The Recipe

Love is messy. Some people can’t live without it, the chaos and the confusion, and they will give everything for love. Charlie never understood the fuss, content to work and find fulfillment in her friendships. 

“You just haven’t met the right person, Char,” Her best friend Mary rinsed a plum in the sink. “Do you want anything else while I'm in here?”

She yanked another eggroll from the box. “No thanks Mar, I’m good."

“Are you really, though?" Mary sank into the armchair and pried the tag from the wrinkled skin of her fruit. "You need someone.”

“I like how things are now.” Charlie sipped her tepid and watery ginger ale. “I have you, and the girls. Thanks by the way.” She waved her hand above the cartons of soup and Styrofoam containers of rice and veggies, the scent of garlic and soy still heavy in the air. 

Mary slid a package of oyster crackers toward Charlie. “Of course, you’re welcome, honey. I’m always here for you. Listen, I know you don’t want to hear this now, but—”

“I won’t, but go ahead.” She groaned and slid the crackers to Mary. 

"What if there was a guide, or a formula, for love?” 

Charlie’s deep brown eyes widened. “A formula? What do you mean?””

“OK, maybe not a formula, but a recipe. You’re a chef, you of all people should appreciate that.”

“A recipe for love? What would the ingredients be?”

“I don’t know. Respect, mutual interest, friendship," Mary said through another bite of fruit.

Charlie’s cackle echoed through the high ceilinged living room. “Ha! Sounds like our relationship.”

“That’s not everything.”

Charlie swung her calves to the rug. “OK, then, What else?”

“Well, you need someone who’ll be there for you, when you’re sick or when you’re not, who’ll care for you no matter what.”

”That sounds suspiciously like marriage, Mary. True love should be more than that, don’t you think?”

She groaned and reached over to peck her friend’s forehead. “Let me put all this in the fridge, babe.” 

After Mary helped her get ready for bed with more crackers and a chilled bottle of lemonade on the nightstand, Charlie shifted the pillows under her back near the incision, then pulled up a thick, silky comforter. She was unsure of which she loathed more-the shitty mattress and scratchy, antiseptic sheets or screeching monitors and hourly intrusions with the bright overhead light in her face. 

Did Mary have a point, though? It was a conversation they’d had with their larger circle of friends, half of them single, the others happily partnered, with neither side convincing the other that their choice was better.

Charlie closed her eyes and a memory floated back of sweet, kind David, his smile and honeyed voice that tickled her ear. They ate his delicious vegan dishes and her decadent desserts by candlelight. Their last night, when he asked and she said no, she stared at him, his gorgeous lashes a fan of unshed tears.

“After all this time, that’s your answer?”

Charlie shrugged. “I really like you. I enjoy our dinners, our talks, everything. Why can’t we just do that?”

“Because I want to share my life with you!” He held the bright blue box like an unwanted choice cut of meat. “Are you in love with me, or have you been pretending this whole time?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice was barely a whisper. David tossed the ring, a diamond flanked by sapphires, her birthstone, and left. She FedExed the next day before her shift, and later heard he had moved west six weeks later. 

There had been no one else in nearly three years, and Charlie resumed her late night runs for tuna sandwiches and late morning brisk walks before she went in at 2:30.

She returned home to a voice message from David, asking her to call. I don’t know what love is, so I can't marry you, were the words she could never speak, because she wasn’t the kind of person capable of anything more than friendship.

The tears on Charlie's pillow were an unwelcome surprise. She finally found a more comfortable position that turned off the pain in her side, only to feel a tug somewhere higher that seemed to hang on through a dreamless sleep.

When she woke a few mornings later, Charlie dressed in jeans and T-shirt for her meeting with Tim, her co-owner and friend, about her leave. She planned to tell him she’d return for the weekend, bored out of her mind away from the bustle of the kitchen.

A twenty minute train ride and brisk walk later, an unfamiliar late model red sports car sat in the space where Tim usually parked his ancient black pickup. 

“Tim?” Charlie entered through the back entrance, and spied a tall man in a white button-down and black slacks, a gold timepiece dangling from his slim wrist.

The man revealed a warm smile to match his beautiful dark eyes. “Hello? Is Tim just out for a few minutes?”

“Well, if you call a month’s vacation a few minutes, then yes!” He laughed at his own joke and extended his hand. “Hello, Charlotte. I’m Tim’s brother Martin. It’s nice to meet you.”

Martin’s smooth palm and firm yet gentle grip surprised her even more. “Well, you know who I am. I guess I must have missed the date of our meeting.”

He shook his head. “No, he told me about your health situation, and that you would be very persistent in convincing me to let you come back before you’re healed.”

Hot anger rose in Charlie’s chest. “I’m fine, and I can work. I need to work. I’ll sign whatever you want, if that’s the case.”

“Just as he predicted. Well, Charlie, I’m just here to help out until he returns. I’m not gonna argue with you.” Martin stepped into Charlie’s space. “Just answer one question for me.”

Charlie narrowed her eyes. “I don’t know you, so I hope this isn’t a personal one.”

“It’s not really. Are you here because you truly need to, or is it you want to?” Martin leaned against the metal desk, a clank echoed through the room.

“Why do you care?”

Martin inched closer to her, and a citrus scent filled the air between them. Charlie took a small step back at the jump of her pulse. “Tim said you’re dedicated and hard-working, sometimes too much. Don’t you think you deserve a break to heal yourself?

His eyes swept over Charlie’s slender frame. “I don’t know.”

Martin pulled his hand back from where it hovered near her shoulder. “Well, why don’t we do this instead? You can take one more night to rest, let me buy you dinner tonight and come back tomorrow.”

Charlie smirked and folded her arms. “Is that your unsubtle way of asking me on a date?” Martin nodded. 

“But we don’t know each other.”

“You’ve worked with and for my younger brother for nearly eight years. You don’t think he’s told me about you?”

An hour later, Charlie sat across from Martin at an empty table near the back of the dining room, close enough to hear the kitchen spring to life, of hissing saucepans and chopping ingredients. The potato and cheese soup had the right amount of spiciness, a perfect compliment to the Gruyere he used.

“Wow, this was just what I needed. Thanks so much for dinner.”

“You’re welcome, and I hope it’s enough to get you ready for this week.” Martin stacked the empty bowls and headed toward the kitchen door. 

Charlie tossed her napkin onto the table and stretched her arms. When she stood, a twinge above her right hip toppled her. She grabbed the tablecloth, and their glasses shattered when they hit the floor. A pair of servers, Anita and Griffin, rushed to her side.

“What happened? Should we call for help?” Anita cradled Charlie’s head in her lap, and Griffin slid his phone from his back pocket.

Charlie winced and nausea spread through her. “Maybe.”

Martin burst through the doors and shoved Griffin aside. “Call now!” He reached for Charlie’s hands to slowly lift her upright.

“Was it the food? Are you sick?”

Charlie shook her head. “Mighta popped a stitch.”

Fortunately, it was only a few sutures in need of repair. Martin remained with her the entire time, and before he called Mary.

After Martin left, Mary refilled her water pitcher. “He’s really nice, Charlie. And he sat up with you the whole night?”

“Not the whole time, just til they put me in a room around 2. He needed to get some sleep.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “Another ingredient. Holding your hand through a medical emergency.”

She scowled. ”It was not that-I just popped a stitch! And what are you talking about, Mar?”

“Another ingredient for that true love recipe.” Mary smiled and winked at her.

Charlie sipped her water and shook her head. “That's not happening. It's only been a few weeks."

Later that night, Martin called to check in, and they talked until Charlie was too tired to hold the phone.

During the ten days of Charlie’s second recovery, Martin stocked her fridge and dropped off the items on the list of essentials she'd made before her discharge from the hospital. Over dinner, they discussed menus and other business until she was healed, and shared their plans-Martin’s plans for a chain of restaurants serving gourmet soups and old-fashioned desserts, and Charlie’s dream of writing and publishing a cookbook.  

A week after she returned to the restaurant full-time, Tim cut his trip a week short, and Martin prepared to leave for home, with a few of Charlie’s cake and pie recipes for his menu.

One night, they ate Martin’s spinach and mushroom pizza and her lemon cherry tart to sample. 

“Is this a family recipe?” Martin asked between bites.

Charlie nodded. “My mother’s. I’m supposed to use tart cherries, but I thought sweet ones would work better.”

“You were right.” He reached for the pie tin and used his fork to excise another piece.

“Ugh. The knife is right there.” Their fingers brushed when she handed Martin the knife. A tingle rose up her spine, and Charlie squirmed in her chair.

Martin dropped his utensils and rushed to her side. “Charlie, are you having any pain again?”

“I’m fine, really.” She held Martin’s hand a minute longer. “Thanks for all of your help Martin. You’ve been a really good friend."

“You’re welcome.” Martin’s smile didn’t quite meet his eyes.

When Charlie wrapped up the rest of the tart, Martin was still quiet. “Everything OK?” She searched his face for clues to explain his suddenly subdued mood.

He shook his head. “Have a good night, Charlotte.”

As she lay in bed later, Charlie replayed the details of the evening. They’d eaten, laughed and seemed fine. Yet something between them had shifted, a feeling she could not quite identify. So many things about Martin had become comforting, like a cup of her favorite chai with a dash of cocoa on a Winter night.

Charlie's phone rang just before she drifted off to sleep.

“Hey Mary, I’ll call you tomorrow.” Charlie stifled a yawn.

“Charlotte, it’s David. Were you asleep?”

Not anymore, she almost replied. His voice remained smooth like honey tumbling over ice, and she could hear the smile on his lips.

“David, are you OK?”

He chuckled. “That’s the question I was about to ask you. I heard what happened last week, and I meant to call you.”

Charlie bolted upright against the headboard. “Why?”

David sighed. “Because I worry about you. Are you resting and healing?”

“Yes, but how did you know I went back in?”

“A little birdie called me.”

Charlie scoffed. “Whose name begins with M, I suppose?”

“Possibly. She said you’re seeing someone.”

“How’s your fiancée, David?”

A door closed in the background, and a cricket chirped near him. “She’s fine. We’re doing well. Doesn’t mean I don’t still think about you, Charlie.”

She moved the phone from her ear, unable to ignore the knot inside her gut.

“Charlie?”

“Yes, David?”

He exhaled loudly. “Be honest with him, and yourself. You deserve love, and I always wondered if you doubted that.”

A tear rolled down her cheek. “I was never sure how I felt, but I cared about you. I didn't mean to hurt you.”

“I know, Charlie. Timing is everything. Just be brave, OK?”

Charlie choked back a sob. “I will.” 

Somehow, I will, she promised herself as she faded into a dreamless sleep.

Their last night together, Charlie made a roast turkey feast, with sides and homemade rolls, and a huge pot of her corn and potato chowder that Martin loved and planned to showcase at his new place when it opened the following year.

Charlie chattered about the agent who was interested in her work, and plans for a series of cookbooks for new brides. Martin picked at the food on his plate, his eyes cast down while she spoke. 

“What’s wrong? Is the turkey too dry?” She reached for Martin’s hand, which he inched away. “Martin, what’s going on?”

He pushed up from his chair and knelt in front of Charlie, his fingers warm on her hand. “Don’t you feel it too, Charlie?”

"I don’t know what you mean, Martin.” Yet, she could no longer ignore that familiar rush surging through her at his touch and tenderness of his words.

 “Charlie, the meal was perfect, the turkey was delicious. But I need to go.”

“You don’t want pie? I made the one you wanted with the cherries and pecans.” Charlie rushed to the counter to cut a slice.

Martin sighed. “Charlotte. Put the knife down, please.” He stepped in front of Charlie, clouds of his cool citrus scent drifted around her.

“Please answer the question—do you love me?”

 Charlie dropped the pie plate, and chunks of filling and crust spilled at their feet.

 “Oh! I'm so sorry, Martin.” Charlie reached for a dish towel, and Martin grabbed her hands.

“Charlotte, stop! Don’t ignore this. It’s too important.”

“We barely know each other. And you’re leaving, you said so. Why are you asking, now?"

“I love you, Charlie. You must know.” He kissed her forehead, and bent down to help her clean the mess.

When they were done, Martin took her hands again. “I want to be here for you, whenever you need. Do you understand what I’m offering?’ 

Tears welled in his eyes, and the tenderness of his touch told all. Charlie smiled and nodded. She finally realized that she had the right amount of everything she needed, too precious and exquisite to throw away.

When her husband’s restaurant opened the following Fall, Charlie held her cookbook launch party before Martin began dinner service. Everyone raved about the potato cheddar soup and cherry pecan pie.