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Chapter Six
Spring 2004
When she’d graduated, Diana Shean had been valedictorian of her high school class, captain of the chess and tennis clubs, and voted “Most Likely to be President.” When she’d announced to her family that she wanted to go to culinary school and become a “world-renowned chef,” they’d stuttered with disbelief. Why would Diana use that “brilliant mind” to work in a steam-filled kitchen and make food? Wasn’t that a waste?
But Diana adored cooking. For her, it was a perfect mix of science and art and a gorgeous display of what the human mind could visualize when pushed to the brink. It was the perfect marriage of history and creativity. You could map the world with its culinary pursuits. You could feel who a person was based on what he or she liked to eat.
Diana’s family weren’t chefs in the slightest. Her mother’s idea of a good dinner was a bowl of overcooked spaghetti, and her father hadn’t cooked more than hot dogs in twenty years. Perhaps that was why they couldn’t understand. Food was a necessity for them; it was something that kept them alive. For Diana, it was everything.
Diana was twenty-three and at the tail end of culinary school in New York City. Her life was chaos; it was a mess. She awoke early to prep in the kitchen, frequently worked fifteen-hour days, was yelled at consistently by her teachers and head chefs, hardly had time to feed herself or exercise, and barely had any friends. Paying rent was more than difficult, and she was often late—scrimping together the last of it on the second or third of the month.
Diana was happier than she’d ever been. She wasn’t sure if it was legal to be so happy. In fact, her roommates were sure that she was on the brink of a mental break and had even staged an intervention, saying, “You need to take more breaks. You’re twenty-three years old. You’re going to run yourself ragged.”
But Diana had goals. She wasn’t going to let anything get in the way.
That spring, Diana waited expectantly for news of the internship she’d applied for in Rome. She checked her email daily; she checked her mailbox at home and the culinary school. She stayed up too late at night, visualizing a future that found her in the Roman kitchen. To her, it was impossible that she wouldn’t make it.
And in April, the letter invited her to move to Rome from May to August to cook under the marvelous Arturo Bellini. In the hallway of the culinary school, clutching the letter, Diana jumped up and down as tears ran down her cheeks. This was the first step of the rest of her life.
Another woman in culinary school passed by during her victory dance. She looked her up and down with judgment in her eyes. Diana stalled and tucked her hair behind her ears nervously.
“Come on, Diana. What happened?” The woman put her hands on her hips and smiled at her expectantly. She echoed jealousy. “It looks like you have news to share?”
Diana remembered her name now. This woman was Tori, a subpar chef renowned across campus for one reason: her boyfriend was Ryan March.
Everyone knew Ryan March. He was tremendously handsome, like a character in a romance novel, with lush hair, dark eyes, thick eyebrows that dropped low when he concentrated in the kitchen, and a baritone voice. Although Diana wasn’t immune to his looks, she was far more attracted to his abilities in the kitchen. Last semester, they’d had a class together, and he’d made the best chicken cacciatore she’d ever eaten. It brought tears to her eyes.
It was clear why Ryan dated Tori. It had nothing to do with her cooking skills and everything to do with her figure, her long blond hair, and her mean spirit. She had cheerleader-popular-girl energy.
By contrast, Diana had a little bit of fat on her belly. She hardly ever bothered with makeup. She was focused on the future rather than what she saw in the mirror. She thought this made her honest.
It had never even occurred to her to have children or a husband. She didn’t know how to confess this to her mother, who expected grandchildren before the decade was through.
“Diana?” Tori sang, snapping her fingers. “Are you still there?”
Diana dropped her hands to her sides and tried to smile at Tori. It wasn’t like Diana had many friends to share this news with. Tori was as good as anyone.
“I’m going to Rome,” Diana breathed. “I got an internship to work under Arturo Bellini.”
Tori’s eyebrows snapped toward her forehead. She glowered at Diana. For a moment, Diana thought she would shove her against the wall behind her.
“That’s just great, isn’t it?” Tori said, sounding sarcastic. “You get everything you want.”
Diana’s throat was dry with confusion. Tori turned on her heel and stomped away, leaving her alone in the hall. Diana took a deep breath and forced herself back into the kitchen, where she had another four hours of prep before she could take a break.
It wasn’t till the next day that she learned why Tori was so annoyed. Diana wasn’t the only student from their culinary school who’d secured an internship in Rome.
Ryan March was going to Rome, too.
Ryan was going to work under another incredible Roman chef named Sergio Baldacci. Incidentally, Diana had applied to work for him, too. She wondered if Ryan had also applied to work for Arturo. Maybe Arturo and Sergio had compared notes, discussing who would take which New York City culinary student? Maybe these two Roman chefs had their futures in the palms of their hands.
Diana wondered if they were high on that power.
More than likely, they hardly thought about their new interns at all. Perhaps they’d selected their names out of a hat. Maybe it was just fate that drew them all together.
“You should talk to Ryan about Rome!” Tim, a colleague at the restaurant, urged her. “Maybe you guys can help each other. And you’ll probably get homesick while you’re there, right?”
But Diana had never spoken to Ryan before. She’d watched him from a distance for four years, her stomach flipping and flopping when he got too close. Mostly, though, she thought he was overly arrogant, sure of himself, and annoying. He was the kind of chef who would rise to the top without much pushback. People craved his energy. People jumped at the chance to help him. Diana just wasn’t as likable as he was. Her food had to come first. She had to be the very best.
