Red Hot Obsessions (108 page)

Chapter 7
Peter

INSTEAD OF COOLING HIM OFF, the walk back to the hotel stirred up a storm in the pool of anger and resentment Peter was trying to hide.

His sister kept telling him to let go of it, but he didn’t know how. He knew she was right, but he couldn’t help it. He was always angry. He was angry at the entire world. How could so many people be happy when he was so miserable? Hell, he was even angry at Kristina, his dead wife.

He was angry she had been unable to stop smoking before the doctors found spots on her lung.

He was angry that when she did stop, it had been too late.

He was angry that she had fought so hard for nothing.

Kristina had gone through all possible treatments. She had survived surgery. She had gone through countless rounds of radiation therapy, marveling at the end that she didn’t glow in the night. She held on as long as she could with the chemotherapy. Then one day, she had had enough and begged him to let her go.

That very same day, a shot of morphine had ended her suffering and left him an empty shell.

Ever since, he went through the motions of life. He was “doing time,” just like a prisoner serving a life sentence. He counted the days, and then the weeks, and then the months. They added up to form a year, and then it started all over again. He knew he was being absurd. He should be able to continue his life and enjoy it. After all, he was in his prime. Thirty-five was young actually. He had a good income. He loved teaching; that was the only fun left in his life. Physically, he was absolutely perfect. He had replaced sex with sports. All the energy he used to invest in his sexual activities was spent in long and strenuous runs.

Good body, good mind, good income… On paper, his life was picture perfect. He soon came to realize he was a great catch. All his friends, after the customary six-month mourning period, tried to set him up with “this great woman that would be so perfect for you. You’re gonna love her!”

Who had come up with the notion that six months was an appropriate mourning period? Someone who hadn’t lost their soul mate. The girl next door who was his first best friend. The best friend who, over a summer, morphed into a chesty teenager and became his first crush. The best friend who then turned into a fabulous woman who was the love of his life. How could six months be enough time to heal from such a loss? How could a year be enough? They said that time healed all wounds. Well, not his.

Only Mary seemed to understand him. She hadn’t bugged him or tried to cheer him up. For a time, she had shared his grief. After all, Mary had lost a friend too. She would come over to his place, feed him, and reminisce with him. She didn’t try to hurry him. Mary’s most amazing gift was her patience. She accepted that some things could not be changed nor rushed. Maybe that was what made her a great midwife. In any case, it made her a great sister.

Then a few months ago, she had asked him if he remembered
Summertime,
the movie in which Katharine Hepburn plays an American who travels to Venice by herself for the holidays and gets her heart crushed by a lovely Italian man. Of course he remembered. It had been one of Kristina’s favorite movies. She and Mary had watched it countless times.

Mary had explained that she wanted to celebrate her 40th birthday in Paris, but she didn’t want to go alone. The only person in her life was him. So would he please, please, please, pretty please come along? She had been so supportive that he didn’t have the heart to refuse. He had said yes and forgotten about it.

Clever Mary only reminded him about his promise a week before departure. By then, she had purchased non-refundable tickets, booked the hotel, and signed them up for a cooking seminar. She had also talked to Nancy, his assistant. Nancy had obtained a green light from the dean of the School of Mathematics. Going away for ten days and missing a full week of school between spring recess and finals was highly irregular, but the dean had said yes. Peter was surprised; he didn’t think the dean was so fond of him. Nancy must have been very convincing to talk her into giving him the pass.

Unable to use work as an excuse, Peter, who was not one to renege on a promise, had come along without dragging his feet. For a few hours in Ariane’s company, he thought he had been rewarded. He had made a fabulous discovery: he wasn’t all dead.

But Ariane had not understood what a miracle she was for him, and she had pushed him away. So after being angry at being numb and dead, Peter was angry at being alive again. Being alive meant having feelings, and feelings could be hurt.

Could one be angry at being angry? Yep. He was living proof of it!

Arriving to an empty hotel room was a relief. He was in no mood to talk. He laughed at the note on the pillow. “Don’t wait up for me.”

Well, Charles had been right. There was something steamy going on there. Peter hoped it would turn out well for Mary. Finding a companion would be so nice for her. She deserved to be happy. She had been fighting hard enough for that. She should be with someone more worthy of her than the drunken fool she had nursed back to sobriety so he could run away with another woman.

He had felt sorry for his sister, but he understood why the man ran. The guy wanted a fresh start. Who doesn’t want to be looked upon as a knight in shining armor? Even if he remained sober for the rest of his life, that would never happen for him with Mary. A man can never be a hero to the woman who, countless times, held his head to make sure he didn’t crack it open on the toilet seat with a strong heave.

And then it hit him.

He had never needed to fight for love. Kristina had always been there. From playground to high school to college, she had always been right next to him. That’s why he’d felt as if he’d lost a limb. So instead of having a pity party, he should be rejoicing. He was still alive, and he’d had his first crack at adolescence.

He remembered fondly laughing with Kristina as all their friends learned to deal with rejection. Years ago, when they were teenagers and their summer conquests refused to get past first base, his friends had learned what Peter was discovering: sometimes he’d have to fight to get what he wanted.

He was pretty sure Ariane was worth fighting for. He just had to figure out how to convince her to give him a chance before he left on Monday.

Chapter 8
Charles

CHARLES WAS THE FIRST TO arrive. Well, the first one after Ariane. She greeted him with a genuine smile. He really liked her; she was fun and caring. She was a good listener, and he wanted to talk about Jean-Michel so badly, he didn’t even give her a chance to say hello.

“I had such a great time yesterday,” he said with an ear-to-ear grin.

“Oh, I’m so glad you enjoyed the first session of the seminar,” said Ariane, looking pleased.

“No! That’s not what I’m talking about,” Charles blurted.

“So you didn’t have a good time? I’m so sorry. I’m glad you came back anyway.”

“No! I mean, yes! I mean, I had a great time with the class, but then…” He stopped trying to explain when he realized how hard Ariane was fighting to keep a straight face. She had been teasing him.

“You evil woman, you!” He caught her by the waist, pulled her off the floor into a bear hug, and waltzed with her.

“Put me down, you crazy boy. You’re going to break your back.”

“No, I won’t,” he growled. “First, I’m not a boy, I’m a man. Second, I work out to get this fabulous body. Third, you’re light as a feather. I’m much stronger than I look, and I’m happy. Also, I’m full of energy.”

“I can see that. Indeed, you are,” said Ariane between bubbles of laughter. “I concede you’re
the
man, a regular Hercules. Now please, put me down and tell me all about it. What did you guys do? Wait, let me be specific. I want the… what do you call it? The version for all audiences. Nothing rated X.”

“I see, you’re being coy. Too bad you’ll miss out on the best parts. Okay, what can I say? We went to the Marais. I had no idea Paris was so gay friendly. I mean, it’s like Manhattan. Men holding hands. Men kissing in the streets. Boy, I felt like a regular Dorothy.”

“Dorothy?”

Charles did his best Judy Garland imitation. “‘Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.’”

“Ah, oui. Dorothée, Le Magicien d’Oz. Toto’s the dog, right? And you’re from Kansas too?”

“No, not Kansas. Arkansas.” Charles laughed. “I come from a small place that’ll become famous only if a tornado comes and destroys it. It’s so small it doesn’t even boast a Main Street. It’s like, you know, nothing in the middle of nowhere. It’s non-existent. And here I am! It’s an incredible wonder. I moved to Los Angeles and now to Paris…”

“I don’t get the cultural reference, but yes, I understand what you mean. It’s as if you moved to a different dimension. Maybe I would feel the same way if I moved to rural America.”

“So here I am, walking around with Jean-Michel in these lovely ancient streets. We hit some bars, ran into some of his friends. Let me tell you, that man has
a lot
of friends. Some wanted to be more friendly than others but… Merde—see my French is coming along just fine—I almost forgot. You want the G or PG story. This has suddenly become a much shorter story to tell. We had a few drinks, and we went to my place. Can I tell you he’s a great kisser? Maybe not, because if his kisses were rated, they would be rated triple X. He’s so hot. And he’s even hotter because he thinks I’m perfect. And then he’s… well, so much more than a fabulous kisser. But his job sucks. He has to get up at the crack of dawn almost every day.” Charles sighed.

“Maybe it’s not a bad thing. This way you got some sleep after all,” said Ariane with a half smile.

Ah, ah, that sounded like experience talking. He’d have to probe into that later. “Such a positive way to look at it. Nevertheless, my poor baby didn’t, and he will be dead tired tonight.”

“Who will be dead tired?” asked Mary, walking in.

“Those who did not get enough sleep last night.” Charles winked at George, arriving in Mary’s wake. Looking at George’s frown, Charles realized the man was not amused. No sense of humor at all. Charles quickly turned to Ariane. “So, how will you pair us today? Same as yesterday? Pleeeeeease.” He would be okay teaming up with Mary, but there was no way he would partner with Cro-Magnon.

“Sure, why not, if that’s all right with you two,” she said, looking at Mary and George.

Mary looked at George for a couple of seconds and then answered, “That’s perfect for us.”

“So let’s get ready. The others should be here promptly,” said Ariane cheerfully and added under her breath, “If they decide to come back.”

Why wouldn’t they?
thought Charles. He had the feeling he was missing something. Thinking back to last night, Charles ruled out the lovebirds. They had been fine when they had left. So duh, Ariane was referring to Peter. Why would Peter not come back? Had Peter made a move? Had Peter failed to make a move? Charles’s train of thought was interrupted by a new arrival.

“We’re so sorry we’re late,” said Jena, trying to look sheepish but not succeeding. She didn’t appear contrite at all.

“You should not be sorry at all,” answered Ariane. “It’s your honeymoon. You should savor it, take your time, and only do what makes you both happy.”

“Which I guess they did, and that’s why they are late,” added Charles.

“Yes, we did,” answered a giggling Jena. Thomas tried to hide what could possibly be a slight blush by masking his face under the apron he was putting on.

“Way to go, guys!” Charles extended a high five to Jena. Looking around the room, he watched his audience. Thomas was grinning. If his wife was happy, he was happy too. Ariane and Mary had tender smiles on their lips. They looked as though they were fondly remembering being that young and carefree. Only George looked sullen. What a killjoy. Charles wondered what Mary saw in him. Judging by the way she glanced at him every other minute, he must have some hidden talents. As far as Charles was concerned, George’s type—somber and brooding—was a definite turn off.

“I wonder where my brother is,” Mary said after looking at the large clock over the ovens. “He’s usually very prompt. I hope he didn’t oversleep or get lost. George, would you please lend me your cell phone so I can call the hotel and check?”

Just as George pulled his phone from the back pocket of his jeans, Peter walked in carrying a large white paper bag. “I got us croissants, pains au chocolat, and those devilish little things that have apple sauce in them.”

“That will be the ‘chaussons aux pommes’,” said Ariane, “my favorites. Let me get a tray for your bounty.”

Charles watched Ariane rush to the dining room. Peter followed her with his bag of goodies. He heard Peter say something in a hushed tone but didn’t hear Ariane answer. Charles would have loved to be a fly on the wall to listen, watch, and get a clue as to what happened last night. He decided that since he couldn’t hear, no one else would.

“So,” Charles broke the silence, “did anyone look at what we’ll be doing for lunch? I’m sure it’s in our notebooks. Ariane is so organized.”

“You’re right,” said Jena. “All the menus are in there. Okay, ‘pot au feu’ and ‘crème brûlée.’ Oh no, that’s dinner. Where’s lunch? Oh, here it is. Lunch is a green salad and a ‘soufflé au fromage.’ Is that the cheese soufflé? I thought those were very complicated.”

“Not at all.” Ariane came back in the room with a little flush that Charles didn’t fail to notice. “The soufflé is spectacular, but it’s not that complicated. That is why I thought you would enjoy learning it. It’s good to show off. It’s gotten me a couple of thank you letters from wives who used to it to shut up bossy mother-in-laws.”

Peter put the large plate of breakfast pastries in the middle of the working area, and everyone dug in as Ariane spoke.

Chapter 9
Ariane

ARIANE HOPED SHE SOUNDED NORMAL as she reminded them of the program of the day. They would cook, eat lunch together, and get a two-hour break before cooking dinner. She was trying to look cool, but her heart beat like a wild drum.

When had she gone to the dining room to get a plate, Peter had followed her. Did he bring the pastries for that purpose? Okay, no. That was silly. She was being ridiculous, paranoid. He had just seized the opportunity to get an instant alone with her. He had not touched her but stood so close. A clear invasion of her private space.

Looking directly in her eyes, he had said, “I’m not giving up on you.”

She acted as if she had not heard him, but the simple statement got her all confused. Again. But that was not the time to be confused. She had to teach and concentrate, not think about Peter.

Thinking about him was what she had done most of the night. Her conclusion remained the same. No matter which way she sliced them, the facts were clear. He was visiting France for a few days. Next week, he would be nothing more than the memory of a sweet temptation she had resisted. There was no alternative. Well, no acceptable one.

She could stop resisting temptation and go for it. Carpe diem. Then when he left, she would be an emotional wreck with no one to comfort her anymore. Holding back was the only way, and she should lose no more time dwelling on it.

Avoiding eye contact with Peter, she lectured about basic and simple cooking techniques. She showed them how to prepare her favorite salad dressings and presented easy variations: cider or balsamic vinegar, dijon or seeded Meaux mustard, thinly sliced scallions or, for those who could digest it, cigarette-paper thin slivers of garlic.

When she got them started on the soufflé, she was back to her normal self—cheerful and confident. “You’ll see it’s going to be…” Ariane searched for the proper expression. She could only think of a French one. “Simple comme bonjour.”

“Simple as pie?” suggested Charles.

“A piece of cake?” proposed Jena.

“A walk in the park?” added Mary.

Ariane looked at them in turn and asked, “Are all those things easy?”

“Yes,” three voices answered.

“Good. Soon you’ll have a new expression: easy as a cheese soufflé!”

She made them separate the yolk from the white of the eggs and beat the whites. They had to weigh, measure, and prepare in little cups all the ingredients they would use, warm up the ovens, and cover ramekins with butter and flour.

Then they prepared the basic roux. Butter melted and flour was added. Then they added the milk, egg yolk, salt, pepper, nutmeg, and finally the cheese. So far, so good.

Next came the only difficult part: gently folding the mixture with the beaten egg whites without losing the fluff. There was a trick to it, and she had found that the best way to teach it was to hold her student’s hand and give them a feel for it. She showed Jena, who got it right away. Thomas couldn’t be bothered. If Jena got it, he felt he didn’t need to try. George had a strong resistance to Ariane putting his big hand over hers.

“Man, you have control issues!” Ariane teased him. “We’re not dancing; let me lead. I promise, the second you get it, I’ll let you do it alone.”

Grumbling something Ariane didn’t understand, he let her show him. She could see it was a very uncomfortable moment for him. To end his misery, she quickly let him finish by himself. He made a halfway decent job of it. Who knew such a big guy could have such a tender touch? Mary, probably. She was beaming.

When Ariane got to her last team, she saw that Charles had done a perfect job and wore a happy grin.

“My grandmother’s specialty was lemon meringue pie,” he explained. “Beaten egg whites are my delicious childhood friends. I would never mistreat them. I watched you and got it.”

“Yes, indeed, you did. This is a great job.”

Ariane looked at Peter. He had not even tried. He had been waiting for her and had a smirk on his face. The insolent man was challenging her to touch him, to make him hold her hand as she had done with George. She could do it. She stepped close to him, held the large spoon, and waited for him to put his hand over hers. She made sure the rest of her body stayed clear of him. No big deal, just a hand.

No, it wasn’t just a hand. It was a warm hand, an electrifying hand. She worked the spoon with him, up and down, letting the mixture meld with the beaten egg whites without crushing them.

Unlike George, he didn’t resist. He let her lead, but at the same time, he slowly shifted closer until he was leaning against her. How had he managed that? Her heartbeat went up. To calm it down, she took a big breath. It didn’t work. She tingled all over. Her brain vanished from her body, and she couldn’t remember why she’d ever thought going for him would be such a bad idea. Oh man, she was in trouble.

She let go of the spoon and parted their hands. She stepped back and said, “Now you try alone.”

Looking up from the mixing bowl, she realized that four out of five pairs of eyes shifted their gaze away from them. Charles was the only one still looking at them. The others looked a bit uncomfortable, as if they had been forced to watch an intimate scene. Charles had an amused expression. Who knew what that man was thinking?

“So now you all pour your mixture in the ramekins and put them in the center of the oven. In twenty minutes, they will be ready,” she said. “While the soufflés cook, we’ll prepare the salads and the dressings. I suggest each team make a different one, and you can all taste the differences in flavor.”

***

“Lunch was scrumptious,” Charles said to Ariane, pushing away his plate and giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you!”

“I really enjoyed the contrast between the bite of the seasoned salad and the softness of the soufflé,” commented Mary.

“You’re absolutely right. The mellow versus tart combination makes them both more interesting,” answered George.

“Good, I’m happy you enjoyed it,” said Ariane. “Now class is dismissed. Go take a walk, enjoy this perfect weather, and come back in two hours for the dinner preparation.”

“Oh no,” said Jenna. “I can’t think about food anymore. I can’t eat another bite. I’m so happy we didn’t prepare anything for dessert. I don’t think I’ll ever be hungry again.”

“That’s why we need to get out and exercise.” Thomas got up and took Jena’s hand. “Come on, let’s go.”

Watching them rush out, Ariane wondered if they were indeed going to take advantage of the Paris scenery or rush right back to their hotel room. They were so into each other, they reminded her of a story she had read about a couple who put a coffee bean in a jar every time they made love during their first year of marriage. Then they spent their remaining years together removing one bean on each occasion without ever clearing the jar.

“I’m meeting Jean-Michel for coffee, but I can help you clear the table before I go,” offered Charles.

“No, thank you. Go. I’ll be fine,” answered Ariane.

“Then I guess we’ll go for a digestive walk,” said Mary. “Come with us, Peter. George will show us around.”

“You’re sure you don’t need any help?” Peter asked. “I’d be happy to stay and give you a hand.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Thank you very much,” she said, unable to look into his blue eyes for more than an instant. “It’s your vacation. You should go and take advantage of the city.” She walked them to the door and locked it behind them. She brought the curtains down and went back to work.

In less than half an hour, she was done. She’d cleared the lunch table, loaded the dishwasher, cleaned the work stations, prepared the ingredients for the afternoon class, and set the dining table. She would have more than an hour to rest.

She was looking around to make sure everything was ready before going upstairs. She turned off the lights and was on her way up her spiral staircase when she heard someone turning the outside door handle.

Then a knock on the door and Peter’s voice. “Ariane, are you there? I want to talk to you.”

She ran up the last steps, walked into her bedroom, closed the door, and set her alarm clock to wake her up in a few minutes before the afternoon class. Lying down on her bed, fully clothed with her hair still in the working bun, she prayed for him to go away. She needed sleep. She couldn’t function without seven hours, and she had barely slept three. Peter called out one more time. She closed her eyes and fell into oblivion.