The Key Ingredient by Susan Wiggs Read Free Book Online Page A

Martin and Melissa. She was coming over this morning to visit with Annie, the show’s creator. It was an unusual slant for a magazine article; casual readers craved gossip and photos of the stars. Annie hoped to make the most of the opportunity.
    While waiting for the reporter, she did what a producer did—­she used every spare minute to handle things. She studied the rental agreement for the lift to find a phone number. She and Martin had quarreled about that piece of equipment, too. The cost of the lift with the best safety rating had been much higher than the hydraulic one. Martin insisted on going with the cheaper one—­over Annie’s objections. As usual, she’d surrendered and he’d prevailed. Since they’d blown the budget on the water buffalo, she had to skimp on something else. Now the hydraulic lift was malfunctioning and it was up to Annie to deal with the issue.
    Enough, she told herself. She thought again of breakfast and opened the fridge. Bulgarian yogurt with maple granola? No, her empty stomach rejected the idea of yogurt. Also those French breakfast radishes that had looked so enticing at the farmers’ market. Even a piece of toast didn’t appeal. Okay, so no breakfast. One thing at a time.
    She went to the powder room and ran a comb through her long, dark hair, which had been flat-­ironed into submission yesterday. Then she checked her lipstick and manicure. Both cherry red, perfectly matched. The black pencil skirt, platform sandals and flowy white top were cool and casual, a good choice in the current heat wave. She wanted to look pulled together for the interview, even though there wouldn’t be a photographer today.
    The buzzer sounded, and she hurried to the intercom. Yikes, the reporter was early.
    â€œDelivery for Annie Rush,” said the voice on the other end.
    Delivery? “Oh . . . sure, come on up.” She buzzed the caller in.
    An enormous bouquet of lush, tropical blooms came teetering up the steps. “Please, watch your step,” Annie said, holding open the door. “Just . . . on the counter there is fine.”
    Stargazer lilies and white tuberoses trumpeted their spicy scent into the room. Baby’s breath added a lacy touch to the arrangement. The delivery woman set down the vase and brushed a wisp of black hair off her forehead. “Enjoy, ma’am,” she said. She was young, with tattoos and piercings in unfortunate places. The circles under her eyes hinted at a sleepless night, and a fading yellowish bruise shadowed her cheekbone. Annie tended to notice things like that.
    â€œEverything all right?” she asked.
    â€œUm, sure.” The girl nodded at the bouquet. “Looks like someone’s really happy with you.”
    Annie handed her a bottle of water from the fridge along with a twenty-­dollar bill. “Take care, now,” she said.
    â€œWill do.” The girl slipped out and hurried down the stairs.
    Annie plucked the small florist’s envelope from the forest of blooms—­Rosita’s Express Flowers. The card had a simple message: I’m sorry. Babe, let’s talk about this .
    Ah, Martin. The gesture was typical of him—­lavish, over-­the-­top . . . irresistible. He’d probably called in the order on the way to work. She felt a wave of affection, and her irritation flowed away. The message was exactly what she needed. And then she felt a troubling flicker of guilt. Sometimes she worried that she didn’t believe in him enough, didn’t trust the decisions he made. Could be that he was right about the water buffalo after all. It might end up being one of their most popular episodes.
    The gate security buzzer sounded again, signaling CJ’s arrival.
    Annie opened the door and was hit by a wall of intense heat. “Come on in before you melt,” she said.
    â€œThanks. This weather is insane. I heard on the radio we’re