Fed Up

  Fed Up

  Well-Seasoned Love ~ Book 1

  Kathleen Duhamel

  Fed Up

  Copyright © 2019 by Kathleen Duhamel.

  All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: July 2019

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1-64034-849-3

  ISBN-10: 1-64034-849-2

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  For M.T.D. with love and gratitude.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter One

  Shelby

  Sheets of rain shrouded my Subaru in a watery cocoon, obscuring everything ahead except pairs of red taillights stretching into infinity. If today had gone according to plan, I would have left my house early and missed being caught in this miserable downpour. Instead, I was inching along Interstate Highway 81 toward the neighboring town of Fruitvale during a July afternoon cloudburst, the type that overflows storm sewers and ruins everyone’s outdoor barbecue plans. I was also doing my best to forget about recent traffic deaths along this stretch of highway, which happened to be the quickest route to my new gig. Now, I was caught in an endless stream of traffic, taking my life in my hands to get to a job I didn’t want in the first place.

  I was already frazzled by the lack of visibility and the stop-and-go traffic when the driver ahead of me slammed on his brakes for no apparent reason and I narrowly avoided a rear-end collision. My heart thumped, and I reminded myself to take some deep breaths. Better to get there late than not at all.

  Three exits and a half hour later, I turned off the highway and let my GPS lead me to the destination, an executive rental in a gated condo community. I arrived a full ninety minutes later than I planned and my anxiety was building. The job was dropped into my lap at the last minute and I didn’t quite know what to expect.

  I was not, nor had I ever been, a personal chef. That type of work represented a huge step down from cooking in a restaurant and having my own business. The sole reason I agreed to it was to help a friend, subbing for a former employee who had to travel overseas with his partner to pick up their newly adopted daughter.

  “The money’s good and he’s okay to work with,” Denny promised me. “A little odd, but nothing you can’t handle.”

  Reality dictated that I produce an income. Aside from a few catering jobs, I hadn’t worked in more than a year, living off insurance proceeds and the money I got from selling our restaurant. My accountant warned me that I couldn’t go on that way or I would wind up penniless.

  All I knew about my new client, television actor Ian James, is that he was on location in the northern Shenandoah Valley to film the second season of some prime-time soap opera I hadn’t bothered to watch. Denny was hired to cook for him last year through the TV production company, and he recommended me to fill in. I hadn’t met the man, although I had received several emails from his manager with instructions and recommendations.

  Ian prefers only organic meat, dairy, and vegetables, I was informed. Ian wishes to have Thornbridge Kill Your Darlings lager on hand, along with Remy Martin cognac and a selection of wines.

  You’d think living less than ninety minutes outside our nation’s capital would’ve given me access to any type of alcohol, but I had to order the lager through a local craft beer distributor because in my little town it was considered a rare item. The cognac set me back a breathtaking $350, for which I would be reimbursed, but it was a lot of money out of pocket.

  I also was instructed to make sure I had loose leaf Earl Grey tea on hand, as well as a ceramic teapot. None of those convenient tea bags for Mr. James, who insisted that his beverage of choice be prepared the proper, traditional British way.

  After hauling in three plastic tubs full of food and supplies, I got to work organizing the kitchen where I would be preparing dinner five nights a week through late August. Ian would like dinner served no later than 7 p.m. unless he is shooting at night, in which case you will be informed in advance.

  I could handle that. The cluttered chaos of this kitchen was a different matter. At first glance it looked clean and modern, with a cozy breakfast nook, the requisite granite countertops and stainless-steel appliances, and a fun blackboard wall, until I began to open the cabinets and drawers. On the inside, things were a disaster: pots and pans scattered randomly, a spice drawer with most of the spices missing, and dozens of plastic cutlery packets and take-out menus from various fast food outlets, probably left over from a previous tenant.

  “A reflection of your life, Shelby,” I said out loud, my words taking a bitter tone. On the surface, everything seems fine. Only when you peer beneath do you encounter the mess within.

  At any rate, from the little I knew about him, Ian James didn’t seem like the type of man who enjoyed chowing down on Big Macs, so I cleared out the drawers and began organizing. I’d brought my own supplies, including a set of newly sharpened professional knives. The mismatched collection I found jammed in a drawer was so dull that none of them could cut butter.

  Most of my re-arranging would have to wait another day when I could get there early, barring any further weather delays. In the meantime, I began to unpack, stocking the pantry and fridge with my client’s requested items—a variety of fresh fruits and vegetables, organic milk, three different types of chutney, imported cheeses, tins of “biscuits,” the wine and liquor, and a jar of HP Sauce, the British answer to ketchup.

  It was after six p.m. and I needed to get started on dinner, but first I had to address my disheveled appearance. There was a half-bath off the kitchen where I went to freshen up, not that I particularly cared about what I looked like, but I felt compelled to at least try and make a good first impression.

  I usually avoided looking at myself in the mirror because I didn’t like what I saw—a 54-year-old woman who was a little too thin, with a sad attempt at a smile. My silvery hair, which was sleek and smooth when I left my house, was now a mass of damp frizz, courtesy of the persistent rain. Rummaging through my tote bag, I found a brush, applied a dollop of anti-frizz serum, and pulled my hair into a low ponytail, securing it with a scrunchie. Slipping a chef’s apron over my tank top and cropped pants, I tied it
around my waist before washing and drying my hands. As every chef knows, clean hands make the best kitchen tools.

  Back in the kitchen, I begin to set up my mise en place. Tonight’s menu featured pan-seared scallops with lemon buerre blanc, served with orzo and roasted asparagus. I had made the dish dozens of times, at both the restaurant and at home. It was one of Jean-Pierre’s favorites.

  Next, I trimmed the ends off a bunch of freshly washed asparagus. For the sauce, I juiced a couple of lemons and minced a shallot, combining them in a pan with white wine and thyme sprigs, and allowing the mixture to reduce over a low flame. The asparagus wouldn’t take long to cook in the oven, and the scallops required only a few minutes, so I decided to wait and start them once my client got home. There’s nothing less palatable than overcooked seafood.

  Retrieving a well-seasoned cast iron skillet, I placed it on the gas cooktop. At home, I usually listened to music while I prepared a meal, and since there was no one around, I fished through my bag for a set of ear buds, pushed a few buttons on my phone, and treated myself to the familiar opening notes of So What, the first tune off the classic Miles Davis LP, Kind of Blue. Jean-Pierre used to tease me that I was born too late, because my favorite music is from the glory days of jazz in the 1950s and ’60s.

  “Shel-bee,” he would purr in his delightful accent, “if you could sing, you would have made a lovely chanteuse in the jazz clubs of Paris.” He pronounced it Par-EE, as the natives do.

  The orzo was cooking, my sauce was reducing, and the seasoned asparagus stalks were laid out on a baking sheet, ready for the oven. I moved on to preparing dessert. Strawberry granita, a simple dish that consisted of fruit, sugar, lemon juice, and water, along with a touch of basil from my garden to add an earthy freshness. I placed everything in a blender and let it whirl the ingredients into a pink puree that was transferred to a tray and placed in the freezer. I made a mental note to check it in a half hour. The secret to perfect granita is scraping the ice crystals several times with a fork to obtain the desired texture.

  Everything was going as planned. Here in the kitchen, I was in control, organized, and on top of my game. Too bad that feeling didn’t extend to other aspects of my life.

  In my ears, the plaintive piano introduction to Blue in Green began, followed by the sound of Miles’ muted trumpet. The aching emotion of his solo evoked longing and loneliness, along with the memory of seeing and hearing him play that song in concert, many years ago in Paris. J-P and I were impoverished culinary students who blew a week’s pay to get tickets. I could still recall every detail about the smoky club and the way he clutched my hand, enraptured by the talented American musicians on stage.

  God, I miss him.

  There were times I longed to talk to my mother about what I was going through, but she wasn’t capable of conversation. Delusional and frail, she was living out her remaining days across the country in a memory care facility near Portland. She and Dad had spent their entire married life in the Northwest, and she steadfastly refused to move closer to me after he passed away. My mother hated all things Southern. Now, my communication was with the nursing staff, not her.

  Grief never takes a holiday, does it?

  On this particular evening, I didn’t have the luxury of allowing myself to get weepy and nostalgic, because I had a job to do. Taking my reduced sauce off the stove burner, I set the hot pan on a cutting board, removed the thyme sprigs, and whisked in a full stick of cubed, unsalted butter. When the butter was blended, I poured the finished sauce into a thermos to keep it warm, and dipped in a spoon to taste. The buerre blanc was rich and velvety, with a nice tang from the lemon juice.

  “Shelley?”

  A disembodied masculine voice jolted me out of my reverie, causing my heart to leap in my chest. My body jerked, the tasting spoon fell from my hand and flipped onto the tile floor, spilling a thin trail of butter sauce in its wake. Ripping the ear buds off, I turned toward the sound of the voice and managed to suppress a little gasp.

  Slouching in the kitchen doorway was arguably one of the best-looking men I’d ever laid eyes on. Ian James was tall, straight-backed, and broad-shouldered, with a lean body partially covered by a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. His face was nothing short of flawless, defined by whisky-colored eyes, a strong jawline, and a killer smile. A full head of dark hair, laced with gray, swept almost to his shoulders, and he raked it back with one hand in a dramatic gesture while keeping his eyes on my face.

  Jee-zus.

  “I didn’t realize you were here.” Ian’s speaking voice was deep and well-modulated, with an upper-class accent that I might’ve associated with a Shakespearean actor.

  “You scared the crap out of me,” I managed to stammer, feeling foolish while trying not to stare at him. I couldn’t quite read his expression. Bemusement or curiosity? Do I have food on my face? Is he smirking at me?

  I grabbed a fistful of paper towels and began to clean up my mess.

  “So sorry.” He smiled again, flashing perfect teeth. “We were rained out, so I came home early.” His amber eyes darted around the kitchen, taking in the sight of my dinner preparations before he returned his gaze to me.

  “Might I have a cup of tea before dinner?”

  “Of course,” I responded. “By the way, my name is Shelby.”

  “Again, my apologies.” He offered another quick smile. “I’ve managed to make quite a bad start of things, haven’t I?”

  I didn’t know what to say in response. Instead, I filled a kettle with water and placed it on the stovetop to heat. When the water reached the desired temperature, right below the boiling point, I poured a bit into the teapot to warm it, an important step to insure the best flavor.

  After I poured out the water, I added the correct portion of tea leaves, then refilled the pot and let the mixture steep while I sliced a lemon and retrieved organic milk from the refrigerator.

  Ian seated himself at the breakfast nook and watched me with the same amused expression. I began to wonder if I was being evaluated.

  After the tea was sufficiently steeped, I poured it into a cup and served it with the lemon, sugar, and milk. He sipped the brew, closed his eyes, and pronounced it “lovely.” Apparently, I had passed my first test.

  “Where did you learn to make tea like a proper Brit?” he asked, eyeing me from across the table.

  “Culinary school.”

  I am not some backwoods hick who happened to fall into this job.

  The asparagus went into the oven.

  “Where would you like dinner served?” I asked my client. “In the dining room or in front of the TV?”

  He threw me another look I couldn’t quite decipher, but I was reasonably sure I was being played with. I was not used to being scrutinized.

  “I never use the dining room,” he said. “It’s too cold and sterile.” He pronounced the last word “STER-ile,” sounding like a character out of Downton Abbey.

  “And I seldom watch television, except for classic films and the occasional documentary.” He produced a blinding smile. “Odd, don’t you think, for a man who makes his living as an actor?”

  “I don’t know,” I responded, intrigued by his question despite myself. “I’m not much of a TV fan, either.”

  “You’ve never watched my show?”

  I shook my head. Might as well admit that I hadn’t seen a single episode. I thought the series had something do with pre-Civil War era ghosts, which didn’t sound too appealing. The X-Files, circa 1850?

  One eyebrow arched before he raked his hair back again.

  “Well, you’re better off without it, Shelby, because it’s bloody awful.” He let out a bitter laugh before draining his tea.

  “I’ll have dinner in here, so we can have a little chat.”

  Great. Now he was going to be underfoot, watching my every move.

  I retrieved tonight’s protein from the refrigerator—not those tiny bay scallops, but the plump, tender ocean variety—and patted them dr
y with a paper towel before setting my cast-iron skillet over a stovetop flame. Combining butter and oil with a screaming hot skillet was my secret to getting a good sear. The scallops hit the pan with a satisfying sizzle as their briny freshness wafted throughout the kitchen.

  They were cooked in a matter of minutes. While they rested off the heat, I started plating. A small pool of buerre blanc went down first, then the finished seafood, with the asparagus and orzo artfully arranged alongside. A sprinkle of fresh herbs completed my signature dish, which incorporated classic technique with the freshest locally sourced ingredients. As a final touch, I wiped the rim of the plate with a clean kitchen towel to make sure the presentation was flawless.

  I set the dinner plate in front of Ian, who gazed at it with nothing short of awe. When he looked up, I noticed for the first time that his amber eyes were flecked with green. Was there no end to this man’s physical attributes?

  “Would you like a glass of wine? I have a Pinot Noir that’s slightly chilled.”

  I received a skeptical glance.

  “I thought seafood should be served with white wine.”

  “Why don’t you try it first, and if it’s not to your liking I’ll open another bottle.”

  “You’ll have a glass as well?”

  “Only one. I have to drive home.”

  I retrieved the wine and poured two glasses. He pulled out a chair and motioned me to sit. My eyes couldn’t help but linger over his classic profile, and I concluded that Ian must have no shortage of female attention.

  He bit into a scallop, closed his eyes and sighed, before taking a sip of wine.

  “These are perfection.” He set down his glass. “And you were correct about the wine,” he added, surprising me with his honesty. “The soft, fruity taste marries well with the scallops. Where did you say you went to cooking school?”

  I hadn’t said. Swirling the liquid in my glass, I paused to take a generous sip. The Pinot Noir was beautifully soft and far more expensive than the mid-priced wines I usually bought for myself.