“You’re home early. I wasn’t expecting you so soon. Would you like an appetizer before dinner?” She set a bowl of tortilla chips and a dish of salsa on the breakfast table.
“I’m making pulled pork tacos,” she continued. “You didn’t ask about tonight’s menu, so I hope they’re all right.”
“I’m sure they will be quite…satisfying,” I responded, instantly regretting my questionable word choice. I hoped she didn’t view me as a stereotypical Hollywood creep.
Lingering in the doorway for a moment, I took in the sight of her while trying not to get caught staring. Shelby was wearing another fanciful chef apron, this one featuring a colorful pattern of olive oil bottles, tied over a short dress that showed off a pair of slim legs. Her pedicured feet were encased in low-heeled sandals. I couldn’t recall seeing her in a dress before tonight and I wondered if she was going out later, perhaps to meet a man in some dimly-lit bar where they would whisper to each other and hold hands under the table.
Man, you need to get a grip.
When I offered Shelby a smile, her face flushed before she returned her eyes to the cabbage. I decided to remove myself from the kitchen before I blurted out something completely inappropriate, such as, I dreamed about you naked.
“Since I’m here early, I’m going to work out on the elliptical trainer before dinner. Our wardrobe supervisor says I’ve put on weight.”
“Because of my food?”
Her face broke into a warm grin as the earth gave way underneath my feet, like the feeling of being caught in a Los Angeles tremor. My mind flashed back to the dream of her bare backside, and I hoped I didn’t get an embarrassing stiffy in front of her.
“Give me forty-five minutes for a workout and quick shower.”
I dropped an armful of American history books on the breakfast table before walking toward the hallway and the spare bedroom-turned-exercise studio.
“Ian?” I turned to find her eyeing me.
“Thank you for the flowers. It was sweet of you to send them, but I’m not sure what I did to deserve roses.”
“It was my pleasure. You were here to listen, and I appreciate your perspective.”
I headed down the hall into my bedroom. Stripping off my clothes, I changed into shorts, t-shirt, and trainers before walking into the exercise space and stepping onto the elliptical machine, trying unsuccessfully to focus on my workout. Instead, my thoughts returned to Shelby—her legs, her glorious silver hair, and that mysterious smile.
My current line of thinking was unproductive. Even if she was attracted to me, I would be back in Los Angeles in a few more weeks, so there was no point in starting something that would go nowhere. Only a self-serving prick would attempt to take advantage of a grieving widow. The same type of self-serving prick who once embarked on a steamy affair with an unattainable woman, damaging both their lives. I’m no longer that man, I reminded myself. I’ve learned some painful lessons.
Less than an hour later, I was back in the kitchen, drawn by the tantalizing aroma wafting from a large covered pot on the countertop. I sat at the breakfast table and helped myself to her appetizer.
“Those are organic tortilla chips, and the salsa was made from ingredients in the garden,” my chef informed me. “I brought some Mexican beer to go with the meal, although it wasn’t on your list.”
“You don’t have to go by the list, Chef. That was only a test to find out if you were paying attention. Feed me anything you want. I’m happy to be your culinary guinea pig.”
She handed me an open bottle of beer topped with a lime wedge. I squeezed the juice into the bottle and took a healthy swig. The fresh, cold beverage left a hint of tang on my tongue.
A few minutes later she dished up the meal—juicy shredded pork served on flour tortillas, which she heated on the grill, producing a nice char. The tacos were topped with a spicy slaw and avocado sauce and accompanied by “organic and vegetarian” refried beans.
“Cilantro: yes or no?” she asked, while chopping herbs on a cutting board. “Some people think it tastes like soap.”
“I like it.”
“Good for you. That means you have a well-developed palate.” Chef offered the briefest hint of her smile.
Even though I knew I shouldn’t, I helped myself to a second portion of the cheesy bean casserole. I was beginning to wonder how I could return to my own mediocre cooking, not to mention fitting into my trousers, after having been fed by Shelby.
She cleaned up the dishes while I gorged myself.
Between mouthfuls I managed to tell her, “We have more than our share of fine Mexican restaurants in southern California, but I have to say I’ve never eaten better tacos. Surely you didn’t learn Mexican cuisine at Le Cordon Bleu.”
“No.” She turned toward me with another unreadable smile. Tapping one side of her mouth with a forefinger, she said, “You’re wearing a little avocado sauce on your face.”
I grinned and wiped my mouth with a cloth napkin. The dreary paper variety was not allowed at her table.
“Come sit down and have a beer with me,” I urged. “You’ve definitely earned it.”
“Okay, thanks. I do like it when people are enthusiastic about my food.”
She popped the top off a bottle of Dos Equis and joined me at the table. Her clear blue eyes were fixed on my face.
“If the calories are a problem,” she said, “I can lighten things up, substitute skim milk for whole, eliminate most butter and oil and make fewer sauces, if that’s what you want. But the food won’t taste the same.”
“I have no intention of asking you to change your recipes,” I insisted. “I suppose I’ll have to work out more often.”
“I think you look just fine.”
She drew out the last word in her subtle southern accent before lowering her head and staring at her lap for a long, awkward moment.
When she gazed up again, I offered my best smile.
“I believe that’s the second compliment you’ve paid me this evening, Shelby. Maybe I’m not quite as offensive as you’ve no doubt heard.”
“I don’t find you offensive. And, by the way, I watched your show. Three episodes of the first season.”
“Wretched, isn’t it?”
Her grin sent the room spinning around me.
“I thought it was…somewhat entertaining,” she stammered, in a valiant effort to remain diplomatic. “Although the plots are, uh, a little hard to follow. I do have a question, though. When does your character get any sleep? He’s either practicing law, chasing ghosts, or spending time with some new lady friend. The poor man must be exhausted.”
Her comment made me laugh out loud.
“That’s a good question. I’ll take it up with the writers.”
Chef stood up, hands on her hips, her eyes drawn to the stack of history books on the table. The volume on top was titled Harpers Ferry, John Brown, and the March to Civil War.
“You know, Harpers Ferry is only a few miles up the road, across the West Virginia border. I’ve been there a few times. Some of the old town has been turned into a national historical site. I think history is a lot more interesting when you can see the places you’re reading about. Are you enjoying the book?”
I scratched my chin while considering her question.
“I was hoping to get a bit more background for my character, but in all honesty, it’s quite dull. I have found it to be an excellent cure for insomnia.”
I was rewarded with a genuine laugh that lit up her face. “I thought the same thing about history when I was in school.”
I found myself wishing that Shelby would laugh more often. I also understood why she didn’t.
“You have trouble sleeping?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Actually, I can’t remember the last time I slept through the night. Something having to do with the aging process, I’m told.”
“Me too,” she said, as her smile disappeared, and the veil of sadness returned.
“I’m flying to L.A. tomorrow night to see Maddie, so you’ve got the evening off. I’ll be back late on Sunday.”
She dragged her eyes downward, but not before I detected what I thought might be a hint of disappointment in her expression.
“I’m sure she misses you. What do you plan to do, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I thought we’d go out for breakfast, then spend the day at a flea market. She loves looking at other people’s castoffs, particularly vintage clothing. Maybe go to a movie afterward, or watch pay per view. You survived the teenage years with your daughter. What do you recommend?”
She kept her eyes on her lap while she contemplated a response.
“Hard to say since I haven’t met her, but considering what you’ve told me, I’d focus on ways to boost her self-esteem, without being too obvious about it. Maybe you could have her update your phone and computer.”
“Brilliant idea. I’m quite sure Maddie is more tech-savvy than her old man.”
“And she’ll probably tell you exactly what you want to hear, so don’t take anything she says too seriously.”
She looked up and gave me another of her enigmatic smiles, sending my pulse pounding. A vision of Shelby in my bed, her glorious silver hair spread out on the pillow, had taken up residence in my fevered brain.
“I don’t want the production company to think I’m slacking,” she said. “Why don’t I drop off some food on Sunday, so you’ll have something good to eat when you get home?”
“That would be lovely.”
I wondered if she would make another guest appearance in my dreams that night, perhaps handfeeding me some tempting morsel and soothing me in her soft accent.
Here, Ian. Try another bite, baby. Oh, you’ve dribbled all over your chin. Let me take care of that for you, lover.
She rose from the table, taking the empty beer bottles with her.
“How about dessert? I made coconut flan.”
Of course, I couldn’t say “no,” because that would’ve been rude, wouldn’t it?
Chapter Seven
Shelby
I think you look just fine.
What had possessed me to say something like that? Particularly to a man like Ian, who’d no doubt been showered with compliments about his looks for most of his adult life. I behaved like some adoring fangirl instead of a professional chef. You are a service provider hired by the production company, I reminded myself, and that’s all there is to it.
I hadn’t dated anyone since Jean-Pierre’s death, and the last thing I was looking for was a boyfriend. If I’d been interested in Ian, which I told myself repeatedly that I was not, he was spectacularly unsuitable. In only a few more weeks, he would fly home to his luxurious lifestyle in Malibu, home of the beautiful people. He was on the rebound, and obviously wounded from his most recent breakup. I was in no better shape, existing day-to-day in my emotional strait jacket.
Two broken people.
You need to stop this insanity right now and get on with rebuilding your life. Find yourself a permanent job and think about moving closer to D.C. In a few weeks, Ian will be gone.
I lectured myself all the way home from the condo, and by the time I returned to my house, I had convinced myself there was nothing going on between us. He was my client and we could be friends, but that was as far as it would go.
When I unlocked my back door, I was greeted at once by Henri and Francoise. Both cats followed me into the kitchen, where I made myself a grilled cheese sandwich, one of my guilty food pleasures, and took my plate into the sunroom. Settling in Jean-Pierre’s chair, I flipped on the television and continued watching Season One of Sutherland’s Ghosts.
I knew it was a foolish thing to do, because the minute I saw his face on the screen, blood rushed to my head, causing my face to flush like a hormonal teenager. The sight of Ian’s lean frame in his period riding wear of long jacket, tightly fitted pants, and tall boots made my stomach flip. When he mounted his horse effortlessly, as a refined southern gentleman of the time might have done, the churning sensation got worse. I imagined what it might feel like to be his saddle, with his legs wrapped around me and his balls pressed tight. Then I flipped the script to an erotic little movie of me, riding him hard while he called out my name as he came.
I remedied my queasiness with a glass of Merlot, then a second glass, as I binge-watched the remainder of Season One. On screen, John Sutherland was stylish, confident, and always in control of his emotions. He was a loving husband to his late wife, who was seen only in flashbacks. When he was not practicing law or chasing ghosts, he managed to become involved with a series of lady friends, none of whom survived for more than a few episodes.
Quite a different guy from the isolated, sometimes bitter man who savored my cooking and told me his troubles. I was beginning to think he might be a better actor than I first thought.
***
With no one to cook for until Monday, the three-day weekend and all its empty hours loomed large. I had hoped to sleep late on Friday morning, but the cats wanted none of it, yowling until I climbed out of bed and fed them. I ended up spending most of the day in my garden, which had produced a small bounty of fresh produce: lettuce, spring onions, and baby eggplant, along with more carrots and beans.
After I rinsed and dried the veggies, I placed everything onto a platter, arranged in what I considered an artful manner, and snapped some photos with my phone. The soft palette of fresh green and orange looked luscious in the photos, so I chose the best image, cropped, and saved it. I spent the next half-hour debating whether it would be a good idea to send Ian a friendly text. It wasn’t like I was sexting him or sending a nude selfie, so what harm could it do?
Before I could talk myself out of it, I attached a short message to the veggie photo.
Shelby: Today’s Harvest!
When I didn’t hear back from him for more than an hour, I began to second guess my pathetic, childish attempt at communication. He’d probably received more than his share of nude selfies, and I sent him a photo of vegetables? Another half-hour passed, and I’d convinced myself that Ian was laughing at me. In another fifty-three minutes, I got a text alert.
Ian: Just got off the set, on my way to the airport. Will the veggies keep until Monday?
Shelby: No, but there’s more where they came from! Have a safe trip.
I followed the message with a smiley face emoji.
Ian: Thanks, Shelby. See you then.
I wasn’t quite sure whether to feel good about our little exchange...or foolish.
That night I curled up in the familiar contours of J-P’s chair and started the second season of Sutherland’s Ghosts, which I had recorded. Ian’s story arc concerned his would-be relationship with yet another female who met her untimely death in the third episode. I was beginning to think there was something sinister involving all the women who had died, disappeared, or left town in a hurry after becoming involved with John Sutherland. I would have to ask Ian for an explanation.
The thought of him sent me speculating about what he was doing on the West Coast at that moment. And who he might’ve been doing it with.
***
I spent Saturday morning at my hair stylist’s salon for my regular appointment. Scott is an artist who couldn’t be hurried, so by the time I got a trim and a few fresh highlights, along with a pedicure, it was well past noon. My next stop was a parking lot adjacent to Appleton’s historic downtown pedestrian mall. I’d avoided this area for the past year and a half, particularly the block that housed our restaurant. After I sold the building, it was converted into a semi-successful Mexican eatery.
Next, I ducked into my favorite espresso bar for a latte
before wandering along the four-block mall, lined with shops and restaurants frequented by tourists, many of whom had come to explore the area’s Civil War monuments and battlefields. My destination was a tiny boutique, owned by a former customer of Faith, that offered a selection of unique women’s fashions not found in a department store. I left with three new additions to my closet—a sleeveless wrap dress featuring an oversized hibiscus print, a gauzy white shirt with blue-and-white batik cropped pants, and a bohemian-inspired outfit consisting of a violet tank top and attached tiered skirt in a variety of colorful, contrasting prints.
Guilt pricked at my insides when I pulled out a credit card to pay for my windfall, but I shoved the feeling aside. I hadn’t spent money on clothing in more than a year, and since my therapist insisted that I needed to take care of myself, I rationalized that a few new outfits might be part of my recovery process. The fact that I’d caught Ian staring at my legs had absolutely nothing to do with it.
Back at home, the cats and I made ourselves comfortable in the sunroom, settling in for another evening of Sutherland’s Ghosts. I planned to binge-watch the remaining recorded episodes while eating dinner, which consisted of a salad and another bottle of Merlot.
Starting where I left off the night before, I pushed Play. The episode began with a gratuitous shot of bare-chested Tyler Chance splitting logs outside the family home. Sweat glistened on his muscled torso, a sight that sent me into my own erotic soap opera, this one starring Ian in a glass-walled shower stall. He let me watch while he washed every inch of his spectacular body before I joined him. The warm spray coursed over me as I was pressed against the tiled wall. His cock was hard, and my knees turned to butter…
This is crazy.
I had to find a way to bring my emotions under control. I was lonely, and I knew he sensed it, which also made me vulnerable. Ian led a privileged life on the West Coast. I, on the other hand, was a small-town chef struggling to make some major life decisions. Until I figured out a path for my future, getting into a new relationship, even a casual, temporary one, would only make things more complicated. Especially with someone like Ian, who was obviously troubled and probably untrustworthy.
Fed Up Page 5