Fed Up

by Kathleen Duhamel

  “Jean-Pierre never got used to all the moisture,” she murmured. “Especially the times when the restaurant’s outdoor oyster bar was rained out. ‘This is bullsheet!’ he used to complain. ‘C’est des conneries!’”

  “You haven’t said too much about him,” I ventured, hoping I hadn’t steered our talk in an unsettling direction.

  “I didn’t know…” Her hesitant voice faded away before she turned to me. “I thought it might make you uncomfortable.”

  “Why would you think that? I’ve told you about my exes.”

  “Yes, but you’ve also had a lot more to talk about.”

  She looked a bit distressed, and I thought for a moment she might change the subject to something less painful. Instead, she sipped her tea, looked out onto the sopping streetscape, and said, “I didn’t only lose my husband on that terrible night. I also lost my business partner and best friend.”

  Moisture welled in her eyes, but she brushed it away with the back of her hand.

  “I didn’t realize how much I relied on Jean-Pierre until he was gone. I always thought of myself as an independent person, but after he died, I felt so…incompetent. I remember bursting into tears because I didn’t know our trash pick-up schedule. One day for recycled material, another day for household trash, and still another time for lawn clippings. He took care of all that, like he took care of the cats, and so many other things.”

  The Frenchman, it seemed, had left some sizable shoes to fill.

  “You know the worst thing about losing a loved one?” I asked, not really knowing what I’d say next. Her eyes found mine and she blinked back another tear.

  “All the things you longed to say but always held back, not willing to risk your feelings. Now there’s no more time, and the words in your heart will go unsaid.”

  “That’s beautiful,” she said, pausing to study her lap.

  She swallowed hard before asking, “Ian, do you ever see your old lover? The married woman who broke your heart?”

  “Only in dreams,” I replied, as my chest constricted. “She died in a car accident several years ago.”

  Our eyes met again for a second or two, and as her expression shifted to one of lustful contemplation, I read her unspoken invitation without the slightest difficulty. Without saying another word, she rose from her chair and clasped my hand, leading me upstairs. Not to my doom, as I once predicted, but to the pleasures of her bed where, on my final night in rain-soaked Virginia, Shelby took me home.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Shelby

  On our last morning together, I woke up early, leaving Ian asleep in bed. Downstairs in the kitchen, I began the ritual of planning breakfast and assembling the ingredients. Staying busy helped me direct my attention to something besides our upcoming trip to the airport. At least in my domain I could maintain a professional façade, masking the doubt and anxiety that simmered beneath the surface.

  A sheet tray of bacon was crisping in the oven, coffee was brewing, and a tea kettle steamed on the stovetop. While I had a few extra minutes, I walked outside onto my front porch to retrieve the local newspaper. I paused briefly to admire my blazing orange daylilies and listen to the persistent call of a songbird informing his ladylove that he was pretty, pretty, pretty. More than ironic, I thought, since my own pretty lover was leaving later today.

  Returning to the kitchen, I cracked three farm fresh eggs into a metal bowl, retrieved a stick of butter from the refrigerator, and placed a non-stick skillet on the stovetop. While I waited for Ian to come downstairs, I poured boiling water into a teapot and let Earl Grey steep before syncing my phone to a remote speaker. The first few crystal-clear notes of Bill Evans’ piano transported me back to a simpler time, a few years before I was born. Nineteen sixty-one, to be exact, when his iconic album, Sunday at the Village Vanguard, was released.

  I had to fast-forward through My Man’s Gone Now because the subject matter hit far too close to home, settling instead on the delicate beauty of Alice in Wonderland. I’d always loved the fact that you could hear audience members murmuring and glasses clinking throughout the performance, making it a true “live” experience. If I were a time traveler, I’d forget all about saving kingdoms and visit some smoky little clubs in Harlem to hear music from all the jazz giants I admire. And I’d find a way to meet my culinary idol, Julia Child.

  I was lost in my thoughts when I heard Ian’s footfalls on the stairs. In another moment he made his way into the kitchen, barefooted, wearing a pair of baggy shorts and a faded t-shirt. My fractured heart swelled in my chest at the sight of him rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His beard stubble glinted with hints of silver. When he absently scratched his flat belly, I almost lost my balance.

  “It smells lovely in here,” he said, before giving me a peck on the forehead.

  “Where most men are concerned, the scent of cooked bacon is the most powerful aphrodisiac on the planet.”

  One of his eyebrows lifted and he produced a grin. I poured a cup of tea, trying to study his face undetected, hoping to memorize that endearing little smirk and the clear light in his amber eyes. Ian seated himself at the island and looked me over.

  “You’re cooking breakfast? I thought we might go out for another round of biscuits and gravy.”

  “But I thought you didn’t want to go home fat.”

  “Too late for that,” he said, patting his stomach, which didn’t look the least bit pudgy to me. “So, what’s on the menu?”

  “Classic French omelets, and you’re going to help.”

  “Me?” He chuckled. “I’m afraid I’m not much good as a sous chef.”

  “You’ll do fine,” I assured him. “I was thinking about the photo you sent me with the horrible scorched omelet, and I thought I’d show you the proper way to make one.”

  I handed him an apron adorned with a colorful sugar skull pattern. He slipped the apron over his head and tied it at his waist. The smirk had returned.

  “Is this lesson similar to the teach a man to fish parable?” he wanted to know.

  I nodded before tossing a pinch of salt into the eggs and picking up a whisk.

  “You want to combine them thoroughly, until they turn pale yellow.”

  I turned my attention to the stovetop and lobbed a generous tablespoon of butter into the pan.

  “Don’t skimp on the butter. It’s what gives the finished dish a beautiful sheen.” I advised.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.” The smile he returned made my internal temperature flare hotter than the flame under my skillet.

  Once the butter began to sizzle, I poured in the eggs and used the back of a fork to stir them around while shaking the pan.

  “When the bottom starts to set and you can’t move the eggs easily, turn down the heat and spread your mixture evenly over the bottom. The surface should be wet, but not runny.” I poked the eggs with my fork to demonstrate.

  “Then you start to fold.”

  I showed Ian how to push the folded omelet to the edge of the plate and gently flip it, seam side down. My perfectly cooked omelet resembled a pale-yellow burrito. I removed the bacon from the oven and placed several slices on the plate next to it.

  “The inside should be creamy, with the consistency of soft scrambled eggs.” I cut the omelet in half with a table knife to demonstrate.

  “Bon appetit “

  Ian slid a generous bite onto his fork, brought it to his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully.

  “Much better when it’s not burnt,” he agreed.

  I rinsed the skillet, cracked three more eggs into the bowl, and said, “Now, it’s your turn. I’ll find out if you were paying attention.”

  “Yes, Chef. What would you have me do?”

  He looked so damn fine, sitting at my kitchen island wearing an apron and a silly grin, that for a moment I considered cutting the cooking lesson short in favor of another turn in bed. Instead, I followed through on my plan, guiding him through the process, step by step, until he produced
a respectable finished product, his version enhanced with shredded cheese and fresh, chopped parsley.

  “How did I do?” he asked, before presenting the plate to me. “I tried not to make a dog’s dinner of it.”

  His use of quirky slang, delivered in that crisp British accent, tugged at my heart.

  “An excellent first effort.” I decided not to point out a few minor inconsistences—the eggs were slightly overcooked, and the finished dish was a little misshapen.

  “I’ll have to practice once I get somewhere with a kitchen,” he said, before digging into the second omelet. “For the time being, I’ll be staying in a hotel.”

  “You’re not going back to the beach house?”

  He swallowed another bite of eggs and shook his head.

  “The home stagers are scheduled to come in a few days before the house goes on the market.” He turned his eyes toward the kitchen window and fixed them on the chestnut tree outside. “I don’t intend to go back there. I want to get clear of my past and make a fresh start.”

  In California, without me.

  I’d promised myself that I would remain cool and composed, as I would if I were managing a restaurant kitchen. Stay in control. Do not let your emotions get the best of you.

  I could not allow myself to dissolve into a weeping, clingy female, especially in front of a man who’d agreed to the terms of our affair. Yet, despite my best efforts, a couple of tears escaped and rolled down my cheek. I brushed them away hurriedly, hoping he wouldn’t notice, and turned toward the sink. The few bites of breakfast I’d eaten sat heavily in my stomach.

  I’m the one who set the rules, and now I have to live by them.

  “Shelby.”

  I heard the soft scrape of a barstool being moved, and in another moment he was behind me with his arms encircling my waist. The scent of him, slightly musky with a hint of last night’s subtle cologne, sucked the breath from my chest. I leaned into him and willed myself not to break down.

  “This isn’t the end,” he whispered, hugging me tighter. “We’ll be together again soon.”

  “I know, it’s only…” He let go and I turned toward him with sudden determination to tell him what I felt, so the words in my heart wouldn’t go unsaid. I think I love you, and it scares me to death. Instead, I was seized by chilling uncertainty tinged with guilt and, once again, I shut down.

  “I like having you here,” I managed to utter before blinking back another tear.

  ***

  We exchanged a lingering kiss before leaving for Dulles International, knowing there would be no time for anything except a quick hug at the passenger drop-off. Ian had offered to take an airport shuttle, but I was equally determined to drive him myself, although I wasn’t looking forward to the lonely route home.

  Leaving the gray, austere terminal in my rear-view mirror, I made a half-hearted attempt to clear my head. Not surprisingly, a light rain had begun to fall, the perfect complement to my emotional stress. Even a stop at my favorite roadside farm stand didn’t cheer me up. Yet another cloudy afternoon had turned the landscape gray and gloomy, and after looking over the displays of fresh produce and hanging flower baskets, I left empty-handed for the first time in my life.

  It was nice while it lasted, better than nice, to be honest, but it’s also an impossible relationship. I won’t risk getting my heart crushed again.

  Back behind the wheel, I punched Play on my CD player. My windshield wipers flapped in rhythm to Blue Rondo a la Turk, the first tune off the classic Dave Brubeck album, Time Out. As my mind began to drift, I speculated about what it might’ve been like to be a young woman in the 1950s, with lacquered hair and a shirtwaist dress, grooving to “modern” jazz played by a quartet of men who resembled clean-cut NASA engineers.

  Would they have had groupies? Probably not Brubeck himself, reportedly a devoted family man, but who knew about the others? Women had been attracted to talented artists and performers since the beginning of humanity. My particular weakness, or guilty pleasure, if you wanted to call it that, was an actor who’d won the genetic lottery. Recalling Ian’s unsettling eyes and megawatt smile snapped me back to an unhappy reality.

  Before today, whenever I’d made a major life decision, I usually resorted to the tried and true method of creating a mental check list, weighing the pros and cons in a structured, logical way. I put the Subaru on cruise control, careful to maintain a safe distance from the car in front of me, and tried to focus on the facts.

  First, the obvious pros. Ian was intelligent, charming, and devastatingly handsome. He seemed to have genuine feelings for me, although it could have been my culinary skills that attracted him the most. We shared some common interests: gardening, fine dining, and classic movies. Both of us were parents of young women.

  It was our physical relationship, however, that had been such an unexpected joy. Our intense delight in pleasuring each other was every bit as addicting as either alcohol or drugs, and I knew the inevitable withdrawal would be painful.

  On the flip side, Ian carried the weight of a disturbing romantic and sexual history and was obviously troubled by events in his past. I suspected there might be more ugly secrets he didn’t want to reveal, things I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. Danielle could barely tolerate him. The worst of it, though, was the distance between us. I couldn’t imagine how our bi-coastal situation could last unless it was solid to begin with.

  What I should have been doing was concentrating on my future in Virginia without counting on anything from Ian. We’d make it a clean break, I had decided, with no drama and no expectations, one that would allow us to part as friends. But I couldn’t go through with it. Throughout the weekend, each time I tried to bring up the subject, I’d catch a glimpse of his smile, or covertly admire the beautiful geometry of his face when he was lost in thought, or feel his insistent hardness between my legs, and I’d lose all resolve.

  Nothing about our situation was logical, because it was based on need and raw emotion.

  This can never work, I reminded myself again. We’re too far apart and we’re barely more than strangers. He never said he loved me, and I didn’t tell him, either.

  The emotional consequences of making such a statement were too difficult to contemplate. How could I possibly be in love with someone else, less than two years after my husband’s death?

  You’ve been through far worse than this, I lectured myself. You shared some good times together and had amazing sex. That was all you claimed you wanted. You never expected it to last, so why has this hit you so hard?

  By the time I made it home to my empty house, I’d halfway convinced myself it was time to stop pinning my hopes on a romantic trip to Paris when nothing had been finalized. Our travel plans, along with our tentative relationship, might fall apart at any moment.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Ian

  I took up temporary residence in a high-rise hotel with a stark white façade and rows of identical balconies that overlooked the famed Hollywood Hills. I chose my new abode not for the contemporary décor and lively bar scene, but because its West Hollywood location—ridiculously known as WeHo by the locals—was close to both Madeline and my manager’s office. I’d booked a loft suite on an upper floor under a fictitious name, hoping for some measure of anonymity where I could lay low, nurse my emotional wounds, and reconsider the future.

  After I checked in and unpacked, I opened the glass doors leading onto my balcony and strolled outside, where I eased myself into an upholstered deck chair and called Shelby. The temperature on a conveniently placed digital thermometer registered eighty-six degrees under an almost cloudless blue sky, but I no longer felt much enthusiasm for Los Angeles’ balmy climate. Instead, I kept wishing I was back in steaming, soggy Virginia. With her.

  “What are you doing at this moment?” I asked, after she picked up the call. “Besides thinking of me, of course.”

  “It’s almost dinner time here,” she responded with a smile in her voice.
“I thought I’d throw a chicken breast on the grill and make a fresh garden salad to go with it.”

  “Tossed with that delicate lemon vinaigrette you make?” I flashed back to a recent memory of us lingering over one of her superb meals, while a sharp stab of longing embedded itself near my heart. Why in the bloody hell did I leave her? Oh, right. To work on my relationship with Madeline and salvage my career, or what’s left of it.

  “Don’t tell me you already miss my food,” she teased. “You’re living in a restaurant paradise.”

  True, I had access to countless culinary choices and twenty-four-hour-a-day room service, so I was hardly in danger of starving. I’d all but lost my appetite, though, which was no doubt a good thing. Earlier, after stepping onto the bathroom scale, I was shocked to discover that I’d put on a whopping twelve pounds during the past two months.

  “That’s not what I miss the most,” I assured her. “I’m counting the days until we fly to Paris together.”

  Her voice was so soft that it barely registered.

  “So am I.”

  Neither of us spoke for a few moments, and I worried that I’d upset her again.

  “What’s your hotel like?” she asked, in an obvious effort to redirect our conversation.

  “Sleek and modern, with no character whatsoever.” I headed back indoors to try out the sofa. Retrieving a tastefully bland brochure from the coffee table, I read to her from a list of amenities.

  “I have a selection of environmentally-friendly bath and grooming products, a headboard upholstered in natural hemp, and quite a few artisanal, hand-dyed pillows. Not to mention those ‘inspiring views’ of the Hollywood Hills.”

  “Well, that’s something, I suppose.”

  I’d rather have been in her welcoming old house with its own inspiring views of the lush garden and landscaped yard. Or lounging in her cozy sunroom on the infamous sofa that neither of us could mention without dissolving into laughter. Better yet, I wanted to be holding her close in bed before drifting off to sleep beneath the soothing hum of a ceiling fan.