Fed Up Page 4
She has not said whether she plans to re-open the restaurant, which has been closed since Durand’s passing.
Durand was taken ill in the restaurant kitchen last Friday night. Efforts to revive him were not successful, and he was pronounced dead after being transported to Appleton Regional Medical Center. Funeral services are pending.
He and his wife, also an accomplished chef, met when both were students at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris. After their marriage they relocated to New York, where they gained experience working in the restaurant business before moving to Appleton more than twenty years ago.
“We wanted a lifestyle that was more conducive to raising our daughter, who was a first-grader at the time,” Shelby Durand said. “When the opportunity presented itself to own our own business, we jumped at the chance to experience small town life.”
The couple have been active community supporters and are credited with sparking a revival of Appleton’s downtown pedestrian mall. As early advocates of the “farm to table” restaurant movement, they insisted on using locally sourced ingredients from nearby farms, wineries, and ranches.
In addition to his wife, Durand is survived by a daughter, Danielle Nicole Durand, of Alexandria, Virginia.
I was beginning to understand the sadness behind her smile.
Returning to the florist site, I placed my order. Outside, persistent rain descended in sheets, turning the ground around my trailer into a shallow, gray lake. We still had a half-day of shooting to complete, including a crucial scene inside the plantation house that we couldn’t begin until today’s tourists were gone. Given the rain delay, I knew I was in for a long night.
I composed a short message to Shelby:
Looks as though I’ll be home late on account of the rain, so don’t bother with dinner. I’ll see you Thursday.
Your beleaguered Ian
Afterward, I booked a flight to Los Angeles departing Friday night from Washington Dulles. With nothing more to do but wait, I chose a book on pre-Civil War America from a stack of reading material on a side table, thinking that I’d do some research to flesh out my character. That was the last thing I remembered until almost two hours later, when a knock on my trailer door from a production assistant woke me from a fitful sleep.
I was dreaming about Shelby again. In this scene, I arrived at the condo after work to find her in the kitchen wearing nothing but her chef’s apron with the whisk print. As she turned and bent over to check something in the oven, her bare arse was exposed, a sight that made my cock stiff and my heart pound out of control.
Why was I dreaming of Shelby instead of hot little Tasha, who would’ve had me in a heartbeat? More to the point, why was I so drawn to her in the first place? I had sworn off romantic entanglements. I had made a mess of almost every relationship I’d been in. Try as I might, though, I could not stop thinking about her. All I knew for certain is that in only a couple of days my new chef had managed to heat up a lot more than just the kitchen.
Chapter Five
Shelby
As luck would have it, I’d already returned home from the gourmet market with ingredients for tonight’s meal when I got Ian’s message about working late. A small stab of disappointment pricked at my heart at the thought of not seeing him swoon over my food again. Not to mention the fact that I had sifted through the avocado bin for a good ten minutes to find three perfectly ripe fruits to top open-faced shrimp tacos. Fresh ingredients were a hallmark of my cooking. If I held the food for tomorrow, the shrimp would be a day older and the avocados overripe.
The remainder of my day stretched before me, lonely hours that begged to be filled. If not for the pouring rain, I would have been at work in my garden, one of the few places I found peace and tranquility, grooving to classic jazz while spending the afternoon weeding, pruning, and planting. I’d discovered the process of growing and harvesting food was even more healing than spending time in my therapist’s office. You can’t be a gardener and remain totally pessimistic.
Instead, I wandered through my empty house, wondering again if I should put it on the market and move into an apartment or condo. Jean-Pierre and I had purchased our 100-year-old home more than two decades ago, updating it over the years with remodeled bathrooms, a new, open kitchen, and an upper deck overlooking the backyard. The three-story house was much too large for one person. It was filled with memories of our life together, a fact that had become a stumbling block in my recovery process. My therapist had suggested more than once that I sort through my husband’s belongings and make the house mine. Ours didn’t exist anymore.
The thought of boxing up all his things produced a knot in my stomach, along with a pulsing headache. On a whim, I made a rare workday call to Danielle, hoping to catch her during a break.
“Just wanted to chat, if you have a few minutes.”
“Sure. I don’t have to be at work for a while. I start training the bar staff tonight.”
My daughter’s job as a manager for an international restaurant chain required her to travel throughout the country to open new locations. She loved her single, nomadic lifestyle, while I was proud that she hasn’t settled for a mediocre marriage. My exceptional daughter deserved an equally exceptional partner, a man who would cherish a strong woman. Sometimes, though, I wondered if she would ever find someone who could meet her exacting standards.
“I’m thinking about packing up some of your father’s things.”
“I wish you would.” A note of skepticism crept into her voice. I’d told her the same thing several times during the past year, but never followed through.
“You know how much I love Daddy, but you shouldn’t make your whole house a shrine to his memory.”
My opinionated daughter was wise beyond her years.
“Wait until I come visit if you don’t want to do it alone.”
“Thanks, sweetie, but I think I’m going to tackle it. Tomorrow.” Another delay would give me a few more hours to mentally prepare myself for the task.
“I’ll save the old photos for you to sift through next time you’re here.”
“Did you start that personal chef gig for the actor?” she asked. Dani had been concerned about my continued lack of enthusiasm for regular employment.
“Yes, he’s one of the stars of Sutherland’s Ghosts, here on location for the next few weeks.”
“Tyler Chance? The gorgeous guy who manages to lose his shirt in every episode?”
I didn’t know who she was talking about, although the thought of a bare-chested Ian made my pulse speed up and my stomach tighten. Briefly, I fantasized about what Ian might look like naked before I slammed the door on that X-rated thought.
“No, he’s older. Probably about my age.”
“Ian James? You’re cooking for him?” Her voice brightened. “He’s pretty hot for an old guy, like Clooney, or Brad Pitt. He played the Time Traveler.”
Again, I was clueless.
“The what?”
“Time Traveler, Mom. It was a tongue-in-cheek sci-fi series he did several years ago. One of the cable networks started airing reruns that became popular in my college dorm. All my roommates had a crush on Ian.
“What’s he like?”
I pondered her question for a moment. If pressed, I’d have to describe him as witty, unpredictable, complex, and emotionally wounded. Add “drop-dead gorgeous” and “charming” to the mix and that made him dangerous. Especially when he turned those amber eyes on my face.
“I just met the man,” I finally responded. “I have no idea.”
Late in the afternoon I received a delivery, an enormous arrangement of white roses and deep blue delphinium in a ceramic vase. Who in the world would be sending me flowers? When I read the attached card, my face flushed, leaving me so light-headed that I had to sit down. Sending the bouquet was a thoughtful thing to do, even though Ian’s gesture was a little over the top. All I did was listen while he worried about his daughter’s problems. Didn’t he have someone close he co
uld talk to?
I placed the vase on an antique sideboard in the sunroom before returning to my kitchen to plan dinner. There was no point in letting fresh shrimp go to waste, so I decided to grill them for myself and re-think tomorrow night’s menu.
When the rain finally let up, I wandered out to my garden, choosing carrots, tomatoes, and a variety of greens and herbs for a salad. After I washed my fresh produce and spun it dry, I skewered the shrimp on metal rods, heated the gas grill, and made my salad, tossing it in a fresh vinaigrette before putting the shrimp on to cook. My finished plate, accompanied by a wine glass and a full bottle of Chardonnay, went onto a TV table in the sunroom.
The smell of cooked seafood drew the attention of both cats, who sat near my feet in anticipation of a treat. I flopped into Jean-Pierre’s leather chair, turned on the television, and started Season One of Sutherland’s Ghosts on Netflix. If nothing else, I rationalized, watching Ian’s show would give Dani and me something to talk about.
The first episode served as an introduction to the Sutherland family in pre-Civil War Virginia. Ian portrayed John Sutherland, the widowed patriarch, lawyer by day and paranormal investigator at night. With all of that going on, I’m not sure when his character got any sleep. His three grown children lived in the family home, the youngest son played by frequently shirtless Tyler Chance.
While I was no critic, I characterized the acting as mostly overblown, bordering on amateurish, although Ian delivered a solid performance. His presence lent a certain gravitas to the otherwise ridiculous and hard-to-follow plot, and he did look dashing in a frock coat.
I made it through three episodes and most of the bottle of wine before turning off the television and Googling “Ian James” on my tablet. Since I seldom read Hollywood gossip magazines or celebrity websites, the scandal surrounding his divorce in progress was news to me.
***
TV Host Monica Lewis Dumps Husband for Game Show Contestant
Monica Lewis, co-host of television’s 90-Day Fitness Challenge, has been served with divorce papers from her husband, actor Ian James, amid rumors of her alleged affair with one of the show’s weight loss contestants. A source close to Lewis said the former beauty queen has moved out of the couple’s Malibu home and is living with 26-year-old Braden Milkowski, winner of Season Four.
“Everyone on the set knew what was going on,” our source told us. “Most of Braden’s daily workouts took place in Monica’s dressing room.”
A friend of James, who asked not to be identified, said the star of Sutherland’s Ghosts was “gutted” by the breakup, which he blamed on conflicting work schedules that kept the couple apart for weeks at a time.
“He knew there was friction in their marriage, but he never saw this coming.”
The accompanying photo depicted the two of them during happier times, posing on the red carpet at a formal event. Ian appeared stunningly handsome in a classic tuxedo. She was tall and fitness-model-thin, with cheekbones so well-defined they could cut someone.
Ian was dumped for a man half his age? That had to have bruised his ego. Part of me was relieved to know he wasn’t the one who violated his vows, but who really knew what went on in a couple’s marriage?
I’d already learned far more about his personal life than I wanted to know, yet something compelled me to keep searching. When I pulled up his official bio, I learned that Ian was three years younger than me. I discovered that he was married once before to a woman named Georgianne, who is Madeline’s mother. Two failed marriages, a divorce scandal, and a troubled teenage girl. No wonder the man seemed a little depressed. His personal life was a tangled, emotional mess. Even more reason to guard my feelings and not let his charisma cloud my decision-making. I certainly wouldn’t want to get sucked into his overblown lifestyle and become fodder for a tacky grocery store tabloid.
My gaze landed on the lush floral arrangement atop my sideboard, and I wondered how much of the online story was true. I wanted to believe his side of things because, as much as I told myself it didn’t matter, I also didn’t want to find out that Ian was a jerk.
***
The next morning, fortified by a breakfast of soft scrambled eggs and avocado toast, I planned dinner, substituting pork for yesterday’s shrimp. After I seasoned a roast and placed it in the slow cooker, I tackled the job I’d been dreading for well over a year. Starting downstairs, I took Jean-Pierre’s coats and jackets out of the front hall closet and removed most of the framed photos that cluttered the top of the sideboard in the sunroom. The photos went into a box for Danielle to sort through. I left only one, a favorite picture of J-P and me standing in front of Faith, taken on the restaurant’s fifteenth anniversary.
Next, I trudged upstairs to the master bedroom, where I’d dropped several cardboard boxes on the hardwood floor near the walk-in closet. Opening the closet door, I braced myself for the wave of sadness and loss washing over me at the sight of all his clothes, untouched during the past eighteen months. Shirts and pants were removed from hangers and placed into the cartons, along with all his shoes. Sifting through his t-shirts, I lingered over the ones that still carried a hint of his scent.
When I was done, his side of the closet was bare except for the few items I decided to keep: his favorite worn leather jacket, a chef’s coat from Faith, and a Tommy Bahama tropical print shirt, new with the tags still attached. He was going to wear it on the Caribbean cruise we had planned before his premature death changed everything.
I paused to sit on the edge of our bed, holding the tropical shirt and smoothing the fabric with one hand. My eyes got moist when I thought of all the plans we’d made: work a few more years, sell the restaurant, and travel. Jean-Pierre and I would become freelance restaurant consultants and I’d finally write my cookbook.
I knew I’d never get through the process without breaking down, and as I sat and sobbed, tears of sorrow and regret spilled down my cheeks. All the time we waited, the retirement we planned, the trip to France, and to what end? What had all the waiting gotten us?
Now he was gone, and those plans had turned to dust.
Returning to the closet, I shifted some of my clothing to his side, so it wouldn’t look empty. In the process, I re-discovered a summer dress in a delicate rose-and-white print, also unworn, along with a new pair of strappy, low-heeled sandals, put aside and forgotten in the wake of his death.
Moving over to Jean-Pierre’s dresser, I started opening drawers, removing socks, underwear, sweatpants, and a pair of silk pajamas I bought him years ago. All the items went into another large carton, leaving only a small wooden jewelry box. Inside were his wedding band, a pair of old-fashioned cufflinks, and his expensive Swiss watch, a Christmas gift from me. I slipped his ring into a silk pouch containing my matching band, which I’d finally taken off a few weeks ago. Seeing it on my finger every day was a constant reminder of what I’d lost. I planned to give the watch to Danielle.
After only a few hours of emotionally draining work, I was so tired that I wanted to crawl into bed, although it was only mid-afternoon. My body was numb, and my brain had turned to mush. I was almost finished with this dreaded task, however, so I loaded the boxes into the back of my Subaru and drove to the local hospice thrift store with my donation. I had hoped that clearing out Jean-Pierre’s things might help to bring a sense of closure to his death, but I didn’t feel much different, only slightly relieved at having completed the dreaded chore.
Back at home, I managed to take a twenty-minute power nap before showering. Putting aside my unofficial uniform of cropped pants and tank top, I slipped into the rose print dress, which felt cooler and looked more girly than my usual attire. The sandals were perfect with it. I wasn’t dressing up for Ian, I reminded myself. I was trying to move forward and overcome my loss by wearing something fresh and new.
Returning to my kitchen, I slipped on an apron, washed my hands, and began assembling the ingredients for tonight’s dinner. I decided to use the succulent, moist pork t
o make open-faced tacos with a spicy slaw. The slightly overripe avocados could be transformed into a delicious crema by blending them with sour cream and lime juice. A comforting refried bean casserole would round out the meal.
The ingredients and tools went onto a plastic tub for transport to the condo. At the last minute, I added a six-pack of Dos Equis. While the Mexican beer wasn’t on Ian’s list of acceptable beverages, I hoped he might enjoy it. My final task was feeding the cats, who looked slightly confused by their early mealtime, but if I waited until I got home later tonight, Francoise would never let me forget it.
Chapter Six
Ian
A few minutes past six p.m., I let myself into the condo, arriving home after surviving yet another miserably hot day on the plantation. Right before I left the set, I got an update on last week’s TV show ratings, and ours were dismal. Sutherland’s Ghosts had dropped to third in its time slot, outperformed by a long-running crime drama and a national amateur talent competition.
I’d prepared myself mentally for the possibility of cancellation, which would be somewhat of a relief, although I’d also hate for my name to be associated with failure. The long workdays and the unrelenting heat and humidity had taken a toll on both my physical and mental health. Or, perhaps I was simply getting too old for the daily grind. In any case, I consoled myself with the prospect of a delectable dinner prepared by my new chef.
Shelby was standing at the kitchen counter, deftly shredding a head of cabbage with a mandolin. A cheese-topped casserole rested on a cutting board and the aroma of spicy cooked meat filled the space. My stomach rumbled.
“Hello, Chef,” I announced. “Your favorite antebellum ghost chaser has returned again.”
She turned and offered the barest hint of a smile before glancing at the kitchen clock.