by Rachel Hauck
“Live to be a hundred.”
“Just to spite you.” Red chuckled, hooked his thumbs through his belt loops, and kicked at the dirt. During Luke’s life, he’d only known his dad to have two pairs of boots.
“This old truck running all right?” Luke patted the side panel.
“Better than any newfangled truck they got on the market today.”
“Call if you need anything.”
“Will you answer?”
Luke laughed. “I’ll answer. Miss Jeanne’s going to miss beating you at checkers.”
“She cheats.”
“So do you.”
Red sighed and gazed toward the western horizon, squinting as if he could see his route home through the trees. “What’s noodling you, boy?”
“Come again?” Luke tipped his head to see Red’s face. “Noodling me?”
“You been quiet.” Red shifted his gaze to Luke’s face. “It’s Joy, ain’t it?”
“Joy?” Luke scoffed, walked around, tugged open the tailgate, and sat. The hinges coughed in protest. “Now why would she bother me? I’ve just been thinking about the show, reviewing the script for Monday.”
“I haven’t seen you pine for a girl in a long time. It’s kind of nice.” Red slipped onto the tailgate next to Luke. “I remember the gal from tenth grade. What was her name? She has a big real estate company now. ‘Want to sell your home or business, come see . . .’ ?”
“Cara Collins.”
“Cara Collins.” Red popped his hands together. “That’s right.
Let me tell you, the years have been good to her.” His broad laugh shattered Luke’s narrow, distant memory of the solemn man who raised him after Mom died. “Joy’s a looker. Seems right sweet too.”
“Red? Good, I caught you in time.” Miss Jeanne stepped off the porch, a paper bag dangling from her hand. “You’re leaving without the snacks I made for you.”
Red’s eyes pleaded with Luke. Miss Jeanne had many talents, including tap dancing, but cooking wasn’t one of them.
“Stop grimacing, boys, it’s just Oreos and Goldfish crackers.”
Miss Jeanne shoved the bag at Red’s chest. “I’m going to miss you, you old coot. Something about you reminds me of my brother.” Her blue eyes misted. “He was killed in ’44 at Normandy.”
“Then I’m right proud to remind you of him, Jeanne.” Red patted the bag of goodies. “Thank you for these.”
Luke stood on the veranda with Miss Jeanne, watching Red go, missing him and the years that used to be.
“Make sure he gets to the doctor, will you?” Miss Jeanne tapped Luke’s arm as she turned for the door. “He looks peaked.”
“That’s what Mercy said.” But no word from Luke could make Red go to the doctor. He’d go when he was good and ready.
The screen door slammed behind Miss Jeanne as she went back inside. Luke eased down into one of the bentwood rockers and set it into motion, hearing Red’s accusation of pining.
No use lying to himself sitting here in the quiet of the veranda. He liked Joy. Maybe, maybe, he loved her. And if Red saw it, Luke imagined others did too.
Sixteen
Luke weaved his way through the cars and trucks parked helter-skelter on Bodean Good’s property. Shouts rose above the throng of voices melded in conversations. A beefy bass beat shook the ground and shimmied the veil of moonlight.
Red’s absence left a bit of a gap in Luke’s day. He’d cleaned his loft, did a load of laundry, then called the café to see if Andy needed him to work tonight after all. He didn’t.
By the time the pink glow of twilight settled over a Beaufort evening, Luke roamed Miss Jeanne’s, agitated and restless.
On impulse, he grabbed the Spit Fire keys, hollered “good night” to Miss Jeanne, and headed out, toying with the idea of wandering Joy’s way when Heath called.
“Come out to Bodean’s Mars versus Venus party.”
So that’s how Luke found himself at a field party where the women hung out on one side, Venus, and the men loitered on the other, Mars.
Luke slowed as he came to a Y in the tiki-lit path, glancing toward the Venus neon sign hanging from the trunk of a skinny pine. Strings of white lights swung from the lower tree branches, and he strained through the glare in hopes of spotting Joy.
The awkward ending to their Sunday barbecue spilled into the last two weeks of work. She avoided him except during taping, where she powered up her charm. Her ability to separate professional from personal was impressive.
Luke didn’t want to separate professional from personal. He’d decided to plow ahead and confront her, find out what he’d said that was so offensive when Allison announced the cookbook deal. When Sharon quit, Joy huddled up with the crew, leaving Luke to watch from the outside.
“Cousin, you made it.” Heath strolled toward Luke from the Mars side of the party and offered Luke a golden brown bottle. An icy root beer.
“Exactly where have I arrived? I’ve attended high school dances with more boy-girl interaction.” The sweet soda soaked the parched patches of Luke’s throat.
“In an hour the Martians will tire of playing their corn hole games and make their way toward Venus.” Heath motioned to a circle of chairs under the canopy of twin live oaks. “The girls have all the food.”
“Among other things.” Luke grinned and took another cool swig. “You’d think women would figure it out. They have it. We want it. Men are completely at their mercy.”
“Hush, man, you’re breaking the male code of silence.” Heath tipped back in his chair, balancing on the back legs, and raised his bottle at his passing wife. “Next dance is ours, Elle.”
She gave Heath a quick, soft kiss as she passed, continuing on with her friends.
Would Joy be at the end of Elle’s journey? Luke lost sight of her as she moved through the crowd and into the lights.
“Never thought I’d fall in love again after Ava died.” Heath sat forward, the dew of his cold soda bottle dripping to the ground. “I just wanted to survive, take care of Tracey-Love and somehow get through the nights without Ava. Then the mornings, then the afternoons and the nights again.”
“I’m still waiting for the first time.” Actually, Luke had been in love once. With Ami’s. With the adrenaline of owning a five-star restaurant, with the fantasy of being one of America’s great chefs. But ambition was a cruel, stingy lover.
“Ah, come on, you’ve been in love.” Heath tipped up his bottle. “What happened to the woman you introduced to Elle and me when we visited you in New York last year?”
“Tessa? The actress.” She’d endured longer than his other three girlfriends. She put up with his obsessive work habits, indulged his love affair with the business, listened to his diatribes about vendors and lackluster profits. She even hired on at Ami’s part-time just to be with him. “She bolted when the bankruptcy started, and I didn’t blame her.”
“What about that one over there?” Heath pointed to his left, drawing Luke’s attention across the field and through a cluster of trees.
In the blue, red, and green hue of the plywood dance-floor lights, Luke spied Joy chatting to a walking-talking muscle in a deputy’s uniform.
“Brrrr.” Luke exaggerated a shiver.
“Really? I thought you two were hitting it off.”
“We were. A couple of Sundays ago we had this great, spontaneous picnic at her place with Red, Rosie, and her nieces. We were talking, sharing, then I brought up a recipe idea for her to do on the show and bam! She slammed the door.” Luke glanced at Heath. “It’s been icy ever since.”
The music wafting from the stage softened, and Elle appeared from the shadows to tug her husband to the dance floor.
Heath handed his empty bottle to Luke. “Duty calls.”
Luke drained his soda in one guzzle, then returned both bottles to the crate. He moved across the mowed field toward the dance floor, the moon and music his wingmen. The heady scent of sunbaked grass escaped the ground whe
re his feet broke over the grass.
About twenty yards away, Joy still engaged the deputy, laughing, flirting. Since when did deputies moonlight as comedians? Then the lawman gestured toward the dance floor.
Smiling, Joy backed up, shaking her head. That-a-girl. The deputy tried again. She refused and patted his arm, turning away. When the deputy cupped his hand around her waist, Joy spun free and glided away.
Luke moved into her path. “I thought I might have to step in to rescue you.”
“From J.D.? He’s harmless enough.” She buried her hands in the folds of her skirt. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard there was a party.” The fragrance of warm cotton permeated the air around her. Luke appreciated the way her pale yellow dress fit her curves and accented her auburn hair. “Red left today and Andy didn’t need me at the café . . .”
He cleared his throat and reached for her elbow. “May I have this dance?”
Joy molded into his arms, resting her cheek against the plump of his chest. His hand warmed the small of her back. She found it difficult to remain professional toward him.
“I’m sorry, Luke, about the picnic.” She tipped back her head to see his face. “I just . . .” What? What did she just . . . ?
“It’s okay. I can be pushy.”
She leaned against him again and followed his sway to the music as the band’s lead singer crooned a George Strait cover, “You Look So Good in Love.”
Luke pressed her closer. Joy softened her posture when she inhaled the warm, woodsy scent slipping through the fibers of his shirt.
You look so good in love. . .
She should tell him. Just confess. Sharon had relented on her threat to quit and shown up for work this past week, her cheery old self. But Joy didn’t trust the dark light in her eyes.
Stop thinking about the show. She was ruining the moment— dancing on a warm, starry night in the arms of a handsome man. Besides, really, if Luke hadn’t figured out she can’t cook yet, maybe he was too dumb to be on the show.
Luke ran his fingers along the hot texture of her neck, and Joy surrendered to the sensation of being wanted. When the song faded, she raised her face to his. You can kiss me.
“Can I ask you something?” He brushed her hair from her eyes with gentle strokes.
“A–a question?” She swallowed her desire. “While the breeze carries a George Strait tune? Even the stars are dancing.”
The band moved into another slow, melodic song and the floor lights dimmed.
“Joy, if you can’t . . .” He paused, letting the silence fill in the blank. “Will you let me teach you?”
She eased out of his arms. “Can’t what? What are you asking me, Luke?” Her heart thumped at this moment of truth. Did she really want him to know? She’d not calculated his possible response.
“Ever since the picnic, something’s been bugging me, but I didn’t know what . . .” He looked at her, eyes narrowed, hands on his belt.
She could almost hear his thoughts cranking. “Luke, what’s going on? You’re making me nervous.”
He grabbed her hand and led her off the dance floor to a secluded area behind the trees. “Can you cook, Joy? It’s the only thing I can think of that makes sense. Even when Andy asked me—”
“Andy? W–what did he say?” After her first season, Joy worked her off-season at the Frogmore, and Andy took his turn at teaching her to cook.
“He asked me if ‘I knew.’ Then he and Russell had a good laugh about something.”
“C–can I cook? What kind of question is that?” Stop, just surrender. He’s opening the door for you. He’s asking. But she’d protected the truth for so long she found it excruciating to confess. “You had me lip to lip, Luke.” Her words trembled. “You could’ve kissed me and you asked me about cooking?”
“Am I right, Joy?” He regarded her, intense, demanding.
“The boys would banish you from Mars if they knew you asked me about cooking when you could’ve been kissing.” Joy cut around him and maneuvered through the trees toward Venus. Toward safety.
“Answer the question, and I’ll kiss the breath right out of you.”
Luke’s voice lassoed her and she whirled around to face him. “I’ll keep the air I breathe, thank you very much.” But she found it difficult to inhale deep and fill her lungs.
“Your cooking segments are always out of time.” He walked slowly toward her, speaking as if more and more clues dawned. “Sharon does, or did, all of your cooking but only preps for me. I cook on set. You assemble, then she appears with the finished product. She went ballistic when Allison brought up the cookbook. Your pantry is full of microwavable food and Chef Boyardee.”
She shivered as he neared, stopping in front of her to peer into her eyes. Confess, Joy. Be set free. Yes, yes, it’s true. I can’t cook. I can’t. But the words crumbled back down to her soul once they reached the dry edge of her throat. It was as if her tongue didn’t know how.
And oh, what would he think of her? How could she bear to see the reflection of her shame in his eyes?
“I don’t need this.” She spun around, but he moved in front of her and blocked her way.
“I can teach you.” Calm. Undaunted. Sincere.
“Teach me what?” She faced him, arms crossed, shoulders squared. “You said yourself that cooking professionally kills the joy of cooking at home—thus my microwavable pantry.”
“Okay, then do you cook professionally? On the set? At fairs and festivals? Did you fall off the Omaha stage to get away from Wenda?”
She laughed, bending back, patting her belly. Didn’t know what else to do. “Oh, this is rich. Fall off a stage to get away from Wenda? Do you think I’m crazy too?”
“No, I don’t. I think . . .” He sighed. “I can teach you.” He spoke like a game show contestant, giving her clues, offering hints, waiting for her to spit out the answer.
But he didn’t understand the real issue. No one could teach her. Not Daddy the summer of ’96, not Sharon the fall of ’07 or the winter of ’08. Not Andy and Russell. “Thanks for the dance, Luke.” She turned toward Venus with a long, leaving stride.
“We can start with the recipes for the cookbook. I bet you know more than you think—”
“Luke, stop. Just stop.” She nosed herself under his expression.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“What are you afraid of, Joy?”
“What am I afraid of?” She angled away from him. “At the moment, you.”
Seventeen
Sunday afternoon Joy drifted along the creek behind her house with her best friends since ninth grade, Elle and Caroline. The sun drifted westward leaving behind a burnished wake.
Anchored near the shady side of cypress and pine, Joy released the remnant of her argument last night with Luke with the gentle swell of the boat under the Atlantic’s distant tide.
In the aft, Elle was pillowed against the extra life jackets and sketched, her pencil making a staccato scraping sound on the paper. Her golden hair was thick around her face, infused with the heat in the air and the moisture off the water.
Caroline lay in the middle, on the boat’s bottom, with an etched smile on her face, her hands cradled around her belly like she’d just eaten the biggest steak at Outback.
“Joy, you’ve sighed three times. What’s up?” Elle continued sketching, adjusting her sunglasses to keep her hair from her eyes.
“Just letting go of all the little nasties.” She pinched the air over her body like M did that day by the dock.
“It’s going to be all right, Joy. I feel it.” Elle’s sense could be trusted. She’d spent the last two years honing her spiritual ear in a seven a.m. prayer meeting, six days a week. Touching heaven gifted Elle to bring a bit of its pure light to earth’s dark souls.
“Luke knows.”
Caroline lifted her head. Elle set aside her sketch pad. “What? How?”
“How? He’s with me on the
set, Elle. He’s helped Annie-Rae nuke her SpaghettiOs. Peeked into my pantry. He’s astute and clever. He asked me straight-out.”
“Well, finally, you can confess. It’s hard keeping this secret, Joy. The more famous you get, the harder it will be.”
“I wanted to tell him, I opened my mouth, but the words never came.” Joy propped her chin in her hands. Elle shared a stove with Joy in their tenth-grade cooking class. She’d been the first to witness her utter lack of skill and prowess in the kitchen. She’d been the first to see the smoke rising from the oven door.
“Joy, you’ve always said you’d confess if someone asked you straight-out. Why didn’t you just admit it?”
“Because—” Joy stood so the boat dipped deep from starboard to port side. “Then what? I keep thinking if I have a little bit more time, I can execute my plan to gradually move the cooking to Luke. The truth won’t need to come out.”
“You should tell him.” Elle, plain, simple. Right. “You said he asked outright.”
Joy squinted at her. “He’ll hate me.” The boat had drifted to the edge of the shade and into the four o’clock sunlight.
“Why would Luke hate you, Joy?” Caroline spoke in a slow drawl, her eyes still closed, her words airy and soft.
“Gee, I don’t know, Caroline. Because I’ve been faking a career as a foodie. Elle, how would you feel if a new artist getting a lot of press didn’t do her own painting? Caroline, what if the latest country star was pulling a Milli Vanilli and outselling Mitch?”
“Angry.”
“Cheated.”
“Exactly.” Joy sat back down and curled against the bow. “Look, we came out here to relax. Talking about this stirs me up. Caroline, are you looking forward to the fall tour with Mitch?”
“Hold on, Joy.” Elle cut the air with her hand. “I just want to say you can trust Luke. He’s not going to hate you or steal the show.”
“He’s not good enough on camera to steal the show.” Joy pictured him on set, so tall and formal, but so smooth and proficient when preparing a dish. “Which makes the truth all the more ugly. He’s trying to rebuild his career, get his life back on track, and who is he working with? A poser.”
