The Key Ingredient by Susan Wiggs Page A

corkscrew curls didn’t jibe with the girl-­next-­door vision the EP was going for. “Not the right fit for this show,” Leon had said. “You look like Jasmine Lockwood’s kid sister. Could confuse viewers.”
    Jasmine Lockwood hosted a wildly popular show about comfort food on the same network. Annie didn’t see the resemblance, but she surrendered, putting the show ahead of her ego.
    â€œAnyway,” she said with a bright smile, “judging by the ratings, we found the right combination for the show.”
    CJ sipped the water, holding the straight-­sided glass bottle up to admire it. “When did Melissa Judd enter the picture?”
    Annie paused. She couldn’t very well say it was when Martin met her in his yoga class, even though that had been the case. At the time, Melissa had a gig as a late-­night shopping-­network host. Her looks, she claimed in the pretaping interview with a straight face, had always gotten in the way, because ­people failed to see past her beauty to recognize her talent.
    â€œShe and Martin had that elusive chemistry that’s impossible to manufacture,” Annie told the reporter, “so we knew we had to have her.” Annie didn’t mention the prep work it had taken to get the new cohost ready for the role. Melissa’s delivery was shrill and rough, her late-­night-­huckster voice designed to keep ­people awake. Annie was tasked with bringing out Melissa’s more hidden gifts. She had worked long and hard to cultivate the perky, all-­American girl persona. To her credit, Melissa caught on quickly. She and Martin became a dynamic on-­air team.
    â€œWell, you certainly put together a winning combination,” CJ observed.
    â€œUm . . . thanks.” Sometimes, when she observed the easy banter between the two hosts—­more often than not, banter she had painstakingly scripted—­Annie still caught herself wishing she could be in front of the camera, not just behind the scenes. But the formula was working. Besides, Melissa had an ironclad contract.
    Annie knew she should bring the conversation back around to her role on the show, but she was thinking about breakfast again. Scones, she thought. With a sea-­salt crust and maple butter.
    â€œTell me about the first episode,” CJ suggested. “I just streamed it again last night. The key ingredient was maple syrup, which is kind of perfect, considering your background.”
    â€œIf by ‘perfect,’ you mean ‘borderline disaster,’ then yes,” Annie said with a grin. “Maple syrup has been my family’s business for generations.” She gestured at a painting on the wall, a landscape her mother had done of Rush Mountain in Vermont. “It seemed like the ideal way to launch the show. The production set up, literally, in my own backyard—­the Rush family sugarbush in Switchback, Vermont.”
    She took a breath, feeling a wave of nausea. She couldn’t tell whether the discomfort was caused by the memory or by the empty stomach. Could be she was worried about riling up something from her past. She still remembered that feeling of unease, returning to the small town where she’d grown up, surrounded by everyone who had known her for years.
    Fortunately, the budget had only permitted them to spend seventy-­two hours on set there, and each hour was crammed with activity. Every possible thing had gone wrong. The snow had melted prematurely, turning the pristine winter woods into a brown swamp of denuded trees, strung together with plastic tubing for the running sap, like IV meds reaching from tree to tree. The sugarhouse, where the magic was supposed to happen, had been too noisy and steamy for the camera crew to film. Her brother, Kyle, had been so uncomfortable on camera that someone had actually asked if he was “simple.” Melissa had come down with a cold, and Martin had