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Chapter One
Stella
Every step was a journey, from the past to the future. That was never truer than this morning. Sunlight glinted on the gentle waves, making me squint. The path under my running shoes was a familiar one, winding like a lazy river around the perimeter of Calypso Key as I ran. The late-morning sun was going from warm to hot against my exposed shoulders, but the breeze cooled me slightly as I kept a steady pace. My muscles complained from last night’s final shift at Blue Nirvana, but I pushed on, the burn a welcome distraction from the whirlwind of thoughts in my head.
New day, new start.
A grin tugged at my lips, the kind of smile that comes when you stand on the edge of a precipice. Thrilling and terrifying all at once. Today marked the beginning of my official role as the head chef at Orchid, our family’s crown jewel of a restaurant nestled right here on the resort island. My title was more than just a job description—it was the mantle of a dream I’d cradled since I could reach the kitchen counter on tiptoes.
The path wound past the beach barbecue area and onto a trimmed green lawn, the morning’s serenity broken only by the rhythmic scrape of a rake over the ground. Peter, a landscaper I’d known since I was a teenager, was raking old leaves and blossoms from the flat expanse of green, his signature straw hat bobbing in time with his movements. He stopped as my brother, Evan, who was Calypso Key Resort’s general manager, approached him with a slight hitch in his gait. Halting, the two men spoke.
I detoured to join them. “Morning, guys.”
Peter looked up. “Good morning, Stella!” His tone was cheery as he waved a weathered hand. Evan tipped a friendly nod toward me.
I returned the greeting with a smile. “Hey, Peter. How’s life treating you today?”
“Can’t complain.” He leaned on his rake like it was an old friend. His wrinkled face was ruddy and tan from a lifetime of tropical weather. “Welcome back, by the way. Are you done down in Key West yet?”
My eyes met Evan’s, the weight of my new title pressing down for a moment. He shot me a sheepish smile and rubbed his clean-shaven jaw. He’d recently shaved off the beard he’d had for years, and I couldn’t help smirking that his nervous habit still remained. Despite Orchid being my dream, taking this position hadn’t been an easy decision. Less than a month ago, our brother, Gabe, had appeared in the middle of my shift at Blue Nirvana to tell me Orchid had just lost its celebrity chef and was in desperate need of my services.
As in now.
I’d stared at him, dumbfounded, as he explained that Evan had fired their temperamental chef. I couldn’t quit my job with no notice, especially since Blue Nirvana was one of the most celebrated restaurants in Key West and had served as my culinary apprenticeship.
“Yes, and I’ve cleared out my place in Key West,” I said to Peter, my running shoes sinking slightly into the soft grass. “I’ve been juggling the two jobs for several weeks. It’s been wild, but it’s over now. I’m officially back at Calypso Key as of today.”
“And she’s already won everyone over,” Evan said.
Peter nodded, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Well, if anyone can make Orchid shine, it’s you, Stella.” A slight grimace crossed his face as he glanced back at his rake and the long stretch of lawn still ahead of him. “I should let you get on with your run and get back to work. See you around.”
After he moved away to resume raking, I turned to my brother. “Everything ready for the new landscaping project?”
Evan’s evaluating eyes took in the area. “As ready as possible. It’s going to be a big job, so get ready to have some disruptions for a few months.”
That made me laugh. “I’m an expert at that. I’d better get back to it.” With a wave, I stepped back onto the path.
“Thanks for stepping up, Stella. We’re glad you’re back!” he called after me, his assurance a gentle push against the small knot of anxiety in my chest. I picked up my pace again and soon the winding path opened up to a view of the restaurant.
My restaurant.
Orchid’s pale pink walls gleamed against the backdrop of turquoise sea, and warm timber eaves supported the roof. My heart thudded with something more like stage fright than exertion. Instinctively, my pace slowed as I neared the arched live trellis leading to the entrance, my shoes padding softly against the gravel. A delighted smile rose on my face as I stopped to inspect the tropical ground cover that served as a carpet for the structure beneath. There they were—my orchids—nestled among the lush foliage framing the entrance.
“Morning, beauties,” I greeted them, bending to inspect a particularly stunning Cattleya. Its petals were a vivid fuchsia, and I marveled at how something so delicate could thrive here. But they did.
I loved cooking with a passion that was almost sacred—the way flavors could weave together to tell a story that ended with the satisfaction of a dessert’s flawless presentation. But orchids… they were my secret retreat, my silent partners in the art of creation. I had missed them while living in Key West. But now that I was home again, tending to them would be more than a duty. It would be a privilege, an act of love mirroring the care I poured into every dish. But as I stood there, the weight of my new title pressed upon me with an intensity that tightened my lungs.
“Can I really do this?” The whispered question escaped my lips unbidden, carried away on the breeze before I could snatch it back. Doubt crept in, and I sought to dispel it by moving on. I straightened and stepped to the next bloom, a lacy white Phreatia. Of course I would be a success. I’d spent my life building toward this very moment.
But is that enough?
Wiping the sweat from my brow, I returned to the path and my run. I’d dreamed of running a kitchen, yet dreaming and doing were very different things. And I wasn’t just stepping into any kitchen—I was stepping into the kitchen. The one that represented my family’s legacy.
The specter of failure terrified me.
Tightening the elastic band containing my dark hair, I pushed away the nerves, the fear. I focused on keeping a steady pace as I wound through the mangroves fringing the northwest section of the Key. A new wooden boardwalk had been built over the boggy areas, an idea Gabe had implemented. He also loved to run along the perimeter of the island.
As I emerged back into the tropical heat, our ancestral residence appeared in the distance. The Big House, a six-bedroom, three-story home, had weathered over a century of storms and stood firm for generations of Markhams, including my own. To the south of the house, three smaller cottages stood along the bluff that rose steadily northward. My sister, Maia, the baby of the family who now had her own daughter, lived in one with her husband, Wyatt.
