The Battered Body, page 5
“I like meat and potatoes,” he said as he replaced the chicken leg and scooped up a pile of peas, which felt like hardened Play-Doh. “I’m not a big fan of seafood, but I do like green vegetables as well as fruit. I love salty stuff like cheese puffs, peanuts, buttered popcorn, and Doritos. I also have a powerful sweet tooth. I feel like my meal isn’t done until I’ve had something sugary, especially after supper.”
“That’s not uncommon. Many people need dessert to provide a sense of closure to their meal.” Dr. Ruth took a few notes. “It sounds like you eat a nice variety of foods. That makes my job easier. It’s also encouraging that you have a specific aim, such as fitting more comfortably into your clothes. When is your father’s wedding?”
“In less than two weeks. On Christmas Eve,” James said.
Dr. Ruth tapped her pen thoughtfully. “Healthy weight loss is gradual, Mr. Henry. You might lose four or five pounds by the wedding, but not fifteen or twenty. I don’t want you to enter into this with unrealistic expectations.”
James nodded. “I know. The wedding just gave me the motivation I needed to make an appointment with you. I probably won’t lose any weight now that my stepmother’s sister is in town. She’s a famous baker, and she’s going to make the wedding cake. Somehow, I got roped into sampling all of her favorite cakes so I can vote on which one should be served at the wedding.”
“That’s quite an honor,” Dr. Ruth said. “You could still lose weight while being the official cake taster. Two or three bites aren’t going to make a difference as long as you’re not combining those high-calorie samples with other unhealthy treats.” She turned to a wooden letter tray near her right elbow and pulled out a sheet of computer paper. Sliding on a pair of reading glasses, she looked at James and asked, “The baker wouldn’t happen to be Paulette Martine, would it?”
“That’s her. The Diva of Dough,” James replied with a hint of bitterness.
“I’m doing a television show with her this Thursday. The crew from the CBS affiliate in Charlottesville is driving up to interview us about how we handle holiday feasts. I’m supposed to talk about practicing moderation in order to avoid weight gain, and Paulette is going to provide examples of decadent foods that are worth blowing one’s diet for. It should be an interesting show.” She picked up a framed photograph on her desk and showed it to James. “Channel 19 plans to run clips from the show on their evening news program as well. I’m hoping to pick up a few more clients from the experience so that I can keep up with the cost of tuition.”
As James examined the photograph of Dr. Ruth’s three sons, who all resembled NFL linebackers, he wondered if he should warn her about Paulette’s waspish manner. The nutritionist was markedly gentle and soft-spoken compared to Paulette Martine, and James hated the thought of Paulette browbeating Dr. Ruth in front of thousands of television viewers.
“I’ll definitely tune in,” he said. “But look out for Paulette. She has a rather venomous tongue.”
Dr. Ruth replaced her family photo and nodded. “I’ve seen her show several times. I’ll be focusing on the nutritional content of her beautiful cakes, but like I told you, I don’t recommend depriving oneself of treats, so she and I shouldn’t be at odds.”
Confident that Dr. Ruth could hold her own, James asked, “So what do I do now?”
“I’d like you to start a food log. You should write down everything you eat over the course of the day and the calorie amount in each food. Then, write a total for all the calories at the bottom of the page. I’m giving you a list of websites to help you find the calorie content of the most common foods.” She handed him a piece of paper. “I’d also like you to add any exercise you’ve done per day, including walking, weight training, or other cardiac activities. You can deduct the calories burned from your food total.”
“What about drinks? I have several cups of coffee every day.”
“Do you add cream or sugar?” Dr. Ruth asked.
James nodded. “Both.”
“You’ll need to write those down because your coffee contains calories,” Dr. Ruth said. “The log is for me to take a look at your eating preferences. Just be as thorough and honest as you can. Remember, I’m not here to judge you.”
“Can I do more to lose weight besides keeping this log?”
“Absolutely,” Dr. Ruth said. “Try to restrict your daily caloric intake to around twenty-two to twenty-five hundred calories.”
James nodded. “Bennett and I can support each other. If I get stressed about the wedding or he gets stressed about his upcoming taping for Jeopardy! then we can talk things through together.”
“Having a friend with similar goals is certainly a plus.” Dr. Ruth glanced at her watch. “Unfortunately, our time is up. Let’s make an appointment for next week. We’ll start our session by weighing you and measuring your body fat percentage. Then, we’ll look over your food log and take things from there. Sound good?”
In spite of the mention of the words “body fat,” James felt a tingle of excitement. He was absolutely sure that this woman could help him improve his eating habits. Dr. Ruth wasn’t going to guilt him into changing his eating habits. Instead, she’d act as a guide on his journey to a healthier future. The nutritionist was so sincere and encouraging that James found himself wanting to please her.
“Thank you.” He stood and shook her outstretched hand. “I’m really glad I came today. I think this is exactly what I need.”
Dr. Ruth smiled warmly. “I think you’re going to be one of my success stories, Mr. Henry.”
James whistled as he walked down the hallway of the medical office building housing Dr. Ruth and a dozen other professionals. As he passed a vending machine stuffed with Fritos, Hostess Cup Cakes, and candy bars, his stomach issued a loud rumble. “It’s almost suppertime. I’d better have a big one too, since this is the last meal I’ll be eating that Dr. Ruth won’t know about.”
• • •
“Something smells delicious,” James said as he entered his house through the back door leading into the kitchen. He stopped short when he saw Paulette at the kitchen counter, working a rolling pin over a circle of dough. Jackson sat at the table, watching Paulette’s every move.
James looked around in confusion. “Where’s Milla, Pop?”
“She drove to Harrisonburg to buy meat, but she should be walkin’ through that door any second now,” Jackson said. “Paulette is gonna fix us a dinner that’ll make our bellies stick out for miles.”
“I’ve got that down pat already.” James turned to Paulette. “What are you treating us to, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“A divine beef Wellington, made with succulent filet mignon, liver pâté, portobello mushrooms, and my homemade puff pastry.”
James was impressed. “Wow. I thought your specialty was cakes.”
“It is, but I’m adept in all areas of the culinary arts.” Paulette paused in her work and turned to Jackson. “Can you see me well enough?”
“Sure can. I’m sketchin’ in my mind.” Jackson tapped a gnarled finger against his wrinkled temple. “By the end of the evenin’, I’ll know your hands as well as you do.”
Paulette seemed pleased by the attention. She gave Jackson an indulgent smile and then gestured at the plastic tumbler sitting next to a frying pan filled with sautéed onions and mushrooms. “I’m ready for a refill, please.”
“Three fingers comin’ right up.” Jackson jumped out of his chair and poured some of his Cutty Sark into her glass. “I didn’t reckon you for a gal who could knock back the hard stuff. Figured you’d like those drinks with the paper umbrellas.”
“I’m tougher than I look.” Paulette grinned. “Besides, Milla and I grew up in Mississippi. We practically bleed scotch whiskey.”
James couldn’t believe his ears. Paulette and his father were getting along. Not only that, but they were apparently intent on getting drunk together. As he headed upstairs to change clothes, he heard the sound of Milla’s van on the gravel driveway.
I wonder if Milla and her sister have patched things up since Saturday, James thought, recalling Paulette’s behavior at Gillian’s. When James reentered the kitchen a few minutes later, the room was filled with Milla’s tinkling laughter and the bass rumble of Jackson’s voice. Paulette placed each portion of the pastry-wrapped meat into a casserole dish while doing a perfect imitation of Martha Stewart.
“Everyone thinks I’m jealous of her because she has her own exclusive cookware and bedding line with Macy’s.” She wiped her hands on a red and green plaid apron. “Please. Macy’s is so colloquial. I’ve been approached by Nordstrom’s to come up with the desserts for their café menu.”
Milla slid the baking dish into the oven. “How lovely, dear. And Willow tells me that you’re going to be on one of our local shows on Thursday. That’s very exciting.”
Paulette shrugged. “It’s just a morning show with a few thousand viewers, but there’s a new cake recipe I’d like to try before I film it for my show. I was going to make it for you and Jackson to sample, so why not prepare it on air first?”
“Yummy.” Milla poured herself a glass of merlot and then filled a second glass and handed it to James. She clinked the rim of her glass against his and sighed contentedly. “I’m so glad to have you all gathered here together. My old family and my new family. Perfect.”
Settling regally in a kitchen chair, Paulette picked up the knife and fork laid out on the table and began cleaning spots from their surfaces with a paper napkin covered with snowmen. “You were always disgustingly sentimental, Milla. I’m surprised you managed to muster up enough gumption to run your own business.”
“You’re not the only one who knows their way around pots and pans,” Milla retorted. “And my classes have been quite successful.” She sat down opposite her sister, but her posture was much less rigid than Paulette’s stiff-backed carriage. “I have to say, though, I’m getting tired of teaching all those classes up in New Market and then driving down here to be with my favorite men. Jackson and I have decided to live in this house after we’re married. My place is too small for the both of us, and I know Sir Charles will be tickled to death to run loose in the back yard.”
“So what are you going to do? Please tell me that you’re not going to return to being a cloistered housewife.” Paulette cast a judgmental stare at Jackson.
“Don’t give me the hairy eyeball, woman,” Jackson grumbled. “Milla’s the master of her own mind.”
Milla covered his hand with hers. “I’ve decided to open a gourmet gift shop right here in Quincy’s Gap. We have lots of tourists passing through, and the local folks are always complaining about having to drive to the big malls to buy anything unique, so I figure I’ll get plenty of business.”
James topped off Milla’s wineglass. “That sounds great. What kind of things will you carry?”
“Quincy’s Whimsies will be filled with gourmet food. I plan to make things that neither the bakery nor our grocery stores carry.” Milla pointed at Paulette. “And I’ll stock all of your cookbooks, of course. Plus, I thought I’d feature products by our local artisans. I’ve already talked to a woman who makes the most gorgeous pottery, a gentleman who can fix me up with beeswax candles and fresh jars of honey, and a young man who makes goat’s milk soaps and lotions. I took a goat’s milk bubble bath the other night, and my skin felt just like a twenty-year-old’s! The stuff is pure magic.”
Paulette eyed her sister curiously. “I’d like to sample his products.”
“We can visit the goat farm tomorrow. I’m thinking of giving out his wares as wedding favors.” Milla got up, reduced the temperature of the oven, and turned on the front stove burner. She poured beef stock and red wine in with the meat drippings collected in a frying pan and began to stir the concoction.
“I don’t have suitable attire for traipsing through fields of goat droppings.” Paulette’s expression turned sour.
“Relax,” Milla said. “The young man sells his merchandise from a shed next to the house.”
“Just don’t wear that fur coat,” Jackson ordered. “There’s no reason to be pickin’ fights with my son’s friends. They’re good people, so behave yerself, ya hear?” He turned to Milla and winked. “I’m done speech-makin’. Are we ready to eat?”
“Yes, dear heart. I just needed to reduce this sauce until it was ready to pour over the beef. And now it is. Voilà!” Milla placed a serving of Paulette’s beef Wellington in front of Jackson. “See? I know French too.”
James eyed the golden brown pastry and inhaled the scents of wine, meat, mushrooms, onion, and butter. “This entrée isn’t low-calorie, is it?” he asked.
“Not the teeniest bit,” she said happily, putting a dish of steamed asparagus in the center of the table.
“None of the world’s best foods are completely low-calorie.” Paulette opened her napkin with a flourish and stared at James’s paunch. “Are you concerned about the caloric content for a particular reason?”
James speared a piece of succulent meat with his fork and swirled it around in the fragrant drippings coating his plate. “Starting tomorrow, I’m going to keep track of everything I eat. This is the last meal I can eat without paying attention to the food’s nutritional content.” He put the meat in his mouth, reveling in its flavor.
Milla poured more wine into James’s glass. “If this is your final supper, then it’s a good thing my sister made the dessert.”
• • •
The next morning, James turned on the shower and, while waiting the three full minutes it took for the water to go from piercingly cold to marginally hot, he reluctantly took off his flannel pajamas, tube socks, and leather slippers and prepared to weigh himself. Shivering, he paused for a second to consider how much he’d eaten the night before.
Three glasses of wine, beef Wellington, steamed asparagus, and two pieces of Paulette’s Ten-Layer Fudge Cake. I wonder if the scale can even compute all that, he thought anxiously and stepped onto the chilly surface of the metal scale.
When the numbers surfaced in their silver window, James groaned. His weight was higher than he’d expected by a whopping eleven pounds.
“I probably gained five of those last night.” He got off the scale and then, after waiting for the screen to return to zero, stepped back on, hoping there might have been an error in the previous reading. The scale added another three-tenths of a pound.
“Damn it,” James muttered, snatching the shower curtain aside and stepping under the stream of hot water. The heat immediately eased some of his tension, and as he lathered his hair with shampoo, he gave himself a pep talk. “It’s okay. Today is a fresh start.” After rinsing his hair, he opened his eyes and glowered at the scale. “This isn’t over, buddy.”
After getting dressed, James packed his lunch, poured coffee into a travel mug, and tried to ignore the covered cake plate on the kitchen table.
“I don’t see you. I do not see you,” James said to the white ceramic dome. “I’m not even thinking about that incredibly smooth chocolate icing or that moist and springy cake. Nope. I’m not interested in the least.”
“Who you talkin’ to, boy?” Jackson asked as he entered the kitchen in an old bathrobe.
James started guiltily. “No one. I’m off to the library. Are you working on a painting of Paulette’s hands today?”
“Yep. Soon as I polish off that leftover cake for breakfast.” He patted his flat stomach. “I reckon it’ll help inspire me, because I’m gonna paint her frostin’ this very cake.”
James wished his father luck. After gazing longingly once more at the cake plate, he left for work. Instead of driving to the library, he headed to the Sweet Tooth, the town’s bakery.
Megan and Amelia Flowers, the mother-daughter team who kept the townsfolk’s bellies filled with homemade breads, cookies, and pastries, were busy in the display window, smoothing a sheet of red velvet fabric across the bottom ledge.
“Good morning, Professor.” Megan stood up and put her hands on her narrow hips. “I had the pleasure of meeting your newest family member yesterday.”
“Uh-oh,” James moaned softly. “Why would Paulette come in here? She does her own baking.”
“For a croissant to go with her latte,” Amelia said, mimicking Paulette’s haughty tone. “But she told my mom that our croissant wasn’t flaky enough and bought a baguette instead. She didn’t like that either. Said it was only supposed to be crusty on the outside, not inside and out.”
“I’m sorry.” James tugged on his scarf, which suddenly felt too tight. “Paulette can be really impolite, and she seems determined to offend everyone in Quincy’s Gap.”
Megan picked up a large box wrapped in red and green foil and stuffed with wax paper, and began to fill it with candy-cane-shaped loaves of egg bread. Megan had ingeniously dyed half of the dough red and left the other its natural shade of whitish-yellow, so that when braided, the bread looked striped, just like the sugary version of a candy cane.
“She didn’t stop her criticism with my bread either,” Megan added crossly. “She made her shrinking violet of an assistant buy three of my cakes—whole ones, mind you. Then, they left. I thought I was rid of them, but twenty minutes later, they came back! That TV cake baker was chock-full of suggestions on how I could improve my recipes!” Megan furiously sifted powdered sugar over the candy-cane bread.
“They weren’t suggestions.” Amelia placed another gift box filled with iced gingerbread animals in the window. “That witch came in looking to pick a fight. She told my mom that her cakes were dry and her icing was as crunchy as kitty litter! I’d have liked to pull her white hair out strand by strand when she said that.”
Megan smiled at her daughter. “Honey, you get to your studying now. I know you have exams tomorrow, and I can handle things here.” She watched her daughter leave. “I can’t believe she’ll be a college graduate soon. She’s dying to move to New York, but how could I let her go there if the city is populated by people like Paulette Martine?”
