Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three             

 MELROSE MIRACLE

by Staci Wilder

Chapter Four

             Ella stood outside the diner. It wasn’t often she entered as a customer, and the feeling was a strange one. She glanced down once more at her skirt, smoothed an imaginary wrinkle, picked a piece of white fuzz from her sweater, and willed herself to be brave.

            “Here goes.” She raised her head with resolution, pulled open the door, and found herself staring straight into familiar blue eyes.

            “Hello, there.” Taller than she remembered, Luke Abney wore khaki Dockers and a white button-down shirt that looked like it had been starched within an inch of its life. The purple Lakers cap was missing tonight and his blond hair was even more gorgeous than Ella had imagined it. She reached a self-conscious hand to her own hair, glad the heavy-duty conditioner she’d used this afternoon had managed to tame the often unruly curls.

            And thank goodness she’d left that goofy beret on the bedroom floor.

            “Hi,” Ella hesitated as he reached out for her hand. This might be how they did things in Hollywood, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to walk into the diner hand-in-hand with a virtual stranger. Especially not in this town! She tried to jerk her hand back, but he’d already grasped it in his own, and was now giving it a hearty shake.

            “Oh.” It’s only a hand-shake, you silly ninny…

            His deep blue eyes crinkled around the edges as he smiled down at her. “I’m glad you could make it. Kurt’s inside, waiting for us.” He gestured with his other arm. “Shall we?”

            Ella nodded, hoping the smile she’d ordered her face to produce was duly in place. Then she walked toward the back corner table unsure where these steps might ultimately take her. But…it was time to find out.

            “Ella,” Kurt Finley stood stretched out his hand as she approached, “It’s good to see you again. Thanks for taking the time to meet with us tonight.” He motioned for her to sit. “I understand you have a small daughter, right?”

            “Um, yes. Yes, I do.” Ella paused when she realized Luke was holding her chair for her. “Thank you.” She smiled and felt her lips tremble with the movement. When Luke’s eyes held hers just a moment longer than necessary, Ella was pretty certain her insides did a complete flip-flop. Trying to save her composure, she looked away quickly and tried to focus on Kurt’s question. “Chloe.” She nodded. “She just turned two.”

            “Ah, the two’s.” Kurt took the seat across from her. “Are they terrible yet? Any coloring on the walls? Temper tantrums? Sudden attachment to the word ‘no’?”

            Ella laughed and raised her eyebrows.

            “Yep, that’s right. You guessed it.” Kurt settled back in his chair and crossed one leg over his knee. “I have a rug rat of my own.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a worn brown leather wallet. He slid a glossy two-by-three snapshot across the table. “This is Daniel. He’ll be three in a few weeks.”

            Ella leaned forward and studied the picture. A miniature version of Kurt, minus the gray temples, the small boy wore a mischievous grin and had just a hint of the smattering of freckles that would one day trail across his nose.

            “He’s very cute.” She smiled. Did he expect her to pull out photos of Chloe now? That wouldn’t be appropriate, would it? This was business, right? They were here to basically interview her. Ella shifted in her chair, unsure.

            Luke, in the seat next to her, took care of it for her. He pushed the photo back to Kurt. “Yeah, yeah, buddy, you got a cute kid. We believe you, right, Ella?” He winked at her and placed his hand on the back of her chair in a conspiratorial manner.

            “Okay, I can take a hint.” Kurt chuckled and pulled a laptop from his case. “Let’s get down to business. But for what it’s worth,” he paused and glanced at Ella, “Luke here is my Daniel’s favorite babysitter. Aren’t ya, bud?” Kurt snorted as though he’d just unveiled a national secret.

            Ella managed a grin, all too aware of Luke’s hand a mere inch or two from her back. She risked a peek his way and was surprised to see a slow pinkish flush begin to creep up Luke’s neck. Embarrassment only made him more attractive. She made a mental note to not clue Reggie in on this detail. Her best friend would have a field day if she knew the way Ella’s pulse seemed to stage a run-away in this man’s presence. No, it was better to keep that arsenal of information to herself.

            “Okay, Ella, why don’t we start with me telling you the basics of the contest.” Kurt moved on.

            “Sure, that’d be great.”

            “Restaurant 101 will be taped at Dreamcaster Productions in Studio City. It will be The Cooking Channel’s first venture into a reality series.” He paused to make sure she was following. “We’re bringing together seven other chefs, besides yourself, and we’re going to see what happens when we put you in front of a camera.”

            Ella felt herself cringe and hoped it didn’t show on her face. Her insides felt like jelly on a merry-go-round. She forced a smile and nodded.

            “Each week we’ll introduce a new challenge. Each chef will be asked to complete that challenge and then the judges will deliberate. One chef a week will be eliminated until the final week. Then we’ll step things up a notch and there will be two elimination ceremonies and the final award.”

            Ella released a sudden puff of breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding. She sank against the back of her chair and felt Luke’s fingers graze the smoothness of her sweater. She’d almost forgotten his hand was there…

            “I know. Intense, huh?” Kurt shrugged and grinned. “It’s not for the faint of heart.”

            “About that final award…” Luke pointed to Kurt. “Let’s give her some incentive, man.”

            Kurt planted his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers, obviously pausing for dramatic effect. Ella got the distinct feeling that these two had this routine down to a science. What she couldn’t afford to forget was that there were seven other finalists with dreams as large as hers. The contest was sure to be fierce, a guaranteed fight to the end.

            “Yes, please,” Ella tried to talk around her rising trepidation, “throw me a bone!”

            Kurt chuckled again. “How’s this for a bone? The last chef standing in Restaurant 101 will earn the pleasure of running their very own restaurant. Complete with their chosen theme, menu specialties, and a wait staff just itching to make your dream a reality.”

            “Oh, wow.” Ella clasped her hands together, speechless.

On the one hand she wanted to celebrate, maybe scream or jump up and down, that she’d even been selected as one of the finalists. But the practical Ella, ever the consummate realist, hated to waste the emotion when this was the mere beginning of a very long, very tedious journey.

            “Pretty fantastic, isn’t it?” Luke’s voice was warm and low next to her.

            “No kidding.” She grinned and looked at him, a jittery flutter in her stomach startling her when his deep blue eyes locked on hers. Between the intensity of his gaze and the intimacy in his voice, her insides were standing at attention. If Kurt hadn’t been sitting directly across from her, Ella didn’t know if she’d have the power to tear her eyes away from Luke.

            He leaned in close now and spoke in a mock used car salesman voice. “And just think. This could all be yours for the low, low price of…your privacy, your pride, and the ability to let television cameras capture your every slip-up!”

            Ella laughed out loud, grateful that someone at this table had the courage to talk about the elephant in the room—that undeniable truth that made this whole adventure a risk that almost wasn’t worth taking.

            Winning would require sharing herself in the most personal, public way possible. If she did well, The Cooking Channel viewers would celebrate with her. If she failed miserably, all America would be talking about it at the company water cooler.

            Would she be able to stand the heat? Or should she get out of the kitchen now?

*****

mox▪ie  n  1. ENERGY, PEP  2. KNOW-HOW, EXPERTISE

3. COURAGE, DETERMINATION

            The words peered up at her from the worn pages of Webster’s Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary, a graduation present she’d received—how long had it been—eleven years ago?

            Ella traced her finger over the page. Eleven years since high school graduation, when most days it seemed like no more than a handful. Where had the time gone? And why—if so much time had passed—did she still feel so much like that insecure seventeen-year-old girl she’d been back then?

            Moxie. Reggie had used that word earlier, the one Stephen had loved to tease her with. That five-letter, two-syllable word continued to run through her mind like a child through a playground, long after she’d tucked Chloe in for the night, and then gone to bed herself.

            She’d finally thrown back the covers, shuffled to the bookshelf, snatching up the dictionary on the way to the kitchen. Here she still sat—swaddled in a pink terry cloth bathrobe, sipping a cup of hazelnut coffee that would insure she remained wide-awake for hours to come, and pondering the black-and-white printed words in front of her.

            Energy and pep. Ella snorted in the stillness of the small kitchen. Yeah, right. Those were two things she rode like a roller coaster at Coney Island. Up one day, down the next. Then the cycle started up all over again.

            It hadn’t always been this way. Before Stephen’s diagnosis, every day resembled a vacation in some small way. Whether it was an unexpected cup of coffee in bed, a midnight phone call when he traveled, or simply lying next to him in their bed, quietly talking until they drifted off to sleep, it hadn’t mattered.

            Each day had seemed bright, full of promise and new opportunities. Opportunities they’d longed for, embraced, dreamed about.

            Opportunities like the contest.

            No! Ella batted at the thought, trying to shoo it from her mind. No fair. She hated it when that happened, when Stephen’s voice seemed to whisper to her conscience, entwining distant cherished memories with circumstantial details of her life today, until she could no longer distinguish reality from a figment of her longing.

            Memory was a wonderful thing. With the exception of their beautiful baby girl, these memories were all Ella had left of Stephen. But they were bittersweet.

            Holding her close one minute, piercing her heart the next.

            She stood now and walked to the sink, dumping the last cool remains of a cup of coffee she should have never fixed in the first place. Anchoring her palms on the counter, Ella shut her eyes against the wave of images trying to sneak across the screen of her mind.

            Stephen holding Chloe for the first time. Stephen smiling at her from the door as he left for an early morning jog. Stephen giving her a thumbs-up sign when she’d finally nailed the Panini recipe—

            “Woooo…” Ella blew out a long breath and walked back to the table, sinking with weak legs into her chair. The recipe. Suddenly it all made sense—her hesitancy during the taping, the uncertainty that had continued to plague her about this contest.

            Sending in her contest entry meant sharing a part of Stephen with the rest of the world. A part she’d held locked safe inside for the past year. The part that was hers alone.

            Her eyes drifted back to the open dictionary. Know-how and expertise. Funny how those two words seemed to have nothing to do with energy and pep. Yet they both defined the one attribute she desperately wanted to possess. You have such moxie, Ella-girl! Stephen’s proud voice  echoed in her mind. How often had he whispered those words? I’m so very proud of you.

            Would he still be proud of her today? What if—Ella shifted in her chair, tugging the sash of her robe tighter—what if he’s looking down on me now? She cringed. Was he proud of the way she barely dragged herself out of bed each morning? Proud of the way she carried Chloe to Saturday morning Mommy & Me time, dressed in faded sweats and a slicked-back ponytail? Proud of the way she still avoided church each Sunday, mentally crossing yet another week from the calendar she carried in her mind?

            “Stephen, I’m a mess.” Whispered anguish ripped from Ella’s gut, clawing its way to her lips, and then spewing into the hushed silence of the kitchen. She’d run the gamut over the past twelve months. Grief. Loneliness. Anger. Ample tears for each emotion had been duly shed, and yet there always seemed to be more tears.

            But the sensations erupting from Ella now were different, and she knew it.

            This had nothing to do with Stephen. She’d lost her first love, sure, and she’d grieved for him. But now she’d lost something else and, without it, she was nothing.

            She’d lost herself.

            Somewhere between the slew of casseroles that’d been brought in during the weeks following the funeral until this very moment—sitting at the table in her bathrobe long after the clock in the living room had struck midnight—Ella Paglia had lost herself.

            Courage and determination. Her eyes sought out the third, and final, definition. Blurred by tears that refused to fall, the black-and-white printed page danced before her eyes. Slowly but methodically, it emblazoned a new truth into the furthest  recesses of her soul.

            She could do this. She would go to Los Angeles and participate in Restaurant 101. She’d give it her all. Not only could she do it, but she’d do it well. It wasn’t about the winning. Not winning the contest anyway. Ella shut the dictionary and pushed it away. The winning wasn’t in the contest. It was in her. If she could find a way to press through, to somehow tap into that moxie Stephen had believed she possessed…

            If she could uncover long buried courage and determination, then maybe…just maybe, she’d find herself in the process. 

by Staci Wilder

 …remove far from me vanity and lies: give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with food convenient for me…Proverbs 30:8

 Chapter One

 Milltown, Louisiana

            There was no reason to believe today would be different than any other day.

            Ella Paglia glanced—for the fifth time just inside of an hour—at the large round clock boasting jumbo oversized numbers that hung on the far wall of the kitchen. Exactly noon. She blew out a huff of breath and flashed the big, burly cook a wry grin. At least it felt wry. For all Ella knew, as weary as she already felt, her lips could very well be doing most anything they liked and she wouldn’t know the difference. Max returned the grin though, and shrugged his broad shoulders in a way that said, I know…I know…

            In Milltown, Louisiana, time crawled on its hands and knees.

            “Is it really still Tuesday, Max?”

            The older man didn’t answer, and Ella didn’t expect him to. They had opened the diner together this morning at five a.m.—in time to feed the first shift of mill workers before they went on duty and get ready for the onslaught of the third shift when they came off at seven. While Ella felt the rigors of the demanding seven hours—aching back, screaming feet, a mouth stretched sore from hours of being “on”—Max, on the other hand, continued to work tirelessly, his pace never slowing. Now he whistled loudly as he heaped another plate with fried chicken and homemade biscuits. Ella took the plates, arranged them on a tray, and then carefully balanced the load as she used her hip to push through the heavy swinging doors.

            It didn’t matter that Ella had now lived in the small piney woods community of Milltown for—had it really been this long?—two full years. She had never quite adjusted to the laid-back lifestyle and the complete absence of all things hurried and planned. Much different than the fast-paced way of life she was used to on the Jersey coast—where everything seemed to pop with activity and people walked with purpose and determination.

            Ella swatted at the memories trying to push their way to the front burner of her mind. Memories best left alone. It had been two years since Stephen’s death and her move to Milltown, and still the memories insisted on tormenting her, often at the most inconvenient times and places.

            Like right now.

            Max’s Diner—located at 4^th and Main—held its usual Tuesday summer lunch crowd. A hand full of neighborhood teens huddled in one noisy corner booth. A spattering of local business owners conducted impromptu meetings over huge platters of Max’s fried chicken. The Rotary Club was having its monthly meeting in the back room. And the old fashioned lunch counter was peppered with individuals—mostly overall-clad retired grandpas and housewives busily scribbling their afternoon grocery lists—all stopping by for the Tuesday special.

            “Smells delish, Ella.” Reggie, Ella’s best girlfriend, sniffed appreciatively as Ella set the order down in front of her. “Nobody makes fried chicken like Max.”  Reggie lifted a fork in anticipation, glanced up at Ella, and pointed to the chair next to her. “Can you take a break? Sit down for a minute?”

            Ella surveyed the tables and their occupants. All seemed to be taken care of, for the moment anyway. In a few minutes Ernie Johnson would need a refill of the sweet iced tea he loved so much. His wife, Mamie, would ask for another napkin. And Charlie Mason would request a second slice of the pie of the day—cherry—along with a cup of coffee—black. Ella knew these things because…well, because it had been this way every single Tuesday since she started at the diner nearly a year ago.

            “Maybe a small break.” She sank into the chair, trying not to think how wrong it was that a hard, wooden chair could feel so utterly dreamlike beneath her weary body.

            “So have you heard anything yet?” Reggie opened a small cellophane packet of honey and drizzled it over her biscuit.

            “About what?” Ella watched in amazement as her friend took a large bite of the gooey bread, and then handed her a napkin as the sticky honey oozed from the corner of Reggie’s mouth. She eyed the smart Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress that managed to make her friend’s waist appear even tinier than it actually was. “How do you stay so thin, eating like this?”

            Reggie’s eyes widened, practically dancing with delight, but she continued to chew the mouthful, finally swallowing with a huge satisfied smile. “This is sooo good.” She took a sip of her diet cola and shrugged. “You know I only eat like this when I’m in town. Calories don’t count in Milltown, right?”

            Ella laughed, resisting the urge to glance down at her own hips, which—if they could talk—would beg to differ. Her once slender five-foot-two-inch frame now nicely filled out a perfect size 12, producing curves Ella hadn’t even known her body was capable of back in New Jersey. She credited motherhood with the added pounds and tried not to resent them too much. The joy of Chloe was worth any cost, even if it meant a rounder behind and a slight stomach pooch.

            Regina “Reggie” Bradshaw was another story entirely. Tall and lithe, with waist-length auburn locks and a milky white complexion, Reggie looked as though she’d freshly stepped from the latest issue of InStyle. Ella didn’t know how her friend managed to marry the chic sophistication of her Los Angeles lifestyle with the down-home, what-you-see-is-what-you-get mentality of Milltown. But somehow Reggie not only managed it, but enjoyed it. Her friend had a zest for life that generally proved contagious to all those around her.

            No doubt why Kristi fought so hard to get her, Ella thought.

            Reggie had scored large when she’d accepted the position of personal assistant to Kristi Carmichael, a twenty-something pop music diva, born and bred right here in Milltown, Louisiana. Bopping between her cozy home in town and her trendy LA apartment, Reggie’s frequent flyer miles earned more perks than Ella’s entire savings passbook. But in spite of the traveling, the concerts, the hob-nobbing with the rich and famous, Reggie managed to remain as crisp and cool as a cucumber in a summer salad. No wilting visible on this girl.

            “You didn’t answer my question.” Reggie poked at the chicken breast with her fork, and then peeled back the batter and removed part of the skin.

            So calories do count after all, don’t they, Reg? Ella leaned forward, propping her elbow on the table, and her chin in her hand. Watching Reggie forego the batter made her suddenly feel a lot better. “What question?”

            “The contest, silly. Have you heard anything yet?”

            Ella frowned. The contest—Restaurant 101—the one Ella had no hope of winning. She shook her head. “Not yet.”

            She didn’t bother to add that she didn’t expect to hear anything. The idea was laughable at best, if not downright ludicrous. Like McAllister Pruitt—only the most well-known celebrity chef turned Cooking Channel star—would hand-pick her to be a part of his new reality-based series…

            Reggie leaned forward and whispered—for no apparent reason—in a highly conspiratorial voice, “Just think. You could be the next Wolfgang Puck. Or Rocco DiSpirito. Or…wait! I’ve got it!” Reggie snapped her fingers, her eyes sparkling. “You’ll be the next Kendall Brooks!”

            “That’s enough!” Ella laughed in spite of how far-fetched her friend’s thoughts ran. If McAllister Pruitt was the most well-known celebrity chef, then Kendall Brooks was America’s Sweetheart of the kitchen. Bright, bubbly, and full of energy, Kendall Brooks had single-handedly ushered a whole new generation into the wonders of culinary treasures. Her daily show, Everyday Meals, was the talk of Milltown.

            “Don’t you see it, Ella?” Reggie was on a roll. “You’re both Italian, cute, a little on the short side…”

            “Stop it, you!” Ella stifled a grin. “This is all easy enough for you. It’d be different, you know, if the shoe were on the other foot!”

            But even as she uttered the retort, she knew it wasn’t true. Reggie Bradshaw—her best friend since seventh grade—operated just fine under pressure. Thrived, in fact, flourishing like a flower beneath the springtime sun. But Reggie seemed unaware how rare her laidback confidence was and, although their personalities stood in stark contrast to one another, they’d been soul sisters since junior high. Everyone should have a friend that believed in them as much as Reggie believed in her. If only that belief were enough.

            Reggie had been the one to convince her to enter the contest in the first place. Three weeks ago, sitting right here, at this very table. In town for a long weekend, Reggie had unfolded a copy of The Bay Gazette, and pointed to the article mid-way down Page Two of the LA Living section.

McAllister Pruitt and The Cooking Channel

Present Restaurant 101

            The prominent headline led into a full-page summary of the upcoming reality series that would follow eight contestants—all vying for a restaurant of their own—and the various challenges they would undertake in the process. All under the intense scrutiny of McAllister Pruitt himself.

            Ella had read the article with interest, knowing instinctively that she would be a fan of the show. The Cooking Channel was practically the designated channel in their small apartment. They’d snuggle on the sofa at night, watching Kendall Brooks prepare scrumptious easy-to-prepare meals in thirty minutes or less. Even Chloe—now just two—loved to carry her plastic dishes to the coffee table, letting out a robust Bam! Every now and then. 

            “You should enter.” Reggie’s suggestion had seemed ridiculous at the time, but her friend had proved relentless. Reggie had waved her arms in the air like one of those guys you see on airport tarmacs. All that was missing was the bright yellow bib and orange light stick.

            “Picture it, okay, El?”—her enthusiasm gradually drawing Ella—“There you are, making your famous, scrumptious—” she’d rolled her eyes heavenward—“Vegetable Panini! Something you can practically do in your sleep, by the way.”

            In the span of fifteen short, thought-provoking minutes, Ella had been convinced. Tape a three-minute cooking segment—sure, why not? Cooking was her thing, after all, and the kitchen—her domain, no doubt about it.

She and Chloe ate mostly tuna salad sandwiches and cold cereal these days, but there’d been a time when whipping up a last minute dinner party for eight of their closest friends had been nothing at all. After moving here to Milltown, Reggie had insisted she have some business cards printed and advertise her catering services.

 In spite of the fact it meant more time away from Chloe, Ella rather enjoyed the creativity catering allowed. Of course, around here she mainly did children’s birthday parties, an occasional anniversary celebration, and the annual Christmas dinner sponsored by the mill each December. Certainly not enough to pay the ever-growing mound of bills, and certainly not enough to leave her position at Max’s.

Ella tried not to look at “what could have been”. The restaurant she and Stephen planned to open. The siblings they’d planned for Chloe. The anniversary vacation to Hawaii they’d never taken. Ella knew if she did began to glance in the rear view mirror too often she’d somehow lose what quality still did exist in her life. Chloe. Her friends. Max, and his incredible generosity.

No, it was better if she didn’t dwell on the fact that she and Stephen had been just one signature short of signing a six-month lease on the building that would have housed Ella’s Little Italy.

What a difference twenty-four hours could make…

            The very next day the doctor had delivered their life sentence. Six to nine months—if they were lucky. The restaurant—and the dream it represented—passed away just as quietly as Stephen had on that chilly late October afternoon. Crushed and alone for the first time in her life, Ella had packed up Stephen’s belongings, along with both, her dreams and her faith in God.

            “You okay?” Reggie arched two perfectly plucked eyebrows in concern. “Don’t worry about the contest. They’ll contact you, don’t you doubt that.”

            There was so much conviction in her voice that Ella almost believed her.

            The three-minute taped segment had been sent to the Los Angeles studios of McAllister Pruitt. Ella cringed every time she pictured a group of yuppie Hollywood types pulling her entry from a tightly taped padded manila mailer. They’d no doubt watch with amusement as a single Louisiana mom of one very energetic two-year-old tried to impress them with her simple—all be it delicious—Vegetable Panini.

            Ella tried to stifle the cringe now sneaking up her spine. Had she really thought she might win the chance to run her own restaurant because of this old family recipe? The whole thing seemed like a colossal waste of time and effort.

            Hers and theirs.

            “Think about it, El.” Reggie reached over and squeezed Ella’s hand. “You’re amazing in the kitchen, you have all these fabulous Italian recipes you grew up with, and you’re beautiful. What more could The Cooking Channel want?”

            Ella bit her tongue and resisted the urge to clue Reggie in on exactly ‘what more’ an up-and-coming hip network might want. Um…how about a flawless cover girl face, model-thin thighs, and hair that didn’t have a mind all its own. Just to name a few, of course.

            Now she couldn’t help wondering if entering the contest had been an impulsive long-shot she’d later regret. Every fiber of her five-foot-three frame doubted she’d ever hear anything. She could never decide which was the worse of two evils: taking a chance and falling on your face or never taking a risk and feeling like you’ve missed out on something. Something that could potentially change your life.

            So she’d taken the risk this time. What was the worst that could happen anyway? They’d view her taped segment and decide she wasn’t quite the character or the cook they were looking for in this series. And then her life would continue on as it had for the past year. She’d continue to work her shifts in the diner. Continue to treasure her evenings and weekends with Chloe. Continue to scramble to climb out of the monstrous debt. Life would go on. Just as it had after Stephen’s death. Just as it always would.

            She straightened in her chair now, widened her eyes, and flashed Reggie her profile. “But the thing is…I don’t have any dimples.” Sticking a finger in her cheek, she attempted a lop-sided grin. “You know, like Kendall Brooks’—”

            Reggie giggled and dragged a fry through the last bit of gravy on the plate. “Maybe not, but you’ve got something else, Ella. Something far better. You’ve got…moxie.”

            Ella struggled to swallow. She couldn’t believe Reggie had found the guts to utter that word to her. It had been Stephen’s special word for her.

            Reggie continued, apparently oblivious that she’d stunned Ella. “And that, my sweet friend, is going to take you to amazing places, Ella. I just know it.”

            Charlie Mason twisted in his chair across the dining area, craning his neck as he no doubt looked for her.

            “I’d better get back to work.” Ella stood, then bent and hugged Reggie. “What would I do without you, Reg?”

            Reggie grinned, shrugged, and slipped the remaining bite of biscuit between her lips. “Don’t worry about it—you’ll always have me.”

            Ella brought Charlie’s pie, grabbed a handful of napkins for Mamie, and refilled Ernie’s tea glass. But her mind stayed glued on Reggie’s words. You’ll always have me. Reggie might be the more worldly of the two of them—with her world travels, multi-city concert dates, and glitzy Hollywood lifestyle. But losing Stephen had taught Ella a lesson her friend had yet to learn.

            You just never knew when you might be saying good-bye to someone…for the last time.

***

            It was close to one o’clock in the afternoon when Luke Abney pulled open the front door of Max’s Diner. He followed his buddy Kurt to a table near the large picture window that overlooked the sporadic traffic on Main Street.
            “Cool place, huh?” He dropped into a chair and glanced around the small cafe with a grin. It had been a while—in fact, his last visit home—since he’d eaten in a place like this. The red vinyl booths, black-and-white checked floor, and old-fashioned lunch counter reminded him of Percy’s Drugstore back home. Just like Percy’s, it was a little like stepping back in time.

            And taking a step or two back in time—or at the very least, slowing the pace a bit—sounded like a good plan to Luke.

            Kurt eyeballed the room, shrugged, and quirked an eyebrow. “Cool? Yeah, I guess so. If you like this kind of place.”

            “Aw, man.” Luke teased his buddy and reached for the plastic-coated menus that stood propped between the bottle of ketchup and a salt shaker. “Don’t tell me you’ve allowed Tinsel Town to jade your thinking.” He motioned with his arm. “This is awesome, small-town America at its best. The real world. Real people.”

            Kurt grinned. “As long as they have real food I’ll be a happy customer.”

            “It’ll be good, trust me.” Luke jabbed a menu under Kurt’s nose and then bent to study his. In seconds his mouth started to water as he read about the homemade chicken pot pie and English pea casserole—dishes you just couldn’t find in trendy LA restaurants.

            “Hi, welcome to Max’s. Would you like to hear today’s special?”

            Luke glanced up into the most beautiful pair of brown eyes he ever remembered seeing. In person, that is; the video segment had been his first clue. The petite waitress looked to be thirty-ish, with olive skin and a mass of sun-tinted brown curls that she’d tried to capture—rather unsuccessfully—in a ball on the top of her head.

            Luke tried not to stare, and tried even harder to find his voice. He’d known from the contest entry that she was attractive, but in person her freshly-scrubbed good looks rendered him speechless.

            “Sure, we’d love to hear the specials.” Kurt answered her, and then kicked him beneath the table, just the nudge Luke needed to remind him it was rather rude to stare.          “Okay. Today’s special features Max’s—” she gestured in the direction of the kitchen—“famous fried chicken and homemade biscuits.”

            Kurt’s eyebrows rose and he glanced at an elderly couple seated at the next table. The man—dressed in worn coveralls and white t-shirt—winked and nodded.

            “The best fried chicken this side of the Mississippi.”

            Luke closed his menu and grinned at the waitress. “That’s good enough for me then.”

            Kurt looked skeptical, but he nodded. “Make that two. Oh, and a couple of espressos, please.”

            Luke coughed into his hand, trying to send a signal his buddy’s direction. No way was Kurt going to find one of his beloved coffee specialties in this diner. He risked a peek at the waitress and glimpsed a hint of amusement playing in the corners of her lips.

            “Espressos?” She tapped her order pad with the eraser end of her pencil and leveled a smile at Kirk. “And is our house ground okay? Or would you like for me to grind the beans myself?”

            “Fresh ground would be great—” His voice trailed off as she giggled and held up a hand to stop him. “What? Did I miss something?”

            “Hey, the only thing you’re going to miss today, my friend, is a strong shot of liquid energy.” Luke couldn’t hold back the laugh another second. He wasn’t sure which was funnier—the way this pretty waitress had pulled one over on Kirk or the fact that his buddy just couldn’t seem to separate himself from the alternate universe that was Los Angeles.

            “I’m sorry.” The waitress’ expression turned contrite, though the smile proved that she, too, had enjoyed the moment. “I couldn’t resist. No, we don’t have a way to do espressos here, but Max does make the best cup of coffee around. If it’s a caffeine jolt you’re looking for, I can fix you up.”

            “It’s not that chicory stuff, is it?” Kirk’s nose turned up.

            “Have you ever tried it?” Her eyes nailed his.

            “Okay.” Kirk rested his palms on the table in a signal of surrender. “Chicory coffee, it is.”

             “You won’t be sorry, honest. It’ll take just a couple of minutes, then I’ll have your order right out.” The waitress’ smile was pure delight. It seemed to light up her entire face. Genuine warmth—something you didn’t see much of in Los Angeles.

            A mixture of something strange yet wonderful flopped around in the pit of Luke’s belly as her eyes locked on his. It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced in quite a long time. But one he certainly recognized. He tried to kick at the disappointment when she’d finished scribbling their order and walked away.

            “That’s her.” Kurt pulled a folder from the briefcase he’d dropped into the chair next to him. He opened it, and then skimmed the contents. “Ella Paglia, waitress, formerly of New Jersey, specializes in Italian dishes.” He glanced up. “What do you think, Abney? Ready to let our eighth—and last—finalist know she’s been chosen for Restaurant 101?”