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ChapterOne
Maya had always been a foodie. As a child, she’d gazed through the windows of restaurants her adopted parents hadn’t been able to afford, watching beautiful women spin their forks through pasta or slice through succulent steaks, tossing their heads with laughter or leaning across their table, listening intently. An orphan, Maya had assumed these women were a different species, that they’d been chosen for grandeur and beauty at an early age, and that whatever they spoke about was far more intelligent and interesting than anything her adopted parents spoke about. She imagined they discussed books and films and philosophy, that they loved the men on the other side of the table, that they were nourished and happy. These fantasies kept her warm at night.
Maya was now forty-eight years old— lifetimes away from childhood. But food was still her gravitational force, her reason for celebration, her greatest joy. Her food blog, “A Taste Above The Rest,” led her to all the boroughs of New York City on a quest to find the very best of everything: greasy burgers, spaghetti with clams, seven-dollar donuts with sea salt and nougat— and write about them in a way that excited New Yorkers and dared them to try something new. If there was anything in life she loved, it was an invigorating flavor. That, and the anticipation you felt before trying a new restaurant. Somehow, for the past five years of her life, she’d made writing about that a career.
The only problem was that until recently, she’d been the top food critic atFood & Drinkmagazine. That had brought her the majority of her income and readership. When costs were cut at the magazine, her editor had said they were letting her go. “Please, reach out if you want freelance work,” her editor had said, flashing that New Yorker smile. Basically, this meant they were no longer willing to pay Maya a living wage or offer health insurance, but they’d pick up her writing if it was “good enough for them at that time” or fit the theme of the current issue. It wasn’t promising.
Since then, Maya had thrown full focus into her own blog, but without the magazine’s advertisement help, her readership hadn’t exactly skyrocketed. Making a profit seemed about as likely as fish flying. Her boyfriend, a chef named Nick Collins, had told her to keep chipping away at it, to keep writing until the blog stuck. But as she made final notes to herself in a Spanish tapas restaurant in the Lower East Side, her head pounded with self-doubt.
“How did you like the croquettes?” One of the restaurant owners smiled as she removed the empty plate, which shone with grease.
“They were delicious.” Maya clicked the end of her pen. “Do I taste a hint of pistachio in there?”
The woman beamed. “Yes! You have an incredible palate. You know, I used to read your column inFood & Drinkall the time. In a way, you helped my husband and me decide on the menu of this place. We’ve been going strong for about three years now.”
“I’m so happy to hear that.” Maya swallowed.
“And when can we expect our restaurant to appear in the magazine?”
Maya’s heart thudded. “Unfortunately, this article won’t be appearing inFood & Drink.”
The woman’s face fell. “I see.”
Maya scrambled for an explanation. She couldn’t explain how “unnecessary” food critics were in the current economy. This woman didn’t care about that. It certainly didn’t make sense to Maya, who still found food criticism to be a high art. She loved contributing to it.
“But it’s going up on my blog,” Maya hurried to add. “It’s called ‘A Taste About The Rest.’”
“A blog?” The woman looked doubtful. “Okay. Well, I'm looking forward to it.” She turned on her heel and disappeared into the kitchen.
After Maya finished the last of her tapas and red wine, she donned her black pea coat, paid her bill, and returned to the sharp cold of the mid-November afternoon. She was miles away from her apartment on the Upper East Side, but she didn’t feel like slipping into a cab just yet. She wanted to watch the people and admire shop window displays— some of which, she was sorry to see, were already decorated for Christmas. She rolled her eyes. Why did everyone feel the need to get a head-start on Christmas these days? The holiday was already full-on enough— music everywhere; Starbucks changing their cup designs; people being especially “nice” because they felt they had to be. Maya couldn’t wait for it to be over. The relief she felt in January was akin to waking up from a nightmare.
Maya reached her apartment building at three-thirty. The doorman, Calvin, whose face was gentle and warm, said, “Afternoon, Maya! Did you have another scrumptious meal today?”
“I did.” Maya smiled.
“I can’t wait to read about it.”
Maya considered reminding him that she was no longer published withFood & Drink— that he would have to find her blog if he wanted to read about it. But she kept her lips shut.
When Maya had first moved into Nick’s apartment building four years ago, she’d imagined she would never get used to how ornate and elegant it was. Even now, as she paused at the mailboxes, she admired the gorgeous carvings in the wood, the old-fashioned golden mirrors hanging on the walls, and the floor that looked taken from a Roman cathedral. “I can’t believe you live here,” she’d told Nick early on. And he’d said, “You live here, too. Remember?” She’d swooned.
Maya collected their mail and rode the elevator to the twelfth floor. Nick wasn’t home yet; he would probably return around nine after the rush was over at the restaurant, and then he could slip away from his chef duties, leaving the sous chefs to do the rest. He worked at an exclusive restaurant on the Upper West Side and was listed amongst the “best chefs in Manhattan.” That was how Maya had met him; she’d been sent to review his food byFood & Drinkmagazine. After her glowing review, he’d called her and asked her out. “I remember you from the restaurant,” he’d explained on the phone. “You’re beautiful.” Maya’s first thought, at the time, was that he’d mistaken her for someone else. It wasn’t that she was bad-looking. Back then, she’d been forty-three, trim from daily runs in Central Park, with shoulder-length dark brown hair and big brown eyes. But she wasn’t memorable, either. She’d been around the block enough times to know that.
Maya changed into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and sat cross-legged on the couch, going through the mail. It was mostly bills and magazines, save for one envelope that was embossed and addressed to her. Since she’d lost her job, she’d hardly gotten anything of interest in the mail. She opened it with an official letter opener, which Nick had received from an old boss of his.
As Maya read the letter, she stood from the couch with surprise. Her heart thudded. When she finished it, she stared out the window in disbelief. Was someone playing a trick on her?
The letter was from a lawyer named Thaddeus DeWitt, who was located in Hollygrove, New York. A quick Google search told Maya that Hollygrove was a four-hour drive away from the city, somewhere upstate. A population of only ten thousand people. That was nothing compared to New York City. The lawyer explained that Maya’s Aunt Veronica Albright was currently in a nursing home in Hollygrove and very ill. Due to the nature of her sickness, Veronica suggested that Maya be contacted now, rather than after her death, in order to receive her inheritance.
The word rang in Maya’s head, and she read it over and over again.Inheritance?It was laughable. As a child, she and her parents hadn’t had more than a few coins to rub together. After her mother and father died when she was six, she’d been taken in by a neighbor and raised in borderline poverty. She’d gone to bed hungry frequently. It didn’t make any sense.
Albright was her mother’s maiden name, but Maya had never heard of anyone named Veronica. Where had she been after Maya’s parents’ death? Why was this letter— acknowledging their relationship— coming when Maya was forty-eight years old? Questions swirled in her mind. She felt crazy.
On top of it all, the lawyer said her inheritance, which included a Victorian mansion worth four million dollars, wouldn’t just be given to her, as easy as pie. Rather, Maya had to “earn it.” “It’s really best if you come to Hollygrove in person and hear the stipulations of the inheritance,” Mr. DeWitt wrote. “Please contact my secretary and let me know when you plan to arrive. I’m looking forward to meeting you, as is my client, Veronica.”
A four-million-dollar mansion. An inheritance. An aunt she’d never known about. It all seemed taken from a storybook. Again, Maya wondered if it was some kind of scam. Maybe, if she drove to where Hollygrove supposedly was located, she would find nothing but a gas station and a phone booth.
Maya put the letter to the side for a while, deciding to chat to Nick about it when he got home. She needed to think. To distract herself, she vacuumed the living room, mopped the kitchen, and even considered polishing the silverware. Nick hated when she did stuff like that; he paid a maid for a reason, he said. But cleaning was meditative for Maya.
