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THERE IS SOMETHING mythical about watching the sunrise. The way the colors peek out of the sky just before dawn. The condo complex where I live is conveniently located within walking distance of the beach. And I get to see this remarkable occurrence every morning while jogging along the beach. Being a native New Yorker, the beach never really held any fascination for me. However, since moving to Los Angeles three months ago, I’m ready to try new things, like jogging on the beach at sunrise, surfing and sunbathing.
I make my way back to my condo for a quick shower before heading out to one of the local farmer’s market. The Hollywood Farmers’ Market has been my choice for the past few weeks. With its wide range of activities, I can see why it has become a community meeting place. It offers everything from live music, activities for children, to a rich variety of artisans selling their handmade arts and crafts. Next month I will be added to the list of cookbook authors to have a book-signing here.
Today, the Market is where local families who live in the neighborhood and some of Southern California’s most respected chefs come for their weekly food source.
Givens Farm is my destination today. They have a great selection of fresh organic produce and it doesn’t take me long to find everything I need to stock my pantry for the week.
Wandering leisurely through the market, I stop at several vendors before the music of a local street performer grabs my attention. I listen as my heart pounds in my chest, matching each strum of his guitar. There is something about the emotional melodic chords that hold me captive. Something about it conjures memories of my encounter with Mr. Wolff. Thoughts of him invade my mind. I close my eyes, not sure if I’m trying to shut out the memory of how strikingly erotic and staggeringly beautiful he is or recapture the memory of the pure animal sexuality he exudes. The way he stalked towards me like a predator approaching his prey, his gray gaze was filled with need, as hungry as a wolf, seeking to devour me.
God help me, I want to be consumed by the gray wolf.
The music ends, and I open my eyes. The crowd applauds, almost everyone drops money into the open guitar case, including me. I give what I have in my wallet and would gladly pay more to see him perform live at a concert.
Leaving the farmer’s market behind, I walk east on Selma Avenue, making my way to my car. Parking was difficult to find, but I got lucky. I’m behind the wheel of my car approaching Argyle Avenue when I get a nice view of the Hollywood Sign to the north.
I still can’t believe I live here. A few short months ago I was happy to call New York City my home. I had plans there. Open a bistro, write another cookbook and start a family someday. But all that changed when I became a contestant on ‘I Want To Be A Celebrity Chef’. I didn’t let myself dream of winning, but that’s what happened. I won, and everything changed again.
The pilot episode of my cooking show tapes tomorrow, and I can’t get pass the feeling that some disaster is about to befall me.
It’s after one in the afternoon when I reach home. The loft style condo is the perfect contemporary urban dwelling. My brother Julian insisted that I move into one of his properties after I won the cooking competition and would be staying in Los Angeles. I indulge him because I know he worries about me living alone so far away. The sixteen hundred square feet two-bedroom, two and a half bath unit is a lot for one person. On the plus side, and there is a lot on the plus side, the expansive windows have a stunning view and downtown Los Angeles is just a short drive away. The dark hardwood floors are nice but it’s the kitchen that gets me hot and bothered. Stainless Steel appliances and cabinets with frosted glass barn doors, it’s a cook’s dream kitchen. Evenings on the balcony relaxing with a glass of wine has become my favorite ritual.
The sound of my phone ringing ends the mental tour of my new home. The caller ID reads ‘JRF;’ my brother, Julian Robert Frost.
‘Hello brother.” I greet.
“How did the launch party go last night?” He asks without preamble.
Like I said, he worries about me. “Did any of those Hollywood fast talkers give you a hard time?”
“No one gave me a hard time. I made a brief appearance, staying long enough to take a few photos for social media.”
“So, when does the first show air?”
“Not for a few months. We shoot the pilot tomorrow.”
“Are you nervous.”
“About the cooking. No.” I take a deep breath, releasing some of the anxiety I feel.
“What’s got you nervous?”
“What if I fail? What if this is all a big mistake?”
“You don’t fail Livie.” The use of the nickname he gave me so long ago has me missing him and home. “You are the most resilient person I know. And you can do anything you set your mind to. This is no different from any other challenge you’ve undertaken.”
“How did you get so smart?”
“Five years of college and life experience,” he deadpans.
“How are you?” I ask, hoping to steer the conversation away from me.
“I’m not on the cover of any tabloids this week, so that’s a win.”
I laugh; my brother is notoriously famous for his playboy antics that seems to fuel bad press and sell newspapers. “And how is dad?”
“He had a rough couple of days, but he’s on the mend.”
Our father took a fall down the stairs recently and suffered a mild concussion. Julian and Mila, my father’s wife, assured me that there was no need to return home. Mila is a nurse and has taken excellent care of my father over the years, before and after their marriage. I trust her judgement.
Julian and I continue to catch up for the next half hour. Before ending the call, I promise to check in every few days. My stomach growls and the gnawing at my backbone reminds me that I haven’t had lunch.
I make my way to the kitchen to prepare a meal of a southwestern grill chicken salad. The salad is light and refreshing, using most of the ingredients I purchased at the farmer’s market. Reviewing the recipes for tomorrow’s show, I dine and work at the granite countertop breakfast bar in the kitchen.
After lunch I spend a few hours working on my new cookbook. I plan to prepare many of the recipes on the show. Although the show hasn’t been officially titled yet, it will focus on French cuisine, my specialty. Coming up with new ways to prepare a dish has always been a passion of mine. And that passion transferred to French cuisine when I spent a summer in the South of France with Julia, my brother Julian’s mother.
We dined at some of the best restaurants and I made a game out of guessing the ingredients used to prepare my meals. But it wasn’t until we had dinner one night at a quaint family owned bistro that I actually fell in love with the artistry of Southern French Cuisine. That’s also when I knew I wanted to be a chef and own a bistro myself someday. I was sixteen when we took that trip. And seven years later that dream is within reach.
By bedtime the anxiety I felt earlier in the day has given way to calmness. Prepping for the first day of shooting provides me with a sense of clarity. But lying in bed tossing and turning, sleep eludes me. And my mind once again fills with thoughts of piercing smoky gray eyes. Closing my eyes, I welcome the sensual assault on my senses.
The rich deep baritone of his voice plays on a loop in my head. And I can’t forget how his mouth felt on my skin when he sucked my fingers. My body shudders reacting to the memory. No man has ever been so bold with me. And I find myself eager for the slightest touch from him.
Monday morning my alarm goes off and I hop out of bed, ready to start my day. I shower and dress quickly before grabbing a cup of coffee and heading out the door. The commute to work isn’t bad for a Monday morning. The sentiment is quickly dashed away when I get a flat tire six blocks away from Gray Wolff Studio. Parking the car, I gamble, deciding to walk the rest of the way instead of changing the tire.
I’m ten minutes late and rushing pass security when disaster number two occurs. The heel on my shoe breaks, sending me tumbling down onto the marble floor on my ass. Several security guards rush over to help, but I’m on my feet before they reach me. Realizing that I have held up production on the first day, a pang of guilt hits me hard. Removing my shoes, I hurry to my dressing room.
The crew from hair and makeup greet me as I walk in. Before I can apologize for my tardiness, I’m ushered behind a screen and Jean, from wardrobe, is urging me to change my clothing. Exactly seven minutes later I’m on set ready to tape the pilot episode.
Take after take I’m fumbling around the kitchen. Missing the mark and unable to find my groove. Everything feels foreign to me, different from how I arranged it last week.
“Let’s take a break.” Joel Harper, the director announces.
I hear his frustration and that of the production crew as they leave the set. Knowing my time will be better spent reorganizing the set kitchen, I forgo taking a break.
Making my way back to my dressing room, I wait for the next inevitable event. Shit always happens in threes. First, I get a flat tire, making me seventeen minutes late. Then I discover that everything has been rearranged in the kitchen, causing me to look like a bumbling idiot. Another disaster awaits to complete this rule of three. It’s Murphy’s Law.
Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.
I don’t know how long I stay secluded in my dressing groom weeping silently. But I have ‘ time to dry my eyes before I come face to face with him. The Gray Wolff.