Confident that Dr. Ruth could hold her own against Paulette, James asked, “So what do I do now?”
“I’d like you to start a food log. You should write down everything you eat over the course of the day and the calorie amount in each food. Then, write a total for all the calories at the bottom of each day. I’ve written down a couple websites to help you find out how many calories are in the most common foods.” She handed him a piece of paper showing a sample food log and a listing of three website URLs. “I’d also like you to add any exercise you’ve done per day, including walking, weight training, or other cardiac activities. You can deduct those calories from your food total.”
“What about drinks?” James inquired as he glanced at the paper. “I have a bunch of coffee every day.”
“Do you add cream or sugar?”
James nodded. “Yes. Both.”
“Then you need to add that on, because there are calories in your coffee.” Dr. Ruth touched James’s hand. “This is just for me to see what your eating preferences are. Just be as thorough and honest as you can. Remember, I’m not here to judge you.”
“Can I try to lose some weight while I’m working on this log?”
“That would be great!” Dr. Ruth declared. “If you’d like to try to restrict your daily caloric intake to around twenty-two to twenty-five hundred calories, then go for it!”
“Maybe Bennett and I can hype each other up,” James murmured as he wondered how much he could eat on a two-thousand-calorie-a-day plan. “It’ll be nice to talk this over with him. And if I get stressed about the wedding or he gets stressed about his upcoming taping for Jeopardy! then we’ve got one another for support.”
“Having a friend with similar goals is certainly a plus,” Dr. Ruth said as she glanced at her watch. “Unfortunately, our time is up. Let’s make an appointment for next week. We’ll start our session by getting your weight and see what your body fat number is, and then we’ll look over your food log and see where to go from there. Sound good?” She smiled warmly.
In spite of the mention of the words “body fat,” James felt a tingle of excitement. He felt absolutely sure that he could work with this woman to improve his eating habits. Dr. Ruth wasn’t going to lecture him or guilt him into changing his eating habits. Instead, she would act as a guide on his journey to a healthier future. The nutritionist seemed so sincerely optimistic and encouraging that James found himself wanting to please her.
“Thank you.” He stood and shook her outstretched hand. “I’m really glad I came today,” James said as he moved toward the door. “I really didn’t want to, to tell you the truth, but I feel like this is exactly what I need.”
“I’ve heard that a time or two.” Dr. Ruth laughed. “But you did walk through that door and now you’ve got a plan in addition to a refreshingly positive attitude. I think you’re going to be one of my success stories, Mr. Henry.”
James whistled as he walked down the hallway of the medical office building housing Dr. Ruth and a dozen other professionals. As he passed a vending machine stuffed with Fritos, Hostess Cup Cakes, and candy bars illuminated by soft lights and humming enticingly, his stomach issued a loud rumble. “It’s almost suppertime,” he said to himself. “I’d better have a big one too, since this is the last meal I’ll be eating that Dr. Ruth doesn’t need to know about.”
“Something smells delicious,” James remarked as he entered his house through the back door leading into the kitchen. He stopped short when he saw Paulette bent over the kitchen counter, working a rolling pin over a layer of dough dusted with flour. Jackson sat silently at the kitchen table, studying Paulette’s every move.
James looked around in confusion. “Where’s Milla, Pop?”
“She drove to Harrisonburg to get us a hunk of meat, but she should be walkin’ through that door any second now,” Jackson answered. “Paulette here is gonna fix us a dinner that’ll make our bellies stick out for miles.”
“I think I’ve got that down pat.” James turned to Paulette. “What are you treating us to, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“A divine beef Wellington, made with succulent filet mignon, liver pâté, portobello mushrooms, and my homemade puff pastry.”
James was impressed. “Wow. Here I thought your specialty was cakes.”
“It is,” Paulette replied. “But I’m quite adept in all areas of the culinary arts.” She paused in her work and turned to Jackson. “Can you see me well enough?”
“Sure can. I’m sketchin’ in my mind.” Jackson tapped a gnarled finger against his wrinkled temple. “Don’t need no paper. By the end of the evenin’, I’ll know your hands as well as you do.”
Paulette looked quite pleased by this declaration. She gave Jackson an indulgent smile and then gestured at the plastic tumbler sitting next to a frying pan filled with sautéed onions and mushrooms. “I’m ready for a refill, brother-in-law.”
“Yes ma’am! Three fingers comin’ right up.” Jackson jumped out of his chair and poured some of his favorite Cutty Sark into her glass. “I didn’t reckon you for a gal who could knock back the sauce. Figured you’d be one of those fruity rum and umbrella kind of drinkers.”
“I’m tougher than I look,” Paulette replied with a sly grin. “Besides, Milla and I grew up in Mississippi, remember? We practically bleed scotch whiskey. And I was quite relieved to discover that you’re not a beer drinker. Such a crude beverage.” She gave a little sniff to underscore her disapproval.
James couldn’t believe his ears. Paulette and his father were actually getting along. Not only that, but they were apparently intent on getting drunk together. As he headed upstairs to change clothes, he heard the sound of Milla’s van crunching up the gravel driveway.
Thank goodness—another sane person has arrived. I wonder if Milla and her sister have patched things up since Saturday, James thought, recalling Paulette’s scurrilous behavior at Gillian’s. When he reentered the kitchen a few minutes later, the room was filled with Milla’s tinkling laughter and the bass rumble of Jackson’s more reserved chuckle. Paulette placed each portion of the pastry-wrapped meat into a casserole dish while doing a perfect imitation of Martha Stewart.
“Everyone thinks I’m jealous of her because she’s got her own exclusive cookware and bedding line with Macy’s, but please.” She rubbed her hands vigorously with a red and green plaid dishtowel. “Macy’s is so colloquial. I’ve been approached by Nordstrom’s to come up with the desserts for their café menu. Clearly they recognize real talent, wouldn’t you agree?”
Milla slid the baking dish into the oven. “How lovely, dear. And Willow tells me that you’re going to be on one of our local shows on Thursday. That’s very exciting.”
Paulette took a slug of her drink and shrugged. “It’s only a Virginia morning show with a few thousand viewers, but I’ve got a new cake recipe I’d like to try out before I film it for my show. I was going to make it anyway for you and Jackson to sample, so why not prepare it on air?”
“Yummy.” Milla poured herself a glass of merlot and then filled a second glass and handed it to James. “You’re still going to help us taste all the wedding cake candidates, aren’t you, dear?” She clinked the rim of her glass against his and sighed contentedly. “I’m so glad to have y’all gathered here together. My old family and my new family. Perfect.”
Settling regally into one of the kitchen chairs, Paulette picked up the knife and fork laid out on the table and began cleaning spots from their surfaces with a paper napkin covered with rotund snowmen. “You were always disgustingly sentimental, Milla. I’m surprised you managed to muster up enough gumption to run your own business.”
“You’re not the only one who knows their way ’round pots and pans,” Milla retorted sharply. “And my classes have been quite successful, thank you kindly.” She sat down opposite her sister, but her posture was much less rigid than Paulette’s stiff-backed carriage. “I gotta say, though, I’m getting a bit tired of teaching all those
classes up in New Market and then driving down here to be with my future spouse. Jackson and I have decided to live in this house after we’re married. My place is too small for the both of us, and I know Sir Charles will be tickled to death to run footloose and free around this yard.”
“I still cannot believe you named a dog after that two-timing future king of England.” Paulette eyed her sister curiously. “So what are you going to do? Please tell me that you’re not going to revert to being a cloistered housewife.” Paulette cast a judgmental stare at Jackson.
“Don’t give me the hairy eyeball, woman,” Jackson grumbled at Paulette. “Milla’s the boss of her own mind.”
Milla reached over and covered her fiancé’s weathered hand with her own. “Jackson is always supportive of everything I do, and I’ve decided to open a gourmet gift shop right here in Quincy’s Gap. We get a lot of tourists passing through, and the local folks are always complaining about having to drive to the big malls to buy anything unique, so I figure I’ll get plenty of business.”
James leaned over Milla’s shoulder and refilled her wine glass. “That sounds great. What kind of things will you carry?”
“Quincy’s Whimsies will be filled with all kinds of gourmet food. I plan to make things that neither the bakery nor our grocery stores carry.” Milla pointed at Paulette. “And I’ll stock all of your cookbooks, of course. Plus, I thought I’d feature products by some of our area craftsmen and women. I’ve already talked to a woman who makes the most gorgeous pottery, a gentleman who can fix me up with beeswax candles and fresh jars of honey, and a young man who makes goat’s milk soaps and lotions. I took a goat’s milk bubble bath the other night, and my skin felt just like a twenty-year-old’s! Lord, the stuff is pure magic, I tell you!”
Paulette perked up fractionally at this pronouncement. “Really? I’d like to sample some of this person’s products.”
“We can visit his farm tomorrow. I’m thinking of using this young man’s products for wedding favors.” Milla got up, reduced the temperature of the oven, and turned on the front stove burner. She poured beef stock and some red wine into the meat drippings collected in a frying pan and began to stir the concoction.
“I doubt I have the appropriate attire for mucking through fields of goat droppings.” Paulette’s expression quickly turned sour.
“Relax, sister.” Milla giggled. “You won’t be forced to rough it too much. The boy’s got a shed next to the house where he sells his wares.”
“Just don’t go displayin’ that fur coat of yours ’round this town anymore,” Jackson ordered. “If James’s redhead friend doesn’t spray it with red paint, then you might just get attacked by a huntin’ dog.”
Paulette paled. “Oh, my. I guess I’ll have to settle for my cashmere overcoat. Your hunting dogs won’t go after that, will they? I could spray it with my Chanel Number Five. My parfum costs two hundred and sixty dollars an ounce, but I brought two bottles along, as I fully expected to encounter foul odors here in the country.”
“The dogs’ll only jump up on you if you’ve got dead animals draped across your collar or raw liver stuffed in your pockets. No need to go wastin’ your fancy scent on our local mongrels,” Jackson answered with a twinkle in his eye.
James couldn’t help but smile over how much Jackson seemed to be enjoying Paulette’s company. It was as if having someone around with a similar acerbic personality influenced the old man to adopt an attitude of playfulness and good humor. “Just keep things simple while you’re here, Diva. It’ll ease your way. Folks are friendly as church mice ’til you get their backs up. Then they’re slow to forgive,” he added, gesturing at James. “There’s no call for you to be pickin’ fights with my boy’s friends. They’re good people. All of ’em. Ya hear?” He turned to Milla and winked. “I’m done speech-makin’. We ’bout ready to eat?”
“Yes, dear heart. I just had to reduce this sauce until it was ready to pour over the beef. And now it is. Voilà!” Milla set a plate filled with a serving of Paulette’s beef Wellington in front of Jackson. “See? I know French too.”
James eyed the golden-brown pastry and inhaled the scents of wine, meat, mushrooms, onion, and cooked butter. He spread his snowman napkin onto his lap in anticipation. “This entrée isn’t low-calorie is it?” he asked Milla as she handed him his plate.
“Not even the teeniest bit,” she answered happily, placing a dish of steamed asparagus in the center of the table.
“None of the world’s finest prepared foods are completely low-calorie,” Paulette added, and she opened her napkin with a flourish as she stared at James’s paunch. “Are you concerned about the caloric content for a specific reason?”
Nodding, James speared a piece of succulent meat with his fork and admired its pink center as he swirled it around in the fragrant drippings coating the bottom of his plate. “Starting tomorrow, I’m going to be keeping track of everything I eat, so tonight, I feel a bit like a man going to the gallows. This is the last meal I can eat without paying attention to the food’s nutritional content.” He put the meat in his mouth, reveling in its flavor.
“Well, if this is your final supper,” Milla paused to pour James more wine, “then it’s mighty lucky my sister’s made the dessert.”
The next morning, James turned on the shower and, while waiting the three full minutes it took for the water to turn from piercingly cold to marginally hot, he reluctantly took off his flannel pajamas, tube socks, and leather slippers and prepared to weigh himself. Shivering, he paused for a second to consider how much he had eaten the night before.
Three glasses of wine, a serving of beef Wellington, steamed asparagus, and two pieces of Paulette’s Ten-Layer Fudge Cake. I wonder if the scale can even compute all this poundage, he thought anxiously and then stepped onto the chilly surface of the metal scale.
When the numbers surfaced in their silver window, James groaned. His weight was higher than he had expected by a whopping eleven pounds.
“I probably gained five of these last night.” He got off the scale and then, after waiting for the screen to return to zero, stepped back on, hoping that there might have been an error in the previous reading. The scale added another three tenths of a pound for his efforts.
“Damn it,” he muttered, snatching the shower curtain aside and hustling into the stream of hot water. The heat immediately eased some of his tension, and as he lathered his hair with shampoo, he gave himself a pep talk. “It’s okay. Today is a fresh start.” After rinsing his head, he opened his eyes and stuck his tongue out at the scale, which seemed to be mocking him on the other side of the clear shower curtain. “This isn’t over, buddy.”
After getting dressed, James packed his lunch, poured coffee into a travel mug, and tried to ignore the covered cake plate resting in the middle of the kitchen table.
“I don’t see you. I do not see you,” James spoke to the white ceramic dome that seemed to call to him from across the room. “I’m not even thinking of all those layers of sweet, buttery, and incredibly smooth chocolate icing or about how moist and springy the cake—” he cut himself off. “Nope. Not interested.”
After shoving an apple into his lunch bag, James shrugged his coat on and cast a second glance at the cake plate. I wonder how much is left, he thought.
Unable to stop himself, he lifted up the cover several inches, revealing the remaining wedge of fudge layer cake. A whiff of chocolate scent floated beneath his eager nostrils.
“I’m not even going to eat one of the chocolate curls sitting there in that bed of chocolate frosting. That’s how much willpower I’ve got.” He inhaled deeply, and his mouth filled with saliva in anticipation of receiving an exquisite morsel of Paulette’s dessert. “Well, maybe just a few crumbs …” James heard the weakness in his voice, but could not tear his eyes away from the hunk of cake.
“Who you talkin’ to, boy?” Jackson asked gruffly as he entered the kitchen in an old bathrobe.
James slammed the lid b
ack on the cake plate and stood up guiltily. “No one. I’m … I’m off to the library. Are you planning to work on a painting of Paulette’s hands today?”
“Yep. Soon as I polish off that leftover cake for breakfast.” He patted his flat stomach as James watched on with envy. “I reckon it’ll help inspire me, ’cause I’m gonna show her frostin’ this very cake in the paintin’. I liked how she angled her wrist just so to get it on there all nice and smooth.”
James wished his father luck, and after gazing longingly once more at the cake plate, he headed off to work. Instead of driving to the library, however, he swung into a parking spot in front of the Sweet Tooth, the town’s bakery.
Megan and Amelia Flowers, the mother/daughter team who kept the townsfolks’ bellies filled with homemade breads, cookies, and pastries, were bent over the display window, smoothing a sheet of red velvet fabric across the bottom ledge.
“Good morning, Professor,” Megan greeted James briefly, and then she stood erect and put her hands on her narrow hips. “I had the pleasure of meeting your newest family member yesterday.”
“Uh-oh,” James moaned softly, and then he frowned. “Why would Paulette come in here? She does her own baking.”
“For a croissant to go with her latte,” Amelia answered, her full lips turning into a practiced pout. “But she told my mom that our croissant wasn’t flaky enough and bought a baguette instead. She didn’t like that much either. Said it was only supposed to be crusty on the outside, not inside and out.”
“I’m sorry.” James tugged on his scarf, which suddenly felt too tight. “Paulette can be really impolite, and she seems determined to offend everyone in Quincy’s Gap.”
Megan picked up a large box wrapped in red and green foil and stuffed with wax paper, and she began to fill it with candy-cane-shaped loaves of egg bread. Megan had ingeniously dyed half of the dough red and left the other its natural shade of whitish-yellow, so that when braided, the bread looked striped, just like the sugary version of a candy cane.
“She didn’t stop her criticism with my breads either.” Megan continued crossly. “She made her shrinking violet of an assistant buy three of my cakes—whole ones, mind you—and then they left, no doubt so that our visiting celebrity could hold that girl down and force-feed her slices of my cake. I thought I was rid of them, but twenty minutes later they were back! That TV cake baker was chock full of suggestions on how to improve my recipes!” Megan furiously sifted powdered sugar over the candy-cane bread.
The Battered Body Page 6