Fed Up

by Kathleen Duhamel

  Several disgruntled crew members of TV’s flailing ghost drama spoke to us on condition of anonymity, one of them calling the show a “disaster” fueled by chronic in-fighting and prolonged delays during seven weeks on location this summer in Virginia.

  Another source said the often-shirtless Tyler Chance, who plays the youngest Sutherland son, was responsible for much of the tension on set.

  “He’s arrogant, rude, and disrespectful, especially toward women. He came on to me my first day on the job.”

  Others blamed inexperienced director Chris Pierson for the gloomy atmosphere. “He didn’t make much of an effort to get along with the actors, who thought he was in way over his head.”

  This source heaped additional scorn on Jennifer Simmons, who portrays Ian James’ (John Sutherland) love interest, characterizing her as an “overbearing drama queen.”

  James, the former star of Time Traveler, was described as friendly and professional, although “he kept to himself when he wasn’t on set. I think he was embarrassed to be a part of the show. I overheard him tell Chris it was the biggest piece of shit he’d ever done.”

  In our opinion, without James’s considerable charm and talent, this antebellum ship would’ve sunk long ago. However, even he can’t save Sutherland’s Ghosts, which seems destined for the trash heap of failed television dramas.

  “No wonder he hated his job.”

  I tossed the tabloid aside and turned toward Henri, who had stationed himself in a fading pool of sunlight on the hardwood floor. He ignored me while licking his paws.

  At least Ian came off in a slightly better light than his cast members, although nothing in the article was flattering. I reminded myself that he was accustomed to getting bad publicity. He was a grown man who’d move on from it, settle back into life on the West Coast, and probably forget about me.

  As darkness descended, I sat motionless in the leather chair, not bothering to switch on the lights. The fact that I couldn’t resolve my feelings about him filled me with new anxiety. How could I have fallen so easily? Was too much better than nothing at all?

  When I was honest with myself, I had to admit that I missed him more than I ever imagined. That deep, masculine voice and crisp accent that made everything he said seem smart and witty. His enthusiasm for all things food related. His uncommon ability to transform himself into a character. The instinctive way he knew how to kiss the sweet spot at the base of my throat, turning my legs to jelly. And that award-winning performance in the shower, played before a fortunate audience of one.

  Even his occasional moodiness didn’t concern me, because I knew it came from a place deep in his soul marked by loss and regret. Ian chose to mask his pain with witty banter and silly accents, but was I much different? I’d chosen to hide from the world for almost two years, existing rather than living, while trying to reassemble the shards of my shattered life.

  I hadn’t received either a confirmation or airline ticket for the Paris trip. Maybe the idea of going to France was only another fantasy I’d conjured up, or else Ian had changed his mind about taking me with him. As good as we’d been together in bed, I had learned long ago that mutually satisfying sex was not enough to keep a couple together. Shared goals and values, common interests, and loyalty all came into play in a lasting love relationship, which is what I had with J-P. Was I being selfish to want that a second time? And was Ian the right man? My daughter certainly didn’t think so.

  “Am I crazy to think that lightning could strike twice?”

  Henri disregarded my question and curled into a charcoal fur ball as the last glimmer of daylight faded, along with my spirits. I was alone again. Worse yet, I was still talking to the cats.

  When Ian called about an hour later, I had dozed off in the middle of a Food TV cooking show, exhausted from spending the day on my feet. I muted the sound and answered the phone to be greeted by his exuberant voice.

  “I have excellent news. Sutherland’s Ghosts has been cancelled.”

  “Oh,” was my lukewarm response. Certainly, I knew how much he despised the show, although cancellation also meant he wouldn’t be coming back to Virginia on location. An unyielding lump lodged at the base of my throat.

  “I’m sure you’re happy that it’s over.”

  “Yes, a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. And something else happened today, something extraordinary.”

  He filled me in on his upcoming meeting with a well-known and respected director who was interested in talking to him about the Time Traveler film. I’d never heard him show such enthusiasm for a project, and it was obvious that he wanted it badly.

  “That’s wonderful, Ian.” His considerable talent had been wasted on Sutherland’s Ghosts, and he deserved better parts. If the film was successful…well, I couldn’t allow myself to speculate. More fame would take him further away from me, both physically and emotionally. With his whole life centered in California, why would “backwater” Virginia have any appeal?

  “I appreciate your vote of confidence,” he said, “but this is hardly a done deal. Only a meet and greet. If it goes well, I’ll be asked to audition.”

  “There’s no one else alive who could play Dr. Nick like you can. I know the director is going to want you.”

  He was quiet for a moment.

  “Did I ever tell you how much I love the way you say my name?”

  My stomach turned over. That one, small word filled me with a disturbing jumble of hope and pure terror.

  “Ee-an,” he went on. “You draw out the vowel sounds ever so slightly, which slows the cadence of your speech. I find it to be both sexy and soothing.”

  “What in the bloody hell are you talking about? I grew up in the Pacific Northwest, where there is no regional accent.” I could visualize the smirk on his face, and I knew he was playing with me.

  “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Chef, but twenty-plus years of living in the South have left their mark, linguistically speaking.”

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  “No, not at all.” The intensity in his voice caused my heart to seize. “I love the way you speak. I miss being near you, talking over the day’s events, and doing ordinary things like getting takeaway for dinner and watching fireflies.

  “We won’t leave for Paris for another three weeks. I’m not sure I can go that long without seeing you. Would you consider flying out next weekend? You could meet Madeline and soak up some sun at the same time.”

  “Let me check my calendar and talk to Nancy. I’ve got a lot more work to do at Ravenswood before we debut the new menu.” I paused. “Do you want to have phone sex?”

  I’d never said those words in my life, and I had no idea of what I’d do, but maybe some dirty talk in my now-sexy accent would be beneficial to our long-distance relationship. If he said yes, I’d have to wing it.

  “What I’d like to have is naked, hot monkey sex with you,” he replied, causing my breath to catch in my throat. “So, thank you for offering, but I believe I’ll hold out for the real thing.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Ian

  Another technically perfect September morning was well under way by the time I angled my way down to Santa Monica before turning west onto the Pacific Coast Highway, headed toward my former home. Even with heavy traffic, Highway 1 was an unquestionably spectacular drive. The winding road hugged the edge of the Santa Monica Mountains for several miles through a largely undeveloped area, offering sweeping views of the ocean and rolling surf, which sparkled with reflected sunlight.

  Back behind the wheel of my beloved BMW sport activity coupe, I pushed the edge of the 55-mile speed limit and settled in for the drive, using voice command to find a satellite station playing Thelonious Monk’s Straight, No Chaser. Before I met Shelby, I considered myself a connoisseur of ’80s British pop music and didn’t count myself much of a classic jazz fan. However, during the past weeks I’d become somewhat fascinated by the musicians she admires. You’d have to be b
loody good at your craft to be able to improvise so freely.

  All the way to Malibu, I tried to banish her from my thoughts, Instead, I ended up fixating on how she might be spending Saturday morning in Virginia. According to my phone’s weather app, skies in Appleton were cloudy, with a sixty percent chance of rain in the afternoon. If I was there, we might take umbrellas and stroll downtown to the mall, ducking into a tiny, locally-owned restaurant for cocktails and dinner. I wouldn’t have minded getting wet on the walk home.

  Reluctantly, I returned my attention to the task at hand. When I came across a particularly stunning stretch of coastline, I found a pull off and stopped for a few minutes to snap some photos, thinking that I’d send them to her. I also lectured myself about how privileged I was to live in a place that others dreamed about. I was being considered for a major movie role. Madeline was doing well and making new friends.

  Why, then, did my life seem so hollow? Was I becoming a man who’d spend the rest of his time on earth restless and unsatisfied, lost over someone who was emotionally unavailable? I’d been down that road before and I knew where it led, directly to the intersection of Heartache and Regret.

  The closer I got to the exclusive gated community’s turn off, marked by a smattering of brilliant pink azalea bushes, the more my mood soured. Why hadn’t I asked Shelby to come to California and stay on for a while? Because I knew precisely what her answer would have been. She had a fledgling business to attend to, and she was far too attached to her house, Danielle, and the memories of her dead husband to contemplate such a bold move. I hadn’t yet earned her trust, and I knew she harbored doubts about me. Still, I should have shared my feelings. I couldn’t help but think I’d let her down, despite her insistence on no emotional attachments.

  My beachfront home was one of a dozen secluded bungalows in the tiny subdivision, tucked along a coastline that offered killer ocean views. While not a large house by southern California standards, the layout made it seem expansive, especially when sets of double French doors in the living room were opened onto a spacious hardwood deck, where a row of lounge chairs faced the surf.

  Inside, the décor was mid-century modern, with a couple of low-profile couches and an iconic Eames chair and ottoman, which Monica found in a vintage furniture store and insisted on having. I suspected she might have had more affection for that chair than she did for me. More’s the pity, because when she violated the terms of our pre-nup, she walked away with nothing. The house, and all its contents, was mine. It was being listed at a “reasonable” $3.4 million, which my realtor hoped would spark a bidding war.

  The house stager, a crisply dressed man in charge of the final details, met me in the minimalist, all-white kitchen. The countertops were devoid of decoration except for a bowl of Granny Smith apples and a single glass vase in a similar hue. Stainless steel appliances gleamed like new. The space was being marketed as a chef’s kitchen, which was quite ironic since neither Monica nor I had spent much time there. Despite its enviable location, however, there was little color inside this house, and no life to speak of. Not like Shelby’s eclectic décor and well-loved furnishings, seasoned with a fair amount of cat hair.

  I was beginning to miss those cats, even the grouchy one.

  Christopher insisted on showing me through the rest of the house, which was set up in equally austere fashion. I poked my head through the open doorway of the master bedroom, not willing to set foot in the space Monica had referred to as The Dead Zone. I hoped the room’s negative energy wouldn’t rub off on its next occupants.

  “By the way,” Christopher announced, turning his young, unlined face toward mine, “we found some things in a guest bedroom closet.” Two garment bags containing designer cocktail dresses and several pairs of women’s shoes, unworn and still in their boxes, to be exact.

  I grimaced, pulled out my phone, and sent my ex a text: Please send someone over to collect the dresses and shoes you left. House is going on the market. After Christopher had gone, I returned to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, which had been stocked with beer, wine, and bottled water for the upcoming open house. Retrieving two airline-sized bottles of white wine, I poured them both into a plastic glass and walked onto the deck, thinking I’d enjoy a few final minutes of my world-class view while waiting for a response.

  A half-hour later, I was still lounging outside, hypnotized by the gently rolling surf, when I heard her come up behind me and ask, “Don’t you ever lock the door?”

  Monica’s smooth, broadcast-trained voice carried none of the rage that I remembered when she’d hurled her insults at me. A wave of suspicion lapped at my gut. Don’t believe a word she says. She will say or do anything to get what she wants.

  I hoisted myself from the chair as she stepped out of the house and onto the deck. She stood with her hands on her hips, dressed in a zip-front jacket and running shorts that showcased a pair of impossibly long, tanned legs. Shoving her sunglasses on top of her head, she studied the sight before her. Me: downcast, unshaven, and presumably ‘puffy,” clutching a tumbler full of white wine. It wasn’t quite 10:30 a.m.

  As her eyes mocked me, she brought to mind the woman in my dream, and of how much Monica resembled her. Both were outrageously flirtatious and charming when they wanted to be, and so physically similar they might’ve been sisters or cousins. When they tired of someone, they were equally capable of wielding the same emotional hatchet.

  “Day drinking, Ian?” she inquired.

  I stared down at the contents of my glass, sorely tempted to bite back, but discovering I had neither the will nor the energy for it. Too many spiteful words had already passed between us.

  “There’s more in the fridge if you’d care to join me.”

  She moved closer, looking me over with a skeptical gaze. “I’ve given up drinking and I’m back on my meds. Maybe you should cut down on the alcohol yourself, baby.”

  She offered a smile, something I’d rarely seen her do during the final months of our marriage. My stomach tightened. What in the bloody hell was she up to?

  We hadn’t seen each other or communicated in months, except through our attorneys. She knew our relationship was unequivocally broken, so why the sudden attempt at being friendly? Monica wouldn’t have come here herself without a specific purpose, which likely had nothing to do with shoes and cocktail dresses.

  Once, I’d found her intriguing, before the mood swings became so extreme that I feared for her safety, as well as my own. Before she was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and kept it hidden from the media, which only caused more stress. The worst of it wasn’t the medical condition itself, but her refusal to take prescribed medications. Truth be told, Monica relished her manic episodes and the euphoria that encouraged risky behavior, such as having a very public affair with a weight-loss contestant who had appeared on her reality show.

  To add insult to injury, the cheated-on spouse was the last one to find out, as is often the case. I sometimes wondered if our disastrous marriage was the result of karma kicking my sorry arse for the way I had deceived Georgianne. What goes around, comes around, as they say.

  We walked back inside, and I closed the glass doors behind us. I set the plastic tumbler on a boomerang-shaped coffee table, next to my phone, while she scrutinized my face.

  “Are you all right? You look a little ragged.”

  “I’m perfectly fine,” I sniffed. Why the unexpected concern for my welfare?

  Did she believe I was falling apart because of our divorce and the heartbreak of losing her? No doubt she did. Monica had always been the star of her own life story. I was sure she must’ve come here for some self-serving reason. Certainly, she had no interest in knowing what had happened to me during the summer, and how Shelby had come along, so unexpectedly, to shake up my life and make me wish to be a better man.

  Monica walked through the living room, pausing to run one hand along the back of the Eames chair.

  “Could I ask you something?” she asked
, before seating herself on the sofa beside me.

  “All right. What is it?”

  “Well, my shrink says I need to make amends with the people I’ve hurt, so I wanted to apologize for everything that’s happened. The thing with Braden…” She waved her hands in front of her face. “…was a terrible mistake brought on by my mental health issues.”

  The “thing,” as she referred to it, violated the morals clause in her contract and was the reason for her dismissal from the show. I now had a good idea of what her end game was, but I was also determined not to participate. I’d had more than enough of her unpredictable mood swings and broken promises.

  “Apology accepted,” I muttered, as my jaws clenched. Life in southern California apparently wasn’t quite so sunny without either a job or a man with money. Reuniting with me would offer a far more favorable lifestyle.

  Her gaze swept the living room and adjacent open kitchen before landing on my face. “I was also wondering if there’s any chance that we could start over.” She placed one hand on my thigh, surprising me with the lightness of her touch.

  “I had no idea of how much I would miss you, Ian. I didn’t appreciate what we had.”

  What kind of utter fool did she think I was? I could never forget her hateful words and the sting of her betrayal, not to mention the humiliation that followed. Even as my anger burned, I vowed not to let bitterness take over. We were finished, and nothing she could say or do would change that fact.

  I moved her hand off my leg and replied, “I’m afraid that’s impossible. I’ve moved on.”

  She was quiet for a long moment.

  “You’re seeing someone?” Her hand wandered back to rest on my knee. “Someone you met on location?” Although I chose not to respond to her question, she kept probing.