“Jellica took the boys to get their driver permits, even though she can’t afford to get them a car yet. They insisted they needed them anyway. Something about a driver’s license being the most widely accepted forms of identification or some crap,” Georgia declared. “I reminded her that driving is a masculine rite of passage. That’s the real reason they want them. They’ll feel more manly.”
“Masculine rite of passage,” Ann repeated, giggling as she poured out coffee into mugs. “Look at you and your big words. Brent’s intelligence is rubbing off on you.”
“That man puts a lot of energy into his rubbing,” Georgia announced, grinning when Trudy chuckled at her innuendo. She mock glared at her famous friend. “Why are you laughing at my love life? I watched your show yesterday. When the man pushed you out of the way to cut your biscuits, you actually let him live. There is some serious heat going on between you and Chef Dozen… and I’m not talking oven heat.”
“I noticed the attraction too,” Ann said. “I think Chef Dozen has a thing for Trudy.”
“A thing? Wow, you two have vivid imaginations,” Trudy said, aiming the insult primarily at Georgia who continued to laugh. Insulting Ann was too much like kicking a puppy. Insulting Jellica was even worse.
Ann put the coffee pot back on its stand before taking a seat at the table. She opened the box of gluten free pastries she’d purchased for the benefit of the woman who now wasn’t even joining them, and pushed it in Georgia’s direction. Georgia would eat nearly anything.
“They’re a little dry,” Ann warned. “Might need to pop your pastry in the microwave for a few seconds.”
“You worry too much,” Georgia said, taking a big bite. She chewed for a full minute before managing to swallow, going immediately for the coffee to help get it down. “Okay. You’re right. They’re a little dry.”
Ann snorted and looked at Trudy. “I’m just saying that it sure seemed like Chef Dozen had a thing for you.”
“What’s with the thing word? What kind of thing?” Trudy demanded, looking through the box and choosing a sad looking scone.
Ann sipped her coffee and grinned. “He looked like he wanted to kiss you. He kept staring at your mouth when you talked. That kind of thing…”
“And you kept touching him, which kept his attention on you. It was obvious you two were flirting hard,” Georgia added.
Trudy froze with the scone halfway to her mouth. “I did not keep touching him.”
Ann and Georgia exchanged wide-eyed glances.
Trudy put her scone down untouched. “I did not,” she insisted.
“Honey, every time you asked the man a question, you put your hand on his arm and batted your eyelashes. Sometimes you just rubbed up against his shoulder. How could you not know?” Ann asked.
Georgia grinned at Trudy, who was now embarrassed. “And it was obvious you used that whole apron thing as an excuse to get your hands on him. I giggled because you spent a good two minutes getting that flour off your fingers.”
“You’re both exaggerating,” Trudy said firmly, glaring at their heads shaking.
George stared over it as she lifted her coffee cup. “Come on, Chef Baker. It’s just us older gals here this morning, so you can admit it. Didn’t you cop a feel beneath that big old apron?”
“No, I did not cop a feel. I was just getting the flour off my hands… and getting even for his bossiness… not that it’s any of your nosy business,” Trudy snapped, amidst their laughter. “I swear copping a feel never even crossed my mind. If you must know, I was secretly plotting to kill our producer who obviously set us up for that farce. Did you see the giant segment logo on the apron? Neither of us knew about that crap. Luke’s just lucky Jack and I both kept our cool.”
“Well, it was a fun show listening to you two debate the merits of baking from scratch,” Ann said, nodding at Trudy’s explanation. “I’ve watched that episode twice now, and wrote down both your biscuit recipes. Cal’s a meat and potatoes guy, but he likes bread with his stew. I’m going to try your biscuits from scratch soon. Chef Dozen’s right about the amount of time it takes though.”
Trudy snorted. “Whatever happened to the old days where we joked about wearing spandex and getting cats?” She waved her hand. “What I liked when I met you all was that none of you had a man complicating your life. It was liberating to not feel like every discussion had to be about some lack of male companionship or how hard dating was at our age. I get enough of that from my family.”
Ann shrugged. “But it wasn’t like I never wanted a man, Trudy. Now I prefer to think of myself as a more rounded person with Cal in my life. Thankfully, cats are no longer part of my plan. Cal and I may eventually get a dog—we’ve talked about it.”
Georgia barked out a laugh and looked at Trudy. “What Ann means is that getting laid on a regular basis has changed the things she cares about and for the better. A woman who serves dry pastries to her closest friends shouldn’t expect people to be nice to her, but I have to agree with that statement, even as much as it pains me to do so this early in the morning.”
Trudy looked between her so-called friends as she ate her scone… or tried…
“Sorry. Really dry,” she choked, going for her coffee. She rose and wrapped what was left in a paper towel before putting it in the microwave for eight seconds. “For a while there I was aging with dignity, and now this is my life,” she said, waving at the humming machine. “Microwaving dry pastries and listening to friends brag about getting laid. It’s like being in college again.”
“Exactly, so come join us in our debauchery,” Georgia ordered. “The dark side is way more fun. Haven’t you seen all those memes saying so?”
“Wrong movie reference,” Ann said, choking down her own pastry. “Chef Dozen does look a little like a young George Takei, and that’s Star Trek not Star Wars.”
“Since when did you become the resident geek among us?” Georgia demanded.
Ann huffed and drank the rest of her coffee. “I had to learn. My rich son-in-law gets offended when people don’t get their geek movie references right. Been there—made that mistake.”
Trudy brought her pastry back and smacked the table to stop the nonsense. “George Takei’s family is Japanese. Jack’s heritage is Chinese. There will be no ‘you people’ debates about Chef Dozen’s sexy heritage while I’m around.”
Ann looked at Georgia, but pointed her chin at Trudy. “Did you hear that? She’s defending him and evidently his whole Chinese family, which we didn’t even know he had.”
Georgia grinned. “I did hear that and she called him sexy. Now it’s only a matter of time until Trudy’s counting ceiling tiles and screaming his name. Want to make a bet about when?”
“I would, but I’m still paying for furniture for my new deck. I have no mad money at the moment,” Ann said.
When they both stared at her and giggled at her expense, Trudy broke the dry scone she still couldn’t eat and threw the brick hard pieces at both of them.
Gluten free was tricky to get right and Ann’s pastries were an epic fail.
Kind of like her relationship to Jack, no matter what kind of dreamy tales her friends spun.
On her way back home to lick her emotional wounds, Trudy called Mariah back about those five guys who’d asked to date her. Dating the men Mariah found might help her avoid a temptation she was definitely not up to handling at her age. It was one thing for a thirty-something to lust after someone so much younger, but she was staring hard at sixty now. It was downright humiliating at her age to still be lusting for the guy.
Not that Jack was a child anymore, but he was just barely turning forty. That was considered young these days. He had plenty of time to find the perfect woman and raise a family from scratch. Hell, men made families way into their fifties, sixties, and even seventies.
She could only imagine how the public would view a potential relationship between the two of them. Any way you turned the idea, her attraction to Jack was no l
ess scandalous than it’d ever been, regardless of how many women were dating younger men these days.
And despite Georgia and Ann’s romantic optimism, such relationships rarely worked out well in real life.
Plus, she was visibly older than Jack and the cameras were picking up on it. She’d watched the recording of the first show and harbored no illusions about her lack of youthfulness. Her body was rounder, softer, and with a few more pounds than she used to have. If she had stayed on the air instead of retiring, producers and networks would have been pushing her toward cosmetic surgery. No eye wrinkles or sagging necks were allowed. And her weight would have kept her from going national—that was a given.
Yet none of that mattered to her because she didn’t need TV to complete her career. She was ten times more successful with her restaurants and catering service. The cooking show had been more like a long running marketing ad for what she really did which was feed people well.
Maybe at fifty she shouldn’t have been so cynical, but it was just her default setting. She’d seen enough failed relationships among friends over the years to make her think temporary ones were the way to go for the rest of her life—if she decided she just had to have someone sharing her bed. That urge hadn’t even happened in a good long while.
It was why going out with men from The Perfect Date database seemed like a punishment for sins she couldn’t recall committing. The only good thing about dating was that some of her expensive clothes collection would see some use after all these years.
Though optimism about relationships was a stretch for her, who knew what might happen? With some luck, she might come across someone to make her forget how good kissing Jack Dozen had been.
Chapter Seven
Trudy straightened her blouse and double-checked the buttons again. Either she needed new bras or she was going to have to concede that most of the clothes in the red room no longer fit her well enough to wear them comfortably. Both thoughts depressed her so she made a mental note to wear date clothes around the house and sit in them for a while before settling on what to wear out in public.
Sure, she could undo one more button on the blouse to alleviate straining, but she didn’t want the guy she was meeting to get the wrong idea about what she was there for. Tonight was about dinner and only dinner in her mind. There was already nothing that could be done about the snugness of the skirt and the way it climbed way too high up her thighs to be modest.
Yeah, next time she was going to have to be way more careful about what she wore.
She drummed her fingers on the pristine white tablecloth, crossed her legs at the ankles because crossing at the knees was impossible, and studied the ambiance of the room around her. Her date had chosen their meeting place. It was very nice if you were into the antique Boston bar look with all the rich woods trimmed with gleaming brass.
After fifteen minutes past their meeting time, she checked the messages on her phone, but had nothing from him. Maybe he was caught in traffic and wasn’t the kind of man to text while driving? Cincinnati had so much construction going on that the simplest trip across town could take hours these days.
She believed that right up to the point a nervous maître d approached her and smiled in his most plastic way.
“Ms. Baker?”
“Yes?” Trudy smiled back to put him at ease. One of them needed to be. Her mind had already assumed the worst.
“The party you were expecting for dinner—Mr. Farmington—just called the restaurant. He asked me to give you his sincerest apologies and let you know that he is unable to keep his appointment with you. He’s given us his credit card number to pay for your dinner. We hope you’ll stay and take advantage of Mr. Farmington’s generosity.”
Trudy snorted at the young man’s suave delivery of the bad news. Now wasn’t this lovely? First guy she picked from Mariah’s database and he blew her off.
“Good lord, what did the man do? Take one look at me and run out the back door?” Trudy asked, the still uncomfortable looking maître d.
“I’m truly sorry for your inconvenience this evening, Ms Baker. Can I bring you a menu?”
“No,” Trudy said firmly, the button on her blouse finally giving way to the new pressure, but she no longer cared. She leaned over the table and stared into her messenger’s eyes. “I can’t eat alone after being stood up. No woman dressed up for a date would want to do that. How often does the rude bastard do this?”
The young man cleared his throat. “I really don’t…”
“Come on. Just tell me,” Trudy urged in a whisper, smiling to put the younger man at ease. “I’m so out of here it’s not funny, but I’d just like to know if he even bothered to show up. This was my first date in ages and I think I deserve better than that lie he coerced you to tell me. He was here, wasn’t he?”
When the maître d’s face turned red, Trudy smirked at him until he reluctantly nodded. “Lovely. So I didn’t even pass the across-the-restaurant test. Guess that means he saw me and concluded I looked too old or too round.”
“If you don’t mind me saying so, it’s his loss tonight, ma’am.”
Trudy snorted at the attempt to console her female ego and wiggled her tightly skirted hips free of the chair to stand. “Thanks for telling me the truth. At my age, wondering would be worse. It wouldn’t have killed him to have had one freaking meal with me.”
“I know you’re upset, and I understand completely, but can I just say one more thing?” he asked.
Trudy chuckled. “Sure. Why not? I hope like hell he tipped you for being his bad news messenger.”
“Ms. Baker, you can do a lot better than Mr. Farmington. If he had met you as planned, you would have been bored by the second course and chewing your leg off to escape by dessert. He’s a great customer, but not such a great guy when it comes to paying attention to his companions. He’s rather… well, self-absorbed is a polite word.”
Trudy grinned. “That doesn’t surprise me in the least since he didn’t bother to actually meet me. Does your restaurant have a full liquor license?”
“Absolutely. Our wine list is extraordinary. That’s why Mr. Farmington comes to us.”
“Great,” Trudy said, smiling widely. “Wrap me up a bottle of your best Cabernet Sauvignon to go—something in the $200 dollar range will be nice. We’ll do that in lieu of the dinner he tried to force me to eat alone.”
She looked at her seat and then back at the kind maître d. “I’d wait at the table for it, but frankly, I’m afraid my date clothes aren’t going to survive getting up and down again. At this point, I need to keep them discreet enough to get me home. I think I’ll just wait by the host station while you fetch my wine.”
The host smiled and offered his arm. “Despite your professed discomfort, your clothes look fine and you look fine in them. I’ve seen at least three of our regular patrons looking longingly at you sitting all alone.”
Trudy took his arm and started walking. His support helped since she was wearing the stupid three inch heels that matched because they showed off the skirt best.
“Three checkouts, huh. Guys or gals?” she asked.
“Two men. One woman. All single. Unfortunately, they’re all with dates tonight.”
“Maybe I’ll have to try this restaurant again sometime when I’m intentionally alone,” Trudy said, grinning at the man for being so nice.
“I really think you should, Ms. Baker. I really think you should. Next time come on Tuesday. A lot of our best customers dine alone during the week.”
“I bet you see a lot of things like that in your work,” Trudy said, thinking of her own restaurants. “I know that’s very true about dining alone during the week.”
She’d always thought it was a shame too, but hadn’t given much consideration to the years and years of time such behavior could span. Now she had a whole new perspective.
“Who taught you to knead dough?” Jack asked, frowning at what she was doing.
Trudy rolled her eye
s and continued folding the dough. “My mother taught me.”
“You’re being too rough with it.”
“Maybe I like being rough,” Trudy said, hearing every female in the audience giggle.
Jack snorted at the dirty joke. “Handling the dough too much will make it dry.”
She sighed and glared as she shook her head. “My pie crust is never dry.”
“Have it your way.”
When Jack shrugged off her defense, Trudy stepped away from her dough. She leaned forward and dusted her flour covered hands between their bodies, covering Jack’s maroon sweater vest with hundreds of little white specks.
Feeling vindictive, she gestured to the board. “Okay, Chef Dozen. Show me how to be gentle. I need a hands on demonstration.”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Jack said.
Trudy started to move out of his way, but Jack grabbed a wrist and pushed her hand back to the dough. Stepping behind her, he reached around her body and pushed the other hand back as well. She was not a small woman at five eight, so completing his reach meant Jack had to push snugly against her curves and lean into her hips.
His body felt very nice lining the back of hers. For a moment, Trudy set aside where she was to simply enjoy the masculine attention. The audience whispering their shock and awe of his actions snapped her out of her enjoyment and reminded her that they were far from being alone.
“Isn’t this show supposed to be PG rated?” Trudy asked. She was being serious, but the audience laughed like she was teasing Jack. It didn’t help when he smiled like a guilty sixteen year old who’d been found out in his moves.
“Get those fingers moving, Chef Baker… but gently—very gently,” Jack ordered. He lifted her palms from the board and helped her move her hands lightly over the surface of the folded dough. “See? You can be easy and still enjoy the process.”
Never Ever Satisfied Page 6