The Secret Ingredient by Stewart Lewis

tomatoes look so amazing I decide on bruschetta. I pick up some elephant garlic, several loaves of french bread, and a bunch of fresh basil.
    We head back to the Laundromat, and Lola helps me fold the laundry and bring it back to my house. When we get there I see a postcard stuck in the screen door. It’s a black-and-white picture of a street in Paris. I turn it over.
Liv the Dream
—Theo
    Lola looks over my shoulder and gasps. “So romantic!”
    “I guess so,” I say, but I’m biting my lip to hold back an enormous grin.
    After I put the laundry away and Lola leaves, I find myself sitting quietly in the living room, staring at the postcard, almost believing in things previously unimaginable. I’m going to see Theo again tomorrow. And then maybe I’ll see what I can find out at the bank.
    FOOD is pretty empty when I get there, just a few prep chefs and Bell, who’s on his knees scrubbing the baseboards. Not a good sign. He stands up and wipes his brow.
    “What are you making tonight?”
    I hold up the yellow tomatoes. “Bruschetta.”
    He smiles, a real Bell smile, and for a moment I look around the restaurant, the space that contains so many memories for all of us, and try not to think about how it all could be taken away.
    “Ollie, I have some news!” Bell says excitedly. “Enrique is coming in with some movie executives. He may have caught a break! A consulting gig for a film. Can you believe it?”
    “Really? That’s huge. How did that happen?”
    “Well, when he took off”—there’s only a slight edge to Bell’s voice when he says this—“apparently he went sailing with a client, and they had lunch with a studio head, and he worked his magic.”
    “That’s so great, Dad!”
    I give Bell a hopeful smile, then let him get back to scrubbing—not a bad sign, after all—and go to set up my ingredients and cooking utensils. I begin by chopping the tomatoes super small and marinating them in fresh lemon juice. The key to bruschetta is to rub the bread with garlic. It’s a subtle touch that makes all the difference. I let myself relax as my fingers peel the silky cloves. I wonder if Enrique is trying to do his part too. Without every flavor of our family working together, there is no dish.
    There’s a window from the kitchen that looks into the main dining room. I can see some of the waiters setting up, and toward the front door Bell is talking to two guys in suits. I assume they’re from the bank. They hand Bell a piece of paper, and he smiles at them and shakes their hands. Even in the direst of circumstances, Bell is a gracious person. Like Rose. I bet after she lost the baby, she made Kurt dinners that were laced with kindness and sprinkled with hope.
    The dinner rush happens late, but we are all thankful for the business. Enrique comes in with people from New Line Cinema, and toward the end of their meal, he waves me over. The men are middle-aged and have that moneyed, powerful look. Enrique introduces them to me, and I realize the second one, Len, is the head of the studio—I’ve called his office for Janice and spoken to his secretary many times. He’s wearing diamond cufflinks and glasses that are so thin they’re almost invisible. He gives me a smile that seems sincere, and I try to return it.
    “Len here is in love with your bruschetta,” Enrique says, beaming proudly. I hope this is all for real for Enrique, and not a onetime thing like last time.
    “It’s nothing,” I say, trying to play it down.
    “Not only beautiful and a good cook,” Len says, “but humble, too. You’re batting a thousand.”
    “Len is from Tuscany, and he claims it’s better than his mother’s,” Enrique says.
    “Well, I’m sure your mother can make a killer meatball,” I say, not sure what I’m even talking about.
    “In fact, that’s her specialty. Perhaps you two can exchange recipes sometime.”
    “Yeah, I get to Tuscany a lot.”
    The whole table laughs.
    “Well, it was great to meet