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  “I slow-cooked them at home before bringing them here,” she added, smiling down at her food.

  Grabbing a beer from the fridge, I slid into a chair at the breakfast table, anticipating my next exceptional meal.

  “Dinner in fifteen minutes,” she said. “Right on time.”

  If it hadn’t been so bloody hot and humid, I’d have suggested having dinner on the back deck, which offered a less-than-inspiring view of a sea of look-alike condo buildings. Instead, my chef set a place mat and utensils in front of me.

  “I’m curious about something. What’s it like being on a television show?” she wanted to know. “I guess what I mean is, what happens when you’re on location?”

  “Well, it’s quite glamorous, as you might expect.” I made sure we maintained eye contact for a few moments until she broke off to study her feet.

  “My typical workday is ten to twelve hours, sometimes longer, beginning with hair and make-up. There’s a certain amount of standing around between takes or waiting in my trailer if I’m not in the scene. That’s when I study my script or catch up on phone calls and emails. And sometimes we shoot at night, darkness being the optimal time to hunt ghosts. The schedule doesn’t leave a lot of time for anything else, but at least I get the weekends off.”

  Shelby nodded before she returned to the stove, where she began to sauté green beans and mushrooms in a skillet. Again, the thought crossed my mind of how good it felt coming home to someone, even if that someone was a service provider hired by the show’s production company. Having her to converse with helped keep the loneliness at bay.

  I explained that most of the show was shot on location for authenticity, although we filmed a few of the interior scenes on a soundstage near Los Angeles, where there was a replica of the Sutherland home.

  “Isn’t that a duplication of effort?” she asked.

  “Not really. On a soundstage, no one needs to worry about the lighting or weather. Or irritating the tourists who come to see Ashland Plantation, only to learn that a portion is closed off for the TV crew. Some people are madly enthusiastic about anything related to the American Civil War.”

  “Tell me about it.” Her enigmatic smile returned for a moment. “I live here, remember?”

  She lifted the skillet off the flame and flipped the beans with an expert touch before finishing them with a pat of butter.

  “I believe they’re ready.”

  My chef prepared the plate—polenta first, followed by the spareribs, so tender they were falling off the bone, and the succulent little beans. She wiped the plate with a clean towel before presenting it to me.

  “Bon appetit,” Shelby said brightly.

  I unfolded a cloth napkin on my lap and picked up my fork, but before I could taste my first bite of savory goodness, my cell phone rang.

  I glanced at the name on the screen, hoping to let the call go to voice mail. Georgianne James. We’d been divorced for more than a decade, with little contact unless it was regarding our daughter Madeline. I’d hardly classify Georgianne and I as friends.

  “Do you mind keeping the plate warm?” I asked my chef. “I need to take this call.”

  Chapter Three

  Shelby

  Keep the plate warm?

  The polenta should’ve been served immediately, and the tender little beans would get mushy if I had to re-heat them. I loosely covered Ian’s plate with aluminum foil and placed it in the still-warm oven, hoping for the best. At least the pots de crème would hold in the refrigerator. I would wait until I served dessert to make the finishing touch—soft peaked whipped cream sweetened with confectioner’s sugar.

  The concept of keeping my station clean and tidy was drilled into my head in culinary school as the hallmark of a professional, so while dinner was on hold, I finished rinsing bowls and utensils before loading the dishwasher. After I wiped down the stovetop and counters, there was little to do except wait. From the next room, I heard Ian’s mellifluous voice growing increasingly agitated.

  “No!” he shouted. “Absolutely not!”

  Another fifteen minutes passed. He continued the conversation, but I couldn’t make out his words. It was just as well, I told myself, because I had no interest in learning about his personal life, or lack of one.

  When Ian returned to the table, a troubled expression clouded his photogenic face. I poured the wine and retrieved his dinner from the oven. The presentation looked acceptable, but if I’d been working in the restaurant, I would have remade the entire plate.

  Ian stared into space for a few moments before picking up his fork and spearing a piece of beef. He chewed without making a sound. No accolades for tonight’s menu, I guessed.

  “Everything’s a little overdone,” I said apologetically, although it wasn’t my fault. “Because it sat in the oven.”

  He offered the briefest hint of a sad smile, reminding me of myself. It’s an effort to smile when you’re miserable.

  “Your food is exceptional,” he said. “And beautifully presented, as well.”

  He scooped up a bite of polenta, followed by a generous gulp of wine, before setting down his fork and focusing his whiskey-colored eyes on me.

  “Shelby, do you have children?”

  His question caught me completely off guard. Talk about putting the personal in Personal Chef. Maybe I should’ve insisted on getting a better job description. Still, I had to admit that I was curious.

  “I have a twenty-seven-year-old daughter, Danielle, my only child. When it came to motherhood, I literally put all my eggs in one basket.”

  He returned a wistful smile.

  “Did you have problems with her as a teenager?”

  “Oh, the usual boy-craziness, and there was a rebellious time during her junior year in high school when she didn’t want to come out of her room, but nothing major. Her father and I raised her to understand she could talk to us about anything. We might not agree, but we promised her that we would listen without judgment. I guess some of that must’ve stuck because Dani and I are close now.”

  “And your husband?” he probed. “Is she close to him as well?”

  “She was.” My voice softened as I struggled with the words. “He died last year.”

  Ian set down his fork, regarding me with what appeared to be genuine sympathy.

  “I’m so sorry, Shelby. I had no idea. Here I am prattling on about my problems, when you…”

  “It’s all right,” I interrupted, although I knew it wasn’t, and never would be again.

  “So, do you have kids, Ian?”

  I was dying to steer the conversation away from my own personal life, or what was left of it.

  He pulled his cell phone from a shirt pocket and handed it to me. A photo of an unsmiling girl with porcelain skin and his amazing eyes filled the home screen.

  “My daughter, Madeline. She’s sixteen. The child of my first marriage.”

  “She’s beautiful,” I responded, wondering briefly how many marriages he’d been through.

  “Yes,” he agreed, “and she has a brilliant singing voice. But she’s struggling in school, she and her mum don’t get on well, and…” Ian paused. Pain, grief, and regret were written on his features. If he was acting, this was an award-winning performance.

  “She cuts herself. That lovely child slashes her arms with a razor blade to cope with her emotional pain.”

  I pulled out a chair from the breakfast table and sat across from him. I had not been aware that my new job might include being an amateur therapist, yet I couldn’t walk away from someone who was hurting.

  “We sent her to a psychologist and I thought things had gotten better, but it’s happening again. When my ex called, they were in the hospital emergency room. One of the doctors wanted to admit Maddie into the psych ward for evaluation, and that’s when I blew up at him.

  “I’ve talked to her mental health counselor and I’ve read up on self-harm and cutting disorder. I couldn’t bear the thought of her being locked
up when she’s already fragile. She’s not suicidal, but she needs help.”

  His usually robust voice cracked.

  “Last year, she carved the word loser into her arm.”

  The thought of that girl slicing herself tore at my heart. I’d heard of cutting disease, but I’d never known someone who had it, because it was almost always kept hidden.

  Ian raked one hand through his hair as his eyes got moist. I sensed that he was on the verge of breaking down, but he composed himself at the last second and returned his eyes to me.

  “I keep second-guessing everything I’ve done as a parent. Maybe if I’d been at home more when she was little, or recognized the warning signs earlier.” His voice faltered again as he studied his unfinished dinner.

  “I’m sure you did the best you could. We all make mistakes and manage to screw up our kids in some way.”

  “That’s where you’d be wrong,” he continued, his voice taking on an unfamiliar bitterness. “I didn’t do the best I could. I spent a lot of time away from home on location. My career was top priority, and family came second. I did some things I’m not proud of.” He stared at his plate.

  “I’ve gotten it all wrong, Shelby, and there are no do-overs. No second takes.”

  I didn’t quite know what to say in response. With Ian’s looks and his level of success, I assumed him to be a spoiled, arrogant jerk, instead of the emotionally wounded man who sat across from me.

  “I think we’re all broken in some way. What matters is how we move forward.”

  Strange words coming from someone like me, who had been frozen for the past year and a half. I hadn’t been able to sort through Jean-Pierre’s clothing and personal items, much less move on with my life in any meaningful way. My stomach coiled into a tight knot.

  “You said Maddie had a therapist. Are you getting any help for yourself?”

  He shook his head.

  “No time, I’m afraid. Maybe when I get back home.”

  “I could recommend someone if you’d like. Counseling helped me after Jean-Pierre died.”

  I remembered well the five stages of grief that we discussed: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Somewhere along the way to “acceptance,” I’d gotten stuck, unable to emerge from the black hole of my sadness.

  He fixed his eyes on mine.

  “Thank you, Shelby,” Ian said in his beautifully articulated accent. “I’ll give it some thought. It was good of you to listen, because I’m certain that hearing Ian go on about his problems is not part of your job description.” He offered a half-hearted smile.

  “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to have dessert in the living room. I’m going to study my script for a while before I go to bed. All of this emotional upheaval…” His voice trailed away. “I must get back to work.”

  I knew all about emotional upheaval, and I wondered how much sleep he would get tonight.

  Chapter Four

  Ian

  Another day of shooting had begun on the troubled set of Sutherland’s Ghosts, where my first scene took place in the plantation home’s manicured garden. Per the script, I was attempting to talk my on-screen daughter out of marrying a worthless scoundrel, when one of the household staff rushed to tell me the young neighbor who claimed to have been stalked by a ghost was dead. Judging from the marks on her neck, foul play was suspected.

  It was all I could do this morning to keep my attention on saying my lines. I’d tossed and turned for most of last night before I made the decision to fly to Los Angeles for the weekend to spend time with Maddie. After I finally got to sleep, I dreamed that I visited a psychologist who looked remarkably like Chef Shelby. She was dressed in a tight-fitting suit with a short skirt, and when she sat across from me in her office and crossed her legs, I could see halfway up her creamy thighs.

  Removing a pair of oversized reading glasses, she looked me over with clear azure eyes. “What seems to be the problem, baby?” she asked. “Maybe I can help.”

  Her voice carried the softest trace of a southern accent. I woke up with a raging hard on.

  ***

  This morning, I was perched awkwardly on a stone garden bench, ready to shoot the first part of the scene, when a wasp flew into my line of vision, causing me to miss my cue. The instant I caught sight of the little yellow-legged bastard, I jumped off the bench and walked away. I am severely allergic to wasp stings. A single prick would’ve been enough to trigger an anaphylactic reaction and send me to urgent care.

  “You all right, Ian?” Our thirty-something hipster director, Chris, made a valiant attempt to appear concerned about my welfare, although I was certain he was far more worried about the delay in production. Shooting a weekly series meant we were on a rather tight schedule.

  “Could someone please get rid of the wasp? I’m allergic.”

  Chris tugged at his sparse goatee and shot me a disapproving look before dispatching two production assistants to the garden to either shoo away or kill the offending insect. I wasn’t trying to be difficult, but I hoped to get through the day without having my face puff up to twice its normal size, right before I stopped breathing.

  The second and third attempts to shoot the scene were ruined when my fellow actor blew his line. By the time we tried a fourth take, I was completely unfocused.

  My manservant rushed in again and cried, “Sir, it’s Miss Anna. She’s dead.”

  TV daughter clutched at her chest. “Oh, God, no!” she wailed.

  “Her body was found this morning, ma’am,” Manservant continued. “Looks as though she was strangled.”

  At this point, I was supposed to assume my character’s serious lawyer face and respond with, “If she’s been murdered, then someone is responsible.”

  I rehearsed the line and convinced myself that I could utter the words, but when I was sitting in the stifling hot garden, surrounded by cast and crew, I realized that I simply couldn’t go through with it. I was likely to destroy what was left of my professional credibility, becoming a subject of ridicule on late night television.

  “Chris?” I called out, ruining the take and getting no response.

  “Chris!”

  This time I used my loudest stage voice, which made a couple of crew members flinch in surprise. My director ambled over, frowning and obviously irritated by yet another delay. He fished in his shirt pocket for a roll of chewable antacid tablets and swallowed a handful.

  “What is it now, Ian?”

  “I can’t say that line.”

  He grimaced. “What do you mean, you can’t say it? Why not?”

  Why not? I jumped up again, releasing a torrent of rage, frustration, or a combination of both, brought on by my lack of sleep and worried mind.

  “Because it’s utterly fucking ridiculous, that’s why! Don’t you get it? Of course, someone is responsible if she’s been murdered.”

  From the corner of my eye I caught Jennifer staring at me from off-set. Others were murmuring among themselves, no doubt unsettled by my uncharacteristic outburst. Ian’s always cheerful. Ian is easy to work with.

  I shook with fury, while Chris simply stood with his arms crossed, waiting for my rant to end. I suspected that his daily dose of anti-anxiety medication might be all that was keeping him from crossing the line into insanity. He stared up at the sky, which was becoming grayer and cloudier by the minute. Rain was in the afternoon forecast.

  “All right,” he replied in a calm voice, as if he was soothing a misbehaving child. “What would you suggest?”

  “Why do I need to say anything? We’ve already established that she’s been killed.”

  “We’ll do it your way,” he agreed, and we managed to complete the scene, including the close-ups, minutes before a light mist began falling. I retreated to my trailer to wait out the rain, where I cranked up the air conditioning before crashing onto the sofa.

  My heart beat too fast and I was perspiring again. Maybe I should’ve followed up on Shelby’s suggestion and
gotten counseling, but when? At night, when I was exhausted after my workday? My mental health check-up would have to wait until I returned to California.

  In the short term, perhaps getting laid might brighten my outlook. I had no doubt that Tasha would go for a quickie on the couch, but that thought only depressed me. I was not at all certain I could perform to her satisfaction. Neither was I turned on by the idea of shagging Jennifer and becoming another conquest she would boast about to her friends.

  In truth, the only woman I enjoyed thinking about was my new personal chef. While I’d just met her, she seemed the antithesis of my soon-to-be-ex, who cared more about her clothes, manicures, and interior design choices than she ever did about me. Shelby, on the other hand, was nurturing, warm, and unaffected by my so-called celebrity status. She hadn’t even watched the show.

  Retrieving my cell phone, I searched for a local florist, scrolled through the results, clicked on the link that promised same day delivery and chose a tasteful arrangement of white roses, lilies, and delphinium. In the message box, I typed: Thank you for being a friend. Ian. Not the most poetic statement, but at least it was sincere.

  In the next instant, I realized I didn’t have her delivery address, so I navigated away from the florist site and began a search, finding the information I sought in the online white pages, along with an archived article about her husband’s death.

  Local Epicureans Mourn Loss of Restaurateur

  Customers of Appleton’s acclaimed restaurant, Faith, are mourning the loss of Chef Jean-Pierre Durand, who suffered a fatal heart attack last week at the age of 56. Durand and his wife, Shelby Faith Durand, for whom the restaurant was named, were renowned for their casual French cuisine and Faith’s informal atmosphere, which attracted a mix of locals and seasonal tourists to its historic downtown location.

  “The staff adored Jean-Pierre,” his wife recalled. “He was an inspiration to us all.”