I was fussed over, hugged, and frequently discussed in the third person.
Oh, you’ve got your hands full with that one. He’ll grow up to be a heartbreaker.
Which I did, of course, also wounding myself in the process.
***
Madeline’s rare phone call came just as I returned to the condo the following evening. When I entered the kitchen, Shelby was stirring a pot on the stove. She added a generous amount of shredded cheese to the steaming mixture and turned off the flame before looking in my direction. I pointed to the phone at my ear and mouthed the word, “Maddie.” She nodded, stopping me for a moment to hand over a bottled craft beer before I headed into the living room.
My daughter’s voice carried more genuine enthusiasm than I’d heard in months. Fresh from a two-week musical theatre camp, where she received heaping praise from her instructors, she had made the gut-wrenching decision to audition for a small singing part in her school’s upcoming production of Beauty and the Beast. For a painfully shy girl who had never tried out for anything, this was good news indeed. If my fragile, emotionally damaged daughter could find a way to move forward with her life, perhaps her father could too.
“Will you help me with my lines, Ian?” she asked, causing my heart to twist despite her insistence on using my given name, instead of Dad or Father. “My audition’s not for a few weeks. Won’t you be home by then?”
I grimaced inwardly at the thought of home. Not the Malibu beach house, nor the bleak rented condo, but a place filled with warmth and some measure of happiness. Quite a stretch of the imagination for someone like me: currently rootless, an unclaimed man who belonged to no one.
“Yes, of course.”
My little girl, now almost a grown woman, wanted to run her lines with me. By the time we ended our call I was smiling again. My spirits soared and my ego swelled, as I was convinced that the time was right to throw caution to the wind and approach Shelby with a romantic proposition.
Returning to the kitchen, I threw her a wink before my eyes were drawn to the stovetop.
“Hello, Chef. It smells delicious in here.”
“I’m making shrimp and grits with fried okra. I hope you like it.”
I expected I would, because she had yet to serve me a meal that I did not devour.
Shelby tossed the okra rounds in a cornmeal mixture before using a slotted spoon to lift them out, shaking off the excess breading. She dropped them into a skillet of hot oil, producing a satisfying sizzle. After only a few minutes, she used the same spoon to remove the cooked morsels to a plate before adding a final sprinkle of salt. A tray of sliced bacon, cooked extra crispy, came out of the oven to rest. The unmistakable aroma of cured pork drifted my way, causing my stomach to rumble.
“Everything okay at home?” she asked.
There was that word again. I dropped into a chair at the breakfast table and took a sip of lager before pausing to read the label. It wasn’t too bad…for an American beer.
“Yes, things are good, actually.” I offered a condensed version of my phone conversation, adding, “She loved the music camp and she’s made a few new friends in the theatre department.”
“You mean to tell me your daughter is hanging around with show folk?” Shelby assessed me with one hand on her hip, the other holding a pair of kitchen tongs, while attempting to keep a straight face.
Her smile appeared for the first time tonight.
“She could do a lot worse, you know.”
She placed a dozen plump shrimp on the stovetop grill, enveloping the kitchen in briny goodness while they cooked.
“Maddie asked me to help with her audition, so it seems I have some value as a father, after all.”
“I always thought you did,” she said, sending yet another pang to the vicinity of my heart.
Before I could talk myself out of it, or consider the ramifications, I rose from the table and walked around the island to draw her close, my arms encircling her waist. She smelled of lemon and vanilla with a hint of bacon.
“What would you say to going away with me for the weekend? The two of us at some little hotel where we can begin to figure out what’s happening between us.”
Her head tipped back to study my face. When she wrapped her arms over mine, the warmth of her hands on my skin made my head spin, although I could also sense her hesitation.
Was I someone she believed she could trust? Had I come on too strong?
“Dinner’s almost ready,” she said, maneuvering away from an obviously awkward subject. An invisible wall rose between us.
“Let’s talk afterward. I don’t want to overcook the shrimp.”
While feeling a bit dejected, I tried to console myself with thoughts of another memorable meal. That, and the fact that she didn’t say no.
After the shrimp turned a delicate pink, she removed them from the grill and ladled cheesy grits into a bowl, adding the crumbled bacon, her perfectly cooked seafood, and a generous garnish of okra rounds. She wiped the rim of the bowl clean, set it in front of me, and poured two glasses of crisp, white wine before making a second, smaller helping for herself.
“You’ll probably have to do penance on the elliptical trainer after this meal,” she said.
From the first bite of her succulent shrimp, salty bacon, and cheesy grits, I was lost in food nirvana.
“Outstanding,” I announced between bites. “I’ve never eaten grits.”
I wrongly assumed from the name that grits would be gritty. On the contrary, her creamy dish was completely habit-forming.
“You’ve got a lot to learn about becoming a good southern boy.” She teased me again with another catlike smile. “But then you probably didn’t get a lot of soul food growing up in England. I got this recipe from an old friend who’s a New Orleans-based chef. It was a best-seller at Faith for several years.”
I polished off every morsel on my plate before pushing it away with a contented groan.
We took our wine into my generic, blandly decorated living area and settled on the sofa. I wrapped one arm around her shoulders and raked my fingers through her silver hair, which she had left out of its usual ponytail. The silky strands fell over her shoulders, glimmering in the dim light.
“Your hair is amazing. It feels like liquid silver.”
“Thanks.” She sank deeper into the sofa cushions. “It started going gray when I was still in my thirties. A few years ago, I stopped coloring it, mainly out of curiosity, and this is what had been hiding underneath the hair dye.”
My fingers worked their way to her scalp for a gentle massage, as she lapsed into a state of relaxation, wearing a blissful expression like that of her cat, Henri, when he was curled up on her lap.
“It’s very attractive,” I told her. “And before I get myself in trouble, it doesn’t make you look old.”
“You’re sweet,” she murmured, as her eyes opened into a feline slant. “Some people claim that gray is the new black.
“About the weekend…” Shelby sat up abruptly and helped herself to a generous sip of wine.
“This is so awkward. I…I haven’t dated or been sexually active since Jean-Pierre died.” A trace of uncertainty clouded her voice. “I’m not entirely sure why I thought you should know, but now that I’ve said it, there’s no going back.”
I took her hand in mine and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’ll make sure it’s good. And, of course I’ll bring protection.”
Her mouth gaped open before I heard my normally refined southern chef mutter, Oh, shit under her breath.
“I didn’t think about that.” Her face flushed. “But we won’t need birth control. According to the period tracker on my phone, I haven’t had one in 789 days.”
“Well, now that we’ve covered all the libido-crushing details,” I countered, receiving a brief smile in return, “that’s not what I was talking about. I can assure you that I’m safe. I had myself tested after I found out about Monica’s affair.”
My jaw ti
ghtened and the muscles in my neck twitched.
“I haven’t been with anyone since.”
Shelby closed her eyes while she contemplated a response.
“Yes,” she said, following a few moments of excruciating silence. “I’d like to spend the weekend with you. But let’s agree in advance: no attachments and no expectations.”
She turned toward me to study my face, re-assuming her cool, composed mask.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll go along with that. You set the rules and I’ll abide by them.
“Where should we go? I was hoping you might have a suggestion.”
“You could try Ravenswood Inn. It’s not far from here. I haven’t stayed there but I’ve eaten in the restaurant a few times, and it was outstanding. I believe they had a Michelin star at one time.” She twirled the glass in her hand. “The staff is very discreet,” she went on. “Rumor has it that Ravenswood is a favorite getaway for certain elected officials who are cheating on their spouses.”
“You don’t have an aversion to being seen with me, do you?”
“Of course not, but we don’t get many celebrities in this part of Virginia, and I’d rather not find my face on the cover of a grocery store tabloid.”
“Fair enough,” I agreed, making a note on my phone app. “I’ll make a reservation tomorrow.” Going somewhere with an award-winning restaurant would be a bonus. I was far more interested in the comfort and privacy of the room than in the dinner menu.
***
My plans to spend the weekend with Shelby in a romantic destination were dashed the following afternoon. During a break in shooting, I returned to my trailer and called Ravenswood Inn, only to be told it was fully booked with a wedding party. The inn’s cheerful proprietress did have a suite available the following Saturday, due to a last-minute cancellation, so I gave her my credit card number to hold the reservation. She suggested two other nearby properties that might have rooms available, but when I called I got the same result. Every lodging establishment was booked due to a regional wine festival taking place in a neighboring town.
When I mentioned this unfortunate development to my chef over a delectable dinner of tossed salad and steak frites, she didn’t appear to be either surprised or disappointed.
“I was wondering if you’d be able to find a room. Ravenswood is known as a wedding destination, and on top of that we’ve got a lot of tourists in town for the Winefest.”
“We could fly somewhere instead.”
My suggestion was met with a frown.
“I’m not sure I want to tackle Dulles International on a Friday night,” she said. “Why don’t you stay at my house instead? I’ll treat you to the best barbecue in the northern Shenandoah Valley.”
A weekend at Shelby’s house? What could be better than a cozy home, excellent food, and her, all to myself?
“Brilliant! What’s the name of the restaurant? I’ll make a reservation.”
“Shelby’s Outdoor Bistro,” she replied, as the corners of her mouth curved upward. “I have a smoker, remember?”
Our plans were finalized. I would arrive on Friday evening and stay the weekend. With this event to anticipate, the remainder of my week on location dragged on, mercifully with few weather-related delays, my evenings brightened by the presence of Chef and her delectable cooking. One night she stayed for an after-dinner drink, regaling me with stories about her carefree years in Paris and revealing her concerns about Danielle.
“Because Dani is pretty and petite, with big boobs, she gets a lot of unwanted male attention, so much that she’s started carrying a little knife for protection. I’m finding it hard to believe that I am the mother of a dagger-wielding daughter. Couldn’t she get some pepper spray instead?”
Her tone turned even more serious when she discussed her elderly mum, whose once-vibrant personality had been obliterated by late-stage dementia.
“I begged her to live closer to me after Dad died, but she refused to leave her golf league and her friends at the retirement community. Now she’s too old and frail to travel, and she doesn’t know who I am…but let’s move on to a less depressing topic.”
She pushed her chair back from the table and got up to serve dessert—crepes filled with lemon-thyme custard and dusted with confectioner’s sugar.
“One of my specialties,” she confessed, as I swooned over the filling’s tangy sweetness. “I worked at a creperie in France for a while, and I got pretty good at making them.”
Pretty good was a bit of an understatement.
***
On Friday morning, I drove the Mercedes to work so I could go directly to Shelby’s house after shooting wrapped for the day. After folding shirts, shorts, and a pair of jeans into my airline carry-on bag, I stowed my luggage in the boot, next to the gift bag that contained a bottle of her favorite Chardonnay, an oaky variety called Chanticleer. Its label featured a colorful, proud rooster, the unofficial symbol of France. I also included a dozen rich, decadent chocolate truffles and a silly refrigerator magnet that read Kiss the Cook. I found the truffles and magnet at a gourmet food boutique in the same strip mall as the liquor store.
It was well past six thirty by the time I turned onto her quiet block. I had been instructed to drive down the alley to the detached garage and park there.
“It’s a pretty safe neighborhood, but I don’t want to worry about the car all weekend,” she told me. “It does tend to call attention to itself.”
When I sent a text to announce my arrival, the garage door opened, and I pulled the Mercedes inside, where Shelby was waiting at the far end. My face broke into an involuntary smile at the sight of her, looking fresh and cool in a gauzy white shirt, tied at the waist with the sleeves rolled up, blue-and-white cropped pants, and a pair of jeweled flip-flops on her pedicured feet.
“You made it just fine,” she noted, carrying the slightest hint of a drawl in her speech.
I hopped out of the roadster and retrieved my bags before we made our way toward the house, walking along a flagstone path to a set of stairs leading to the deck, otherwise known as Shelby’s Outdoor Bistro. Water trickled in the wall-mounted fountain; small flames danced atop the propane fireplace, and a mouth-watering meaty aroma permeated the moist air.
“Let’s go in and put your things away,” she suggested. “Then I’ll make drinks and we’ll take them outside, unless you think it’s too hot out here.”
“First things first.”
Reaching for her waist, I drew her close, my lips meeting hers for a lingering kiss. She pressed her body against mine, providing a tantalizing hint of what I hoped would happen later. After a few moments she pulled away, offered another of her feline smiles, and said, “Come inside before we give the neighbors something to talk about.”
Following her through the door, we walked through the sunroom into her kitchen, where I handed over my gift bag.
“Oh, how sweet!” She slipped one hand around my neck as her lips grazed my cheek. I inhaled her subtle scent—herbal and lemony, evoking images of steamy summer days and cool blue eyes.
She pulled the chilled Chardonnay out of its bag and paused to admire the magnificent bird on the label.
“Chanticleer. You remembered my favorite.”
“I thought you might appreciate a big cock tonight.”
She regarded me with cool detachment until her grin gave her away. “I guess you read my mind,” she said.
Shelby stowed the wine in a small, temperature-controlled fridge before taking my hand and leading me upstairs to the place of my dreams. Her large master bedroom, which had a row of windows overlooking the street, spanned the front of the house. The walls were painted a soft, calming blue-gray. Her king-sized bed was covered in a colorful paisley print comforter. At the far end of the room, another worn oriental rug, a twin to the one in the sunroom, softened the hardwood floor. As in the other rooms of her house, the furnishings were classic, time-worn, and totally appealing.
She drew the blinds,
switched on a bedside lamp, and directed my attention to the remodeled ensuite, which featured a glass-walled shower and marble-topped vanity.
“Would you like to unpack now?” she asked.
“I’ll do it later. Let’s have a drink and relax.”
Back downstairs, Shelby opened a California pinot noir and filled two glasses, handing one to me. We returned to the deck, where she moved over to the smoker and raised the lid. The mouth-watering scent of porky goodness drifted in my direction. She mopped barbecue sauce over two full racks of baby-back ribs before closing the top.
“Are you expecting others?” I teased, surprised by the large quantity of food being prepared.
“No, it’s only us two,” she responded, before emitting a nervous laugh. “I always seem to make too much. It’s a bad habit.”
Great for my taste buds, but not for my waistline. Most likely, I would have to employ a personal trainer after I got back to the West Coast.
We sipped our wine as the ribs continued to cook, until a light rain sent us back inside. A few minutes later we sat down to eat in her charming dining room, which had white-painted wainscoting and an antique chandelier.
I bit into a succulent pork rib. The juicy meat fell off the bone, its flavor intensified by tangy sauce. Next, I sampled fresh tomato salad, enhanced with chopped garden herbs, before swallowing a mouthful of creamy mac and cheese, which she admitted was another of her guilty food pleasures.
“Mac and cheese, grilled cheese sandwiches, and cheese puffs,” she confessed.
“I’m beginning to sense a trend. Don’t forget about your cheesy grits.”
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