Adele From Scratch

By Vickie Hicks

Adele, a wife and mother of two teenagers, is limping along in a stale marriage when she discovers her wealthy attorney husband cheating with another woman. The moment causes her to face the fact that her marriage has been tipped over the brink and she files for divorce.
Done with New York City, she packs up her kids and moves back in with her parents, who live in Whiskey River, a small Texas town where everybody knows everybody else's business.
Moving back in with your parents as a middle-aged woman isn't easy for anybody - but for Adele it was more difficult than most. Her parents, Wesley and Ginnie, are two aging, pot smoking hippies who are frankly quite insane, and they lead their daughter into all kinds of difficulties and downright trouble.
After taking time to adapt to her new life, and failing at several local jobs, Adele decides to start her own business and opens a bistro-like cafe in the town. It is received well by most, but not all, of the community. But one of those opposed to the cafe, and Adele herself, is one of the most prominent citizens in town, who does all she can to ruin Adele and end her dream of success.
Add to that the town's odd, quirky characters, and a second chance at romance, this light-hearted tale explores love, friendship, good food and the riches one can receive through family and community.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vickie Hicks
• Release date: Jan 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781522990222

Vickie Hicks

Vickie Hicks has been writing for a video production company for years and has finally starting penning novels. She particularly likes writing stories that center on women being forced to discover their inner strength, and uses comedy, suspense or drama to explore this.Vickie grew up in Dallas, Texas but then played gypsy and lived in New York City, Los Angeles, and a town so tiny in Colorado you could drive through it and never know it was there, and has finally settled in central New York with her husband and very spoiled dog.

Book preview

– 165

Adel From Scratch

Vickie Hicks

Copyright @ 2016 – Vickie Hicks.

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 10:1522990224

ISBN-13: 978-1522990222

To two Texas giants – Bill and Dub, you are greatly missed.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to Brian Balog for reading through my original draft (it was a screenplay) and giving me smart notes, to my two kids, and a great big thank you to Kevin Hicks, for all his love, support and belief in me.

Chapter One

You might have heard this before but -- divorce sucks.

I knew the exact moment my marriage was over.

Obviously, it wasn’t one single thing that ended it. It had been a long time coming but I just refused to see it. Unconsciously, I believed if I could just ignore the signs then the problems didn’t actually exist. But the trouble with my marriage was a little like an unattended leak that continually and monotonously drips - until suddenly it creates a giant hole and that drip transforms into gushing water. It’s easy to ignore a leak. It’s impossible to ignore a torrent.

And what opened that deluge for me? Believe it or not, it was a pair of sheets.

Well…sort of.

That was great, Adel. My husband, John, threw his napkin on the table and sat back in his chair. He looked at the kids. What about it, guys?

My son, Brandon, a slender fifteen year old with the dark saturnine appearance of his father, was busy texting. He didn’t look up from his cell phone. Yeah, he mumbled unenthusiastically.

Sarah was two years younger. Her coppery red hair and green eyes was the mirror of mine. She was listening to her iPod and the ear buds prevented her from hearing the question, but John didn’t seem to care if she answered or not.

I got up and started to pick up the dirty plates. John frowned at me. What are you doing?

I thought it looked obvious. Clearing the table.

Mrs. Schluff can do that.

I had a feeling I knew what was coming but I replied mildly, I gave her the night off.

His frown deepened. Again? It’s the third time this week. What am I paying her for?

Her daughter is sick and she’s helping out with her granddaughter. Anyway, I don’t mind.

I’m not paying her to babysit; I’m paying her to be here. He looked directly at me, silently demanding an answer.

I set the plates back down with an internal sigh. Sometimes I felt like one of his employees. He certainly often talked to me as if I was. And you know what? It was starting to piss me off. But I didn’t want to make a scene in front of the kids. Look, John, it’s not a big deal.

"Maybe not to you but I’m the one who pays her."

This was what I called a John Jab. It was a little reminder of my dependent status. I picked the plates up again and left without saying anything. In the kitchen it was all I could do not to simply toss them in the sink, but it was good china and if I broke one it would incite another dig, and I wasn’t in the mood for any more. I picked up a plate of fresh figs and brie cheese and returned to the dining room.

The only person sitting there was Brandon, still texting madly away.

Where’d everybody go? I asked.

He just shrugged.

I took the dessert back into the kitchen. Out of irritation I almost threw it away, but I’m essentially too cheap to do something like that. The brie was sixteen dollars, so I put it away to eat for lunch the next day.

I stopped in the doorway of John’s office and studied him. Even with the glasses perched on his aristocratic nose to read a brief, he was handsome in an ancient Roman sort of way. A touch of gray feathered the temples of his dark, expensively cut hair, and his jaw was square and firm. When he smiled cute little wrinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes; although I hadn’t seen him smile much lately – at least not to me.

Working late again?

He looked up. Yeah, we just landed a new client and I’m trying to bone up on him.

Oh, who is it?

Bellini.

I gasped. Bellini - as in the chocolate Bellini?

He nodded. Yep, the very same. But they’re not just into chocolate. Niccolo Bellini’s diversified into all sorts of other things. He ranks up there with some of the richest men in the world, he said with something nearing passion. Money and beautiful women were the two things that commanded John’s immediate attention and respect.

Well, that sounds like a real coup for your firm.

Uh-huh, he mumbled, already returning to his reading.

It felt like a dismissal so I left without another word.

After looking in on the kids, who were each occupied with their own interests, I took a long hot bath then pulled on the ratty old oversized tee shirt I always wore to bed. John kept trying to convince me to throw it away – I guess he thought it looked tacky or something. But I loved it because it was that soft, comfortable cotton that you can only get after tons of washings. Besides, it wasn’t like anyone was going to see me in it. I padded into our bedroom, stopped and looked lovingly at my bed.

I grew up lower middle class. My parents never had much money and I was taught at a young age to be frugal and save, and certainly never to be extravagant, or spend beyond my means. My father scrounged things off highways and alleys that people had tossed and I don’t think he ever threw anything away. So I took their admonishments to heart and, in fact, surpassed their frugality - I’m really cheap. I hate to spend money on anything. There are really only two exceptions to my parsimony. The first is food. I love to cook, so I’m willing to open my wallet for really good ingredients. There’s only one other thing I’ve ever splurged on – a pair of sheets.

No, I’m not kidding.

I spent almost seven hundred dollars for a pair of sheets. Frette sheets were first woven in Grenoble, France and have been used ever since by aristocrats and royalty, and I wanted to know what something that had cushioned the backsides of kings and queens for centuries felt like. An aunt of mine had died and left me one thousand dollars. John wanted to invest the money for me. I bought sheets instead. Completely dumb, but I didn’t regret the impulse one little bit. My private glee probably had as much to do with my rebellion against John as with the Frettes but, honestly, they’re awesome sheets. I spent the remainder of the evening luxuriating in them and reading a comforting murder mystery.

When I woke the next morning I saw that John had been to bed and was already up.

I found him at the kitchen table having his usual breakfast of two poached eggs and rye toast. Mrs. Schluff, a sunny gray haired lady, was topping off his coffee when I entered. She smiled at me.

Coffee, Mrs. French?

Yes, thank you, Elaine. I slipped into a chair across from John. She brought me a cup and I reached for the sugar bowl. John watched me but said nothing; he thought drinking your coffee any way but strong and black was gross. I added two heaping spoonfuls and topped it off with half and half. Mrs. Schluff quietly left the room.

Morning, he said with a smile.

Good morning. I yawned and took a large sip of the coffee. I looked at him peevishly. He was one of those people that leap out of bed refreshed and fully awake, ready to start their day. I, on the other hand, needed a good thirty minutes just to wake up. Where are the kids? I asked.

They’ve already had their breakfast and left for school.

Oh. Their school was only several blocks away and they usually met up with friends before class – probably to smoke elicit cigarettes or pot. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those permissive mothers but I’m a realistic one. Brandon was a few weeks away from being fifteen, and Sarah would be thirteen in six months. And when they were out of our sight they were going to do what they were going to do, despite my thoughts on the matter. I know I did when I was their age. Of course, I did have permissive parents – I was raised by a couple of hippies. As a matter of fact, they were still hippies, and crazy ones at that. I stifled another yawn. So what time are you coming home?

John raised an eyebrow. What do you mean?

You said you were leaving the office early. He looked puzzled. We’re leaving this afternoon for the Finger Lakes, remember? I added, prodding his memory.

Oh! Right. Well, I’m sorry, hon, but I won’t be able to make it.

What? Fully awake now, I sat up. We’ve planned this for a month. Today’s the last day of school and the kids are looking forward to it. Why can’t we go?

I told you, we just landed Bellini and I’m afraid it’s going to take up a lot of my time. He’s meeting with all of the partners today. Sorry, babe, but we have to have priorities.

Well, shit.

He chuckled. For some weird reason he was amused any time I used cuss words. He put his napkin aside and took one of my hands in his. Look, I know we don’t get away enough and I’m sorry, I really am. I promise to make it up to you. But look, just because I can’t go doesn’t mean you and the kids shouldn’t.

Yeah, but—

Seriously, I want you to go. You could use a break. He got up, walked around the table, pressed my shoulders and leaned down to kiss my neck. I’ve got to run. If you guys leave before I get home, have a great time and don’t worry about me. He was whistling under his breath as he left. I watched him disappear and thought why would I worry about you? Your life’s just perfect; you have a great job and a wife that never complains – much.

I finished my coffee and got up to pour another one before I had to go pack our things.

After the kids got home from school we picked up our rental car and headed out of the city. It took around five hours to get to Ithaca, a small city on Cayuga Lake, the largest of the New York Finger Lakes. Brandon and Sarah were glued to their cell phones during the drive so I listened to a talk show for company and the time passed pleasantly enough.

We had rented a small guest house right on the lake for the week. I found it easily enough and we got stiffly out of the car and looked around. The scenery was beautiful. Everything was lush and green, and the blue sky cradled billowy white clouds. After the city, the air smelled incredibly fresh and clean, and the lake was so clear I could count every pebble settled at the bottom. A small army of ducks swam nearby, and a nearby frog croaked out a greeting to us. We retrieved our bags and went inside the house to get settled.

The vacation began idyllically. For the first two days we swam near the dock, paddled around in rented kayaks, and hiked at several of the nearby gorges. They were really magnificent; we rounded the last bend of one and were greeted by the sight of a gorgeous waterfall that spilled down the gorge from a great height. In the evenings we dined at the local restaurants, which were quite good.

The small city was quaint but quirky. Against a backdrop of beautiful national parks and lovely old Victorian architecture, it rivaled Eugene, Oregon for Birkenstock shod hippies, old and young, vegans, dreadlocks, people who thought being green meant not wearing deodorant, people whose sex was indeterminate, and bumper stickers promoting every social cause under the sun. The kids and I were amused. My parents would have loved it!

However, too soon it became memorable in the wrong way. The third day it rained, and by rain I mean a crashing thunderstorm. This turned into more rain with more rain to follow. When the well dressed woman on TV announced it would continue for the remainder of our trip I called it quits. We packed up and headed back home.

Just in time for John’s little surprise for me.

We got back to a dark apartment around ten o’clock at night. Brandon and Sarah quickly disappeared into their bedrooms. I dumped my own suitcase in the middle of the small foyer and made my way to the kitchen to dig out my favorite Chinese restaurant’s takeout menu. There were a couple of empty wine glasses on the counter next to an equally empty bottle of wine. I really didn’t think much about it; John always had a glass of wine or two before going to bed at night. I put the glasses in the sink and dumped the bottle into the recycle bin. I found the menu and ordered a late dinner for me and the kids. Then I retrieved my suitcase and headed for the bedroom.

Before I even opened the door I heard it.

A moan followed by a deep grunt. Then, after a moment of silence, there was the sound of flesh being kissed and whispered words that preceded a soft feminine laugh.

My heart pounded violently in my chest and my ears throbbed. I felt something hot flood my face. I very carefully and quietly sat my suitcase down, and then quickly thrust the door open and felt for the light switch beside the door.

Hello….

There was my John, caught flagrante delicto – which is a snooty way of saying I caught the dirty bastard red-handed in the act.

Sprawled naked next to him was the most gorgeous woman I’d ever seen. Her creamy olive skin was smooth and flawless, and her dark shoulder length hair had the tousled waves a lot of women spent small fortunes trying to achieve at salons. Her startled large, liquid brown eyes swiveled in my direction, her full mouth shaped by surprise. John scrambled to pull the sheet up to his waist, as if that might somehow convince me he wasn’t butt naked underneath.

Adel! He put out a hand as if staving off a dangerous animal. I wasn’t expecting you.

Obviously, I replied through stiff lips.

This is Francesca Bellini, he added inanely, as if we were in some casual social situation and he was making polite introductions. Look, it’s not what you think, he began awkwardly.

"What is it then? Just introducing your new client to the John French private Family Leave Act?"

Oddly, Francesca immediately regained her poise. She reached down and slowly pulled up the sheet to conceal her nakedness, but not before I had already seen her full breasts, sensuous curves and tight belly. She kept her eyes on me the entire time and one corner of those luscious lips turned up in amusement or contempt, or maybe both.

Something about her expression flipped a sudden switch inside me. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her face as something dangerous began to rise from somewhere deep inside me.

I advanced slowly toward the bed.

Adel, wait, I can explain, John begged.

I ignored him. I grabbed a corner of one of the sheets and with one giant tug stripped it off of them.

Get off my sheets!

First woven in Grenoble, France in 1860, Frette linens were used by nobles and kings…but they damn sure weren’t going to be used by my scumbag husband and some Italian whore!

Chapter Two

As I’ve already stated -- divorce sucks.

Our little bedroom scene segued into me immediately kicking John and his new girlfriend out of the apartment. He didn’t want to go, of course, but I shouted and yelled, and he finally left in order to get away from my deafening outrage rather than because of shame or any moral reason. Or maybe he just didn’t want the neighbors to