by Rachel Hauck
“After losing my restaurant. No shame in talking about it, Joy. I did go bankrupt. And yes, these are not only the clothes I can afford but also the clothes I like to wear. You can take the cowboy out of Oklahoma, but you can’t take Oklahoma out of the cowboy.”
“So, how’d a Manhattan cowboy end up in the lowcountry?”
“The idea of sun and water and hanging out with Heath appealed to me way more than dust and tumbleweeds, manure scented breezes, living at home, bunking in my first ‘big boy bed,’ listening to my dad grouse about the weather.”
Smiling, nodding, Joy sipped her latte. “And here I sit with you, pushed out the door by my mother.”
“It’s different for women.”
“Thank you for that kind answer.” Joy pinched a bite from her roll, unwilling to shove the two-inch mound of dough, cinnamon, and icing into her mouth in front of Luke. “I’d planned to buy my own place this year until my brother and his wife decided to take off to Las Vegas without their girls.”
“That’s how Annie-Rae ended up in your kitchen opening a can of SpaghettiOs?” He blew gently over the surface of his steaming, black coffee.
“Yep. I’m so used to them being around now, I’d be lost without them.” Joy took another small bite of her cinnamon roll. She ordered it, but now she wasn’t hungry for it. “So, how’d you get to New York?”
“Long story.” Luke folded his arms on the table and leaned toward her. “But for your listening pleasure, I’ll give you the short version. Went to visit Heath upstate one summer, we went down to the city and I found a job in Hell’s Kitchen as a line chef. The executive worked me to the bone, but I’d found my passion.”
“Passion is good.” Joy swirled the foam into her latte before taking a sip.
“I’m a fan.”
The tone of his voice sent a warm flush over her temples. He was talking about food . . . his career . . . and he was just agreeing with her. She picked at the seam of her latte cup, her gaze averted, afraid to look up and see herself in Luke’s eyes.
“I used to feel that way about softball.”
“I read your NCAA stats. Impressive.”
“I had some good days on the field. What about you? Any Hell’s Kitchen stats?”
“Sixteen fires, eight trips to the ER, five second-degree burns, a total of seventy-five stitches, one broken bone, thirty unique dish creations, and one year I clocked in three hundred and sixty-five days.”
“My hat is off to you, chef. Very nice.”
“They don’t call it Hell’s Kitchen for nothing.” He eyed her over the rim of his coffee. “What about you? Any trips to the ER? Interesting burn or cut stories?”
His question cornered her. She shook her head slowly. “Actually, no.” She peered at him, trying to be confident. “A cooking show isn’t quite as hectic and dangerous as a Manhattan kitchen.” Joy tucked her napkin around the cinnamon roll. She’d take it home to Annie-Rae. “Cooking on a show is rather beige most of the time.”
“Beige?” He laughed. Good. He had been getting too serious. “The woman who invented Stupid Cooking Tricks? The host who brought deep-fried peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to culinary television?”
“All in an effort not to be beige. But enough about me.” Joy reclined back, arms folded over her chest. “How did a rancher’s son take up fine dining?”
“My mom died of an aneurism when I was sixteen, left Red and me.”
“And who is Red?”
“My father. Earl Redmond, but everyone calls him Red.” Luke cupped his hand around his coffee. “Mom left the two of us rattling around a big ranch house . . . felt like a sinkhole without her. She’d been gone about a year when I wandered into the kitchen and picked up her recipe box. I spent an entire weekend learning to make her lasagna. She made it with béchamel, and I used every bit of flour, which was probably over a year old, butter, and milk in the house. Red kept sending one of the hands after me, telling me to get my britches out to the corral and help with branding.” Something changed in his expression as he reminisced.
“But you were falling in love with cooking.”
“Guess I was, but that day I felt like I was keeping some part of Mom alive. She’d planned on teaching me to cook before she got sick . . .”
“Death is never timely.” Joy twirled her stir stick between her fingers. “Daddy never planned to drop dead just when his show was gaining notoriety. So did you perfect her recipe?”
“After two trips to town for more ingredients, I produced something edible Sunday night. I invited my football buddies over, asked the hired hands to hang around, served the lasagna out on the back porch on paper plates. No salad or bread. Nothing to drink. Just Mom’s lasagna.”
“It was fabulous, wasn’t it?”
“Best lasagna I ever ate.” He lifted his chin, remembering. “The noodles were overcooked. The béchamel too thick. Too much cheese, if you can believe it, but that day, Red laughed for the first time since Mom died. And that’s when I knew.”
Joy leaned toward him. “Knew what?” A hushed curiosity bloomed between them.
“You know, Joy . . . the power of food.”
“The power of food. Of course, right.” Joy twisted around in her seat, arms on the table, folding a sweetener packet between her fingers. “So powerful . . . food.”
“Food is an amazing force. It can bring people together, tear them apart. Provide comfort. Entertain . . .” He smiled at her with a nod. “Give some folks purpose. On the other hand, food can overtake us, be a mask and a substitute.”
“I never broke it down that way, but yeah, food is quite a force in our culture and lives.” Joy retucked the ends of the napkin around the roll. Annie-Rae would be excited to wake up to such a treat.
“Thanks for coming out tonight. I just wanted to talk to you when we weren’t trying to be chefs and hosts.”
“Or racing down the riverwalk?”
He laughed. “Or that . . . I have no game tonight with these cockroach kickers I’m wearing.” Luke kicked out his leg to show her his booted foot.
“No game, huh?” Joy jumped up, tucked the roll in her bag, and dashed out Common Ground’s side door.
“Joy, hey, wait, girl—” His footsteps thumped after her, the heels of his boots resounding on the concrete.
Laughing, inhaling the river breeze, Joy dashed around the back of the building, cutting right toward the park lawn and riverwalk instead of left toward Bay Street and Luke’s parked car.
Running. That’d keep him off balance, from peering too deep and seeing what she didn’t want him to see.
Eleven
The wind rushing over the Beaufort River Monday morning came from an offshore storm and threatened the outdoor Food & Wine photo shoot.
Yet Joy emerged from wardrobe and makeup in linen shorts and a light summer jacket, the blustery clouds threatening. Along the riverwalk, the photographer and his crew scurried around in some kind of organized chaos while another crew of men supervised the docking of two skiffs.
Slipping on her sunglasses, Joy spotted Luke by a concrete pylon. Instead of his plaid shirt and blue jeans, he wore a Dining with Joy chef ’s jacket and black trousers.
Since her coffee night and race with Luke last Thursday, Joy used the weekend to gain perspective. Luke wasn’t trying to steal her show or peer into her soul and discover secrets. As far as she knew, he didn’t suspect her of anything. He was just Allison’s handsome addition to the show. A way to stir things up. Especially after a certain spontaneous kiss.
This morning Joy’s thoughts were in check, focused on the day’s task with her feet planted on lowcountry terra firma. Luke was a colleague. And if she didn’t remain guarded, he would be the dynamite to blow up her plan.
“It’s like being at the circus.” Luke gazed down at her when she came alongside. “You look nice.”
“So do you. But I think I’m going to miss the pompadour.” Allison had hired a new stylist for Luke.
&n
bsp; A waifish man dressed in a black T-shirt and skinny jeans was speed-walking across the park lawn with his hands in the air and a chorus of black-clad assistants schooling around him.
“What is he doing? What are they doing?” Joy had worked with quite a few photographers, but Allison brought this one from New York because he considered himself an artist.
“Don’t know, but he’s hilarious to watch.”
“Joy, great, you’re ready.” Allison approached wearing shorts, Birkenstocks, and a floppy hat. “The photographer was asking about you.”
“Allison, why are we even out here?” Luke said. “We’re a cooking show. Shouldn’t we be in the studio kitchen?”
The photographer whisked past, eyes skyward, hands twirling.
“I wanted something fun for the cover of Food & Wine. We’ll have plenty of kitchen shots. This is for the other part of our show, the fun, outside-the-studio, comedy side.” Allison motioned to the photographer. “M, please come meet your subjects.”
“Did she say M?” Luke’s whisper warmed Joy’s ear.
“I’m afraid so.”
The photographer halted in front of them with a black-clad assistant. “This is the great M. I’m his first assistant, Raul. He’s pleased to meet you.”
“M.” Joy offered her hand. “Do people call you Umm for short?”
Luke whirled around, his shoulders shaking. Joy concreted her expression as M cradled her chin in his hand and lifted her shades.
“M loves your bones. He thinks you have a beautiful aura,” Raul said.
“I found the aura on sale at Overstock.com. But the bones . . .”
She clicked her tongue. “Had to pay full price.”
Luke snorted.
“Please,” Raul tsked, waving his finger ticktock. “Sarcasm poisons M’s atmosphere and stifles his creativity.” Raul snatched at the air, pinching at the invisible. “I’m removing the negatives, M. Don’t worry.”
Yet M was on the move, strutting toward the river, swirling his arms. Raul interpreted. “People, gather around, M has something to say.” Raul peered at M. “He says to climb into the boats. The river is our friend today. She possesses a positive light.”
“Boats? Come on.” Luke bent over the railing, eyeing the bobbing skiffs. “We’re chefs, not sailors.”
“You’re looking a little green, chef.” Joy angled over the railing next to him.
“Where I grew up, water came out of clouds and faucets. It was for drinking, cooking, and showering.”
“Allison said M’s photographs of Chef Jean Claude made him a household name.”
“Chef Jean Claude is brilliant and his recipes made him a household name, not a photographer with a single-letter name.” Luke scanned the park for a glimpse of Allison. “Jean Claude would never put his brand in a boat.”
“How do you know?” Joy said.
Luke grinned. “He told me.”
“He told you? Like you were visiting with the man and all of a sudden he said, ‘By the way, never put your brand in a skiff and take a picture?’”
“Not in those specific words, no, but . . .”
Joy laughed, bumping her shoulder against him. He was too easy to be around.
“People . . .” Raul stepped between Joy and Luke. “Your negative vibes are disturbing M. Please get in the boats. Joy, glasses please.” Raul mimed sunglasses removal.
“Please, Luke, get in the boat.” Allison patted his back. “Trust me, time is money.”
“I’m a chef. A New Yorker. A cowboy. Where does sailor fit in that description?”
“I’m adding it to your résumé.”
Garth and Reba hovered with minicams as Joy and Luke made their way down to the dock.
“Are you afraid of water?” Joy asked, low.
“No.” His lips pressed into a hard line. His jaw stiffened. Beneath his jacket, she could see his muscles tightening his broad body.
But once they were in the water, Joy saw the truth. A pale-faced Luke gripped the sides of his rocking boat with white knuckles while his brown bangs swept over his green gills.
Joy, meanwhile, rested easily with the motion of her boat. This was going to be fun. In the kitchen studio, Luke intimidated her. A lot. His cooking segments were delicious with details. He was so quick and agile, Ryan was starting to film Luke doing most of his own prep and cooking.
She, on the other hand, had to create more diversions and distractions because Luke hovered nearby. Ryan called “cut” a lot, took up time reframing Joy’s cooking shot, then he’d claim they were running out of time and ask Sharon to bring out the already-prepared dishes.
Watching Luke struggle in the boat, Joy saw herself. That’s how she felt with the show. Hanging on for dear life, facing fears, but unwilling to give up and give in.
Should she leave Luke on the outside of the secret? His stake in the show was growing day by day. If she brought him inside, he could be a real asset.
He could help her move the show in the direction that would free her from the prison of pretend. With him on her side, she could tell Allison the truth without risking everyone’s careers.
Or he might be a tremendous risk. What did she really know of him? A man trying to rebuild his career and reputation in the foodie world after losing his up-and-coming establishment was an unknown threat. And knowledge was power.
“You’re frowning.” Luke’s voice cut into her thought parade.
“What’s going on?”
How did he do that, break into her thoughts? “Nothing. Just relaxing my face before M demands I smile.”
Luke stiffened as a second wave rocked the boat. “Could she have hired a flakier photographer?”
Above them on the walkway, M swept his hands in the air as if trying to rearrange light, his minions trailing after him, whispering his brilliance.
Raul stuck a megaphone to his lips. “Chefs, take up the oars and pretend to row.” The assistant air-rowed as if Joy and Luke might be new to words like oar and pretend.
“This is the stupidest thing I have ever done,” Luke growled, sitting forward, his legs spread, slowly dipping his oar in the air above the water.
Joy put a bit of pretend muscle into her stroke. “Comedy is part of our show too. Let loose. Have fun.”
“This is not comedy. This is humiliation.”
Garth and Reba drifted by in their own boat, with cameras rolling. Joy waved. Luke ducked behind his oar. “If my friends see this, I’ll never be able to show my face in a Manhattan restaurant again.”
M was shimmying and waving again. Raul megaphoned, “M wants you to stand and fight with the oars like they’re swords.”
“What? No.” Luke jumped up too fast, holding his oar over his head, tipping his balance stern side. “Allison, come on.”
“Stop, Luke.” Joy skimmed the water with her oar and splashed him. “You’re ruining M’s aura.”
M flailed his arms with abandon, and Raul interpreted through the megaphone. “What are you doing? You’re poisoning the karma after M so graciously picked out all the negativity.”
“I told you.”
“If I had any karma, M would be suffocating on mine.”
“Luke, Joy!” Allison had a megaphone? Joy wanted one. “Do as M says. We want to accent the two of you, your personalities, your conflict but common essence.”
“And what about my personality is accented by a fake oar fight with Joy?”
M ducked behind the camera. “Hurry, M is losing the right light,” Raul called.
“Just the light? Not his last marble? Can we at least get real swords?”
“Oar up, Redmond.” Joy rode her boat like balancing on a seesaw. “Spar with me.”
“I’d like to spar with someone. But not you.” He winked, his first show of merriment.
Steady, girl. He’s a friend. A colleague. And a potentially huge career risk. “Oar up.” Wall up.
“I’ve done a lot of dumb things in my day,” Luke muttered, swinging a
t Joy, struggling to stay balanced. “But this is just insane.”
“Give yourselves to it,” Raul beckoned. “Let the inner conflict and energy out, people.”
“En garde.” Joy thrust and parlayed.
The clack of wood vibrated across the water. Then another. Luke was swinging, fighting. His skiff swayed and dipped. Was he forgetting he stood on the water?
“Luke?”
His oar smashed hers with an air-splitting crack. Joy’s oar broke from her hand and spiraled into the air. On instinct, she lunged for the paddle, banging her shin against the rim of the skiff, and plunged headfirst into the river, disappearing beneath the surface.
“Joy?” Luke hung over the side of his boat, parting the water with his hands until she surfaced. “Are you okay?” He offered her his hand.
“It’s okay. Not the first time I’ve gone overboard.” With a glint in her heart, Joy slipped her hand into his and with a quick, firm tug, propelled him over her head into the river. He parted the waters with a satisfying splash, surfacing after a long moment, sputtering, shaking the water from his hair.
“What’s the matter with you?” he groused, shaking the water from his face as he reached up to cup his hands on Joy’s head, propelling her under.
Gripping his wrists, she pulled herself to the surface, breaking into the warm midmorning air, gasping and laughing. “You think you can?”
His eyes locked with hers as his hands moved down her back. Oh Luke, don’t . . . don’t kiss me. She slipped her hands up his arms to his shoulders. Beneath the water she trembled.
“Joy?”
“Luke?” In an instant, she popped her hands onto his head and buried him under the water. When he surfaced—his head back, his mouth wide-open, gasping for air—a high and tight singsong, almost shrill voice filled the air. It was M speaking.
“Brilliant, yes. Finally, brilliant!”
“All right, folks, this is the first teaser for TruReality.” Ryan called the set to order from his director’s booth. “Joy, we’re rolling, so start whenever you’re ready.”
“Hey, friends, I’m Joy Ballard, host of Dining with Joy. This fall, spend your Thursday nights with me beginning September twenty-fourth. We’re going to have a blast entertaining you while making you yearn for smell-o-vision with our delectable recipes. Chef Luke Redmond joins me as cohost this season.” He entered stage right, stopping just behind her right shoulder. “We’d love to hear from you. Visit us at DiningwithJoy.com. Find out all the ways you, our viewers and friends, can be a part of turning Dining with Joy into TruReality.”
