before the soufflé could rise. I’m trying to help Magdalena,” I point my thumb over my shoulder, “the woman with the clam smoothie addiction, make it through the last weeks of her pregnancy.”
“Fine.” She pushes open the kitchen door and calls in. “Merike, a customer has a question for you.” Then she turns to face me. “Hands to yourself. Touch nothing. Understand?”
I drive my hands deep into my jeans pockets and nod. “Clear as consommé.”
The chef swings the door open and gestures for me to enter her kitchen.
“Merike,” Cecilia says, “this is Stirling Cox. Stirling, Merike Raycraft, the Executive Chef of … Stirling Cox.”
That sounds so wrong, but I smile at the chef who does not look one iota intimidated or impressed that she’s meeting me.
“How can I help you?” she asks.
“In short, you’ve created a drink that a pregnant woman’s sanity and her babies’ health and well-being seem to rely on. I believe I know what you’ve used to make it, and I would like to share that with her so she can make her own clam smoothie at home.”
The chef shakes her head. “Not on your life.”
“Merike, Chef Raycraft, she’s been sentenced to bedrest. You know she can’t get takeout. Give her a break. I’ll swear her to secrecy.”
Her eyebrows rise and her lips twist into a pinched scowl. “The answer is no. You may not tell her what you believe I use to make the clam smoothie. And, if you do, and I hear about it … ”
She’s not kidding. Nor would I have been in her position. I have to respect her wishes.
“Thank you for your time,” I say.
“Thank you for your professionalism.” She nods, dismissing me.
Before I let go of the door, I ask, “The clam linguini?”
“Yes?”
“You’ve changed the recipe, reversed the ratios of garlic to shallots.”
“I have.” There goes that eyebrow scowl combo again.
“It’s a subtle change but, I have to admit, an improvement on a meal I’d always considered to be perfection.”
“High praise,” she says, her face softening a fraction.
“Deserved,” I reply. “Thank you for your time. And congratulations on maintaining the quality of the name my father built.”
I turn and am through the door when I hear her call my name. I push it open with my shoulder and lean my head in.
“Although I do not grant you permission to share what you think my clam smoothie recipe is, if you want to make that drink for this woman—and this woman only—you have my blessing.”
