by Rachel Hauck
Luke reached for a jar and scooped it with ice. He’d done a few cook-offs in his day and a bit of television. The release form appeared to be the standard lingo—permission to use his likeness and name for the contest, for media and television.
“It’s hotter than you-know-what tonight, I tell you.” Helen knocked back her iced tea like it had a bit of extra kick besides sugar. “You got any questions, Luke?” Helen flipped her hand at the paper. “It’s just a silly little thing that says we can use your name and image to promote the cook-off. And if you accidentally cut off your finger while preparing the food, or catch fire, you won’t sue the pants off us.”
“Helen, I’m not going anywhere near Wenda Divine. I’m thinking of leaving town that day.” Joy dropped the form, floating and fluttering, in front of Helen.
“Oh, grow up, Joy Ballard. You’re not leaving town. You’re doing your civic duty and hosting your town’s Water Festival Cook-Off. It’s great publicity for all involved.”
“I host a television show from this city. That’s great publicity. This cook-off is all about Wenda.”
“You should’ve finished her off in Omaha when you had the chance.” Helen nodded at Joy, tipping up her tea jar for another long slurp.
“How does everyone know about Omaha?” Joy stabbed at her pie. “I’m not emceeing anything if Wenda Divine is involved.”
Luke stared at his release form. “I don’t know about Omaha.”
Silence. Then, “What’dya live under a rock, Luke?”
“Nope.” He lifted his gaze to Helen, then Joy. “Just haven’t heard about Omaha.”
“Well, see, Wenda Divine, you know who she is, right? Of course you do. She got our Joy up on a food convention stage and challenged her to a cook-off. So Joy can’t stand to be in a contest, though she’s twice the cook of Wenda, I’m sure, and what does she do? She falls—”
“Helen, just . . . stop.” Joy dropped the fork to the plate. “I fell off a stage. No big deal.”
“Shug, you can fall off the stage here if you want, I don’t care, but you’re my emcee. End of story.” Helen blew a stream of hot breath toward her bangs and rolled her eyes at Luke, mouthing diva.
“Can I get you anything else, Helen?” Luke reached for his form, taking a pen from the jar on the counter. He’d signed forms for the other shows and events he’d participated in, including as a contestant on a season of The Next Culinary Star.
“Just get this girl here to do her duty.” Helen thunked her glass down on the counter. “And I’ll be happy as a tick on a bloodhound.”
“Since you love this event so much, Helen, why don’t you emcee?” Joy unzipped her purse, dug around, and dropped a ten-dollar bill onto the counter.
She was leaving? Without touching her pie? Luke stepped around the counter. “Come on, it’ll be fun.” His words bounced around the café.
“Fun?” Joy paused and leaned against the counter. “Have you met Wenda Divine, Luke?” She plopped her bag down on the counter. “Have you ever been in a cook-off?”
“I’ve not met her, but she seems like a nice woman. And yes, I’ve been in cook-offs. It’s just cooking on speed.” Luke passed his signed form to Helen. “An adrenaline rush.”
“Looky there, Joy. Luke signed. And he’s only been in town six months. All the flyers and advertising have gone out. If our own Dining with Joy backs out, do you think other celebs and distinguished guests will want to come in the future? I think not, I think not.”
“Oh my gosh, all right already.” Joy snatched the form from Helen. “You beat all, Helen. Is this how you got George to marry you? Manipulation?”
“Mercy, no. All that took was a short skirt and a kiss.” She snapped her fingers in the air.
“I must be out of my mind to do this, but—” Joy paused, her pen pressed into the paper, her eyes on Luke. “You’re cooking, right?”
“I’m cooking.” He’d all but forgotten about the event. Didn’t care much one way or the other. He enjoyed a cook-off now and then, but if Joy was going to emcee, the event took on a whole new meaning.
“Cook-offs are a dime a dozen. Trust me. Anyone with a pot and a spoon can be in a cook-off.” She checked Luke with a quick glance. “No offense.”
“None taken.”
“But Dining with Joy is different.” She angled toward him, a passion infusing her voice. “We’re a different kind of show, and I don’t want our brand to be watered down with me jumping into a cook-off or chef challenge with all the other TV celebrities.” Joy passed the signed form to Helen. “Seriously, don’t you just roll your eyes when you see another celebrity chef in a cooking challenge like it’s some kind of rite of passage?”
“You’re the emcee, baby, so I think your brand is still safe. Thank you very much.” Helen snatched the form before Joy could take it back and tucked it into her case. “Iced tea is on the house, Luke?” Helen boogied toward the door. “Night, all. Thanks.” The air in the dining room swirled in her wake, floating, drifting, trying to find a place to settle.
“She’s like an emotional whiplash,” Joy said as she slipped her bag up to her shoulder. “With her ‘honey,’ ‘sugar,’ and ‘darling,’ while she presses her steely knife into your back, ‘Sign here or I’ll kill you.’”
Luke regarded Joy. “Sure seems to be a lot of protesting for just an emcee gig.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t trust Helen or Wenda Divine.” Joy’s gaze mingled with his—blue touching blue. When she stepped back, the magic broke. “I need to go.”
“Your pie?”
“Not hungry.”
When she exited, the dining room settled with an odd quiet. For the first time, Luke heard the rhythm of rain drumming down. Tucking the ten-dollar bill by the register, he carried her plate back to the kitchen.
“I see Joy didn’t eat her pie.” Mercy Bea peered at the plate in his hand as she carried a tub of dirty dishes to the dishwasher.
“Said she wasn’t hungry.”
“She never is, shug, she never is.”
Luke took a clean fork from the dishwasher and leaned against the prep table, digging into the pie, musing over the counter exchange with Helen and Joy, trying to suppress the smile on his lips and reckon with the sensation that somehow tonight he’d glimpsed into his future.
Four
“Lyric, you’ve got ten minutes. All aboard for the train to Ballard Paint & Body Shop.” Joy rapped on her niece’s bedroom door. “Granny wants to leave on time this morning. She has a customer dropping off his car at eight o’clock. Lyric? Annie-Rae’s out of the bathroom, so all your excuses are gone.”
“I heard you the first eight hundred bazillion times you called me.” The hard thump of Lyric’s heels echoed against the floor.
“Really, then how did I miss the eight hundred bazillion times you answered me?” Joy rapped on the door to keep Lyric stirring and moving. “Is bazillion really a number or something David Letterman made up?”
“David Letterman?” Lyric’s door flew open. “Oh my gosh, Aunt Joy, he’s a dinosaur.” Lyric—fourteen, beautiful, and angry— marched toward the bathroom, her long, sculpted legs shooting out beyond the hem of her nightshirt. “By the way, bazillion is slang. A combination of billion and gazillion. Beaufort High just called. They want their diploma back.” She twisted on the faucet so the water blasted into the sink. Then she smeared toothpaste on her brush, and when she jammed it under the cascade, most of the toothpaste fell into the sink.
“I’m sure they do. See you downstairs in five minutes.” Joy backed toward the stairs. In the year Lyric and Annie-Rae had been living with them, she learned to roll with the sarcasm instead of butt up against it. When she acquiesced, it soothed the fire in Lyric’s belly.
“What? Five? What happened to ten?” Lyric rammed the toothbrush into her mouth.
“You burned it up spouting your classic wit.”
“Aunt Joy, why do I have to go to Granny’s shop?” Lyric’s toothbrush rounded out he
r cheek. “Can’t I just stay here? It’s summer. All my friends are going to the beach, taking vacations, and what am I doing? Watching Roseanne reruns at Ballard Paint & Body with my kid sister.”
Roseanne? That explained the sarcasm. “You had home privileges until you threw an unauthorized party.”
“You wouldn’t have known if Annie-Rae hadn’t snitched.” Lyric bent forward, flipping her hair, twisting it into a thick, wavy knot.
“Annie-Rae only shortened the investigation. We were on to you when we found Amos Watson’s driver’s license in the front bushes.”
“How am I supposed to fit in when I’m treated like a baby? How will I get Parker Eaton to notice me?”
“If he doesn’t notice you, Lyric, he’s blind.”
A soft sigh relaxed her shoulders. “You’re just saying that to shut me up.”
“Normally, yes. But not this morning, baby.” Joy eased her way toward the bathroom. “You’re more beautiful than you know. And with your wild attitude and anger, you’re way more dangerous than you realize. Relax, Lyric. Let love come to you. You’re not even fifteen yet.”
Since the girls moved in with Mama while Sawyer and Mindy tried to find a life for themselves in Vegas, Joy postponed her plan of buying her own place in order to help out. She tried to marry wisdom with compassion, letting the girls heal. But she also refused to let their truth become grounded in their circumstances and their faith in their feelings. She still fought that battle herself.
“Is that what you’re doing? Letting love come to you? You’re almost thirty, Aunt Joy. How long do you have to wait?”
“Certainly past your fifteenth birthday. Now please, get in the shower. Today. Now. Two minutes . . .”
The bathroom door slammed. Next the shower water hit the porcelain tub. Joy paused at the top of the stairs, listening to the song of the shower, wrestling with Lyric’s caustic observation. Letting love come to you? You’re almost thirty . . .
She’d known love once. But for the past seven years she’d been busy running from her own broken heart and the hollow echo of her own tears. Then she joined Dining with Charles as an associate producer, which shockingly turned into Dining with Joy.
Love seemed like a million years away. The shower water cut off. Joy stirred and started downstairs. What she didn’t have time to ponder today was romance. Not the morning Duncan Tate planned to introduce her to her new boss, Allison Wild.
At the bottom of the stairs, Joy slowed her step, sniffing the air, captured by a silky scent that brought to mind the image of Luke Redmond.
The Dining with Joy studios were in downtown Beaufort on the second floor of the Old Bay Marketplace building. Duncan Tate built it for Daddy after his first heart episode. He thought a hometown studio would relieve the stress of traveling to Atlanta to tape the show. Plus, it would give Dining with Charles a cozy, hometown feel. The brand caught on with viewers and Daddy’s star started rising. But bad hearts don’t care about hometown studios, rising stars, or the collateral based on the power of a man’s name.
“Joy, good, you are here,” Duncan greeted her, wearing a suit and tasseled loafers, his face pinched and his voice strained.
“Nine o’clock. Just like you said.” She peered at the woman with Duncan, then crossed over to the conference table, smoothing her hand over her new jeans, curling her toes against her flip-flops. She’d dressed in preproduction casual.
“Joy, I’m Allison Wild and I’ve been looking forward to this meeting for a long time.” Allison worked her way around the end of the mahogany table, her extended hand guiding her forward.
She wore a tailored blue suit and taupe heels. Her dark hair was shiny and smooth, the blunt ends brushing against her jawline. Creases fanned from the tips of her hazel eyes, and she carried the confidence of one who earned her way by work and wisdom.
“It’s nice to meet you.” Joy gripped Allison’s hand. Her skin was dry and thick, a contrast to her crisp appearance and eager tone. “Though I was surprised by Duncan’s news.”
“Yes, yes, and I’m sorry about all the last-minute details.” Allison motioned for Joy to take a seat. “Duncan brought me up to speed, but I want to assure you I am very excited about this show, and—” Allison’s shoulders lifted with a long, slow inhale. Her smile showed in her eyes. “I have some great news. TruReality phoned last night. They have picked Dining with Joy for their fall lineup. Eight o’clock Thursday nights.”
Joy froze, her hand on the back of a chair. “TruReality? The TruReality?” The third largest cable network. Five times, six times, a gazillion times the viewership of the Premier Channel.
“The TruReality. You won over the vice president of programming with your wit and humor, Joy. The comedy and realness of the show is fantastic—exactly what the network is looking for in a show. Duncan, I’m surprised you didn’t try to take the show there yourself.”
“I did. Twice. Once with Charles and again when Joy took over, but I guess I just didn’t have your magic touch, Allison.” Duncan shook his head, burying his hands in his pockets. “Congratulations.”
“TruReality believes Joy is going to revolutionize cooking shows.”
“Revolutionize?” Her pulse clamored in her ears. There’d be no sitting down now.
“Revolutionize. Every other cooking show is about the host, the celebrity.” Allison cut the air with her hands, emphasizing every word. “The sets are canned and flat, the show feels small and claustrophobic. But Dining with Joy is about the viewers, the fans, everyday people. I laughed until I couldn’t breathe at the Stupid Cooking Tricks.”
“Yeah, we tried to show the funniest ones.” Joy let the news seep into her heart, soaking up her doubts, softening her fears. TruReality would mean more money, more opportunities not just for Joy but the crew. “What’s your plan, Allison? Are we keeping the format?”
“Don’t see any reason why not. TruReality might ask for a few changes, but why mess with such a golden format.” Allison walked back to her spot at the table and opened her laptop.
The morning light ricocheted off the adjacent building’s windows, haloing the show’s new owner and producer with a soft glow. “The network mocked up a new site.” She turned the screen to face Joy. “We might consider a few tweaks to the show, but you are the star, Joy. Ryan will remain associate producer and director. The rest of the crew will stay with the show. We are going to need them to help train new crew members. Because if my gut feeling is right, and it usually is, we are going to be a very popular and busy show.”
Joy bent beneath the sun’s glare to read TruReality’s website. Joy Ballard, the face of Thursday night. Come Dine with Joy. She jerked upright, squinting. “The face of Thursday night?”
“You are the face and the lead show for Thursday evenings, the network’s biggest ratings night. They’re all in. Publicity, advertising, wardrobe, personal appearances, whatever we need. Wild Woman and TruReality plan to make you a household name.”
“H–household name?” Oh, now this was going too far. Wasn’t it?
“You’re more than a foodie or a cook. You’re an entertainer, Joy. A star. We all see it. You’re the girl next door meets glamour and fame. I’m surprised Duncan let me steal you away so easily.”
“I’ve done all I can with the show.” Duncan cleared his voice as he stared out the window. “Besides, we all have our dreams to chase, Allison.”
His tone didn’t soften, nor did his stance give a little. How could Joy not see how much he’d wanted out? After last season, with their growing fan base, stronger market share, and distinctive brand, Joy finally exhaled and believed the whole scheme of her posing as a cooking show host might be a good idea. Duncan had been full of ideas for the future. Never once did he hint of selling out. But gazing at him now, Joy saw the reflection of his heart in his eyes.
“Joy, are you with us?” Allison snapped the air. “I know this is a lot to grasp, but the best news is yet to come. Contract negotiations. The entire cre
w is getting a raise, and if we make our financial goal at the end of the season, bonuses all around.”
“Raises and bonuses.” She pressed her hand against her diaphragm. “That’s really generous, Allison.” The floor rumbled beneath her feet. “Duncan, can I see you for one second?” Joy barreled toward her office.
He treaded heavily behind her, entering her office and closing the door. “Don’t blow this, Joy. It’s a great deal. What’s wrong? You look green.”
“TruReality? Raises. Bonuses. I can’t do this, Duncan.” Joy walked around her desk. “She has to know.”
“Is she asking to know?”
“Why would she ask, Duncan? How many cooking show hosts do you know who can’t cook?”
“You for sure, but I have suspicions about a few others. Have you seen that woman from—”
“Duncan.” Joy’s plea hissed through the cool office air. “I care about this host. Me.” She patted her hand against her chest.
“Then keep quiet. Why does Allison have to know?”
“Why do I have to keep quiet? If it’s not a big deal, then let’s tell her, get it on the table.”
“She’ll walk. She won’t risk her reputation with TruReality on a fake cook.”
“Then why do I want to do this? Risk my reputation, the good Ballard family name?”
Duncan’s countenance darkened and he came around the corner of Joy’s desk, bearing down on her. “I sold the show to Allison. Now you sell you, all your charm and star quality, to her. She’s halfway there as it is. Then, have at it, confess. But you tell her now, it’s over for everyone. You, me, the crew. Do you want to destroy everything we’ve all worked so hard to achieve?”
“You mean, what you’ve worked to achieve.”
“No, Joy, all of us. You are on the verge of fame. People have done way more for way less than their fifteen minutes. Who knows, you might just learn to cook one day. Give this season a chance. Once you win everyone over, then, well, you know, confess. By then, they’ll be star-crossed in love with you and won’t care you can’t make toast.”
