Page 18 of My Turkish Fling
“Okay.”
The sound of the doorbell gave me a start. Not now, I pleaded.Whoever it was, I didn’t want them here. Not now.
The doorbell rang again.
I held up a finger. “Wait, I’ll go check.”
Approaching the door, I heard the familiar high-pitched shriek of laughter, muffled but unmistakable. Tabitha, the head of the Art Deco festival committee, with her trusted secretary, Maree. They’d begun visiting me regularly since my divorce. At first, I’d welcomed the distraction, but as my social calendar filled with pointless outings, my enthusiasm waned. They wanted to capitalize on my lingering fame to advance Tabitha’s causes. Arts and culture. Historical restorations. I supported her causes, in theory, but mostly played along to avoid making enemies in my new hometown. And in some ways, loneliness was worse.
However, at that moment, Tabitha and Maree were the last people on earth I wanted to invite into my home and introduce to Emir. These ladies were influential, as well as the worst gossips in town. The stories they would tell… My mind whirled, searching for a way out.
I ran back to the dining room, gesturing wildly at the door. “Emir? Do you maybe want to hide for a bit? I’m so sorry, I’m not embarrassed by you or anything, but these ladies are so nosy. They will rip you to shreds. Figure of speech. I mean… What am I saying. I just—”
“Janie. Calm down.” He stood up, silencing me with a sharp look. “You don’t have to convince me to avoid people. I’ll be in my room.” He grabbed his plate and took his exit as I rushed back to the front door, taking a centering breath before I opened it.
“Good morning, ladies!”
Tabitha smoothed her helmet-like dark bob, one that transformed annually into a perfect 1920s hairdo for the Art Deco festival. Her pursed lips stretched into a wide smile. “Good morning, Janie! How are you holding up? We come bearing gifts.”
Holding up?
Maree, the less extroverted version of her with a heavy breath that always sounded like she was asleep, held up a brown paper bag. “Croissants.”
Their silky pastel blouses seemed color coordinated, as well as expensive. They were my age, stinking rich, high profile and so immaculate I always felt judged. It was a bit like receiving a delegation from the royal court. A great honor, but not one you could particularly enjoy. A sheer glimpse of Tabitha’s flawless makeup flooded my body with cortisol.
I took a breath so deep my lungs ached, smoothed my hair, and offered them the fakest of smiles. “Come on in. I was having breakfast. I’m afraid I’m not quite dressed and ready yet. I like my Sunday mornings slow and lazy.”
“Oh, we understand.” Tabitha made a show of flicking the remote in her hand, to which her Maserati answered with a dutiful beep. “If I were you, I would have started cocktail hour.”
Cocktail hour? Her choice of words, along with the theatrical looks of sympathy, were starting to build up panic in my belly. “Alcohol is not my choice of breakfast.” I kept my smile in check and tightened the robe around my waist. It was a bit bulky, and I didn’t want them to spread any rumors about weight gain.
I led them to the dining room, where Emir’s menemen pan and a bowl of flatbread still sat on the table.
“What is this?” Maree leaned in to investigate the Turkish eggs.
“It’s a Mediterranean breakfast dish. I felt like trying out something different.” I bit back a wayward smile.
“Good on you! I knew our Janie could not be knocked down!” Tabitha winked, exchanging a knowing look with Maree.
The sick feeling in my stomach amped up. What an earth was going on?
“How do you make it?” Maree asked.
I glanced at my suspiciously clean kitchen. “Um… it’s eggs and tomatoes and a few other ingredients.”
“What other ingredients?” Maree took out her phone, ready to take notes.
She was a fan, which was in its own way more unbearable than Tabitha’s veiled judgment. I knew I was social collateral to both, a name to be dropped at certain moments to raise the price of their own stock. That’s how being on TV worked, and I accepted it. But right then, I swallowed a groan.
“I’ll email you the recipe, okay?”
I took their coffee orders and slipped into the kitchen to make the drinks. I was hoping they’d entertain themselves, but Tabitha followed me. “I’ll grab a couple of plates for the croissants.”
I couldn’t remember ever showing her around my kitchen, but she found the plates on first try. “I love your space,” she gestured at the cabinets. “Very shabby chic.”
I hid my frown. There was nothing intentionally shabby aboutmy kitchen. It was simply fifteen years old, and I had no budget for renovations. These were things Shaun had cared about, except when it came to this house. Moving here, I thought he’d finally relaxed about appearances, but it turned out he didn’t care because he never intended to live here.
“You’re brave, living all alone in the middle of nowhere like this.” She gazed out the window like the green hills behind my house were teeming with bears or lions.
