Page 44 of The Seven Year Slip

“I’m gathering a list of other rising stars in the culinary world to approach, but James Ashton would be a shoo-in. He’s young, he’s quite talented, and he’s handsome. We could sell the shit out of his cookbook,” she said confidently. “This a pretty rare scenario. From everything I’ve heard about his agent, this wholeordealis going to be notoriously awful—so I’d like you to take the lead on it with Drew. You’re the only one I trust.”

Which meant this was my chance to prove myself.

She ate another almond. “I’d like you to look over his proposal and go to the meeting tomorrow with an outline of how you’d go about launching this book. The usual, you know. Drew can email it to you.”

“Absolutely, and I can meet with her and formulate a plan of attack.”

“Perfect. I look forward to seeing how you nab this chef,” she replied.

“Who else has he gone to?” I asked.

“All the big players.”

Which meant this was going to be nearly impossible. Strauss & Adder didn’t have the kind of moneyorresources that a lot of the larger publishers did, but that just meant I had to get creative. Come up with a marketing strategy he couldn’t say no to. I had a lot of work ahead of me tonight. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Excellent,” Rhonda replied, and sat back in her chair, green eyes glimmering. “This is going to be big for you, Clementine. I can just feel it.”

I hoped she was right.

17

Lost and Found

“Start with james ashton’sarticle—the one inEater,” Drew said as we hurried from work to the subway. It was pouring rain, so we had to dodge large puddles as we descended into the station. “I don’t think the proposal really strikes at what he’s good at.”

“You still want to convince him to write a memoir?” I asked as we swiped our Metro cards.

“More thananything—but I’ll take a cookbook first if I can get it!” she replied, and waved as she and Fiona hurried off to catch their train.

I headed for the other side of the station, wringing out my hair as I waited for the uptown train. New York was miserable when it rained—but especially when you were caught in it without an umbrella.

I managed to get a seat on the Q and settled in, trying to ignore the strangers touching me from all sides.Thiswas another reason I always worked late—I didn’t have to contend with rush hour and all the people. Trying to ignore the tourist manspreading to myright, I pulled out my phone and opened the article Drew had sent me a month and a half ago.

Good Food, the article title read.By James Ashton

It was a lovely read—about how there is the art of food, and then there is the art of presentation. The voice was charming, tongue-in-cheek, like a friend telling you a secret over drinks named after dead poets.

At first, I found myself smiling—I could see why Drew loved his voice. It was infectious, his enthusiasm catching. I could do a lot with this, especially if this chef was as charismatic as his writing. Thepossibilities...

But halfway through the article, the strangest sensation began to creep down my spine.

The words felt familiar, like a coat someone pulled over my shoulders in the rain. They knitted together into pale gray eyes and auburn hair and a crooked half smile, and suddenly I was back in my aunt’s apartment, sitting across from Iwan at that yellow kitchen table, his voice warm and sure—

It is rarely the food that truly makes a meal, but the people we share it with. A family spaghetti recipe passed down from your grandma. The smell of dumplings clinging to a sweater you haven’t washed in years. A cardboard pizza across a yellow table. A friend, lost in a memory, but alive in the taste of a half-burnt brownie.

Love in a lemon pie.

The doors dinged and opened to my stop. My head was whirling from the words as I stepped out with the rush of people, scrolling down through the article again, sure I’d missed something. Surely I was mistaken—

And there at the top, a photo finally loaded.

A man in a professional kitchen, dressed in a white uniform, a familiar leather knife roll in his hands. He was older, crow’s feet around his pale eyes, but that smile was still so bright and so achingly familiar, it stole my breath away. I stood, staring at the vibrant, glossy photo of a man I used to know.

James Ashton.

No—

Iwan.

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