Fed Up

by Kathleen Duhamel

  Returning my gaze to the TV screen, I realized that I’d missed several minutes and could not follow the overly complicated plot. It was just as well, because I couldn’t concentrate on anything else but him. Reality check: I was a fiftyish widow living in a small Virginia town. My romantic options were limited, at best, so when a great-looking, charming man showed an interest, what was stopping me? My own guilt at being attracted to a man other than Jean-Pierre? Or my fear that Ian could crush what was left of my heart?

  Other questions kept spinning in my brain. Did people my age date anymore, or did they simply hook up for sex? I had been married for twenty-eight years. I didn’t have the slightest idea of how to be a single adult.

  My phone vibrated with a text alert. When I glanced at the screen, I had to stop and catch my breath. OMG, it was him.

  Ian: I am utterly exhausted from keeping up with a 16-year-old girl. Did you drink heavily when your daughter was a teenager?

  Smiling at his message, I typed a reply.

  Shelby: There were times when mommy needed a Vodka Collins or two. Hang in there. It gets better.

  Ian: I watched The Notebook with her last night. I’d say that’s going above and beyond, wouldn’t you? A row of smiley face emojis followed.

  Shelby: Dads are often called upon to make painful sacrifices.

  Ian: I will keep that in mind. See you Monday. Miss your food!

  My heart thumped while I reminded myself to think clearly. Don’t get the wrong idea. He misses your cooking; he didn’t say he misses you.

  ***

  On Sunday I got up early to gather another harvest from the garden before the day became unbearably hot. The temperature was predicted to reach a humid ninety-four degrees by mid-day, with the possibility of a late afternoon shower, making today ideal for staying in my air-conditioned house and doing some serious cooking.

  After I rinsed the fresh veggies, I placed them in a colander in the sink to drain before starting on a sweet treat to deliver to Ian. While I didn’t consider myself to be much of a pastry chef, over the years I’d learned to make a few tasty desserts. This morning, I decided to bake a rustic tart shell and fill it with lemon custard. Using my food processor to make the crust, I combined flour, sugar, lemon zest, and chopped rosemary with a stick of cold, cubed butter. The finished dough was formed into a ball, covered in plastic wrap, and placed in the refrigerator to chill.

  Pausing for a moment, I synced my phone to a remote speaker and treated myself to Weather Report’s Heavy Weather, another jazz fusion favorite. Every tune on the ’70s LP was a gem, from the hard, tight groove of Palladium to the poignant, heart-wrenching ballad, A Remark You Made. Listening to the familiar tunes distracted me momentarily from the anxiety building in my chest at the prospect of seeing Ian on Monday. What would he have thought if he knew I’d spent a big chunk of my weekend watching him on television, lost in silly romantic illusions?

  Next, I made the tangy, aromatic lemon filling. After it had thickened, I added more cubed butter, turned off the flame, and whisked it in. When the dough had chilled, I planned to press it into a tart pan and pre-bake the crust before adding the cooled lemon mixture. A few fresh raspberries and a sprig of rosemary on top would provide a colorful finish.

  In another couple of hours, I finished the tart, made a vegetable and pasta salad using the garden produce, and assembled a deli platter of charcuterie and imported cheeses while listening to the classic John Coltrane album, Blue Train. After placing my food in a plastic tub, along with a tin of homemade parmesan crackers, I made the drive to Ian’s condo.

  I let myself in and unpacked my bounty, stashing the tart and the meat and cheese platter in the refrigerator before I set the breakfast table for one. On my way out the door, I scribbled a message on the blackboard wall.

  Welcome Home!

  Monday night’s menu:

  Chef’s special baked halibut with crispy panko topping

  Served with rice pilaf and broccolini

  California Chardonnay

  Fresh berries and whipped cream

  Afterward, I mentally beat myself up all the way home, second-guessing what I’d done. I hoped I hadn’t come off as foolish and desperate, a lonely widow in search of sex, although that description was becoming perilously close to the truth.

  Chapter Eight

  Ian

  Returning to my condo on Sunday evening, I discovered a fully stocked refrigerator and a welcoming note from Shelby written on the blackboard wall, which brightened my spirits. I was eager to see her, even though I’d spent part of my weekend trying to convince myself our mutual attraction couldn’t be real. We were two lonely people, each of us trying to navigate through a rough patch. Not exactly the best circumstances to begin anything, much less a romantic relationship, which I had sworn off. She wasn’t over her loss and I was not quite divorced. The timing of our situation couldn’t have been worse, yet I couldn’t push her out of my thoughts. Shelby was so unlike the grasping, manipulative women I’d known in Hollywood.

  I found myself wanting to talk to her about Maddie because I valued Shelby’s perspective as a parent. She related to teenage girls much better than I did, having raised one and been one herself. Even though my father-daughter weekend had been a relative success, Madeline and I still had a long way to go when it came to honest communication. I tried not to ask too many probing questions about her therapy, and she didn’t volunteer much information about her twice-weekly group sessions, other than assuring me that they “don’t suck.” Despite the warm weather, she wore long sleeves all weekend, which led me to believe she was either embarrassed by her scars or cutting herself again.

  I knew she harbored some resentment toward me for not being around much when she was younger, and that was something I would have to live with. For the immediate future, I was content with the fact that she still wanted me in her life, which was probably more than I deserved.

  ***

  On Monday, I began my work week shooting a love scene with Jennifer in the parlor of Ashland Plantation. Calling it “romantic” would be an exaggeration, especially when there was a sound boom overhead, a camera trained on my face, and most of the crew watching. It was obvious the two of us had absolutely no on-screen chemistry. Every move felt awkward and clumsy.

  A scene like this one required several set-ups as the camera was moved and we were shot from different angles. More like bloody torture than anything else. Chris became anxious when he couldn’t get what he wanted in three or four takes, which made the rest of us uneasy.

  However, I gave it my best effort, pretending to be attracted to her character and uttering some stilted dialog before we ended the scene with what was supposed to be a gentle kiss. Jennifer apparently hadn’t bothered to read the script, because she kept trying to slip me some tongue.

  Other than Tyler Chance’s often-bare chest, there was no nudity on our show, and definitely no sex. According to the history books I read, respectable unmarried women of the 1850s were not supposed to think about sex, much less engage in it. Men, however, were permitted to fool around with abandon, although dying of syphilis was a distinct possibility. So much for the good old days.

  When we broke for lunch, Jennifer followed me to the buffet table and asked, “Why don’t we take our food back to my trailer? I’ll bet I could get you loosened up.”

  I was as loose as I intended to get, so I declined her offer. She pouted before stalking off, leaving me to wonder if her actions fit the definition of sexual harassment, and if my career was headed into the crapper.

  ***

  “Your wayward traveler has returned, ma’am.”

  That evening, I announced my arrival from the condo’s kitchen doorway in my best southern accent, accompanied by a formal bow. My chef was loading pans and utensils into the dishwasher. A beautiful piece of halibut rested on a cutting board, and the room smelled of fresh thyme and lemon.

  Shelby turned, closed the dishwasher door, and offered o
ne of her feline smiles that left me at a momentary loss for words. She was wearing another sleeveless dress that showed off toned arms, and her silver hair was pulled into a high ponytail. A black chef’s apron bore the embroidered logo of her former restaurant, Faith.

  The sight of her standing in my kitchen was both comforting and familiar, not to mention strangely arousing. I found myself speculating about what might happen if I pulled her into my arms and kissed her. Not the awkward embrace I shared with Jennifer earlier today, but a warm, lingering kiss meant for a lover. Would she stiffen, or would her body melt against mine? Something told me we would sizzle like butter hitting a hot skillet.

  “Welcome back,” she greeted me. “Did you have a good trip?”

  “Yes, yes I did,” I managed to stutter, still lost in my fantasy of her bare flesh pressed against mine.

  “Would you like a cocktail before dinner?” she asked. “I make a mean gin and tonic. They’re so refreshing on a hot summer day.”

  “I would love one,” I said, keeping my eyes on her face. We stood and smiled at each other for a long moment before she broke eye contact and got to work on my drink.

  I slid into a chair at the breakfast table and she served my cocktail. Clean and crisp, the gin and tonic was a bit tart from a squeeze of lime. I was impressed that she didn’t skimp on the alcohol.

  While I sipped my libation, Shelby cooked the fish and assembled my plate, beginning with a pool of pan sauce. Accompanying the halibut was a rice pilaf brightened with fresh herbs and toasted, slivered almonds. Lemon zest garnished the tender-crisp broccolini. The fish sent my taste buds straight to culinary heaven with its crunchy topping and tender, flaky flesh.

  “This is excellent. Why don’t you join me?”

  As usual, she had prepared far too much food for one person.

  “Well, maybe a glass of wine,” she said. “I had a late lunch.”

  Shelby brought a bottle of Chardonnay and two stemmed glasses to the table. She poured the wine and studied the pale gold liquid in her glass for a few seconds.

  “I watched your show this weekend. I’m all caught up on Season Two.”

  She watched every episode?

  “Either you’ve got a high tolerance for mediocracy or you enjoy looking at bare-chested young men.”

  She grinned before taking a sip of wine.

  “Tyler Chance is from my daughter’s generation, and he seems a little too arrogant to be appealing. He doesn’t interest me.”

  Judging from the inflection in her voice, I assumed that someone else might be of interest to her.

  “I think you’re very good in your role,” she went on. “The others, not so much. And I really dislike your newest lady friend. She seems like a treacherous woman.”

  If she only knew. Jennifer’s on-screen persona was mild compared to the real-life version.

  “I had to kiss her today. It wasn’t much fun.”

  “Really?” Shelby’s eyebrows twitched upward.

  Man, you’re such a wanker. Going on about kissing another woman, even if it’s part of your job, is probably not the best way to impress her. Better change the subject before you dig the hole any deeper.

  I finished my food in silence before seizing onto another topic,

  “Despite having to endure another chick flick on Sunday, I believe I made it through the weekend without embarrassing Maddie, although she did tell me my hair is too long. She says I look like an old hippie. I told her I’d think about cutting it after we wrap up shooting.”

  Shelby’s quick glance in my direction did not mask her disappointment.

  “I know you grew it out for your character, but I think it suits you. I like old hippies.”

  She lowered her eyes while staring at her lap, becoming self-conscious again.

  We were dancing around each other like a couple of shy virgins on their wedding night. Still a bit uncertain about how to approach her, I determined that I would first have to earn her trust. I already knew that Shelby was a woman who carefully guarded her heart, so unless she could be persuaded that my intentions were honest, her emotional vulnerability might hold her back. I needed to play the role of a man she could count on, despite his disastrous romantic history.

  There was also the matter of her late husband, whose looming presence seemed far more real than any of the computer-generated spirits on my show.

  “I’m thinking of taking your advice and going to Harpers Ferry on Saturday. Would you consider coming with me as my tour guide?”

  She regarded me calmly with clear blue eyes. I would have given almost anything to know what thoughts were spinning in that beautiful head of hers.

  Is he a narcissistic prick? I certainly hoped not, although I sensed I was still suspect.

  Can he be trusted? I liked to think of myself as an honorable man, although my poor track record with marriage and fidelity spoke for itself.

  Will he want to have sex? Of course, but I’d take things slowly.

  I was not quite prepared for what came next. After a moment, she asked, “Ian, is this a date?”

  “If you would like it to be.”

  A few seconds of silence followed, and I wondered if I’d said the wrong thing.

  She focused on the wine in her glass before returning her eyes to mine.

  “I’m not sure how to do this,” she said.

  “Do what?”

  “Date someone. I was married for most of my adult life. I have no experience being single.”

  “No pressure,” I assured her. “We’ll explore the town, pop in for lunch somewhere, and get to know each other better.”

  That was my intent—a relaxing outing with no expectations. Going to Harpers Ferry was merely an excuse to spend the day with her.

  ***

  Orange day lilies bloomed outside of Shelby’s door, great masses of them on either side of a walkway leading to a front porch adorned with baskets of lush ferns. Her red brick home was situated in the middle of a quiet block of square, symmetrical houses with traditional details, and located within walking distance of Appleton’s historic downtown mall.

  I was parked in front of her house, arriving on Saturday morning as scheduled in a two-seater Mercedes roadster that I had rented in a blatant attempt to score some points. Now, I was wondering if the luxury car didn’t scream, “Man having a mid-life crisis here!”

  Sitting in the driver’s seat, I lingered for a minute or two, wishing I was as composed and in control as my character, John Sutherland. Instead, I was every bit as nervous as I had been on my first audition, which this was, in a manner of speaking. I was attempting to win the real-life role of her love interest.

  I climbed out of the car, walked to the house, and rang the bell. After a few moments, Shelby opened her door and welcomed me inside.

  “You’re right on time,” she said, with some enthusiasm. That I am. Punctual, reliable, and trustworthy.

  At the first sight of her cat-like smile, my apprehension melted. Looking cool and chic, she was casually dressed in a long, lean tank top, a tiered skirt that barely reached her knees, and padded walking sandals. Her shining hair was pulled back in its usual long ponytail.

  She led me past the tall brick fireplace in her living room, through a large, open kitchen and dining space into a sunroom marked by a wall of windows overlooking the fenced yard. A flat screen TV, sofa, and time-worn leather chair indicated that this room was where most of the actual “living” took place.

  Two gray cats eyed me suspiciously from the couch, where their nap had been disrupted by the presence of an intruder.

  “Henri is the friendly one,” Shelby informed me. “Francoise hates almost everybody. You’re not allergic, are you? I should’ve asked.”

  “The only creatures I’m allergic to are bees and wasps.”

  “Let me get some bottled water from the fridge and we’ll go,” she said.

  While she disappeared into the kitchen, I glanced around the sunroom, which had been pa
inted a muted gold. Morning sun poured through east-facing windows, leaving patterns of light on a vintage oriental rug that anchored the seating area. A framed photo of Shelby and a man I assumed was her husband rested atop an old oak sideboard, next to a stone jar that I suspected might be a cremation urn.

  I glanced at the photo again. Jean-Pierre was a big, robust guy with a bit of a belly, but I guess that was to be expected in his business. The picture depicted them standing in front of a storefront restaurant, smiling at each other. My insides twisted. I probably didn’t stand a chance against the memories of her near-perfect French chef husband.

  Shelby returned to the room and stashed the water bottles in a small backpack.

  “I’m ready,” she said. “Want to look at the garden first?”

  “Yes, please.”

  I’d been curious about her green thumb since the first time she served me home-grown organic veggies.

  Shelby led me downstairs through the walk-out basement and into a grassy yard. A good third of the outdoor space was taken up by the rectangular raised bed of a vegetable garden, surrounded by chicken wire and partially shaded by an enormous chestnut tree. At one end of the bed, runner beans climbed a trellis made from plastic ties and bamboo poles. Several healthy tomato plants were partially contained in metal cages. Carrots, onions, and an assortment of leafy lettuces were planted to take full advantage of the sunlight, with the tree providing partial cover as the day wore on. Whoever planned this garden had carefully considered every detail.

  On the far side of the bed, a dense hedge of holly thrived along the chain link fence separating Shelby’s yard from the neighbors.