Deep Dish

by Mary Kay Andrews

  “Pet-care products,” Zeke added knowledgeably, plucking a Post-it from directly above his left nipple. He read aloud from it. “Thirty-eight billion dollars last year.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Val said, almost purring. “And that’s only one of the sponsorship opportunities we see for Tate and Moonpie. Once they’re in a national venue. That’s why I was hoping we could have dinner this evening. I know Tate is dying to have some one-on-one time with you.”

  “Hmmm,” Adelman said. He looked at his watch, and then at Zeke.

  “Can’t,” Zeke said, handing his boss a yellow Post-it clinging near his left wrist. “Flight’s at eight.”

  “Next time,” Adelman said.

  Zeke packed up his bulging leather messenger bag and Adelman’s laptop case.

  “But what about the show?” Val sputtered. “You really didn’t get to see what Tate can do.”

  “We saw,” Adelman said. “I’ll be in touch. In the meantime, send me that footage of the dog stealing the food, would you?”

  “Sure,” Val said. As she watched the men walk off, she flung her cigarette to the floor and stubbed it out.

  Adelman turned, and Val visibly brightened.

  “Just what kind of dog is he?” he called. She could see Zeke’s pen poised above the pad of Post-its.

  Val had to think fast. “He’s a setter,” she said. “A Landrover setter. Very rare breed. Tate has the only one in the state.”

  Chapter 15

  Tate whirled around to face Regina, and Moonpie squirmed in his arms.

  This woman was truly starting to get on his nerves. At least, he thought smugly, he knew now that she was no threat to his own career ambitions. He had never seen anybody who looked less like a potential network television star. The carefully arranged hairstyle he’d seen created just that morning was now a distant memory. Perspiration plastered her light-brown hair to her forehead. There were dark mascara smudges under both eyes, and a trace of what he guessed was either flour or powdered sugar on her forehead. Also not to mention that she was barefoot and that the neckline of her sleeveless top showed a much more tantalizing view of her cleavage than she surely intended.

  “Mister?” he repeated, his voice mocking. “Did you just call me ‘mister’? Where the hell are you from, Reggie?”

  “Odum, Georgia,” she snapped. “Not that it’s any of your business. And don’t call me Reggie.”

  “Why not? You don’t look anything like a Regina.”

  She frowned. “Nonetheless, that’s the name my mama and daddy gave me. My friends call me Gina. You, however, may call me Regina, if you have to call me anything at all.”

  “Okay, RE-gina,” he said, purposely emphasizing the first syllable. “Excuse me, but now that you’ve ruined my show and made me look like an idiot to Barry Adelman and his associate, I’ve got to put my dog back in the trailer. And then I’ve got someplace I need to be.”

  He turned and resumed his trek to the trailer, but now she was hot on his heels again.

  “I’m sorry about your camera. Truly, I am. But I did not sabotage your show,” she said, out of breath from trying to keep up with him. “I would never do something like that.”

  “Because you’re such a Girl Scout,” he said sarcastically.

  That stopped her for a moment.

  “I don’t like your tone,” she called. “And another thing. Stay away from my set when I’m taping from now on.”

  He turned around again, tightening his grip on Moonpie as a precaution, because the dumb animal seemed determined to rejoin his new friend. Regina Foxton stood in the parking lot with her hands on her hips, glaring daggers in his direction.

  “You mean your piddly little regional show? Why shouldn’t I watch? Do I make you nervous?”

  “No!” she lied. “I just don’t want you stealing any of my recipes,” she said finally.

  “As if.”

  That really seemed to fire her rockets. She ran right up to him, her jaw clenched in outrage, and Moonpie, the traitor, wriggled in his arms and wagged an enthusiastic greeting.

  “So it’s a coincidence that you saw me shooting my seafood episode this morning, and then, this afternoon—magically—you happen to also tape a seafood show with Barry Adelman sitting right there in the studio.”

  She was definitely right up in his face. So close, in fact, that Moonpie stretched out his head and gave her a big sloppy slurp in the face.

  He expected her to scream, or jump backward, but the dog’s affection seemed to have a softening affect on her. She laughed and scratched his chin, setting off another spasm of heavy breathing and tail wagging—by Moonpie.

  “Hey, buddy,” she crooned, letting the dog continue his disgusting display of affection. “I like you too. It’s not your fault your owner is a big ol’ butthead.”

  “Nice language from a Girl Scout,” Tate said.

  She continued to ignore him, and to lavish attention on Moonpie.

  “What’s his name?’ she asked.

  “Moonpie,” Tate said coldly.

  “What kind of dog is he? A Brittany spaniel?”

  “He’s an English setter,” Tate said. “Actually, if you want to get technical, he’s a Llewellen setter. Are you done now?”

  She flicked him a look. “With you, yes.”

  “It’s a hunting and fishing show,” he said, desperately needing to have the last word.

  “What?”

  “Vittles,” Tate said. “My show.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said dismissively. “So I heard. Kill it and grill it. I get it.”

  “I cook seafood all the time,” Tate insisted. “Today’s show was scripted weeks ago. We taped the fishing portion earlier in the week. So, obviously, there was no way I copied your idea.”

  “If you say so,” she said. She gave Moonpie a farewell pat on the head, turned, and walked away, head held high.

  Chapter 16

  When Gina got home, Lisa met her at the door. She was wearing a vaguely familiar looking, too-tight, low-cut lime green T-shirt and a pair of gray gym shorts with the waistband rolled down around her hips, and the words “POP TART” emblazoned right across her butt cheeks.

  “How’d it go?” she asked. “Did those Cooking Channel guys love you? When do you find out if you get the show? Do you want a glass of wine? I bought a bottle of that chardonnay you like. You owe me six bucks.”

  Regina stashed her laptop on a console table near the door, and allowed herself to collapse into the nearest armchair.

  “Is that my shirt?” she asked pointedly.

  “Huh? I guess.”

  “Except that when it belonged to me I seem to remember it had sleeves,” Gina said. “And a neckband that did not threaten to expose my boobs to the whole world.”

  “Yeah. I fixed it for you,” Lisa said, twirling around. “Better now, huh? You weren’t going to wear it tonight, were you?”

  “Never again,” Gina assured her. “And how do you know anything about The Cooking Channel?”

  “Hello?” Lisa said. “D’John called here looking for you. He filled me in on everything.”

  “Everything?” Gina asked, dreading the answer.

  “All of it,” Lisa assured her. “So, Scott was boinking the sponsor’s wife? Right under your nose? And he got your show canceled? How trashy is that?”

  “Pretty darned trashy,” Gina said wearily. “Look, can we not talk about Scott tonight? I am just whipped.”

  “Okay,” Lisa said. “Let’s talk about The Cooking Channel. It’s a big deal, right?”

  “Very big,” Gina admitted. “It’s what I’ve been dreaming of since I started writing about food. TCC is only eight years old, and they have ninety million viewers. You know Peggy Paul, that woman who does all the cooking segments on Oprah? She had a little mom-and-pop restaurant in Birmingham. One of Oprah’s producers had dinner there one night, and she liked the barbecue so much, she had them overnight ten pounds of it back to Oprah in Chicago the
next day. Peggy Paul did one guest shot on Oprah, and within a month she had a cookbook deal with a major publisher, and TCC signed her up even before it came out. Now Peggy Paul has had the number-one best-selling cookbook on the best-seller lists for two years in a row.”

  “Good, huh? But your cookbook was on the best-seller list too,” Lisa said loyally.

  “Only a regional best seller,” Gina said.

  “D’John says you shouldn’t worry about getting the new show,” Lisa said, plopping down onto the carpet next to Gina’s chair. “He says you’re a lock.”

  Gina managed a smile. “He might be a little bit prejudiced. Anyway, it’s not a sure thing at all. They do want to add a southern cooking show, but there’s another guy in the running.”

  “No way.”

  “Way,” Gina assured her.

  “Who is the turkey?” Lisa asked.

  “Nobody you’ve ever heard of,” Gina said. “He does a show called Vittles, of all things.”

  “Oh, my God,” Lisa shrieked. “Are you talking about Tate Moody? The Tate Moody?”

  Gina stared at her sister. “You’re saying you know about him? Since when do you watch cooking shows? You don’t even watch mine, and I pay the rent around here.”

  “Everybody I know watches the Tatester,” Lisa said unapologetically. “He rocks. In fact, Southern Outdoors rocks. My friends have parties to watch those shows. Like, Andy? This friend of mine? He’s in my calculus class? His favorite show is The Buck Stops Here. And Sarah? You met her. She loves Kickin’ Bass. But everybody’s favorite is Vittles.”

  Lisa scrambled to her feet, went to her room, and came back with a DVD.

  “A bunch of us went in together and bought the first season of Vittles, and then Sarah bootlegged copies for all of us.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Gina said, holding the DVD gingerly by the fingertips. “My baby sister, who can’t even make microwave popcorn without burning it, watches a television cooking show. A show about killing animals, cutting them up, and cooking them. Tell me this. Are any of the recipes he does on his show even remotely edible?”

  “Who knows?” Lisa said cheerfully. “He could make Kool-Aid and peanut butter sandwiches and I’d watch. I’m tellin’ you, Geen, the Tatester is hot. Not just hot. Smokin’ hot. Make sure you watch episode three. That one’s my all-time favorite. He’s like, on a boat, down on the Gulf Coast, throwing this cast net…”

  She rolled her eyes and licked her lips. “Without a shirt. Check out the six-pack.” She fanned herself with both hands and grinned. “I just totally had an orgasm thinking about it.”

  Gina stared at her younger sister. “Lisa, that is the crudest, most pathetic thing I have ever heard of.”

  “Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it,” Lisa said.

  “I think I’ll pass,” Gina said. “Anyway, I’ve got to get changed and get over to D’John’s.”

  “Oh, my God,” Lisa said. “D’John is so awesome. I love his place. And he always gives me samples of the coolest makeup and stuff. Lemme go too, okay?”

  “Deal,” Gina said. “Just one thing.”

  “What now?”

  “While I’m in the shower, you change your clothes. We are not leaving these premises with you dressed like some hoochie-mama.”

  “D’John’s gay, Geen,” Lisa said. “He so is not looking at me that way.”

  “And I am so not going anywhere with you until you put on something to cover your butt cheeks.”

  Gina had just turned onto Cheshire Bridge Road when she heard the high thin wail. AAARRRRR.

  She jerked the steering wheel hard right and pulled over the concrete curbing and into the parking lot of a seedy bar with painted-over windows.

  “Whoa! What are you doing?” Lisa asked. “D’John’s place is two blocks down.”

  Gina half turned in her seat to look down the street. “Police car. State law says you have to get completely out of the way for an emergency vehicle.”

  She heard the siren again, but frowned when she couldn’t see any flashing lights.

  Lisa rolled onto one hip and held up her cell phone.

  AAARRRR. The incoming call light flashed off and on.

  “Here’s your emergency,” Lisa said, handing the phone to Gina.

  “What in the world?”

  “Don’t hit the talk button unless you wanna talk to Mama,” Lisa warned. “That’s her ring tone.”

  “Lisa! Gina choked back a laugh. “That’s awful.”

  “No. It’s efficient. This way, I know without even looking at the readout when Mama’s calling. So if I’m at a party or a noisy club, I don’t pick up. Saves us both a lot of heartache.”

  Gina waited a minute, and then punched the button to listen to the message Birdelle surely had left.

  “Hello? This is Mrs. Birdelle Foxton, calling for Lisa. Lisa? Is this you? I’m getting kind of worried, honey, because you haven’t returned any of my calls all week. And I haven’t heard from Gina, either. Anyway, I did want to let you know that I saw that precious Tiffany Tappley last week at church. Well, of course, she’s Tiffany Dugger now. She married one of the Duggers from Hazlehurst. He does something for the government. She had the sweetest little boy. I forget his name. And she told me to be sure and tell you to call her next time you’re home. Well, that’s all for now, honey. You be sweet, you hear?”

  Gina pressed the end button and pulled the Honda back onto Cheshire Bridge Road.

  “Did you know a girl from home named Tiffany Tappley?” she asked. “Because Mama saw her at church and got the whole rundown on her, and she wants you to be sure to call her when you’re home again.”

  “Tiffany Tappley? That slut? I can’t believe she had the nerve to set foot inside a church,” Lisa said.

  “Well, she did, and Mama got the whole report. You can listen to her message if you want to catch up with good ol’ Tiff.”

  “No thanks,” Lisa said. “I haven’t talked to good ol’ Tiff since she got knocked up at the end of eighth grade.”

  “Good news,” Gina said, turning into the parking lot for D’John’s apartment. “She’s married to one of the Duggers from Hazlehurst. According to Mama, he’s got one of those good government jobs.”

  “She must be talking about Tommy Dugger. He inspects hog feed for the State Department of Agriculture.” Lisa sighed. “Mama thinks that’s a great job because he brings home free peanuts that aren’t good enough to feed to hogs.”

  “Eew,” Gina said.

  “And you wonder why I never return her calls,” Lisa said, getting out of the car.

  D’John emerged from his kitchen wearing a spotless starched white lab coat with “Dr. Evil” embroidered over the left breast. It was a hot spring night, so he was bare-chested and wearing loose white cotton drawstring pants and white rubber clogs.

  Regina eyed the plastic mixing bowl he carried in both hands. She was seated in a high-backed bar stool in D’John’s tangerine-painted dining room, wrapped in a matching tangerine-colored plastic cape.

  “Just how blond are you taking me?” she asked.

  “Geeeeen,” Lisa managed, from between lips tightly drawn by the herbal mud mask D’John had applied to her face. “He’s a genius. You have to trust him.”

  D’John blew the baby sister a kiss, and she nodded her receipt. He couldn’t wait to complete his work on the braver of the two Foxton sisters. Already he’d cut her hair in a daring jagged bob he’d proclaimed was “Metallica meets Dorothy Hamill.” Next up for Lisa, he thought, would be some yummy aubergine highlights.

  But in the meantime, Miss Regina was having second thoughts.

  “How blond?” she repeated.

  Before she could resist, he snapped on a pair of thin latex gloves and quickly began applying the bright gold goo to her hair.

  “D’John?”

  “Well”—he pursed his lips in thought—“Scott wants you way blonder. This is my own formulation, and I haven’t really given it
a name yet. I’d say your new color is less slutty than platinum, and more intellectual-looking than a honey blond. Let’s just say it’s somewhere between Marilyn Monroe in Some Like It Hot and Lauren Bacall in Key Largo.”

  “Huh?” Lisa managed. Her idea of a classic movie was Dude, Where’s My Car?

  Regina sighed. “I think he’s trying to say that when he gets done with me, I’m going to look like a somewhat brainy bimbo.”

  “Dingbat!” D’John cried. “I’ll call it Dingbat Blond. Oooh. I’ve got to write down my formulation, because once your public gets a look at your hair, I am going to become Hollywood famous.”

  “Cool,” Lisa said. She plugged her ears with her iPod’s buds and immediately began bopping to her own secret beat.

  “You’ll be fabulous,” D’John assured Gina, with a pat on her shoulder. “D’John can do no wrong.”

  Regina took a sip of her wine and sat back while he applied the strong-smelling chemicals. When her entire head was coated with goo, multiple strands of hair had been pasted to long strips of aluminum foil, and her whole head had then been wrapped in plastic like a leftover Sunday roast, D’John wheeled over a menacing-looking machine and lowered the bullet-shaped hood over her head.

  He picked up a plastic kitchen timer and set it. “Twenty minutes till magic time.”

  The doorbell rang. “That’ll be Stephen, the takeout boy from Jade Palace, with our dinner,” D’John said. “And he is the most luscious little piece of dim sum you have ever seen!”

  Gina shook her head in mild disapproval, and D’John opened the door for Stephen, who, to Regina, merely looked like a surly Asian-American young adult with baggy jeans and a straggly soul patch on his chin.

  As the two men opened the white cardboard takeout boxes and the plastic containers of egg-drop soup and arranged them on the tabletop, the smell of sizzling pork wafted through the room and Regina’s stomach growled.

  D’John whispered something to Stephen, who laughed and blushed, and the men stepped into the kitchen.