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the caption reads. Variety shows a publicity shot of Melissa, noting her charming relish in preparing a dish and the seductive way she invites viewers to sample it.
    The ratings are respectable. Better than respectable, according to the executive producer. Online views of the trailer pile up, hour by hour. Views of the full episode on the network’s website surpass anything they’ve ever aired before. ­People are watching. More importantly, they’re sharing . Clips and links are making their way into ­people’s homes, into their friends’ homes, and into the cubicles of ­people at work all over the globe. According to the ratings ser­vice we’re subscribed to, the link is traveling faster than the speed of light through the digital ether, reaching around the world.
    Even though I’m supposed to be a stoic New Englander, the tears stream down my face. “You did it,” I tell him. “You saved my dream. I was so worried it would flop.”
    â€œ We did it,” he says. “We’re a great team.”
    The network orders another thirteen episodes to follow the original eight. We’ll get a bigger budget and more creative input, too.
    Martin is with me when we get the news. I slump against him, boneless with relief and gratitude. “You’re right,” I say. “We are a good team. I’m so full of ideas, I might explode.”
    â€œDon’t explode,” he says. “I’ve got some ideas of my own. Let’s celebrate.”
    He organizes everything, refusing to let me lift a finger. All I have to do is show up at the executive producer’s Malibu beach house wearing something nice.
    My “something nice” wardrobe is limited. I’ve been working so hard on the show that I haven’t had time for anything else. Sorting through my closet, I come across my favorite date-­night dress, which I haven’t worn since . . . since Fletcher. It’s a fitted sheath in the yummiest shade of royal blue you ever saw. The last time I wore it, I was dancing in Fletcher Wyndham’s arms, having no idea we were about to fall apart.
    Determined to make new memories, I put on the dress and add my favorite necklace, a fiery opal pendant that used to belong to my grandmother.
    The gorgeous cliff-­top beach house is deserted. I check my phone, worried now that I got the day or the time wrong. But no, there’s Martin’s car in the driveway. He drives a BMW roadster convertible. “Sometimes I have to spoil myself,” he told me when he bought it a few months ago.
    I knock at the front door, and Martin himself answers. For tonight, he’s dropped the super-­cool, scruffy-­chef look in favor of slacks and a fitted white dress shirt, open at the throat, the cuffs rolled back. He’s had a fresh shave and a haircut. He looks amazing.
    â€œWhere is everybody?” I ask, glancing around the house. Incredible aromas waft from the kitchen, but there’s no one in sight. “Am I horribly early?”
    â€œYou’re just in time.” He bends down and gently kisses me.
    â€œI don’t get it.”
    â€œThis way.” Taking my hand, he leads me out to the deck overlooking the beach. The lights are like a diamond necklace along the shore. Blooming belladonna trumpets waft their intoxicating scent into the air. Music drifts from unseen speakers.
    At the edge of the deck is a beautifully set table with a white linen cloth and candles in crystal chimneys. To one side is a silver ice bucket with a bottle of bubbly. Something’s wrong. The table is set for two.
    â€œMartin.” I balk, feeling suspicious. “What’s going on?”
    â€œWe’re celebrating.”
    â€œI can see that. So where’s everyone else?”
    â€œIt’s just the two of us. Leon said we could use his place.” He takes the bottle from the ice bucket—­Dom Pérignon. I’ve never