Fed Up

by Kathleen Duhamel

  We were still texting each other when Dani stumbled in, clad in her pajamas. She stifled a yawn before curling up in the leather chair, her expression unreadable.

  When I received another alert, I tapped my phone to view the accompanying photo. The sight of it produced an awkward laugh.

  Dani pushed back her long hair and fixed her eyes on mine.

  “Please do not tell me you got a dick pic.” Her voice carried a trace of last night’s hostility.

  “Oh, no, nothing like that.” I passed the phone to her. “Here, take a look.”

  Ian’s photo depicted a lumpy, scorched omelet accompanied by two pieces of burned toast. He had written: This morning’s pathetic attempt at feeding myself.

  The corners of Dani’s mouth flicked upward despite her best effort at appearing disinterested.

  “Now I understand why he needs a personal chef,” she said. “He’s helpless in the kitchen.”

  I stashed the phone in my pocket, relieved that we had achieved some sort of truce.

  “Are you hungry? Why don’t I make some waffles with the lemon-blueberry syrup you like?”

  “Okay, Mom,” she agreed.

  ***

  Once in the kitchen, I slipped into the familiar and comforting ritual of preparing a meal, trying to banish thoughts of Ian from my mind and focus them instead on food. I’d always regarded feeding people as a labor of love, so making breakfast for Danielle seemed like a treat. I had the waffle batter prepared and bacon sizzling in the oven when she walked in and seated herself at the island.

  “I’m sorry about last night,” she said, keeping her gaze on the countertop. “I didn’t mean to come home and pick a fight. I know I shouldn’t be surprised that you want to date someone, but it was a shock to find the Time Traveler sitting in our sunroom.”

  I opened the oven door to check on the bacon before slipping onto the barstool next to her.

  “I’m sorry too. Maybe I should’ve said something, but I didn’t see any reason to unless…” My throat constricted. Unless it was a genuine relationship instead of a short-term hook-up.

  “I don’t have to tell you how lonely I’ve been without your dad. There were days I was so depressed I could hardly drag myself out of bed. But I’m feeling more hopeful now because of therapy, and you know how much I love cooking for someone. And, if you must know, Ian and I haven’t had sex.”

  She cringed in response.

  “We’ve been talking each other through a rough time. His divorce, of course, and some issues with his teenage daughter. And he hates his job.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Dani suppressed a snort. “Have you seen Sutherland’s Ghosts? It’s terrible.”

  I nodded my agreement and grinned at her.

  “Try to see it my way. If you think it’s hard to find suitable men at your age, sweetie, it’s next to impossible when you’re over fifty. Most are looking for a caretaker, a mommy, or a meal ticket, but Ian is different. Maybe that’s why I like him, despite his issues. Anyway, I wish you’d give him a chance. I don’t think he’s a jerk, and, as you said yourself, he’s pretty hot for an old guy.”

  She sighed.

  “You’re a warm and accommodating person, and it would be easy for someone like Ian James to take advantage of your niceness. I’m worried that you’ll get in over your head. Besides, you were the one who told me not to choose a boyfriend based only on his appearance. ‘Beware of good-looking men who are full of themselves,’ I believe you said.”

  I flinched a little before staring into my coffee cup.

  “Have you ever gotten a dick pic?” I asked, determined to change the subject.

  She rolled her eyes. “So many that I could probably paper my bedroom with them. I can’t understand why guys think it’s a turn on for women. It’s revolting.”

  Her smile returned.

  “If I want to look at someone’s penis, I’ll ask politely.”

  My laughter melted the last bit of tension between us. By the time I cooked and served the waffles, Dani had agreed, with some reluctance, to meet Ian for dinner.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ian

  After I succeeded at cremating my breakfast, I searched through the kitchen for alternate nourishment, rediscovering a tin of vanilla bean scones and a jar of lemon curd that Shelby had left a couple of days ago, “just in case you get hungry for something a little sweet.”

  While I considered myself more or less inept in the kitchen, I did take some pride in my tea-brewing skills. I made a fresh pot of Earl Grey, took the food and tea to the kitchen table, snapped a photo, and sent it to Shelby with the caption: Breakfast, Take Two. The gnawing in my gut remained unsatisfied even after I polished off a couple of her flaky scones, and I realized my inner hunger had more to do with my need to possess her than anything else.

  Foolish man that I was, despite all my self-talk about avoiding emotional commitment, I had fallen off the edge for a kind, beautiful woman whose life I would only complicate. My thoughts kept returning to what a hot mess she’d been last night with her rumpled clothing and smeared lipstick. I also spent a great deal of time thinking about where her mouth had been.

  The morning dragged on. I’d planned to spend part of our Saturday pruning Shelby’s overgrown shrubbery and mowing her lawn, although she protested.

  “I didn’t invite you for the weekend to do yard work,” she told me, before last night’s debacle with Danielle sent me packing. “You put in enough hours with your day job.”

  “I rather enjoy getting my hands dirty,” I insisted. “Don’t you agree there’s a certain satisfaction about being in nature?”

  “Depends upon what part of nature you’re talking about. The rabbits have ignored the repellant I put out and are tearing up my veggies again.”

  I’d planned to fix that for her too, by repairing the chicken wire fencing around her backyard garden, a large project she probably couldn’t complete herself without help.

  Instead, I was wasting precious time at the condo. I managed to kill an hour working out on the elliptical trainer and with the free weights before collapsing into a leather recliner facing the living room TV. Flipping through the channels, I happened upon a Time Traveler marathon playing on an obscure cable channel. While I seldom watched my old shows, today I made it through an entire episode, wincing at the antics of the cheeky bastard on screen, so sure of himself, convinced that stardom would last forever.

  Afterward, I flipped through a few hundred channels, finding nothing of particular interest, so I sat like a lump, awash in self-pity, wishing I was at home with Shelby. The prospect of returning in a few days to the cold Malibu beach house made me even more dejected.

  Switching off the television, I located my phone and sent a text to Madeline.

  Ian: Hope u r having a fun weekend!

  She informed me that she preferred to be texted rather than called because it’s “more private.” Texting also avoided the need to chat with her old man in front of her friends, which was very uncool at her age. After a few minutes and no response, I contemplated calling my manager for an update on my European commercial, then thought better of interrupting his usual Saturday golf game.

  Thinking that some music might bring me out of my funk, I found a satellite station playing recent rock hits. The first few notes of the reggae-inspired Deep Blue song, Never Mind the Time, sent my spirits lower.

  Counting down the hours until I see your smile

  While away the time when you’re not here

  Chasing my illusions, wandering like a madman

  Waiting for the moment you appear.

  I had a rather cloudy memory of meeting the band’s lead singer, Robert Silver, at a party his wife hosted at their Manhattan townhouse decades ago. Robert has met so many people during his lengthy career that I doubt he would remember me. If he did, however, a second encounter might not be in my best interest, especially if he knew what had happened all those years ago.

  Here
in the darkness alone with you,

  All that matters is now.

  All that matters is now.

  Trudging back into the kitchen, I retrieved a bottle of Kill Your Darlings lager from the generously stocked refrigerator before returning to the chair. I’d received a text alert from Shelby during my short absence.

  Shelby: Meet us at 6:30 at the Lakeside Grill. It’s not far from your place. Dani is texting you a link with directions.

  Ian: I shall be there. Will Danielle be unarmed?

  She responded with a question mark.

  I glanced at my watch, saddened to find out it was only 1:14 p.m. Turning on the telly once more, I located a classic movie channel and settled in to watch The Man in the Grey Flannel Suit, which I had viewed several times. The film was set in post-World War II America, with the incomparable Gregory Peck taking on the role of a returning soldier, haunted by his wartime memories and struggling to make a living. After he got a better-paying corporate job that threatened to compromise his integrity, he searched for balance between work and family life.

  Bloody hell. It’s always something, isn’t it? Although Peck is one of my favorite actors, the movie itself was troubling. If he gets it all wrong, what are the odds of us mere mortals making a go of things?

  Next up was On the Waterfront, in which cinematic genius Marlon Brando portrayed another compromised man, a former boxer who “coulda been a contender” before he was coerced into throwing a fight. The pity party continued until I fell asleep in my chair and missed the end of the film. When I awoke from my stupor, it was well after five o’clock, time to shower and meet the ladies for dinner.

  Before I dressed, I assessed the face staring back at me, which was looking considerably older and grayer than during its Time Traveler days. The aging process has never been kind, especially to someone whose appearance is central to his livelihood. I’d always found it ironic that I continued to attract attention from strangers based solely on my looks, while precious few were interested in the man who lived within. Shelby wasn’t like that, though, which was one of the reasons I was drawn to her. I believed she enjoyed spending time with me, despite my brooding nature and flawed character.

  I pulled on a pair of summer-weight trousers, topped them with a white linen shirt, and finished the outfit with lace-ups in soft Italian leather. I’d always thought you could tell a lot about a person by his or her shoes, and I abhorred the American custom of wearing trainers with everything, which probably made me hopelessly out of date. I rounded up my wallet, keys, phone, and sunglasses before I headed to the garage, slid into the Mercedes’ luxurious leather seat, and gave British Siri my destination address.

  I arrived twenty minutes ahead of time at the lakeside restaurant, which had been designed to replicate an old farmhouse, complete with gables and a wrap-around porch. Several groups of diners were waiting outside, some of them seated in oversized porch swings. Inside, the décor was warm and rustic, with an elaborate beamed ceiling and mismatched pendant lights over the bar. Making my way to the host station, I was greeted by a woman who offered an approving smile before asking, “Do you have a reservation?”

  “Durand party,” I replied in a flat American accent. “I’m a bit early.”

  A flicker of recognition registered in her eyes.

  “We don’t usually seat incomplete parties,” she responded. “But in your case…” Her face lit up in a blinding smile, “…we’re not too busy, so I’ll make an exception.”

  I was led to a high-backed, horseshoe-shaped booth covered in chocolate leather.

  “Would you like something from the bar while you wait?” she asked. I nodded, and she dropped a menu on the table before peering at me again.

  “Say, aren’t you on TV?” she probed. “That ghost drama?”

  The thought of forever being associated with Sutherland’s Ghosts sent a shiver of revulsion down my spine.

  “I get that all the time,” I responded in my American voice. “I know who you’re talking about, but I’m not him. Sorry!”

  She gave me a skeptical look before scurrying back to the host station.

  A few moments later a waiter appeared to take my drink order, Tanqueray and tonic in a tall glass with a squeeze of lime. I’d become quite fond of the refreshing cocktail, thanks to my personal chef, who I assumed must be running late. Six forty-two and still no sign of her or Danielle.

  Counting down the hours until I see your smile...

  My drink arrived. I took the liberty of ordering an artisan cheese plate as our appetizer before I wasted more time indulging in my life-long habit of silently observing the people nearby. I enjoyed studying their speech patterns and mannerisms while filing away any ideas I might one day apply to future roles. That is, if I still had an acting career and a shred of credibility after the steaming pile of prime-time excrement known as Sutherland’s Ghosts.

  Glancing toward the front of the restaurant, I caught the briefest glimpse of long, silver hair before taking in the merciful sight of Chef Durand and her daughter coming my way.

  Shelby was back to her cool, composed self, wearing a sleeveless summer dress in a splashy print of deep pink hibiscus blooms. The dress’s vee neckline offered a tasteful, yet tantalizing hint of her cleavage. A pair of high-heeled, strappy sandals called my attention to her shapely legs and pedicured toes, polished in the same rose tone as her dress. My pulse sped up a little at the sight of her, so warm, appealing, and utterly lovely. Had her husband fully appreciated the exceptional woman that she is?

  Danielle, shorter and curvier than her mother, wore a mini dress in a purple print that coordinated with the streaks in her hair. She assessed me cautiously, a petite ninja warrior with her arms crossed in a protective stance. I stood to greet them as a refined gentleman would do. In today’s society, chivalry might be on life support, but as far as I was concerned, it wasn’t quite dead.

  Shelby hurried over to plant a chaste kiss on my cheek.

  “Sorry we’re late,” she said, a little breathlessly. “Dani and I got pedicures this afternoon and time got away from us.”

  Good to know. If mother and daughter spent the day together, it could mean they’d hashed out their differences from last night. Danielle and I exchanged a clumsy air kiss while I tried to determine whether there was still murder in her eyes. The ladies scooted into the booth, capturing me in a womanly cocoon that hinted of perfume and hair spray.

  “I’m not sure how I will cope tonight, surrounded by all this loveliness,” I heard myself utter. It was a ridiculous comment, of course, and the instant the words were out of my mouth I regretted them. Danielle rolled her eyes.

  “Oh, you’ll cope just fine.” Shelby grinned in my direction, sending a warm shiver down my back.

  Danielle’s phone emitted a jarring electronic tone and she excused herself from the table, giving her mother and me a few precious moments alone. As soon as Dani was out of earshot, I leaned close, pressed my lips to Shelby’s ear, and whispered, “Those hibiscus blooms flatter you. You look great.”

  “So do you,” she said, keeping her voice soft. “I could just eat you up.”

  Which she attempted to do last night.

  “Why, thank ya, ma’am.”

  Without thinking it through, I lapsed into the affected southern drawl of my television character. Shelby’s clear blue eyes bored into mine, and I knew she was not amused.

  “Ee-an?” She drew out the sound of my name before resting her hand on my forearm. “No fake accents tonight, okay? Just be yourself. That’s the man I like.”

  Although he might be old and stodgy, and unworthy of her daughter’s approval.

  “Has Danielle still got it in for me?”

  Shelby emitted a nervous laugh. “I’m not sure. She thinks her poor addled mother has gone crazy.”

  “Lost the plot?” I inquired.

  Her puzzled expression told me she had no idea of what I meant.

  “When someone’s lost the plot,” I e
xplained, “it means they have stopped behaving rationally.”

  “Do you believe I’m irrational?”

  “Absolutely not. We are two mature, perfectly rational adults who are attracted to each other. We were attempting to act on those feelings when we were painfully interrupted.”

  She grinned and said, “I’m willing to give it another try if you are.”

  ***

  After Danielle returned to our table, both women ordered Chardonnay and I sipped what was left of my drink. When our appetizer was delivered, Shelby surveyed the assortment of cheeses, accompanied by smoked nuts and dried fruit, with the practiced eye of a professional. She scooped up a bite of lemon-zested goat cheese with a cracker before pronouncing it divine.

  “I thought you might like it, given the fact that you’re something of a cheese freak.”

  My remark drew a sharp glance from Danielle, who sampled the asiago while pretending to be enjoying herself.

  “So thoughtful of you,” Shelby murmured, while her daughter narrowly avoided choking on a smoked almond. All of us studied our menus for the next few minutes until our waitress came back for dinner orders. Mother and daughter opted to split an organic mushroom pizza, while I chose pan-fried trout, served with chips—French fries, as Americans referred to them—and remoulade sauce, and accompanied by a second gin and tonic.

  “What happens after you finish the TV show?” Danielle asked, her eyes fixed on my face. I wasn’t at all certain what she meant. What happens in my life? Or with me and her mother? I found myself at a sudden loss for words.

  “First, I’m going on a diet,” I said, attempting to keep the mood light. “It seems Chef has fed me a little too well. And I’m shooting a commercial in Paris.”

  “You’re going to Paris?” Shelby’s voice brightened. “That’s the European project you talked about? J’aime Paris. The Louvre, Notre Dame, Sacre Coure, and all those lovely little bistros and tree-lined streets. Every time you round a corner, there’s something that takes your breath away.”