A November Bride by Beth Vogt

when she stood before an “audience” in the Hartnetts’ kitchen—or the Coopers’. Yes, this morning’s audience was live—but they were also invisible. She’d just pretend they were as imaginary as the ones who were presented with her weekly meals.
    Even though the local morning show was on a commercial break, she refused to mess with her bright red bandana. No need to risk getting it misaligned—or pulling it off altogether. Relax. The set was almost like home: truncated counter, a range and sink, her already-prepared pistachio encrusted pork loin sitting off to one side, all the ingredients separated out into clear glass bowls surrounding a prepped, uncooked pork loin.
    “Mel said the two of you went to culinary school together?” Derrick Franklin, the male counterpart of themorning team, continued a steady stream of questions during the commercial break.
    “Yes. At the Broadmoor.”
    “Are you working at a restaurant now?”
    “No, I’m a private chef for several families in the metro area.”
    “Interesting.” He faced the TV camera as the lights came up. “Time for our segment. Cynthia does the intro and then we’re on. Just relax and pretend we’re talking in your kitchen.”
    As she stared into the bright glow of the lights, Sadie tried to swallow, the smile on her face causing her lips to tremble. Why hadn’t she asked for a bottle of water?
    We’re just talking in the kitchen. Pretending to cook. It couldn’t be simpler. In less than five minutes, you’re out of here.

    Sadie stood in the Coopers’ kitchen, the cup of coffee gone cold in her hand. She’d stored the groceries in the fridge. Changed into her chef’s coat. Set out her menu and her knives. And here she stood, already half an hour behind schedule.
    Imaginary lights, camera, action!
    Today she couldn’t even conjure up a smile for an imaginary audience.
    Of course, being an utter failure on live TV—knowing real people had witnessed her on-air mortification—well, that was enough to make her want to abandon cooking all together.
    The debacle had happened two days ago, and thinking about it still caused her to groan out loud. She’d flustered—if not completely frustrated—Derrick Franklin. Once the segment was over, he’d walked off the set with nothing more than a curt, “Thank you for your time.” And she was almost certain the cameraman had covered up a laugh with a lousy imitation cough.
    When the station manager asked her to bring in a fun recipe, she’d selected a favorite, one she’d prepared dozens of times. She’d chatted with the host during the commercial break. Sure, she’d felt a little nervous, but didn’t everyone?
    And the minute they went live . . . she couldn’t remember how to boil water. Franklin had to almost drag every word out of her, filling in the awful silences with statements like “And before we came on the air, didn’t you mention something about trimming the fat off the pork loin?” Franklin’s eyes pleaded with Sadie to relax. Be normal. Be anything other than a freaked-out chef.
    She’d hacked on the piece of meat while mumbling about needing to remember to remove the “silver skin” too. But did she explain that was a tendon membrane? No. And if the camera zoomed in while she prepared the stone-ground mustard, honey, and red wine sauce, then everyone in the Denver area saw her hands shaking like she needed a stiff drink.
    The ring of her cell phone shattered the memory. Erik. He’d called her twice a day since her death-by-morning-show disaster. She retrieved the ingredients for chicken cacciatore from the fridge, piling them on the counter. “I’m fine, Erik.”
    “Are you convincing me—or yourself?”
    “Very funny.”
    “Sadie, you weren’t that bad.”
    “You’ve never lied to me before. Don’t start now.”
    “You’re making this worse than it was.”
    “I was there, Erik.” Sadie turned on the water and began rinsing the fresh vegetables in the sink.