In the early mornings, the open bars have mimosas, coffee, and tea available to drink, and so far, it’s been my favorite part of the wedding. The sun is just rising, casting soft golden light over the campground. It’s one of those moments when I remember this isn’t just a wedding venue. The air is cool and fresh, filled with the sounds of chickadees and the rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze.
Guests start to stir, stretching and yawning as they emerge from their cabins. Some head to the dining hall for breakfast, complaining of their stomachs rumbling with hunger. Others gather in groups, chatting and laughing as they plan for the exciting bridal shower party later this afternoon. The smell of sizzling bacon and brewing coffee drifts from the kitchen, drawing guests toward the dining hall. I follow suit.
Inside is a spread of hot breakfast foods, from eggs and toast to pancakes and bacon. Guests begin to fill their plates, chatting and laughing as they head back outside to sit at long picnic tables covered with silky white linen and surrounded by the sounds and sights of nature. I head straight into the kitchen. Where the magic happens.
“Morning!” I yell to grab Valentina’s attention.
Her head whips up, and a grin immediately grows on her face. For a second, I almost forget why we’re here, caught in her smile. But I shake it off. This isn’t a peace offering—it’s a temporary truce, nothing more.
“For you.” I hand her the second iced coffee.
“You got me a drink?” she says, smiling.
“Don’t get used to it—it’s a thank-you for all your help so far.” My voice is light, but I make sure she knows this isn’t me letting down my guard.
“Got it,” she replies, nodding, as if she understands the unspoken terms.
In the kitchen, the catering staff moves with purpose, each person focused on their task. The air is filled with the sounds of sizzling pans, clanging pots, and the occasional shout of a cook calling out an order. The servers, dressed in crisp white uniforms, bustle in and out of the kitchen, picking up food trays and heading out to the dining area.
My eyes drift toward the kitchen activity, my thoughts lingering on the rice pudding Valentina and I made. Was it good enough? Did it stand out among all this polished perfection? The idea of Luciano tasting something my father created feels monumental, like I’m bringing a piece of him to this table of luxury and expectation. I need it to succeed—not just for the journal, but for the restaurant. If Luciano sees the potential in my father’s recipes, maybe he’ll believe in me, too.
And what next? I can’t stop at just one dish. My mind races as I mentally comb through the recipes in my father’s journal, thinking about which dish could be the next to wow Luciano. Maybe the ropa vieja? It’s simple but bold, the kind of meal that embodies comfort and tradition while still packing a punch. Or the lechón asado, marinated for hours with garlic and citrus. It’s a showstopper when done right, the type of dish that could make someone feel like they’ve been invited into our family kitchen.
But would that be enough? What if he’s looking for something modern, a twist on tradition? I could take my father’s recipes and elevate them somehow, blending his authenticity with something unexpected. My stomach tightens as the ideas swirl. Every decision feels like a gamble—like every plate I present could tip the scale between securing this investment or losing everything.
“All right, I’m pretty much done here.” Valentina wipes her hands with a rag. “Are you ready to find our next clue?”
I nod, excitement bubbling under the surface, though my mind is still half in the kitchen. As I pull out my father’s journal, I glance back at the bustling staff. Solving the puzzle in this book feels inseparable from saving the restaurant now. Each recipe is more than a dish—it’s a piece of the story I need Luciano to see. If I’m going to make him believe in me, I need the next dish to be perfect.
“So far, we know that he definitely either had an affair or was in love with someone that wasn’t your mom. Why it matters? That’s what we need to find out.”
I turn the pages slowly, and we inspect each one. She stands so close to me. She places her arms around my body, gripping the counter and leaning closer to see the journal. I’m trying to focus on the pages, but it’s all becoming a blur. I’m so aware of how close she is to me right now. Her breath rhythmically caresses my shoulder as she peeks over it. I want to turn around and see what happens if I look into her eyes, but I don’t.
“Wait, go back,” she shouts.
I turn the page to a recipe titled “Flan de Perdón.”
“Flan of forgiveness? That’s a weird name, isn’t it?” I ask.
“That’s not the only weird thing about it. Look at the recipe closely.”
I start to look at all the words. The ingredients. The directions. The notes. There are random letters capitalized throughout.
Valentina laughs. “Roberto was quite the puzzler, huh?”
“He really was. When I was twelve, I found a note inside my lampshade with random numbers on it. At the bottom was a tuft of hair. I realized it was fur from our little poodle, so I hurried to my closet and found a polaroid hanging from his collar there. I rushed over and started rummaging until I found a small box. It had a brand-new phone inside. The numbers were the passcode to unlock it. My birthdate. He could have just gifted me the phone for my birthday like a normal person, but he knew how much fun the little puzzles were.”
“It seemed like you had a nice relationship with him,” Valentina says. “I can see why you like doing these puzzles. Well, I think I figured this one out. We need to circle all these capitalized letters and see what it spells out.”
I watch as she meticulously scans the recipe, looking for each letter that seems out of place. Finally, she finds all of them. Eight letters. BLTIAEUA.
She chuckles. “I feel like I’m back in school again, trying to unscramble words during English class.”
“It’s Abuelita,” I say.
“How did you get it so quickly?” she replies, shocked.
“Oh, please, Garcia. This isn’t my first rodeo.”
