The Key Ingredient by Susan Wiggs Page B

spoken the dreaded I told you so.
    Annie had been certain right then and there that her career—­her dreamed-­about, sought-­after, can’t-­miss show—­would end with a whimper, becoming a footnote on a list of failed broadcasts. She’d been devastated.
    And that was when Martin had rescued her. Back at the Century City studio, the postproduction team had worked overtime, cutting and splicing images, using stock footage, reshooting with computer-­generated material, focusing on the impossibly sexy, smart host—­Martin Harlow—­and his well-­trained, preternaturally chipper sidekick, Melissa Judd.
    When the final cut aired, Annie had sat in the editing suite in a rolling chair, not daring to move. On the verge of panic, she’d held her breath . . . until an assistant had arrived with her smartphone, showing a long list of social-­media feedback. Viewers were loving it.
    The critics had adored the show, too, praising Martin’s infectious love of food as he leaned against the sugarhouse wall, sampling a fried doughboy dipped in freshly rendered syrup. They applauded Melissa’s charming relish in preparing a dish and the seductive way she invited viewers to sample it.
    The ratings were respectable, and online views of the trailer piled up, hour by hour. ­People were watching. More importantly, they were sharing. The link traveled through the digital ether, reaching around the world. The network ordered another thirteen episodes to follow the original eight. Annie had looked at Martin with tears of relief streaming down her face. “You did it,” she’d told him. “You saved my dream.”
    â€œJudging by the expression on your face,” CJ said, “it was an emotional moment.”
    Annie blinked, surprised at herself. Work was work. She didn’t often get teary-­eyed over it. “Just remembering how relieved I felt that it all worked out,” she said.
    â€œSo was a celebration in order?”
    â€œSure.” Annie smiled at the memory. “Martin celebrated with a candlelight dinner . . . and a marriage proposal.”
    â€œWhoa. Oh my gosh. You’re Cinderella.”
    They had married eight years ago. Eight busy, productive, successful years. Sometimes, when they went over-­the-­top with expensive stunts, like diving for oysters, foraging for truffles, or milking a Nubian goat, Annie would catch herself wondering what happened to her key ingredient, the original concept for the show. The humble idea was buried in the lavish episodes she produced these days. There were moments when she worried that the program had strayed from her core dream, smothered by theatrics and attention-­grabbing segments that had nothing to do with her initial vision.
    The show had taken on a life of its own, she reminded herself, and that might be a good thing. With her well-­honed food savvy and some nimble bookkeeping, she made it all work, week in and week out.
    â€œ You’re the key ingredient,” Martin would tell her. “Everything came together because of you. Next time we’re in contract talks, we’re going to negotiate an on-­camera role for you. Maybe even another show.”
    She didn’t want another show. She wanted The Key Ingredient . But she’d been in LA long enough to know how to play the game, and a lot of the game involved patience and vigilance over costs. The challenge was staying exciting and relevant—­and on budget.
    CJ made some swift notes on her tablet. Annie tried to be subtle about checking the time and thinking about the day ahead, with errands stacking up like air traffic over LAX.
    She had to pee. She excused herself and headed to the upstairs bathroom.
    And that was when it hit her. She was late. Not late to work—­it was already established that she was going to be late to the studio. But late late.
    Her breath caught, and she stood at