Dining with Joy

by Rachel Hauck

  “Seems to me you need each other.” Caroline smoothed her hand over Joy’s foot. “If he knows, or thinks he knows, you’re not going to be able to hide it much longer. He’ll be watching you.”

  “So . . . I should just . . . tell him.” It sounded so simple. Joy scooped her fingers through her hair and wished God would give her a do-over. A rewind back to the day Duncan told her the news. Besides, if Sharon decided this week the whole cookbook deal was indeed unfair and quit, the entire game changed.

  “Give him a chance, Joy. Pray, ask the Lord to show you clearly what you need to do and say.”

  “Is it really that easy, Elle?” Joy absorbed her friend’s wisdom, her heart reaching through the textured, warm day toward Jesus. “All right, enough about me. Someone else please share.”

  The breeze rippled the creek’s surface and the boat slipped from sun back to shade.

  “I’m pregnant,” Caroline announced sweet and soft, her tenor colored with pastel emotions.

  “Oh my gosh.” Joy rose up. “Caroline.”

  “When? . . . How long? . . . I can’t believe it.” Elle lunged over the bench seat, her bracelets clattering, and collapsed on her friend. “You’re going to be a mom.”

  “I’m know.” Caroline’s voice warbled. “And I’m terrified.” She lay still, as if any movement might frighten her child.

  Caroline sputtered, laughing, finally opening her eyes. “I want a girl.” She gripped Elle’s hand. “Like you.” Then Joy’s. “And you.”

  Joy rolled forward to brush Caroline’s wind-tossed hair from her eyes. “No, sweetie, like you.”

  For a while they talked babies. Elle whispered she and Heath were prepared for Tracey-Love to be their only child.

  “I want a baby, but not so bad that I force it, you know? That’s me.”

  “What about you, Joy?” Caroline asked. “Marriage, babies? Are you over Tim?”

  “Tim? Tim who? It’s been seven years. Give me some credit.” Joy smiled and squeezed Caroline’s hand before letting go. “I want to get married, but how can I when I’m living this lie?”

  “Trust Luke.”

  Joy laughed. “You make it sound like I want to marry him.”

  “Come on, Joy, don’t tell me your heart doesn’t go pitter-patter every time Luke walks on the set.” Elle gently shoved Joy’s shoulder.

  Maybe, a little. “You’re the reduction sauce of romance, Elle. Just put it out there.”

  “Reduction sauce? Do you even know what a reduction sauce is?”

  “Please, I may be clumsy in the kitchen, perhaps started a few fires, but I can remember technical details.” Joy dotted the air with her finger. “A reduction sauce is when you reduce.”

  Elle laughed. “I think six-year-old Tracey-Love could’ve figured out that one.”

  “It’s when you boil all the . . . you know, stuff . . . down to a thick . . .” She twirled her hand in the air. “Sauce.”

  “Boil what stuff?” Elle, little rat, just had to push.

  “The ingredients.”

  “What ingredients?”

  “Your smart-aleck questions, that’s what ingredients.”

  “You know nothing about reduction sauces.” Elle settled back in her seat, snickering. “Nothing.”

  “Sounds like it’s time for five things,” Caroline said, raising her hand, halting the banter.

  She was right. It was time for five things. Caroline was pregnant. Elle was coming to terms with infertility, and Joy might be free from the lie. Maybe even open to love.

  “Caroline, you go first. What five things are you thankful for today?” Joy gathered her soul and opened her heart to listen.

  “The miracle of life.” She patted her belly. “Mitch, his love and music. The feathery breeze. You two. This old Bluecloud skiff.” She knocked the floor of the boat.

  “Oh, me too,” Elle said. “I love this old boat. Smells and all.”

  “I told you not to sit on those life jackets.”

  “I’m grateful for Caroline, who points out all my flaws,” Elle said.

  “What are friends for?”

  “And for my Heath, who brought me the daughter of my heart, Tracey-Love. For this old sketch pad I found yesterday. For the gift of painting, and for Joy, the bravest person I know.”

  Brave? Oh, she was the opposite of brave. She personified coward.

  “Joy, what are your five things?” Caroline said.

  She shifted her position, reclining, propping her arms on the side of the skiff, watching the dolphin’s fin break the surface of the water.

  “My friends, Elle and Caroline, but that’s a given. My job and what it’s given to my family.” She brushed away the broken bit of twig that landed on her leg. “I’m grateful for Mama, and the girls. Even in the busyness, they make the house a home. And I’m grateful for second chances. May there always be one waiting in the wings.”

  “That’s only four.” Elle motioned to Joy by waving her hand. “Come on. One more.”

  “Luke. I’m grateful for Luke.”

  During the Monday morning production meeting, Joy’s gaze wandered between Luke and Sharon’s empty chair. Where was she? Never late, she always sat at the head of the table with her tall latte and coffee cake.

  “First order of the day.” Allison set her laptop at the head of the table. “Sharon’s resignation. She called me last night.”

  Joy rose to her feet. “What? Why? She was happy last week. Didn’t you promise her a spring cookbook, Allison? Or more money?”

  “I’m not going to play her game, Joy. Frankly, if she feels that strongly, then I need to let her go. Is that okay with you?”

  Joy settled down under Allison’s laser stare. “She deserved more consideration is all.” She let the truth beneath her chest simmer toward a boil. Ryan shifted and cleared his throat, and when Joy peered at him, he cut her a sharp glance.

  I know, I know. I have to do something.

  “Have you started on the cookbook?” Allison checked with Joy, then Luke. “The publisher set the deadline for October fifteenth.

  But they’d like a look-see as soon as possible so they can start conceptualizing cover and design. How’s it going?”

  “Slow.”

  “We’re getting together tonight,” Luke said as if it were true.

  “We’ll be ready.”

  “Good, good. Also, I’m searching for a new food prep and recipe developer to replace Sharon. But, Luke, you’re fine to take up some of the slack, right?”

  “Fine with me.”

  “Excellent, I love a team player. Joy, why don’t you write out a schedule for the cookbook so we can know what to expect. Shouldn’t be too hard to collect the recipes since we already have them on the server.” She paused. “And I checked last Friday after Sharon left. Still there. So I suppose you two just need to make sure all the ingredients and instructions are correct. Don’t be shy about bringing any botched recipes into the studio. I make a good guinea pig.”

  When the meeting ended, Joy headed for her office. Luke followed, shutting the door behind him.

  “Guess this means you’re going to have to speak to me.”

  “Guess it does. Love the way you jumped in and promised we’d work tonight.” Joy dropped her phone and notepad on her desk.

  “My house? Seven o’clock?”

  “Are we going to be friends through this, or are you going to have an attitude?”

  “I won’t have an attitude, no.” Joy, let go. Crash and burn already.

  “See you at seven?” Luke backed toward the door. “I’ll bring the recipes I’m doing this fall. Want to do, rather. Subject to Allison’s—”

  “And my—”

  “Approval. Of course, you too.”

  When he was gone, Joy collapsed into her chair, dropping her forehead to her desk. This had to end. At least with Luke. She had to tell him. Without Sharon around to cover for her, he’d confirm his solid suspicion. Sooner or later, the thing she po
ssessed would possess her. If it didn’t already.

  Luke, you’re right, I can’t cook. Can’t. But I never said I could, not really. I burn things, but cook, not so much. Good eye to pick up those nuances too.

  “Joy?” Allison entered without knocking. Joy bolted upright. “Head on the desk? Are you okay?” She set a piece of paper in front of her.

  “Didn’t sleep well last night.” Joy brushed her hand over the water on her cheeks. “What’s this?” Smiling as much as her heart could muster, she scanned the paper Allison brought in.

  “Schedule for Bette’s show. I e-mailed it to you, but I like to pass out printed copies just in case e-mail goes haywire. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m really excited about this show.”

  “Yeah, me too.” Joy scanned the New York itinerary. “It’s a great opportunity for us.” She and Allison arrived in New York on Tuesday for a dinner meeting and photo op with TruReality execs. Wednesday, she’d guest on the seven o’clock hour of The Morning Show. Afterward, they would have lunch with the publisher followed by an afternoon with the media. Thursday, she’d tape The Bette Hudson Show.

  “Strap in, Joy, we’re going Mach 10 Premiere Week and not landing until spring.” Allison exited Joy’s office, then stepped back in, concern in her eyes. “I just happened to think. Sharon has a key to the studio, doesn’t she?”

  “We all do.” Joy jiggled her mouse, waking up her laptop. “But she wouldn’t do anything that dastardly, Allison. She’s hurt and mad, but not vengeful.” With a couple of clicks, Joy maneuvered to the server where the recipes were stored.

  But the folder was gone. What? Joy leaned closer to the screen. Was she in the wrong place? With a click on the drive, she started over, working through the files.

  Finally opening the DWJ Recipes folder.

  Empty. A chill swept over her. They have to be here. She clicked on Show Files. Maybe someone moved the files. But no documents appeared.

  Joy tugged open the middle desk drawer, searching for the data stick. Gone. Don’t panic yet. Ryan kept a backup in his office.

  “Joy, is everything okay?” Allison asked.

  “Yeah, I think so.” In Ryan’s office she shut the door. “They’re gone, the recipes. I looked on the server and the folders are empty.”

  “I was afraid Sharon would do something stupid.” After a few clicks Ryan confirmed it. No recipes. “Okay, then use the backups on the data stick.”

  “Mine’s gone. I was hoping your backup of the backup was in your desk.” Joy sighed a thank you to heaven when Ryan opened his middle desk drawer to reveal a silver thumb drive.

  But when he checked it, the drive was blank, no backup recipes.

  Well then, it’d come to this. “I’ll go tell Allison.”

  Ryan followed, taking the lead when they entered the boss’s office.

  “Sharon took the recipes, Allison. Or deleted them. But they’re gone.”

  “Then we start over.” So pragmatic and assured. Like it was so easy to develop years worth of recipes. “Joy, gather your recipes from home. Didn’t your daddy have recipes and notes around the house?” She walked to her office door and called for Luke. When his broad form filled the doorway, she delivered the news. “Sharon took out her revenge on our recipes, Luke. We’re building a cookbook from scratch.” At the sound of her words, Allison smiled. “Seems kind of fitting. We’re starting a cookbook from scratch. Maybe it was meant to be. I know it means more work, but I’d like to keep our deadline. Are we all in?”

  “I’m going to talk to Sharon.” Joy squeezed between Luke and Ryan.

  “Joy, don’t you dare. Don’t call or e-mail her. If you see her on the street or in Publix, do not speak to her.” Allison held up her phone. “Let me talk to my lawyer first. See what options we have. But I don’t want her to come back accusing us of defamation or harassment.”

  The emotion of the week, the almost-confession with Luke, the sadness over Sharon’s decision, the fruit her lie produced boiled in her chest until she thought she couldn’t breathe. She had to get out of there.

  Crossing the studio, Joy retrieved her handbag, her keys, and her phone from her office and headed for the stairs.

  “Where’re you going?” Ryan fell in step. “We have show notes to go over.”

  “I’m going to the park.”

  “The park? What for?”

  “To run the bases.”

  Thick-bottomed clouds, laden with an August rain, hovered over the Basil Green Complex as Joy launched her shoes into the cab of the truck. Twisting her hair up with the rubber band she found in the glove box, she navigated the pebbles and crushed shells along the side of the street to the thick, warm grass.

  The dirt along the diamond was scattered and mussed. Fallow ground waiting for Joy’s footprint. Or the slide of her thigh.

  The first time she ran the bases to clear her soul was the night of her third anniversary with Tim. Instead of bending on one knee and presenting her with the diamond solitaire they’d picked out at Hudson-Poole, he expressed doubt about their future plans and hinted at loving another.

  In a single moment Joy’s wholehearted devotion had been revealed as wholehearted foolishness.

  Seven years later it became clear she’d repeated the pattern. Only this time not with a weak-willed man but with a television show. Wholehearted devotion turned to wholehearted foolishness. Why couldn’t she learn to give up, give in, quit?

  It started out as a promise to Daddy. A favor for Duncan. Then for the money, the small kiss of fame. It became a part of her, the center of her dreams. The girls moved in, and Mama opened Ballard Paint & Body. There just never seemed to be a right time to end her life as an acting cook.

  Tagging up her bare foot to first base, Joy sprinted to second base. Running . . . She rounded second for third, the stiff, unused muscles of her legs aching, the rugged wind of her breathing howling in her ears.

  Her foot smacked home plate and she crashed into the chain link backstop, buckling forward, working for air. Then she ran the bases again.

  Kicking high and hard, she lengthened her stride, demanding her dormant form and college strength to awaken.

  It’s the bottom of the seventh with two outs. The Tide was down by one.

  Joy tagged home, this time without crashing, without buckling, without the fainting spots of blue and purple.

  Run it again. And again.

  Sweat beaded over her skin, soaking into the thin cotton of her top and the waistband of her tiered skirt. Moisture dropped from the angles of her face and collected on the flyaway ends of her hair.

  So what if Sharon quit. So what if Allison learns the truth. So what if Luke loses all respect for me and never speaks to me again. The so whats were muted by the crash of Joy’s heartbeat.

  She ran the bases again, heat of the midday sun rising. Joy launched from first, kicked second, and surged toward third. When she rounded for home, she pushed, breathing, running, defeating the chasing haunts. Liar. Phony. Cheater. Hurry, touch home . . . before they tag you out.

  The breezeless diamond seemed to indulge her, watching in wonder. Safe. Joy ran over home plate and crashed into the backstop, releasing the tension in her legs and crumpling to the dirt.

  She wiped the stinging sweat from her eyes with the hem of her top. Losing Luke? That would be the worst . . . That would be the worst. Stupid, stupid, when did she let him into her heart? Why did she let him in? She jumped up, pacing, shaking off the memory of his voice as he tried to talk to her.

  I could teach you.

  A rain-scented gust cooled her hot skin. God, I quit, surrender, let go, whatever You want . . . If You want . . . My food is to do what You want. What else do I have? Nothing. I literally have nothing.

  “If you run, will they come?” Joy angled around to see Luke standing behind her, motioning to the empty stands.

  “No, I guess not.”

  “Ryan said you went to run the bases.”

  “I’m out of sha
pe.” Joy brushed her red stained feet in the grass. Tugged her saturated top from her torso.

  From the other side of the fence, Luke watched, his arms propped atop the chain link. “Why are you running bases?”

  “Because . . .” She peered at him, their blue gazes meeting, holding steady. “Luke,” big inhale, “I–I can’t. Cook. I can’t. Sharon quit because she developed most of the recipes, even Daddy’s. Is that what you want to hear? Yes, ladies and gentlemen”—Joy jogged to the pitcher’s mound, arms wide to her sides—“the host of Dining with Joy, coming to you soon on the Tru-Re-al-ity Network, cannot cook.”

  “How’s it feel?” Luke walked through the gate. “To confess?”

  “You tell me, how’s it feel to hear it?” Joy ran her hands over her arms, salty with sweat. “If you wait a day or two, I’m sure Allison will hand the show over to you. Better a cardboard host who can cook than a lively one who can’t.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t want the show without you, but I feel like I corralled a wild horse that’s still itching to run free.”

  Joy brushed her hand over her eyes where the sweat trickled down. “Actually, you corralled a mule parading as a wild horse, hiding among the real mares and stallions. Corralling me is merciful.”

  “I guess it makes me mad, to be honest. Why’d you do it? Foodies are a close-knit, proud bunch, and they don’t like being lied to. They take their culinary talent and passion seriously. And you’re making fun of them. Couldn’t you have been a show host with special guests?

  Hired a Luke Redmond from the get-go?” He stopped at the base of the mound.

  “Except it wasn’t my decision.” Joy raised her eyes to meet his. “Duncan Tate called the shots like Allison Wild does now.” She gestured in the direction of downtown and the studio. “Duncan had just built the studio and was up to his receding hairline in debt but expected the season to end in the black. Then his star dropped dead of a heart attack. So he grabbed the nearest Ballard he could find and shoved her in front of the camera.”

  “Like father, like daughter?”