“You can do that?” She looked my way. “Sounds like more fun.”
The hardtop retracted at the push of a button. She tilted her head back and said, “This feels so luxurious.”
“Since you like the car, I’ll keep it for the rest of my time here if you’ll agree to go out with me again.”
She offered another of her unreadable smiles.
“We haven’t finished this date yet. What’s your hurry?”
“I like to plan ahead.” I had to make the most of every day I had left with her.
On the way home, I offered to take her to dinner, but she surprised me by suggesting we stop for takeout instead.
“It’s a little Peruvian deli with the best rotisserie chicken in the Shenandoah Valley,” she insisted. “We can take it home and dine al fresco on my back deck.”
I couldn’t come up with a single reason to object to her offer, even though the idea of Peruvian cuisine in small-town Virginia did seem a bit odd. She directed me to a rather seedy-looking residential block near her street, ending in front of a shabby two-story house on the corner with a collection of mismatched outdoor tables scattered in front, most of them filled with diners. A small neon sign in a window flashed “Open.”
“Are you certain about this place?” I asked, unable to hide my disbelief. “It looks a bit tattered.”
We could’ve been having a fine dining experience, and this is what she chooses?
I received a cool appraisal.
“Don’t let the exterior put you off,” Shelby said. “The chicken is delicious, and I know the owners personally.”
She did say she wasn’t a food snob.
I found a parking spot on the street, put the retractable top up, and locked the car, feeling nervous about leaving it in the dilapidated neighborhood. Inside the house-turned-restaurant, I followed her through a makeshift dining room to the back counter.
“Hola!” Shelby called out.
In a few seconds, a slight, brown-skinned woman wearing a chef’s apron stepped into view. Her face broke into a wide, toothy smile at the sight of my chef. She rushed over to Shelby and the two of them embraced. The woman took Shelby’s hands in her two small ones, speaking non-stop in rapid Spanish, most of which I couldn’t comprehend. I caught some bits and pieces involving ninos before the woman turned her eyes to me, smiled, and blushed.
“Es tan guapo. Es el su novio?” she asked Shelby before giggling and covering her mouth with both hands.
“Oh, no, Felisa. Es mi amigo, Ian.”
While my own knowledge of Spanish was rudimentary at best, I was fairly certain Felisa asked if we were romantically involved and was told we were just friends. My already-wounded ego took another direct hit. A few minutes later we left with a whole roasted chicken, cut into quarters, and containers of fresh corn salad and spicy black beans.
Back at Shelby’s house, she set our takeout feast on the kitchen island and gathered plates and flatware from a cabinet while two pair of feline eyes watched her every move. I took the opportunity to get a better look at her kitchen, which conveyed an understated, professional style with pale gray cabinets, stone countertops, and gleaming stainless-steel appliances, including a restaurant-grade six-burner cook top. A magnetic strip mounted on the backsplash held a collection of knives, organized by size and function. An oversized black-and-white photo of her culinary icon, Julia Child, hung on a short wall next to the refrigerator.
One of the cats—the friendly one, I assumed—wound around Shelby’s bare legs, while his anti-social sibling retreated to the adjacent dining room, no doubt plotting some act of vengeance. Francoise’s ears were flattened against his head and his tail twitched while he planned his attack.
“Let me feed the boys and then we’ll take our food outside.”
She opened another cabinet, retrieved a sack of cat food, and topped off a bowl on the floor. Both cats converged on their dinner dish.
“I don’t believe he approves of me,” I muttered, nodding toward the ill-tempered one.
“Francoise isn’t all that interested in making new friends,” she informed me. “Don’t take it personally.”
She poured tall glasses of iced tea and garnished them with lemon wedges before piling our takeout containers, plates, and utensils onto a tray.
“I’ll get that for you,” I offered.
“Thanks.”
She produced a smile before I opened the door onto her back deck, where I stepped into a southern fantasy.
Her outdoor living space spanned the width of the house. One end was anchored by a large gas grill and smoker, while a dining table and chairs were positioned at the opposite end, offering an inspiring view of her garden. A dozen or more planters bursting with blooming petunias, begonias, and coleus added splashes of vibrant color. Several strands of tiny globe lights crisscrossed overhead.
The central area between the dining table and outdoor kitchen had been outfitted as a lounge with faux-wicker furniture and a free-standing fireplace designed to replicate a weathered wine barrel. At the touch of a switch, flames danced over a bed of glossy rocks. On the wall behind me, a small fountain produced a soothing trickle. The overall effect was nothing short of enchanting.
“Welcome to my bistro,” Chef said. “I might’ve gone a little overboard on flowers this year.”
We seated ourselves at the dining table and she began dishing out food. She set a plate in front of me piled with a quarter of the chicken, generous helpings of the corn salad and beans, and a tiny plastic container of spicy green sauce, which I was advised to use sparingly due to its heat factor. I bit into the moist, tender chicken through crispy skin brightened by the slightest hint of spice.
I finished my portion of the juicy bird and helped myself to another piece.
“Do you have the recipe for this?” I asked between bites. “It’s insanely good.”
She shook her head and grinned.
“Nope. It’s a carefully guarded secret. All I know is that Felise and Gabriel marinate the chicken overnight in a special sauce.”
“I’m assuming you are friends?”
Shelby nodded.
“We hired them at Faith to bus tables, wash dishes, and make salads—anything that was asked of them. They both worked extra shifts and saved money until they could open their own place.”
“She seems to think a lot of you.”
“I helped her enroll in English classes and gave some of Dani’s old clothes to her two girls.” She shrugged. “A lot of working families struggle here because of the high cost of living.”
My thoughts turned to Monica, who’d never have volunteered to attend a charity event without bargaining for something in return—a photo opportunity or interview to promote herself—and the soulless décor of our Malibu home, which I never wanted in the first place. Was I so desperate for love and companionship that I ignored all the obvious warning signs to have her? That being the case, it didn’t say much about my decision-making skills when it came to choosing a romantic partner.
Was this why I was drawn to Shelby, because she was the antithesis of everything Monica represented? Maybe I was only deluding myself to think I could have a chance with her, and I knew that time was not on my side. In another month I would be home in California.
By the time I polished off more corn salad, twilight was descending on the backyard, covering her garden in deep shadows. Shelby refilled our tea glasses, placed two plump sugar cookies on a plate, and suggested that we eat our dessert by the fire. Fortunately, the barrel-shaped fireplace didn’t produce much heat, but it did lend a warm ambience. She pulled two wicker chairs close and set our dessert on a side table.
“Thank you for saving me from falling on my face today,” she said, training those cool eyes on me. Her feline smile returned. “You were very gallant, sir.”
“It was my pleasure.”
We sat side-by-side in comfortable silence for a few moments. I stretched my legs out in front of me, relishing t
he sensation of being pleasantly stuffed and more at ease than I’d felt in months. Shelby placed her hand on my forearm, igniting a spark of desire that I was afraid my eyes wouldn’t be able to hide.
“Ian, look,” she said, keeping her voice barely above a whisper. “The fireflies are out.”
I gazed out into her backyard, where tiny pinpoints of lights flashed on and off in the blackness like a decorated Christmas tree. I hadn’t seen fireflies, nor thought about them, since my boyhood in England. Sitting close to her and watching the little shining insects was such a simple pastime, yet it triggered some bittersweet memories of the curious, nature-loving child I’d been, long before I became the jaded man I was, haunted by the mistakes of his past.
Shelby kept her hand on my arm for a few more seconds, as she might have if we were an old married couple. Her touch was probably an instinctive gesture, I surmised. How many nights must she have spent out here with her husband—making plans together, laughing, and touching?
“Did you know the males flash to attract a mate, and if a female is impressed, she will flash back? Apparently, my backyard has become the neighborhood hook-up spot for fireflies.”
She let out an awkward laugh.
Was this a veiled invitation, or was I projecting my own thoughts onto her? If she could’ve read my mind, she would’ve taken my hand, led me upstairs to her bedroom, and slipped between her cool sheets, where we would hold each other and make love. Not tonight, though. I needed to be patient.
“If you don’t mind my asking, why aren’t you cooking in a restaurant?”
She took a sip of iced tea, set her glass down, and studied her lap for a moment.
“After Jean-Pierre died, my heart wasn’t in it. We’d built the business together over the past two decades, and the thought of going into the kitchen and working in the same spot where he collapsed and died…” Her voice faltered.
“It was too much to deal with, so I sold the restaurant. For the past year and a half, I’ve been living off life insurance proceeds and money from the sale. For the record, I’ve never been a personal chef until this summer, and you’re my only client.”
Shelby paused for a long moment.
“I love this house, but it’s far too much for one person. After my job is over…” She cut her eyes at me for an instant before turning away. In other words, when I’m gone.
“…I’ll get serious about finding something permanent, but probably not here in Appleton. Dani would like me to move closer to her near D.C., and I guess that makes sense, although my age and gender are working against me in the job market. In most restaurant kitchens, it’s still a man’s world.”
I was under the false assumption that any fine dining establishment would be fortunate to have her. Now, I began to realize that Shelby’s situation was more complicated than I first thought. The idea of leaving Virginia, knowing she might be struggling, both financially and emotionally, made my jaw tighten. She’s not yours, I reminded myself, and she’s a grown woman who is perfectly capable of taking care of herself.
“If money wasn’t an issue, what would you do?”
She stared into the darkness for a few seconds.
“I’d start a consulting business to help struggling restaurants revamp their menus, and I’d finally write a cookbook. I’ve been collecting recipes for years, updated and simplified southern classics from a French-trained chef. I plan to call it Bon Appetit, Y’all.”
“I believe you could do anything you set your mind to, Shelby. Could I be your recipe taster for the book?”
I caught the faintest glimmer of her smile before she asked, “What are your plans when you finish here?”
Go home to an empty beach house, put it on the market, and try to get on with things.
“I’m shooting a commercial in Europe and I have some voice work lined up. There’s also talk of a Time Traveler film script being pitched to a few of the major studios, although I doubt anything will come of it. At any rate, I’d be considered far too old for the role.”
Steering away from the touchy subject of my age, I asked, “Did you know I played the evil wolf in Fox Tales? The studio is talking about making a sequel.”
“I’ll have to watch it on Netflix,” Shelby said. “Were you really evil?”
“Only in an animated, PG-13 sort of way.”
She grinned.
“Wolves always get a bad rap, don’t they?”
Rising from her chair, she refilled our tea glasses while I watched the fireflies dance. I couldn’t think of a single place I’d rather have been than sitting close to her near the flickering fireplace. I found myself wondering what it could be like to come home to a warm, welcoming house every day, to a woman who was interested in me rather than what I could do for her. I would give almost anything to have that kind of easy, natural relationship before time ran out and I morphed into a cantankerous old git who yelled at children and dogs for walking on his lawn.
I needed something or someone to help change my life for the better. Obviously, I was not faring too well on my own.
Shelby sat again, closed her eyes, and sighed.
“I love it out here with the sound of the trickling water and the fire, don’t you?” She went on before I had a chance to answer. “I guess that’s why I’ve been reluctant to sell the house. I’m emotionally attached to it, according to my therapist.”
“I understand. You’ve created a wonderful home.”
She turned toward me and our eyes locked.
“I had a good time with you today,” she said. “And that car is ridiculously cool.”
“Then may I assume that our first date gets a thumbs up?”
Another smile played at her mouth while I tried to read her thoughts.
“Yes.”
“In that case, would you like to go out next weekend? Something appropriately small-townish, such as dinner and a movie?”
“Sure,” she said. “You can choose the movie. I won’t make you sit through another chick flick.”
With great reluctance, I rose from her cushy wicker chair and announced, “I’d better go home now before I fall asleep on you, start snoring like a bear, and ruin my carefully crafted image.”
“Okay.”
I couldn’t quite tell if she sounded disappointed…or relieved.
Shelby walked me to her front door where I stood for a moment in awkward silence, debating about whether I should kiss her, or bolt for the condo before I did something foolish and begged her to let me stay. She studied my face as though she was weighing her options before she said, “Well, I’ll see you Monday evening. Any preference for dinner or should I text you the menu?”
I guess we were back to business.
“Why don’t you surprise me?”
She tilted her head again as she looked me over.
“I could do that.”
As I turned to leave, she took hold of my arm and reached up to plant a quick kiss on my stubbly cheek. I was caught off guard by the unexpected gesture, and it was all I can do to stop myself from pulling her into an embrace. Better to let the anticipation build a while longer, though. I was convinced there was a fire smoldering beneath her cool exterior. Sooner or later, I predicted, it would ignite.
Chapter Eleven
Shelby
Granted, it wasn’t much of a kiss. More like a friendly peck on the cheek, the type of affectionate smack I might have given to a close friend or family member. Normally, I wasn’t so impulsive, but spending the day with Ian had inspired me to do something completely out of character, like drag him upstairs to my bed. I don’t believe I would’ve had to drag him, though.
You could lure me to my doom and I’d go willingly.
A couple of times tonight he looked at me with an intensity that hinted of loneliness and need. My heart pounded much too fast, and I thought I might have been having another anxiety attack like I experienced after Jean-Pierre’s death—racing pulse, nausea, and a sense of impending disaster.
>
I was certain Ian intended to kiss me at my front door. I could almost feel his lips on mine when his mood abruptly shifted, leaving me to wonder if he was having second thoughts. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, although I believed he hesitated because of my own uncertainty.
Maybe he didn’t realize it, but Ian gave a great audition today. I intended to find out how he would behave with me in public—would he call attention to himself, gaze at his reflection in the shop windows, or look at attractive women? He did none of those things. He listened attentively when I spoke and didn’t try to mansplain anything. His interest in gardening and landscaping was a pleasant surprise.
In short, he passed with flying colors, leaving my insides twisted. I was consumed by erotic thoughts and bothered by more than a touch of guilt. A short eighteen months had passed since Jean-Pierre’s death, yet I was drooling over Ian like a gawky adolescent girl experiencing her first crush.
My therapist told me there was no timetable for grief. Moving forward with my life didn’t mean that I forgot my loved one, but learned to accept my loss. Jean-Pierre and I had a good marriage, better than most, but far from perfect. If our sex life had become a little stale in the years before he died, wasn’t that to be expected? Few, if any, couples can sustain the excitement of a new relationship when kids, demanding jobs, and mortgage payments enter the picture.
I’d like to feel passion again. I’d like to be held in a man’s arms. Even if I wasn’t in the market for anything permanent, what would be wrong with a short-term fling? No promises or declarations of forever. We both knew there was no possibility of anything else, not with us on separate coasts, living far different lives.
The nagging warning voice in my head had returned, this time accompanied by flashing red lights: Don’t get in over your head, Shelby. You could be hurt.
I won’t, though, I assured myself. I’ll make it clear. No attachments and no expectations.
Anyway, my heart was already shattered beyond repair.
***
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