Dining with Joy

by Rachel Hauck

  “I’ll pick up some peppers, onions, and mushrooms. We can cook them on the grill in tinfoil. And I have a great seasoning for wedge potatoes . . . Do you have chili powder at home?”

  “Chili powder? Sure. I mean, who doesn’t?” Joy lifted her wallet from her purse. “Luke, let me give you money. You’re invited to our house for lunch.”

  “Forget it. Red practically invited himself. Meet you at your house in an hour or so.”

  Red tipped his hat at Joy.

  Once the Spit Fire exited the parking lot, Red in the passenger seat holding on to his hat, Joy whistled and called for the girls and sprinted for the truck. Once they were in the cab and buckled up, she shot out of the church parking lot.

  “Where are we going?” Lyric asked, hand jutting out to hang onto the dash.

  “Bi-Lo.” It was the opposite direction of Publix. “Lyric, get Granny on the phone. Annie-Rae, take the bulletin out of my Bible and start a list on the back. Write at the top ‘tinfoil and chili powder.’”

  Lunch under the canopy of swinging Spanish moss went in Luke’s memory book as a perfect day, despite the fact that Red had insisted on manning the grill (“Give you young cook-show hosts a break.”), firing the meat until it was cowhide tough.

  Luke covered the well-done burgers with a blue cheese sauce stirred together in Rosie’s kitchen. By the time Lyric begged off to be with her friends and Annie-Rae went inside to read, the table had been picked clean.

  “Rosie, I’ve been looking at them trees along the creek.” Red motioned toward the back of the yard, wielding a toothpick between his teeth. “You need to trim them back or they’re going to take over.”

  “Now, Red, there is nothing wrong with those trees.” Rosie led him away, pointing here, then there, with arching, sweeping gestures.

  “If she listens to him, she’ll have the whole yard torn up by nightfall.” Luke slipped onto the table next to Joy, his feet flat on the wooden bench seat.

  “I don’t know . . . Mama’s the yard queen around here.” Joy peered up at him. “Your sauce saved the day. Thank you.”

  “I’d planned to make it anyway. Didn’t know we’d need it so desperately.”

  “Thanks for letting Annie-Rae help. She loves the kitchen.” Joy propped her arms on her thighs, the ends of her ponytail dusting her shoulders.

  “So what’s the deal with her parents being in Las Vegas?” While she stirred the sauce for him, Annie-Rae had chatted about her daddy and mama getting “good jobs” in Las Vegas and buying a house.

  “My brother, Sawyer, and his wife, Mindy, married in college, had Lyric before they graduated, and by the time Annie-Rae came along five and a half years later, Mindy’d had enough. She was a trained dancer and tried to find an outlet with troupes in Charleston and Savannah, but last year she hung up motherhood and headed to Vegas. My brother followed her a few months later.”

  “Your nieces mean a lot to you, don’t they?” Luke etched the moment in his mind when Joy didn’t seem so guarded, and later, when all was quiet, he’d write the impression to his heart.

  “We’re all they have. They’re family. My girls.” Joy shifted back, propping her hands on the table behind her, crossing her legs and letting her flip-flop dangle from her toes. “Next to hosting the show, they are my life.”

  Oh boy. Luke exhaled as he gazed toward the creek, squinting toward the refracted light, trying to burn away the soft silhouette of her tanned, sculpted legs lingering in his mind. Think of other things, like fishing, worms. Baseball. Burnt meat. His father, her mother talking twenty yards away. Cold, snowy winters. The cold walk-in at the Frogmore.

  “. . . what’s crazy is Mindy ended up getting a dancing gig in a show, which led to my brother being hired on as the customer service manager for the hotel.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “For them. But, Luke, they don’t write or call. They don’t send money. And Lyric wears all the rejection right here.” Joy patted her arm. “She’s pretty bitter.”

  “And Annie?”

  “She’s the pleaser and peacemaker.” Joy slid off the table and started collecting the ketchup and mustard, tucking the pickles and relish under her arm. “I think she gets what’s going on somehow, in a deep, intangible way. She understands. It’s a gift, I think.”

  “She’s blessed. Say, I was thinking of a new recipe last night. An Italian sausage dish in a béchamel sauce. I think your frat boy fans would love it. Easy, rich, and tasty. You want to work it up and—”

  “No, no,” she tucked the pepper mill under her arm, “sounds like you have it under control. Go ahead. In fact, you can take one of my segments this week. You only had one—”

  “It’s really simple, Joy. We could do it together.”

  “I’m not a big Italian sausage fan.” When she looked up at him, she smiled her television smile. “You can do a guys-to-guys recipe corner.”

  “Why don’t you want to do it? The college men would much rather—”

  “Because, Luke . . . what’s the big deal? Your idea. Your segment. I have plenty to do.” She crammed a stack of napkins onto the load in her arms. “Do you want to cohost or not?”

  “Sure, sure. I’ll do it.” What just happened here? The tone from the churchyard returned. Watching her, the breeze scented with rain, odd images and conversations from the past month started connecting.

  The Water Festival cook-off . . . she’d left the work to him . . . her insistence about no competitions . . . a rider to her contract . . . Andy’s baritone Do you know about Joy? . . . Ryan’s quick, hard-edged “cut” fifteen seconds into Joy’s cooking segments, then Sharon appearing with the finished sauce or cooked noodles or browned meat.

  “The peppers and onions cooked up nice on the grill. That was a great idea.” Joy started for the back porch. “You’d better get Red and head on out. It’s late.”

  “Joy—”

  The clap of the screen door reverberated across the yard and echoed over the creek.

  Fourteen

  On a Manhattan Tuesday morning, right in the heart of Broadway, Allison waited in Bette Hudson’s office while her friend and mega talk show host greeted touring school children.

  She relished the quiet moment to breathe out and assess the last ten days. They were a blur in her mind. Reshooting Luke’s segments, then shooting the fourth show, editing with Ryan every evening and the weekend to get the shows ready for the test audience.

  “Sorry, Allison.” The dark-eyed, dark-skinned Bette breezed into her office and perched on the edge of her desk. “So, your girl is going to be on my show.”

  “And I’m grateful.” Allison reached up to hug her old friend. “But don’t think this makes us even. You still owe me a few.”

  “I don’t know, Allison, I only book A-listers and a president or two, not up-and-coming cooking show hosts.”

  “And who convinced you to syndicate?” Allison enjoyed the camaraderie of the moment. Two old showbiz friends swapping stories.

  “If that’s the case, I’ll owe you the rest of my life.” Bette walked to the bookcase behind her desk and tugged on a red bound book. A refrigerator door opened. She took out two waters and handed one to Allison. “I saw the YouTube clip of your girl Joy kissing the chef. Thought my screen was going to combust. Can we have him on too? I’d love to have that chemistry on the show.”

  Allison twisted the cap off her water and took a long sip, considering the request. This was Bette Hudson asking, not some lowly talent coordinator or producer. “Luke’s good, Bette, but he’s not ready for your show. Joy can run with your A-listers and presidents, probably outshine half of them, but Luke’s new to television. He’s more chef than entertainer right now.”

  “So what? Any man who looks that good can come on the show and just sit by me.” Bette patted the surface of her mahogany desk. “Maybe I’ll fake a cook-off and see if he won’t kiss me like he kissed Joy.”

  “She kissed him. That’s what made it so sen
sational.”

  “Maybe she kissed him first, but he definitely kissed her back. I’m getting all hot and bothered just talking about it.”

  “He’s not ready for prime time, Bette.” Allison glared at her. Hear what I’m saying to you.

  “Then we’ll just play the YouTube clip.” Bette swung around her desk and folded into the leather chair etched with a B. “Did I hear you’re working a book deal too?”

  “For a cookbook. This is my year. My twenty-five-year overnight success has arrived.”

  “Dan Greene giving you a hard time?”

  “No, but he says you’re giving him one. Won’t put on any of his other reality hosts.”

  “Bring me more like Joy and I will.”

  Allison slipped a paper across the desk to Bette. “I’ll fax one of these to your assistant, but I wanted you to see Joy’s rider. Anything you see that doesn’t work for you? She’s hilarious and comedic, but skittish about a few things. Has a minor phobia.”

  “Only one? Allison, I have superstars on my show who think the world turns on their axis. We’ve booked superstitious athletes. The guests who want white walls with white furniture and white towels and white water, if you can believe it. A small request from your girl won’t bother us a bit.” Bette came around the desk to embrace her. “You know I’m glad to do this for you, friend. Your success means my success.”

  Allison kissed her fingertips. “From your lips to God’s ears.”

  “See you in September.”

  Out of Bette’s office, Allison hurried toward the elevators. She’d cut it close on her meeting with the publisher. But their office wasn’t far and, depending on traffic, she’d arrive on time.

  “Allison Wild.”

  She turned to see Wenda Divine catwalking toward her. Allison pushed the Down elevator button.

  “How are you? I’d forgotten your studio was in this building.”

  “How’s it going on Dining with Joy?” Wenda glanced toward Bette’s office.

  “If it goes any better, I won’t be able to stand it. We’re on The Bette Hudson Show the afternoon before our premiere.”

  “Well, well, aren’t you blessed?” Wenda tapped her foot in two-two time.

  “I suppose we are.” The elevator arrived with a ping. Allison stepped into the car. “Have a great season, Wenda.”

  “Allison.” Wenda slammed her hand against the closing door. “I’m surprised you’re carrying on the charade. Someone of your caliber usually demands more from their talent.”

  “What are you talking about?” Allison searched her eyes, scanned her expression. No wonder Joy refused to deal with her.

  “Oh my gosh. Is she really that good?” Wenda folded her arms and had some kind of triumphant expression on her face. “Allison, Joy Ballard can’t cook.”

  “Oh, now, Wenda, I would think someone of your caliber wouldn’t stoop so low.” The door closed and the elevator jerked, descending down, taking Allison away from Wenda’s echoing cackle.

  Monday morning Joy doodled with a number two pencil in the margin of her notepad as Allison recapped her trip to New York.

  Across the table, Luke stirred, restless. During the week in the studio without Allison, they’d worked long hours to tape two more shows, keeping the air between them professional.

  Ever since the picnic, Joy fought the urge to blurt out the truth. She’d even consulted Mama about it. She was tired of hiding, tired of turning cold every time Luke mentioned food, tired of suspecting him. Did he know? Was he trying to trap her?

  If she had been reading about her predicament in a romance novel, she’d be tempted to scream at the heroine and toss the book across the room. Just tell him, stupid girl!

  But her life wasn’t a novel. Nor did her emotions comply with formulaic story structure. She had no author penning courage into her heart. No plot plan to show her it’d all work out in the end. If she told Luke, she’d be all but quitting. No, she had to play this out. Her way.

  “Bette Hudson’s excited to have you on the show, Joy. I sent your rider to her assistant and she was almost giddy. No live cooking competition? That’s it? Some of their celebrity guests are pretty outthere with requests. Though I do think we should consider helping you work past that phobia. Luke, maybe you can work with Joy?”

  “She can manage fine without me.”

  “I can.” She shot him a fast glance. “And I’m not a celebrity with big demands, Allison. Give me a few more seasons and I’ll celeb it up for y’all. Get a little dog, dress it in pink, carry it in a Louis Vuitton, and demand filet for dinner. For the dog, of course. For me, a lettuce salad, no dressing.”

  “Not our humble Joy,” Sharon said, laughing.

  Joy smiled at Sharon. The thirty-seven-year-old mother of two had been one of the voices of reason encouraging Joy to take her father’s place when he died so suddenly. No one wanted the show to end.

  Not even the dying Charles Ballard. Do the show for me, Joy. Please.

  No, Joy couldn’t tell Luke. She’d have to work this one day, one show, one segment at a time.

  “But here’s the biggest news.” Allison held a small bundle of papers to her chest, looking proud and pleased. “This season gets better and better. We’re publishing a cookbook.” She held out two folders to Joy and Luke. “Your contracts.”

  “Luke?” Sharon surged forward, checking Allison’s folder. “How’d he get in on this deal? He’s only been on the show five weeks. The Dining with Joy recipes are mine . . . and . . . and Joy’s . . . and her father’s.”

  “Actually, they belong to the show,” Allison said. “I know this is last minute, but the publisher and Wild Woman really want to take advantage of all the promo TruReality is launching for the show, so Joy, Luke, I need you to get to work right away on the cookbook. We go to press mid-October, to be in stores by Christmas.”

  Sharon sliced the air with a knifing glance toward Joy. Hold it together, Sharon. Joy cleared her throat. “This is great, Allison, but I really think Sharon should work on the cookbook with me. She’s right, the show’s recipes were developed before Luke joined the show. And we’ve only done four of his recipes.”

  So far, he’d not even picked up the contract Allison shuffled over to him. Ryan checked with him visually, Luke nodded, and Ryan picked up the contract.

  “Luke, are you good with the extra time to work on a cookbook? Are you still working at the Frogmore on Saturdays? You might need the weekends to test recipes.”

  “I think Joy’s right.” He shifted in his chair and shoved his coffee mug to the center of the table. “The recipes need to come from previous shows. I’m too new. I’ll contribute two of the four I’ve already done.”

  “What? And leave my backside open for litigation? No, no, you’re part of the package, Luke. The publisher and TruReality want your name on the book. You’ll have almost fifteen recipes by season’s end. Go ahead and figure out what you want to do—shoot, even if we don’t use them on the show, they’ll be great for the book. Something new for the buyer. Joy, you can pull a few oldies from your dad. You can have Sharon help with that—”

  “Oh goody. I get to help.” Sharon angled over the table with an exaggerated posture, searched among the papers, coffee cups, and donut napkins. “Hmm, I don’t see my contract.”

  “In my office, in the filing cabinet, in the folder that has your name on it, there’s a contract that says you work for a salary plus bonus and that all recipes belong to the Dining with Joy show.” Allison stood tall with her hands on her hips, the midmorning light wrapping around her shoulders. “Joy and Luke will be the names and faces of the show this fall, the ones who will sell the book.” Allison bent to gather her notes and close her laptop. “The viewers don’t know Sharon Jobe. We’ll give you an inside byline if you want.”

  “Inside byline?” Sharon shot out of her chair, knocking it over. “I want a copyright.” She fired a visual at Joy. “And a sixty-forty split on the royalties.”

&nbs
p; Allison’s hazel eyes lit with her own firebreak. “I like confidence and boldness, Sharon, but you are out of line. This book deal is not on the table for negotiation. It’s my show, my call. Joy is the show’s star; Luke’s the host and a noted Manhattan restaurateur.”

  “Noted? His place bombed. I’m the foodie around here, Allison.” Sharon slapped her hand to her chest. “Me. I give us credibility.”

  “Is that right?” Allison picked up her phone, eyeing Sharon, challenging her. “So if I pick up my phone and call, oh, say, Wenda Divine, or the All Food Network, they’d know your name?”

  “Those recipes are mine.” Sharon trembled, shaking the hem of her bell sleeves.

  “Let’s just get to work, huh? Have a great show.” Allison left the table, heading for her office.

  Joy sat straight and stiff, her thoughts racing. Don’t do it, Sharon, don’t do it. She had to find a way around this before Sharon exploded the messy truth all over everyone.

  Meanwhile, the rest of the crew slumped around the table, chins tucked to chests. Ryan scrolled through files on his phone. Garth stared at the waving summer leaves. And Reba collected the wadded napkins and scooped donut icing from the table.

  “Traitors. All of you.” Sharon headed for the studio door, crashed it open, and hammered down the stairs.

  “Joy?” Ryan said, cutting a glance toward the stairs.

  “I’ll go get her. Give her a second to calm down.” And me time to think. She could tell Allison she wouldn’t do the cookbook without Sharon, but grandstanding didn’t win her any points with Allison. She’d just think Joy was caving to a temper tantrum.

  Joy could cut a side deal with Sharon and give her half her royalties.

  “Want to tell me what’s going on here?” Allison came out of her office, glancing at the open studio door, and stopped beside Ryan’s chair. “Sharon seems disproportionately upset.”

  “I think I’ll go see how the food prep is coming along.” Luke scooted away from the table, his heels resounding through the studio.

  “She’s had a long history with the show,” Ryan said, his eyes on Joy. “We’ve not done a cookbook before, for various reasons, and finally talked about it last spring. Sharon expected to be a big part.”