Chapter 9

 

That night I dreamed that Nancy was in her TV studio kitchen processing tart dough in her shiny Cuisinart. The Nancy Merit’s House camera crew was rolling. And just like in real TV life, between the noisy whirrs of the machine, she made very personal eye contact with the camera as she explained and demonstrated each recipe step in her confident, altogether affable Nancy Merit TV persona.

At this point in my dream, unlike in real life, I come onstage. I tell the crew to pack it up, get lost. Although Nancy is protesting, I see a twinkle in her eye. She knows what I’m up to.

When everyone is gone, we shut off the studio lights and then it’s just Nancy, the Cuisinart and me. For several long, sensual moments there is only the sound of our breathing and the refrigerator humming.

Finally, I say, “C’mere, beautiful.”

 

At this point Nancy and I proceed to make hot and nasty love all over the set of Nancy Merit’s House. After finding ourselves in a few less than optimal lovemaking locations (beware of a preheated oven), we slide onto the kitchen’s floating island which is fine by me. But Nancy, ever practical when it counts, communicates to me via primal sounds and gestures, indicating that she’s pushing for the floor. Without much fuss I give in. I aim us toward the fluffy rag rug (a gift from a viewer) in front of the kitchen sink which, all in all, turns out to be a very good idea.

After a much needed breather and not of the capital B variety, Nancy turns to me and sighs the satisfied sigh of a sated, Southern woman. Playfully, she kisses my nose, then smiles, baring her rows of lovely white teeth. Despite my protests, she hops up, throws on her robe and goes back to her dough in the Cuisinart. Resigned, I pull part of the rug over me and settle in to watch a professional at work.

After some scraping with a spatula and a few more whirrs, Nancy glances over in a sexy way and says, “Get up, Lazybones. Make us two perfect capuccinos.”

I do and, hips touching, Nancy’s bare foot resting on mine, we lean back against the counter and sip our cappuccinos while a beautiful peach tart bubbles in the oven.

 

At that point, in actual real life, my blissful reverie was interrupted by a retching sound. I opened an eye and noted that Bunky had barfed up a grass ball on the pillow next to me. Maneuvering with caution, I gingerly hopped out of bed and performed a nearly surgical removal of the offending green wad which I promptly flushed down the toilet.

Then I showered for the meeting with Bud Upton.