by Rachel Hauck
“If you were in my place, would you turn down such an offer?”
Her eyes narrowed a bit. “I was in your place, kind of, and no, I didn’t turn down the offer.” The long strands of her hair sailed on the breeze. “The kiss . . . I’m not sure why . . .” She shrugged. “It just felt right, but I want you to know I’m not one who goes around kissing strange men. Onstage. For show.”
If that kiss was for show, Luke didn’t want to imagine a real one.
“I’m not one who lets strange women kiss me. Onstage. For show.”
“It was the moment . . . just the moment.”
Luke tucked his fingers into his jeans pockets. Sometimes the night, trimmed with city lights, became a friend, a guardian for hearts to speak freely. “What was the moment, Joy? You turned over the pork chop, I whipped together a batch of runny peach ice cream?”
“I’ve been asking myself that all weekend.” Joy started down Luther’s walkway toward the river.
. . . and sometimes the night, trimmed with city lights, became a guardian for hearts to hide.
“Anything I should know about the show?” Luke moved the conversation to safer ground.
“No, but,” she spun to face him, “it is my show. The crew depends on me. I depend on them.”
“I used to watch Dining with Charles.”
“He loved doing his show.”
“I could tell. I actually modified one of his recipes for the restaurant I worked for at the time.”
“And how do you like Dining with Joy?”
“I think I’m going to like Dining with Joy.” The double meaning of Luke’s answer boomeranged in his ears. “The show. I mean, well, I haven’t been able to watch because I was running a restaurant.
But—”
“I’m not sure it matters, Luke. Everything’s changing with Allison as producer now. You as cohost.” Joy started down the riverwalk. “I never said thanks for helping me with Wenda. So, thank you.”
Oh, she’d thanked him. Plenty. Over and over, every time the kiss crept across his mind. “It was good to see her stunned, without words.”
“I think the entire universe noticed.” Joy walked backward, facing Luke. “Are you a runner, Luke?”
“Once upon a time. Played some ball in high school.” He quickened his step to keep up with her.
“Want to race?”
“Want to race?” He lifted his eyebrows. “To where?”
“There.” She motioned behind her to the drawbridge, dropping her flip-flops with each consecutive step.
“I think I could race you—”
“Go!” Joy swooped up her shoes, dangling them from her fingers as she jetted down the pavement, her heels kicking high, the hem of her dress twisting around her legs.
Luke shook his head. Really, he should just let her run . . . leave her hanging . . . but, yeah, he wasn’t crazy. He fired off after her, the soles of his sneakers in rhythm with his racing heart as he lengthened his stride to close the gap between them.
“Joy? Luke? Are you ready? Let ’s make this run-through as painless as possible.” Ryan directed from his booth in the far corner of the studio. “Rolling tape, cue music, Joy coming to you in . . . five, four, three, two—”
Joy crossed the set, smiling, and stopped on her mark by the counter.
“Welcome to the fourth season of Dining with Joy.” The opening music played under her greeting. “I’m Joy Ballard, and we are thrilled to be airing this fall on TruReality. We have some great things in store for you, including more wild and zany Stupid Cooking Tricks. But first up, meet my cohost this season, Chef Luke Redmond.”
Luke walked onto the set, stiff, wearing jeans and a plaid snapbutton shirt. Allison asked him to come in his street clothes . . . Joy grinned. She’d had fun with him the other night, racing along the riverwalk, blistering the soles of her feet. But oh, it felt good to run.
Then she’d stumbled, and Luke swooped her up in his arms without missing stride and ran with her all the way back to Luther’s. When he’d set her down on the back deck, her knees buckled.
Oh my. . .
Remembering it now made her face warm.
“Hey, everyone. It’s good to be here.” Luke gave a windshield wiper wave at the camera. Then he smiled at Joy. Stiff-lipped and lifeless.
Joy reared back. What the heck happened to Luke? She cut through the air with a wave of her hand. “Wait, hold on a second. Where’s Luke Redmond?” Shielding her eyes, Joy peered off set. “Will the real Luke Redmond come onto the set? Luke? Oh, Luke . . .” She walked out of the kitchen into the bowels of the studio, Reba and camera two following. “Luke, where are you? Some robotic dude with a pompadour is impersonating you.”
“Your stylist did this to me.” Luke smashed his hair against the side of his head. But the gelled and sprayed ends bounced right back.
“Allison, really, are you going to let him tape my show looking like a Channel 9 anchor?” She waited for Allison to call cut. Or Ryan. But neither did, so Joy went on with the rehearsal. “We are so having a meeting with the stylist later today.”
“So, Joy, how was your weekend?” Luke’s cold monotone read from the teleprompter tempted her to laugh. The image of the cowboy sweeping her off her feet in the middle of the footrace the other night challenged her sense of reality. Had it been a dream? Did she really feel his muscled arms beneath her back? After he settled her on Luther’s deck, he disappeared into the darkness in search of her flung-from-her-fingers flip-flops.
“How was my weekend?” Lovely. Really lovely. “Luke, don’t ask.” Joy tossed a couple of almonds from the prop dish into her mouth. One of Dining with Joy’s hallmarks was sampling food related to the recipe throughout the show. She directed Luke with her eyes to reach for some almonds. “I had a date.” She recited from the script. “An unbelievable date.”
“Good unbelievable or bad unbelievable?” Luke’s line didn’t sound as plastic this time.
“Bad, bad, bad.” In past seasons, Joy bantered with a crew member off camera, but with Luke on set now, she’d written the script to include him. Allison loved it. Next show, Luke would have a whopping wild tale of how he learned to surf.
“How bad is bad?” Luke read, gathering a few almonds with his fingers.
Joy and the crew chorused. “Real bad.”
A circus ditty played, and when it faded, Joy started her story.
“He was supposed to pick me up at seven, but by seven thirty I was getting worried. I called his cell.” Joy popped another few almonds into her mouth. The routine forced her to slow down, breathe, think, and engage the viewer with her storytelling. “He didn’t answer, so I left a message. At eight,” she angled toward the camera, “he’s an hour late and still no call. Ladies, do not put up with this nonsense. Eight-o-five, he calls.”
She paused for Luke to read next. After another second of silence, she peered up to prompt him. “Luke?”
But his face beamed red and he grabbed at his throat. “Wa-ter.”
“Cut!” Joy called. “Luke, are you okay?”
“Wa-ter.”
Garth appeared on the scene, twisting open a bottle of water from the snack cart and passing it to Luke. He chugged, gulping and gasping. After a moment the red on his cheeks faded. But when he’d drained the water bottle, the color returned to his face.
“Sorry, y’all.” He averted his gaze as faint snickers traced around the back of the studio. “Never choked on an almond before in my life.”
“Are you all right?” Joy dipped low to peer into his eyes. He’d carried her when racing blistered her feet. She’d not chide him about this. Being on camera could be nerve-wracking. She’d had her throat close up more than once.
“Luke?” Allison slapped her clipboard on the edge of the kitchen set. “Avoid the almonds from now on. Just relax and read the script. Let us know when you’re ready.” She backed away with a shaky smile at TruReality’s Dan Greene, who’d flown in from New York for the first week of
taping.
“Luke, are you ready?” Ryan called.
Nodding, Luke stood on his mark.
“Five, four, three, two—”
“Women go for men like him all the time.” Luke’s voice remained weak from the almond dust. His line carried no spark or energy.
“Cut, cut,” Allison interjected, waving her hands.
Joy exhaled. It was going to be a long day.
“Luke.” Allison came around to the set. “Where’s your intensity and charm? The Luke I loved at the cook-off?” She patted his back. “Relax. Be yourself. Go off script if you need to. Imagine the lights are the stars, the cameras are the sailboats off the South Carolina shore.”
Luke’s countenance stiffened, and he reached for a second bottle of water handed over by Garth. “I’m fine, Allison. I don’t need to turn the lights into stars.”
Allison regarded him for a moment, then backed away. “All right then. Ryan, whenever you’re ready.”
Joy bent toward Luke. “Want to pull it together before Dan Greene changes TruReality’s mind about us?”
He twisted the cap onto his water bottle. “I am together. I’m the same man who saved you from Wenda Divine.”
“Saved me? More like interfered. I was doing fine on my own.”
“Fine on your own? Really? How’d that go again?” Luke gathered three limes from a prep bowl. They were for the drink recipe coming up later. “Did you hear the one about the peach, banana, and pear?” His attempt to juggle started the crew laughing. “Look, I’m Joy Ballard. I can juggle.” When one of the limes went wild, Joy scurried off her mark.
“You are so not me. And you so can’t juggle.” Joy elbowed him out of the way and snatched the floating limes from the air. “This is how Joy Ballard juggles.” She arched the fruit in a fluid, circular motion.
Luke hip-butted her, trying to cut in and catch the limes. They fell to the floor with a dull thud. Joy glanced at Sharon, who stood by camera one, gaping. “We’re going to need new limes.”
“Perfect.” Allison rushed the stage. “This is what I’m talking about. More of this kind of action.” She smiled over her shoulder at Dan. “Didn’t I tell you? Magic.”
Nine
When the heat faded from the evening, Joy settled on the back porch with her laptop and watched her mama stride across the lawn with their neighbor, Miss Dolly, trailing after her, wagging her finger.
When Mama stopped short, Miss Dolly crashed into her and their argument rose on the breeze.
Launching e-mail to the melody of Mama’s rebuttal to Miss Dolly, Joy scanned her Inbox. In the week they’d been taping, Joy learned one solid truth about Allison. The woman loved e-mail.
Subject: Show Prep
Subject: My Beaufort Address
Subject: Recipe Ideas
Subject: Reality segments
Subject: Photo Shoot Food & Wine Cover Next Week. Monday!
Subject: Luke’s hair
Joy laughed. Luke’s hair. She was getting used to the pompadour. And more and more she honed the notion that Luke wasn’t just her way out of Wenda’s Water Festival cook-off trap but her way out of the web Duncan Tate had taught her to weave.
She had to convince Allison to assign Luke all of the show’s cooking segments. It just made sense. While he simmered, chopped, and pureed, she’d ski down a mountain, munching on one of his recipes. While he taught the world how to spice up everyday macaroni, Joy could tape Joywalking segments, exploring the lives of singles, the dating scene, and cooking.
Luke could develop his own recipes with Sharon. Then, through the miracle of editing and Ryan’s genius, Luke could actually appear lively and energetic on camera.
Luke was the Tru element of the show. Joy, the Reality. The notion had her wide-awake at three o’clock this morning. Even as the day faded, the idea stirred Joy with vigor.
She composed a new message to Allison.
Allison,
Great show this week. Seems we’re working through the bumps okay, don’t you think? I have several ideas for bits we might add, upping the “wow” factor TruReality is so into.
I’ll do the development work with Ryan but just wanted to run these ideas past you.
Guest spots with home chefs, sticking with our brand of focusing on the viewers.
Duncan and I talked about a Letterman-like Top Ten list, for example Top Ten Things You Do with Meat After You Drop It on the Floor, Top Ten Things You Do to Your Mother-in-Law’s Cooking When She’s Not Looking, Top Ten Reasons to Own a Rolling Pin, Top Ten Foods You Eat When Watching Football. How about a contest for the easiest meal to clean up; stupidest ingredient; shopping on a budget for frat guys and sorority girls, or any dorm rat; recycling appetizers into dinner; Pizza Tonight, Pizza Tomorrow, “How cold pizza saved my relationship.”
Crazy, I know, but I have notes from our college fans who claim day-old pizza saved their love lives. Which leads to another idea: The Power of Italian. We focus on pasta, pizza, bread, cheese, tomato sauce, olive oil, garlic. My stomach is roaring as I type.
Let me know when you want to talk. I’ll bring more details to the table when we meet.
Joy
The screen door swung open with a creak as Joy clicked Send. She glanced around to see a sullen Lyric crash into the Adirondack chair beside Joy. She flipped her hand in the direction of Mama and Miss Dolly.
“What’s going on with those two?”
“Weeds and pesticides.”
Lyric sighed as if she could no longer bear the burden of being fourteen and the grandchild of a woman who picked a fight over bug spray.
“I should pitch a show about them to TruReality. Lawn Wars of Silly Southern Women.” Joy closed her laptop. “How was softball practice?”
“Boring.” Lyric hugged her legs to her chest. Her shorts were too short, her top revealed too much tender flesh. Joy guessed it to be a size too small by the strain of the Disney World logo. “Aunt Joy, how do you know if a boy likes you?”
So the truth surfaced easily today. “If he’s kind, nice, carries your books for you.”
“No boy carries a girl’s books, Aunt Joy. That’s, like, from Granny’s day.” Lyric rested her chin on top of her knees.
“You know what I mean. Pick a boy who looks out for you, talks about something other than himself.”
“What if I’m not pretty enough?”
“Is this about Parker?” Joy patted the arm of Lyric’s chair to get her attention. “Want me to talk to him?”
“Don’t you dare.” The girl shot up straight.
“Then listen to me, Lyric. Don’t let any boy ever convince you that you’re not pretty enough.”
Lyric bit her lower lip in contemplation.
Joy let her stew on the idea and then broke in with a question of her own. “Have you heard from your mama or daddy lately?”
She braved the parent-waters because Lyric’s emotional dams seemed open. For the moment. But probably not for long.
“Why would I hear from them?” Lyric’s hazel eyes glistened, but her tone was flat. Cold. Wavy wisps of hair escaped her ponytail and curled around her neck. “Who needs them anyway? They can stay in Vegas. Die there.”
“I’m not defending them, Lyric, but being mad at your parents won’t change who they are or what they’ve done. It’ll only plant bitter seeds in your heart. After a while you won’t even recognize yourself because you’re wrapped in anger and bitterness.”
“Please don’t lecture me on my parents.” Lyric lowered her forehead onto her knees and hid her face with her arms. “You have no idea what it’s like.”
“You don’t know everything, Lyric. My daddy and I didn’t always get along. We had lots of fights.”
“At least you had a daddy to fight with.” Lyric’s watery words exposed her heart.
“You’re right, baby.” Joy leaned to brush Lyric’s flyaways from her cheek. “Never looked at it like that before.”
“Can I go to Siri’s?” Lyr
ic stretched as she rose from the chair.
So, the heart-to-heart ended. The dam’s gates closed. “You can go until dinner.”
“I’m eating at her place. Her mother cooks real food.”
“What? We cook real food here.”
“I mean roast beef or meat loaf. Not Campbell’s soup and grilled cheese.” Lyric slid open the glass door. “I’ll be home for bed.”
“Change out of those shorts and shirt. They don’t fit—” The door cut Joy off with a soft clap.
Joy sighed, reclining against her chair. What was it Lryic said? At least she had a father to fight with? Where was that great thought when Joy was sixteen? When she thought the man ensconced in the kitchen night after night was an evil overlord, she’d have welcomed his absence. Thrown a party.
Instead, Charles Ballard was home every night, developing recipes and filling the house with the aroma of meats and sauces, sweets and bread.
Every once in a while, when the house slept, Joy imagined she heard the clatter of Daddy’s pans. And if she drew a deep breath, expanding her lungs to their limit, the phantom aromas of baking bananas and cinnamon swept past her nose.
Joy wandered off the porch in search of Mama, thinking of Daddy’s banana bread recipe. Sharon might be able to recreate it. She’d worked with Daddy long enough before he died.
Around the side of the house, Joy met up with Mama.
“Where’s Lyric going?” Mama motioned toward the driveway with a spray can. “She took off on my old bicycle.”
“Siri’s. What are you doing with that spray can? Where’s Miss Dolly?”
“She’s gone.” Mama patted the side of her can. “I’m going to spray pesticide on her lawn.”
“Mama—” Joy snatched at the can’s handle, but Mama was too fast. “You can’t go spraying her yard with pesticides.”
“And why not? How does her organic method trump mine? Hmm?” Mama pushed around Joy, aiming for her shed, “The Lab,” as Joy and Sawyer used to call it. “Dolly’s treatment—or should I say lack of treatment— is turning her lawn into a bug maternity ward. The little varmints are getting fat on my shrubs. The leaves look like Swiss cheese.”
