Crave

by Margaret McHeyzer

  Getting a trash bag from the kitchen I walk back into the family room and line up all the bottles, thirty-six of them. Most of them are empty and there are only a few bottles with the remnants of golden fluids settled in the bottom.

  “I’m taking a leap of faith, Eva. I’m trusting you. You told me when you visited me you’d be okay with all of this. But I’m not sure I’m entirely ready to let go of everything.” Looking at the bottles I wait, in case Eva tells me something.

  “I think I like her. I think she may be just what I need, but am I what she needs?”

  Arming myself with the bottles, I make several trips out to the trash cans to dispose of them. Five trips later, I’m left with a clear, clean bar and only half a bottle of scotch left.

  “I best clean this kitchen, because I cannot cook in this mess. I know, I know, you must be thinking that I’ve neglected everything. Oui, mon amour, I would be thinking the same thing too. But I will try, because as you told me, it is time for me to move on.”

  I open the fridge and begin cleaning it out. How I let it get this bad, I don’t know. I should be ashamed of myself. And I am.

  Cleaning the kitchen feels good; it feels right. Something about getting rid of everything I’m holding on to is cleansing.

  “What do you think I should cook for Holly? I’d like to make her something she’d enjoy. I know she loved the lemon meringue I made, so possibly I could make her that. But what do you suggest I make for the main course?”

  I know I would seem like a crazy man to anyone looking in on me. Someone talking to himself must appear like a man who’s lost his mind.

  I start to chuckle. I must really look like a sight now. “Mon amour, I wonder if you find this funny too?” As I clean the kitchen my mind begins to drift to sex. More specifically, sex with Holly. “I may have sex with Holly,” I whisper, hoping Eva won’t be too mad with me.

  Wiping the inside of the fridge, I can’t help but allow my mind to go to the restaurant, to how I feel every time I see Holly and the way her pencil skirt hugs her hips. Or how her derrière sways just a bit. She’s definitely beautiful with her chocolate eyes and her rhubarb red lips. Her breasts are heavenly, so round, they look incredibly full and voluptuous. Her figure, God damn it, her figure. I think she’s gorgeous and one hundred percent woman. I’d describe her figure more like an hourglass, a classically beautiful hourglass.

  “Mon amour, I know you’re laughing at me, but I hope you will leave if Holly and I decide to have our own dessert.” I chuckle and shake my head. “I’d like to see where this goes, because if you’re right, then it may be more than just sex.” I wipe down the kitchen counters. “As long as you understand you’ll always be in my heart.”

  As I continue to scrub and clean, my thoughts are completely consumed with a very tempting image of how I imagine Holly would look naked, something happens. I suppose I should expect it – the mild, sweet aroma of Eva’s floral perfume as it drifts by.

  Momentarily I stop and look around the room. Have I disturbed something which was hers? Or is she simply telling me it’s fine?

  “You are laughing at me, aren’t you? I understand, mon chéri. You are telling me you are okay with it all.”

  I go back to cleaning the sinks, “I hope you are happy.”

  Chef Pierre: Chapter 16

  Holly

  “You look pretty, Mummy. Can I come too?” Emma asks as I apply mascara in the bathroom.

  “Thank you, Peanut. Now I’m going to be home late tonight, so you need to listen to Nanna.”

  She’s leaning against the bathroom vanity unit and she twirls her hair around her finger as she continues to watch me. “Can I come too? I like Pierre.”

  We’d talked about the short conversation they had at the hospital, and she kept telling me she wanted him to come on our next picnic. Although I wasn’t there, Bronwyn told me Emma and Pierre only spoke for a few moments. But Emma appears to have made a connection with him.

  “Not tonight you can’t,” I answer as I rub some light pink gloss on my lips.

  “I’ve been thinking about something, Mummy,” she says, coyly but definitely cutely. “Because you won’t be having dinner with me and Nanna tonight, can I buy lunch at school tomorrow?”

  I look down at her, her big brown eyes smiling, and a cheeky look on her face.

  “And why would I say yes to that, seeing as you only buy a school lunch on Friday?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugs, but twists her mouth around for an innocent smile.

  “You’ll take your lunch tomorrow, as usual.”

  “But, Muuuuum,” she drags out ‘Mum’, with a whine.

  “No ‘buts’; you know the rules. Do your homework, make your bed every morning and clear the table and you can buy lunch on Fridays.”

  Her shoulders slump, her head lolls forward and I see her mouth turn down into a sulk. “Alright, Mummy,” she says in a huff, turns, and leaves.

  I finish getting ready, dressing in jeans and a short-sleeve, fitted shirt and go to say goodbye to Bronwyn and Emma.

  “I’m off,” I say to Bronwyn, finding her in the kitchen chopping a salad.

  “Take care, and enjoy yourself,” she answers with a mischievous glint in her eye.

  Oh my God, I hope she doesn’t think I’ll be having sex with Pierre. Because that’s not going to happen. Not tonight, anyway.

  “I’m not sure what time I’ll be home.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Let your hair down and enjoy your night,” she says again, holding back a smile.

  “Nothing’s going to happen,” I answer her unasked question.

  “And it’s not my business if anything does. You’re thirty-five. You’re a great mum and a beautiful woman inside and out. You’re old enough to make your own decisions.” Bronwyn is really accepting, and maybe even more prepared than I am for what my future holds.

  “It’s just dinner.”

  “Of course,” she says, dropping anything else she wants to say.

  I give her a kiss on the cheek, and go to find Peanut, who’s most likely still sulking because I won’t let her buy lunch from the school canteen.

  I find her in her room, playing with her dolls. “Hey, I’m going,” I say as I lean against the door jamb and watch her.

  “Bye, Mummy. Have fun,” she says eagerly. Obviously, all ill feelings completely forgotten.

  “I’ll come tuck you in when I get home tonight.”

  “I’ll be sleeping so I probably won’t hear you,” she says, casually. Emma jumps up and gives me a cuddle and a kiss. “Bye,” she says again as she goes back to her dolls and continues playing with them.

  “I love you.”

  “Love you too, Mummy.”

  I grab the bottle of shiraz off the table and go to my car.

  To say I’m nervous is an understatement.

  I’ve not been on a date for many years.

  I find Pierre’s house easily, thanks to the navigation system in my car.

  He lives in an older suburb where there’s large trees lining the roadside, and houses that could be easily a hundred years old.

  As I pull into his driveway, I notice the front lawn is freshly mowed and the house itself is quaint.

  Sitting in the car, I can feel the nerves hitting hard. My hands are sweating, my stomach is flipping around doing gymnastics, and my heart is beating so fast it may just take off.

  I take in a deep breath, enough to calm my nerves, and regain the piece of me hell-bent on fleeing.

  Getting out of the car, I walk the path to the front door and knock once.

  Shit! The damn wine, I left it in the car.

  I run back to the car, open the passenger side, and lean in to grab the bottle.

  “Oui, it is nice to see you. Very nice,” I hear from behind me.

  Oh crap. I feel myself burning with embarrassment. Of course Pierre would answer the door, and of course he’d see I wasn’t there and logically he’d step outside to sea
rch for me. And he’d find me bent over, arse in the air, trying to get the bottle of wine that has inconveniently lodged itself under the damned passenger seat.

  “Were you thinking of running away?” he asks, chuckling.

  “Not exactly. I left the wine in the car,” I respond, but I’m still bent over the passenger seat. My face feels so heated I’m pretty sure he’ll need to call the fire department to extinguish the blaze.

  “I could stand here all day.”

  Oh God.

  Finally I get the bottle out from under the seat, stand, and straighten, but don’t dare turn around yet.

  “What a pity, non.”

  Just get it over and done with, Holly.

  I turn to find a very amused, yet totally sexy Pierre standing behind me and hungrily looking at me. “Non, mon chéri, you should not be embarrassed. I like what I see.”

  I can’t help but take him in. He’s wearing faded blue jeans, torn just above the right knee, and a dark grey t-shirt that makes his intense eyes pop. His wavy hair is loose and it comes to just above shoulder length. He’s outside, barefoot, looking at me the same way I can imagine I’m looking at him.

  My heartbeat spikes.

  My mouth goes dry.

  And my damned pulse just jumps up to around a million beats a second.

  Christ, he looks so good, relaxed. And damn sexy.

  “Oui, you like what you see too.”

  Hell yeah, I really like what I see. “You’re alright.” I say with a wry grin, trying to downplay what I’m feeling. But I’m fairly certain the flaming red colour permanently etched on my face is giving my feelings away.

  Pierre chuckles and extends an arm to me, “Come, we can eat outside if you like, but I prefer not to have the nosy neighbours spying on us.”

  Self-consciously, I look around to see if I can catch anyone looking out their windows, imagining a little old lady in her eighties sitting by her lace-draped window, looking to see what’s happening. But, I don’t see anything.

  “You are funny,” Pierre says, as his mouth curls around his accent. “Come.” He leads me inside to his house. “Please make yourself at home.”

  “Oh, here you go.” I hand him the bottle of shiraz that got me into trouble at the car.

  Pierre takes it and looks at the label, “Ah, Penfold’s, very nice,” he says as he walks into his kitchen and I follow.

  The house is light and airy, the walls are adorned by many pictures. I suspect they’re of his late wife, Eva. She’s lovely. His kitchen is what I would expect of a chef. All the appliances are stainless steel. The fridge has a glass door, and it gives the feel of a compact industrial kitchen.

  In the centre is an island, with four high stools tucked under the lip of the counter.

  On the cooktop there are two heavy-looking black pots, and the oven light is on, with what looks like bread baking in it. The smell is delicious. The entire house is filled with the warm aroma coming from the oven.

  “Your home is beautiful,” I say as I drag a stool out and sit. To my left are huge French doors, which open to an outdoor covered terrace.

  “Merci,” he says as he picks up a big wooden spoon and stirs something in one of the pots.

  “Can I help with anything?”

  “Oui, you may get two glasses, they are over in that cupboard.” He points to one of the cabinets. The cabinet doors all have frosted glass, allowing me to see in. As I get off my seat and go to the cupboard, I hear the pop of the cork. “You look very beautiful,” his tone becomes deadly low. Mixed with his French accent, the way he looks, and the entire environment, his voice glides over my skin, raising gooseflesh.

  “Thank you,” I say, though my voice sounds a little too husky. I clear my throat and go to pour the wine.

  “Non.” Pierre stops me. “We have not let it breathe. Just wait. Patience is a virtue.” His voice is extremely silvery and smooth.

  Pop. Oh, what was that? My ovary exploding.

  Chef Pierre: Chapter 17

  Holly

  “This is delicious, thank you so much,” I say as I pop a piece of ravioli into my mouth.

  “It is homemade.” Pierre pauses and wipes his mouth with his napkin, and takes a drink from his wine glass. “It has been a long time since I’ve cooked for someone at home.” I can tell this is difficult for him.

  The way he’s avoiding looking at me, and the sweat which is beading on his forehead is a clear indication he’s finding this uncomfortable.

  To the left of the dining table is a floor-to-ceiling bookcase which takes up the entire wall. Packed in tight, there must easily be close to, if not over, a thousand books.

  “I love your library,” I say, trying to take the edge off the awkward silence.

  “The books are all my wife’s; she loved to read. She’d sit at that bay window and read the entire day away. I’d come home from work to find her where I’d left her. It was often she’d still be in her pyjamas with no housework done at all.” He chuckles and shakes his head, “Especially toward the end.”

  Oh shit, one uncomfortable subject to another. But being in his house, it’s bound to happen, and we may as well face the subject now.

  “How did she pass away?”

  Pierre lowers his fork and puts it on the side of his plate. I avoid his sad grey eyes.

  “She had ovarian cancer. We didn’t know until it was too late.”

  “I’m sorry, Pierre. I know how difficult it is to lose the person you love.” Well, this is screwed. The atmosphere is taking a definite turn toward the morose.

  “She wanted a baby, and I kept refusing her, telling her I wanted to be more advanced in my career. If I had listened, and wanted what she wanted when she wanted it, perhaps…”

  “You can’t put the blame on yourself.”

  “Apparently I can, and I do.” My heart bleeds because I know the hurt he’s been experiencing. “If I had just said yes to a baby, perhaps the cancer could’ve been treated successfully.”

  “You can’t question the choices you made. You can’t change the past. But you can certainly embrace the choices waiting in your future.”

  The quiet fills the room. We both continue eating, though the heaviness has certainly dampened the atmosphere.

  “My husband died nineteen months ago.”

  “Merde! What happened?” he asks, passionately.

  “He was on the highway and got a flat tyre. After he’d changed it, he was getting into his car to leave, and a truck was approaching. The truck driver wasn’t speeding, but his phone rang, and he looked down to get it.” My voice trembles as my skin turns icy cold just thinking about the day. “We hadn’t even gotten a chance to say goodbye.” I can feel tears welling up in my eyes.

  “Now it is my turn to say ‘I’m sorry’. I know the heartache losing a spouse can cause.”

  I wipe at a tear that has spilled over. I’m not strong enough to contain them all; a stray has broken past my control. “They said he died instantly. He wouldn’t even have known was happening. He wouldn’t have felt any pain.”

  The moments draw out. Time seems to have frozen, and both of us are quiet. I’m staring down at my plate. I’m not sure what Pierre is doing or looking at. But I can imagine he’s feeling the loss of his wife, as I’m feeling the loss of my husband.

  “This is not a very good first date,” Pierre breaks the icy silence. I can’t help but snap my gaze to him, and he’s sitting opposite me, with a pleading smile.

  “Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea,” I whisper.

  “Non, please. We know now part of what has moulded us into the people we are today. Let us finish our meal and talk about happiness.” He brings his wine up to his mouth, and takes a sip of it.

  Suddenly I find myself looking at his lips, and how they form around the glass as he drinks his wine.

  “Tell me about your daughter.”

  The moment he asks, I feel the dark cloud lift and my heart becomes lighter.

  “She’
s seven, and goes to first grade at school. She’s smart and incredibly outgoing.”

  “I noticed when she approached me at the hospital.”

  Something’s been playing on my mind, and I need to know what happened.

  “Pierre?”

  “Oui.”

  “Why did you kiss me in Angus’s office?”

  He shifts uncomfortably in his seat as he takes another mouthful of food. I suspect he’s just taken that bite so he can think about his answer. I mimic him and have some more ravioli.

  “I first met Eva when she came into the restaurant where I was working in Paris. A customer asked to speak with the chef, and I saw her when I went to their table. I passed her on the way out, and the first thing I noticed was her green eyes. They were so beautiful, so deep. I think I may have even fallen in love with her then. As I was speaking to the table, I kept sneaking looks at her. She was doing the same thing, and then she smiled at me.”

  I prop my left elbow on the table, and lean my chin on my knuckles, listening to the way Pierre is talking. He’s got this spark, as if he’s the brightest candle, illuminating the entire world.

  “I got called back to the kitchen before I had a moment to talk to her. When I went back out, she was gone. I ran out the front to see if I could find her. I saw her walking away, and a man was following her. In that second I didn’t think anything of it, but then I saw him approach her and grab her derrière. That made me very angry. She turned to yell at him, and that is when I saw him grab her by the wrist and try to drag her away from her friends.”

  “Shit! What happened?”

  “I ran after her, grabbed him and beat him. I do not like men touching women without their consent, especially women I care for.”

  Um…awkward. Pierre senses my discomfort.

  “Oui. I care for you, Holly. I do not know why.”

  I burst into laughter. Was that a backhanded compliment? “Pardon, it came out differently to how I meant.” His rich French accent makes it even funnier, because he’s trying to be sincere. But it’s just not working.