at the lodge where my family learned who she was. I found out she moved here after breaking up with her longtime boyfriend. I didn’t know anything about her troubles while she was having them because I’m a farmer who works ungodly hours, and I’m also a grown man who’s never much cared about celebrity gossip. Having said that, I obviously know who Tara and Romaine are. They’re both out-of-this world famous, which makes me wonder how Tara’s been able to fool people about her whereabouts for so long.
I didn’t recognize her this summer when she started coming to my farm, but I wasn’t expecting to see her there. So, in that sense, I get that no one in Oregon knows who she is, but those tabloid reporters could find a flea on the moon with the proper motivation.
I’m slicing the steak super thin when Tara brings the puppy into the kitchen. I decide to ask the question that’s been on my mind. “How have you been able to keep people from finding you?”
She shrugs. “I used my middle name for my surname, and I don’t charge anything.”
“What does that mean, you don’t charge anything?”
“I don’t use my credit card,” she says plainly.
“The tabloids can trace your credit cards?” That seems a bit paranoid if you ask me, but that might be exactly what it takes to stay off their radar.
“I don’t know if they can. I don’t use my credit cards because they all say Tara Heinz on them. I don’t want any store clerks to see that or they might decide to make an easy buck and call the rags.”
That makes more sense. “You want to cut up some of the vegetables for dinner?” I ask. It’s not that I need her help but it’s nice to have company, even if that company is a bit surly most of the time.
Tara pulls open a drawer and puts on a plain white chef’s apron. “You want one?” she asks.
“Nah, I’m good.” I don’t see the point of dirtying something else to protect my jeans and button-down. They’re going straight into the wash when I get home.
Tara points to a cabinet next to her. “All of my oils and marinades are in there.” For some inexplicable reason my mind conjures the image of a bottle of suntan oil and I start to think what it would be like to rub it all over Tara’s body, in all the places she can’t reach … My fantasy is interrupted by the sound of her clearing her throat.
I walk across the room to take stock of her inventory. She has olive oil, vegetable oil, peanut oil, and sesame oil. “You must cook a lot, huh?”
“I had high hopes when I moved in, but if you look closer, you’ll see that none of them are open.” She takes a big step to the side to put more distance between us.
“Did you buy this house or are you renting?” I ask.
“Renting. I’d never been to Oregon before taking the job at the lodge. I figured I’d wait and see what the area was like before buying.”
“You mean, you’re waiting to see if you want to stay?” I’m guessing that’s a more likely scenario. Los Angeles and the Willamette Valley couldn’t be more dissimilar.
Tara starts to unpack the vegetables before putting them in a colander to rinse off. “I don’t think of being here as a temporary thing.” She sounds almost hurt like I was insinuating she was using the lodge solely as a means to hide out.
“I wasn’t accusing you of anything,” I assure her, “I just meant that you left LA during a bit of a media circus.”
“You’ve done your homework on me, huh?” I can’t tell if she’s mad or flattered.
I turn on the flame under the skillet on top of the stove and pour in a small amount of peanut oil. “I may have looked you up,” I answer sheepishly. If that’s what you call four hours of clicking every link mentioning her on the internet and reading what mostly unreliable sources had to say.
“The tabloids make it sound like all Romaine and I did was fight, but the truth is we just wanted different things.”
“Which were?” I can’t help it; I want to know.
She shoots me the side eye as though trying to discern my motivation for asking. She finally says, “Romaine is at the height of his fame. It’s really important to him.”
“And?” I prod.
“And I’m tired of fame. I