“Mom’s a Francophile, in case you hadn’t noticed,” Dani added unnecessarily.
“The shoot is for a designer watch company.” I turned my gaze toward Shelby, struggling to keep my eyes on her face instead of the curve of her breasts. I’d planned to ask her to go with me once I had the dates finalized, thinking that we’d stay on a few more days and explore the city. I hadn’t said anything because I was debating about how she might feel about returning to the place where she met and married the perfect Frenchman.
It was a risky proposition, at best.
We sat in awkward silence for what seemed a short eternity. I racked my brain for a suitable topic of conversation, something that might spark a little interest from grim-faced Danielle.
Finally, I gathered my wits and asked, “Shelby mentioned that you watched a few episodes of Time Traveler. Were you a fan?”
She offered a hard stare before responding.
“Yes, along with almost everyone in my college dorm. We used to get together on Sunday evenings to watch your show and share a potluck dinner. Alcohol was usually involved, although it was banned on campus.”
A smile flickered across her face, and just as quickly disappeared.
“During my senior year, I moved into a house with four other girls, and that’s when the Sunday night parties really got going. Eventually, someone made up a drinking game. Every time you said bollocks, we’d all take a shot. You are responsible for several monumental Monday-morning hangovers.”
I shifted my gaze toward Shelby.
“My apologies for unwittingly contributing to your daughter’s delinquency.”
That comment drew a laugh from both women, so perhaps Danielle’s icy demeanor was starting to thaw.
“What was your favorite episode?” I pressed on.
She threw me another unflinching gaze. For the first time, I noticed that Danielle’s eyes were a bit darker than her mother’s. More gray than blue, the color of an overcast, unsettled Virginia sky.
“I think it was when you went back in time to help King Arthur save his kingdom and spent most of the episode gagging from everyone’s body odor.”
I nodded. That episode was one of my favorites too.
“Few baths and no deodorant in Camelot, I’m afraid.”
“I also liked the one where you ended up as tour manager for an ’80s hair band wearing way too much spandex.”
“Yes,” I agreed, smiling to myself at the memory. Ancient history, more than a dozen years ago, when my career was at its peak. Long before I became part of the cast of a third-rate TV drama, doing it strictly for the money, which I swore I’d never stoop to. The horrifying thought occurred to me that I might have become more compromised than Terry Malloy in On the Waterfront, that poor bastard.
The waitress arrived with our entrees. My fish was tasty and well prepared, although I’d already become so spoiled by Shelby’s cooking that it had become the standard by which all other meals were judged.
Shelby snapped a quick photo of the mushroom pizza before she and Danielle each grabbed a slice. After the first bite, she closed her eyes and sighed in contentment.
“I’m tasting at least three different cheeses, those delicate mushrooms, and truffle oil,” she said, before tearing off a generous piece and feeding it to me. “You’ve got to try this.”
I had to agree with her assessment. The truffle oil added an earthy note that complimented the mushrooms to perfection.
“Delicious. Could you replicate the recipe?” I asked.
“Oh, sure. No problem,” she said, rattling off the list of ingredients. “Ricotta, mozzarella, parmesan cheese, shitake mushrooms, and arugula. Would you like me to make it for you next week?”
“Yes, Chef.”
She grinned at me again, and in the next instant I got lost in the depths of her blue eyes, unable to look away. After a few moments, Shelby broke eye contact, took a sip of wine, and fanned herself with both hands.
“Is it hot in here or is it me?” she wanted to know.
“It’s just you, Mom,” her daughter responded with another eye roll, while I decided to show some self-control and keep my mouth shut. An idea had occurred to me, so simple and ingenious that I was surprised I hadn’t thought of it before now. A win-win that would wipe that frosty stare off Danielle’s face and please her mother at the same time.
“Would both of you like to visit the set next week?” I turned toward Danielle. “That is, if you’re planning to stay on for a few more days.”
Before she could answer, Shelby jumped in. “Visit you at Ashland Plantation? That sounds like fun, doesn’t it, Dani? I’ve never been on a TV set.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Dani’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Why not?”
“Perfect!” I exclaimed. “Let’s plan for Tuesday, so I’ll have time on Monday to set things up.”
While the apple pie with cinnamon whipped cream did sound tempting, all three of us passed on dessert. After I took care of the check, I escorted the women outside to Shelby’s weathered Subaru and bid them both good night, wishing there was a way I could’ve eavesdropped on their conversation during the drive home.
As soon as I got back to the condo, I sent her an email.
Please do not think I am completely full of shit, but when you walked into the restaurant tonight, I could not take my eyes off you. I hope I did not behave like a stuttering schoolboy or embarrass you, but I thought you were, without a doubt, the loveliest woman in the room. I also hope Danielle does not find me to be an insufferable twit, although I guess time will tell. I am counting down the hours until we are alone together again.
Your admiring Ian.
A few minutes later she responded:
You were funny and charming tonight. I like the real Ian so much better than the characters you play. Don’t worry too much about Danielle. She thinks she needs to protect me, but she’ll come around eventually.
Sweet dreams, S.
Chapter Fifteen
Shelby
As much as I enjoyed having Danielle at home, her impromptu visit had put a serious kink in my ability to spend time with Ian. Each morning brought me one day closer to his return to California, which I tried not to think about because it made my stomach twist.
I’m not attached, and I have no expectations. That’s what I kept reminding myself, while my insides were telling me an entirely different story. The email he sent me after Saturday night’s dinner, although a little odd, was surprisingly endearing, like the man himself. What had I gotten myself into?
Monday night I served him coq au vin, which he insisted was “superb,” along with a fresh garden salad and crusty bread. After dinner we moved into the living room and sat on the sofa together, my head resting on his shoulder.
“Forgive me for asking,” he said, “and don’t take this the wrong way, but when, exactly, is Danielle going home?”
After I told him she was planning to return to Alexandria on Wednesday, his mood lifted.
“Then we’re on for this weekend?” he asked. “I’ll do my best to be entertaining and stay up past eight o’clock.”
Within a few minutes he had dozed off, so I gathered up my things and went home, making it back to my house shortly after nine p.m. Dani was curled up on the now-infamous sunroom sofa with both cats, watching a movie.
She hit the Pause button on the remote before asking, “Are we all set for tomorrow?”
I tossed her a black wristband embossed with Sutherland’s Ghosts’ logo.
“Ian suggests we get there mid-morning and stay through lunch.”
As she looked me over, I started to wither under the scrutiny of my own child.
“What? Is my makeup smeared? Are my clothes on straight?”
She offered a brief smile.
“I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that my mother is dating an actor I once had a crush on.”
Well, that revelation might account for some of her hostility, along wit
h more than a hint of jealousy. In the end, however, none of it would matter. By the time she got around to accepting our short-term relationship, Ian would be back in California and out of my life.
***
Situated atop a low, sloping hill in what was once the “breadbasket” of the Shenandoah Valley, the manor house at Ashland Plantation evoked a faded Gone with the Wind grandeur with its classic front columns, limestone façade, and graceful circular drive. I recalled being there a few years ago for a charity wine tasting event. J-P and I stood on the oversized front porch to take in an inspiring view of the hazy blue Massanutten Mountains, a postcard-perfect version of what people who don’t live here think all of Virginia looks like. This morning, an early rain had left the air choked with moisture, and as Dani and I cruised onto the grounds, the stately house appeared to emerge from a misty dream.
Ashland’s house, outbuildings, and surrounding acreage were operated as a museum and events center and, for a few more days, as the temporary location for the cast and crew of Sutherland’s Ghosts. When we got a few hundred yards away from the house, crunching along a gravel road, a security guard wearing a neon yellow vest stopped my car. Once we flashed our wristbands, we were directed to a remote parking area situated behind the plantation’s restored barn.
In the adjacent pasture, cattle grazed in contentment as they might have more than a century ago, reminding me of how slowly things seem to change in this part of the country. Nearby, a collection of trailers and motor homes was surrounded by temporary fencing. Another security person waved me into a parking space and asked to see our photo IDs. He mumbled into a two-way radio before motioning us into a customized golf cart.
“I’ll take you up to the house,” the man said. “They’re shooting in the parlor today.”
We were driven to the manor and handed off to a young production assistant who met us at the top of the home’s impressive front steps. She placed an index finger over her lips before whispering, “Come with me. I’ll show you where you can stand and watch.”
Dani and I followed her down a spacious central hallway, brightened by sunlight gleaming through an enormous half-moon window over the front door. This had been a grand house in its day, and every room was large and well-proportioned. We tiptoed into the massive dining room, where plastic runners had been laid to protect an antique carpet, before continuing to the formal parlor.
All the action was focused on the opposite end of the room, where a movie camera, sound equipment, enormous lights, reflectors, and an assortment of crew members were clustered around the parlor’s marble and mahogany fireplace.
Ian and his female co-star were going over their lines. As he explained it to me, every shot was rehearsed so the director could figure out the positioning and movement of the actors, along with camera and lighting set-ups. Then, the cast members stepped away and stand-ins assumed their roles while the shot was planned. Once everything was ready, the actors came back and shot that bit of a scene, usually in less than five takes, or else they would get behind schedule. This process went on all day, every day. It did not seem the least bit glamorous or fun, in my estimation.
Ian’s character was nineteenth-century sexy in trousers and a dark tailcoat, worn over a white shirt and matching cravat. His longish hair fell over his collar. I pretended not to notice him too much, trying to behave as though visiting a TV set was an everyday occurrence in my world, although I was finding it impossible to take my eyes off the tall, straight-backed figure standing in front of the camera.
Ian’s blonde lady friend wore a pale blue, off-the-shoulder gown with an enormous full skirt that probably could have doubled as a parachute. While I couldn’t make out all the dialog, it sounded as if she was consoling John Sutherland about the upcoming wedding of his daughter, which he still opposed.
I glanced around the tastefully appointed room, luxurious in its time with white-painted wainscoting and hand-carved molding that framed the doors and windows. Oversized portraits of the home’s fictitious owners—Ian and the actress who played his late wife—flanked the fireplace.
Once the rehearsal ended, Ian stepped away from the camera and lights and scanned the room. I smiled and waved until I caught his attention.
“There ya are,” he said in his character’s distinctive drawl, before we exchanged a round of air kisses. “Are you ladies enjoyin’ yourselves?”
“We just got here,” Danielle said, “but yeah, it’s pretty cool so far.”
From across the room, Ian’s co-star was staring hard in our direction, a scowl marring her costumed perfection. What had we done, besides entering the room, to earn her wrath? Other than making it clear he didn’t like her, Ian hadn’t shared much information about his on-screen love interest. I was beginning to wonder if she might be an even bigger bitch than her character.
“Once we finish this scene, we’ll probably break for lunch,” Ian continued in his real voice. When he smiled at me, my face flushed, and I had to look away.
“Keep it together, Mom,” Dani muttered under her breath as her elbow speared my side.
Ian got called back to the set, leaving us to stand and watch the proceedings. A young woman with spiky hair approached him wielding a brush. As she fussed with his hair for a minute or two in a futile attempt to improve upon masculine perfection, I let out a deep sigh. I could just eat you up.
Then, a quick pang of guilt stabbed me when I recalled some of the things he’d said about only being valued for his appearance, and I concluded that being fawned over and complimented by strangers might leave something to be desired.
The southern belle character, whose real name was Jennifer, threw us another sharp glance. Danielle jabbed me in the side once more before whispering, “Why is she glaring at us?”
“I have no idea,” I responded, as a crew member called for quiet on the set. The actors completed three takes before moving to rehearse the next set-up. In this bit, Ian’s co-star, positioned in front of the formal painting of the late Mrs. Sutherland, reached out toward the edge of the oversized portrait. The instant her fingers touched the canvas, she twitched, convulsed, and fell in a heap on the floor. Dani covered her mouth, and it was all I could do to keep from laughing myself.
Jennifer screeched in a most unladylike voice, “Goddamn it, Chris. I think I’ve twisted my ankle.”
“Instant karma can be a bitch,” I whispered to Dani, who snickered.
The tedious process of making a television drama ground to a halt after Ian’s leading lady was led off the set to receive medical attention. The director called for a break, and Ian returned to my side.
“Come with me,” he urged, “and let’s get lunch.”
“What happened to her?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Who knows? Whatever it is, she’ll manage to dramatize it.”
He led us through a maze of cables taped to the parlor floor toward the manor’s back stairway. Behind us, a deep, manly voice called out, “Ian, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?”
I looked behind me to glimpse the chiseled jaw and perfectly styled hair of Tyler Chance, also dressed in period formal wear. While he was every bit as handsome and buffed as he appeared on screen, there was an arrogance to his expression that was off-putting, to say the least. Tyler gave me a dismissive glance before fixing his gaze on my daughter. Did he just lick his lips?
“Shelby and Danielle Durand.” Ian’s crisp response made no attempt to hide his loathing of Tyler.
“Pleasure to meet you both,” Tyler said, before offering what I believed to be an insincere smile. When he leaned close to Dani, I could scarcely believe the next words that fell from his mouth.
“That dress would look great on my bedroom floor. What are you doing tomorrow night?”
Danielle threw him a look of unfiltered hostility before responding.
“Not you.”
That’s my girl. Ian arched one eyebrow in my direction, and I had a good indication of what he was th
inking. She doesn’t have that little knife on her, does she?
The brash young star of Sutherland’s Ghosts apparently was not acquainted with many women who did not fall at his feet. He gulped, recovered, and muttered, “Your loss, cupcake,” before stalking away in silence.
Ian guided us outside.
“Brilliant!” His smile beamed at Dani. “It’s about time someone shot down that cocky bastard. Let’s have lunch, ladies.”
We did not have to stand in line at the buffet with the crew and minor cast members. Instead, Ian had lunch delivered to his trailer, which I was curious to see, given the fact that he spent so much time there. We descended the manor house’s back steps and were ushered into another four-person golf cart for the short trip back to the collection of motor homes parked near the barn. Ian led the way to a typical travel trailer where a plaque with his name was affixed to the door.
We stepped into a surprisingly spacious living area outfitted with an upholstered sectional sofa and colorful contemporary artwork. In the adjacent kitchen, tiny but fully equipped, an enormous sushi platter rested on the granite countertop.
“You got sushi?” I asked, despite the obvious evidence.
“I can’t attest to the quality, but so far the caterers haven’t poisoned anyone,” Ian said. “And it’s got to be better than the buffet.”
He took off his black tailcoat and hung it at the end of a rolling rack of clothing. Pushing up the sleeves of his shirt, he loosened the cravat and placed a bib over his costume before filling his plate.
“The dressers insist on it,” he said in response to Dani’s questioning look. “Can’t have spilled food on the clothing.”
“I’m surprised that some of those tiny actresses eat at all,” she commented.
“That’s an astute observation, because some of them don’t,” Ian responded. “The camera always adds pounds, which means that eating disorders are common in my business. How do you think those size zero women maintain their figures? They exist on sticks, dust, and herbal tea.”
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