The Key Ingredient by Susan Wiggs Page B

the room, and then he kissed me long and hard. It was a good kiss. A really, really good kiss, full of promise. But no. This is work. This is our shot. We can’t screw this up.
    Still, I catch myself fantasizing about being a pair onscreen. The Sonny and Cher of the kitchen. The culinary Captain and Tennille. Martin admits he fantasizes about the two of us offscreen .
    While in the development phase, we filmed some test reels with me in the role of cohost, but the executive producer claimed my “look” isn’t right for the series. I still remember how I felt, hearing that. As if I’d swallowed a ball of ice and had to pretend nothing was wrong. In show business, you can’t take things like that personally. And you can’t argue with the executive producer, AKA the owner of the show.
    Above all, you can’t worry that the idea you created is now at the mercy of a committee of production and network executives whose chief aim is to attract sponsorship dollars. In commercial TV, that would be the key ingredient. Already, I can feel the creative control slipping away as they talk about future episodes going over the top with expensive stunts, like diving for oysters, foraging for truffles or milking a Nubian goat. I’m starting to wonder what happened to the original concept for the show. Sometimes it feels as if the original idea is being overshadowed by theatrics and attention-­grabbing segments that were never part of my initial vision.
    Then I remind myself how lucky I am just to have been in the right place at the right time with the right talent. Most ­people my age only dream of getting such a great start in the business. It’s only the beginning.
    They cast Melissa Judd in the role of cohost. Martin met her in his yoga class. Her former gig was hawking kitchen gadgets on a late-­night shopping network, but apparently her look is perfect for our show’s target demographic. She’s blonde and beautiful, which makes up for the fact that her delivery tends to be shrill and overwrought.
    To her credit, she’s a hard worker and a quick learner. I should know. It was my job to train her to be more genuine on camera, to play up her natural chemistry with Martin. I did a good job, because their onscreen chemistry is amazing. So amazing that I sometimes feel threatened by it.
    As our van with the crew trolls through the main part of Switchback, I start to worry about the weather. The sky is bulging with low, gray clouds, and rain hisses against the windshield. It’s not the sort of blue-­sky, snow-­dusted weather we were hoping for. This time of year, you take your chances.
    I sneak glances at the others in the van. Martin has his head pillowed on a wadded-­up jacket, still sleeping off the redeye flight. He sleeps like a dream, a trait I envy. Melissa is coming down with a cold—­not the best thing when you’re about to go on camera. She’s been using decongestant and eye drops all through the trip. At the moment, she’s absorbed in her phone screen, posting snippets on social networks so the world can follow along on her adventure. I spotted her latest mobile shot, a sign bearing the town slogan—­Welcome to Switchback. Once you Switch, you’ll never go Back. Her caption: Hi there, adorable Vermont village. We’re about to film something sweet! #thekeyingredient
    I’ve been told that I do mornings very well. I love the morning light streaming in through the windows. I love the rich aroma of fresh coffee. Martin does mornings well, too; he’s a fantastic chef who can put together a quick sauté of surprising ingredients—­say, smoked salmon and fresh peas, topped with a poached egg and horseradish crème fraiche. After something like that, the day opens up with possibility.
    But this day . . . I’m not so sure.
    As the van slows down in the town center, Martin wakes up, stretching his long, lean body