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Tori had nothing to worry about. Ryan wouldn’t flirt with Diana in a million years. And Diana had better things to do than fall in love.
“I did,” Diana said finally. “But now, I’m working here. And I have to run. Have a great day. Ciao!”
Diana turned on her heel and fled the piazza, aggravation swelling in her gut. She raced around the block and turned the corner, pressing her back against the cool stone wall and peering up at the blue sky. Only a few seconds later, she realized that she’d forgotten to buy tomatoes for Arturo, so she cursed and trudged back to the market. She was so grateful that Ryan had already gone by the time she returned. She never would have lived that down.
Chapter Seven
Rachelle couldn’t believe how swiftly the television show went on-air. It was a testament to the editors and camera crew, who worked as diligently as any kitchen staff. They were like one enormous machine—all the pieces coming into place for a final product.
The first episode was set to launch Tuesday, April sixteenth—a little more than two weeks after the cameras had begun to roll. The Cooking Channel was rife with commercials for the big event, calling it “the next big culinary show.” The title was The Nantucket Factory.
In the commercials, Rachelle spotted herself enough times to guess she was, in fact, a “main character” of the show. This both thrilled and terrified her. In one commercial, she frowned, looking terrified as she sliced tomatoes in a steam-filled kitchen. In another, she spoke angrily to Paul and Benny, telling them they weren’t working quickly enough, that the restaurant was understaffed, and that they needed to come together as a team.
On the day of the premier, Rachelle and Darcy were on the couch with bowls of ice cream and white wine. Rachelle’s stomach was tied up in knots, and she found herself repeating the same sentiments, like, “You know, this doesn’t matter at all, Darcy,” and, “I shouldn’t be focused on this. I should be focused on cooking. Not fame.”
But Darcy said, “This is your fifteen minutes of fame, doll. Enjoy it!”
The doorbell rang not long before The Nantucket Factory was set to begin. Darcy hurried up to answer it. When she returned, Estelle and Sam trailed her, carrying bags of snacks and wine.
“Mom! Grandma!” Rachelle winced as she hugged them. “This is a surprise.”
“Today’s the big day! How could we miss it?” Estelle cried, uncorking a bottle of wine and searching through their cupboards for clean glasses.
Sam winced and sat on the couch beside Rachelle. “I’m sorry, honey. I thought it would be fun to watch it together. But if it makes you uncomfortable…”
Rachelle waved her hand. “Everything about this makes me uncomfortable.”
Estelle joined them in front of the television, passing a glass of wine to Sam. “I can only imagine how you feel, Rachelle,” she said, her eyes softening. “Consider us here for moral support.”
Estelle had been through her own “fame” horrors recently when another romance writer accused her of plagiarism. Rachelle and Darcy had been instrumental in helping Estelle restore her relationship with her fans. Estelle just wanted to return the support.
The Nantucket Factory began with beautiful shots of Nantucket scenery. The camera panned over the harbor, through ornate streets, across blustery white beaches, and over the bluffs before finishing in front of the restaurant. At first sight of the restaurant that served as Rachelle’s home away from home, her throat closed.
And then, she heard a narrator’s voice.
“Welcome to The Clam Factory,” a man said. “A long-struggling establishment in Nantucket’s marvelous Historic District, it contacted us at the Cooking Channel for assistance. We asked ourselves what would aid a dying restaurant on a gorgeous island in the Atlantic?”
“Struggling?” Grandma Estelle demanded. “Your restaurant wasn’t struggling.”
Rachelle sighed. “They made up a story about us. They said it would be better for viewers.”
“How infuriating!” Estelle cried.
The narrator continued. “Who knows the ins and outs of kitchens across the world? Who has the respect, the intellect, and the creativity required to revitalize an out-of-whack kitchen?”
“Out of whack? Please,” Darcy scoffed.
The camera showed Diana March in the kitchen of The Clam Factory. She wore her chef whites and scowled at the camera with her arms crossed over her chest.
A split second later, Diana howled, “Rachelle? What did I tell you about the scallions?”
“That’s right,” the narrator declared. “Diana March is here to whip The Clam Factory into shape. And everyone from the sous chef to the line cooks to the servers and bartenders quiver in fear beneath her. How far will Diana March go to make The Clam Factory work? And can her staffers keep up?”
As Rachelle watched, her stomach tightened with fear and confusion. It was even worse than she’d imagined. The Nantucket Factory imagined Diana March to be like Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada—domineering, difficult, and never pleased with anything.
What’s more, the show imagined Rachelle to be like Anne Hathaway, her protegé in the film.
In one scene, the camera seemed to show Rachelle making a horrible error. Behind her, Diana gets so angry that her face turns bright red.
