Deep Dish

by Mary Kay Andrews

  “Tate?”

  Now she heard water running. She stepped inside the trailer and tapped on the bathroom door. “Tate? You decent?”

  “Go away,” he yelled.

  “Nope,” she said genially. “I’ve got good news. Come on out, sport.”

  The bathroom door opened an inch, and a cloud of steam emerged, followed by Tate’s head. His hair was dripping wet, and his face was pink from the heat. “I’m officially on vacation. Moonpie and I are taking the Vagabond and going up to Ellijay for some trout fishing. And you are not invited. Now go away, Valerie.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me what the good news is?”

  “I don’t care what your good news is,” he said, closing the door in her face. “I’m gone. Call me in a week, and we’ll talk.”

  She unrolled the magazine she’d brought over to the Voyager and slid it under the bathroom door. “Page twenty-eight,” she said. “Check it out.”

  Silence. Five minutes later, the bathroom door opened.

  Tate was dressed in clean but threadbare blue jeans. He wore a dark green T-shirt. He was barefoot. He had the People magazine open to page 28.

  “Did you know Fresh Start has been canceled?”

  “Not till this morning,” Val said. “The rumor going around town is—”

  “Jesus!” he said, running his fingers through his damp hair. “What a business. Having your sponsor dump you for NASCAR. Has she seen this yet?”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t play innocent with me. Reggie. Has she seen this?”

  “How should I know? Anyway, who cares?” She snatched the magazine away from him and sat down at the dinette. She read the headline aloud.

  “FOOD FIGHT HEATS UP DOWN SOUTH. Will hunky outdoorsman Tate Moody be the catch of the day—or will fresh foodie fanatic Gina Foxton win this battle for a prime-time network cooking show?”

  Moonpie cocked his head and thumped his tail in approval.

  “Not you,” Val said, edging the dog’s butt off the top of her shoe.

  She held up the double-page spread so both Tate and Moonpie could get a look. The color photo took up most of the left-hand page. It showed him face-to-face with Regina Foxton in the boxing ring, looking cocky, self-assured, confident. Gina Foxton’s face was contorted in a hideous snarl, her teeth bared, eyes narrowed, one strap of her tank top sliding halfway down her shoulder. The facing page showed a publicity photo of Tate and Moonpie, posed in front of the Vagabond.

  “Hunky outdoorsman!” Val repeated. “How fabulous is that? Your sponsors have been calling me all morning. To say they are thrilled is the understatement of the day. Beau Archer started calling at six A.M. He wants to know what it would take to get you to sign with Southern Outdoors for another two years, whether or not you get the TCC spot.”

  “Who’s Beau Archer?” Tate asked, pouring himself a bowl of Rice Krispies.

  “Who—who’s Archer?” Val sputtered. “Pay attention here, Tate. He’s only the president of Southern Outdoors Network. The guy who signs our paychecks. Remember—he flew you out to his ranch in Montana to go grouse hunting with the sponsors last winter?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Tate said. “Guy couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn with a baseball bat. He had a good-looking German shorthaired bitch though.”

  “His wife?” Val asked, looking shocked. “When did you meet her?”

  Tate shook his head sadly. “It’s a dog, Val. A German shorthair is a dog. How many times do I have to tell you?”

  “Speaking of dogs,” Val went on, “I also had a call from a woman at ChowHound dog food. They want Moonpie to be their new spokesdog.”

  “Hmmm,” Tate said, shoveling in the Rice Krispies. “What’d you tell Beau Archer?”

  “No deal,” she said succinctly. “We’re signing nothing till we know whether the Food Fight is still on. They’re paying us peanuts right now. But it’s gonna cost ’em, big-time, from now on, if this TCC deal goes through.”

  Val’s hip began playing the first few notes of the Vittles theme song. She rolled to the right, took the phone out of the pocket of her slacks, glanced at the phone’s readout, and grinned widely. “Yes!” she exclaimed, pumping the air with her fist. “It’s Barry Adelman. This is it, Tate. He’s calling to tell us you’ve got the show.”

  Deborah Chen slid the copy of People across the desk gingerly, barely touching it with the tip of her fingernail, as though the images might burn her flesh.

  “There is no such thing as bad publicity,” she told Gina, her voice brisk. “Now, you might not think so right at this moment, but—”

  “Oh, no!” Gina said, flinging her reading glasses at the publicist. “This is the worst picture of me that has ever been printed.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Scott started to say.

  “It’s worse than my driver’s license picture, and in that one I had a bad perm and a giant fever blister on my upper lip,” Gina cried, stabbing the page with her forefinger. “Look at this thing. Tate Moody looks like a rock star. But me? I look like some blood-crazed maniac.”

  “They could have chosen a more flattering picture of you,” Deborah finally conceded, “but I really think you’re overreacting. Anyway, as I was saying, this article is actually a godsend. Yes, it does mention that Tastee-Town has withdrawn sponsorship of Fresh Start. But now, that opens the way for other, bigger sponsors to step in. It’s just a matter of time until they start calling—”

  As if on cue, the phone on Gina’s desk started to ring. She stared at it without picking up. It rang eight times, and then stopped. A moment later she heard the muted ring of her cell phone, from inside her bottom desk drawer. She picked it up, looked at the caller ID readout, and put it back in her pocketbook. “Mama,” she said. “Oh, crap. It’s Tuesday. She gets her hair done at the Beauty Box on Tuesdays. They subscribe to everything. Even the Star. People is the first thing she reaches for when they put her under the dryer.”

  Now it was Scott’s turn. His cell phone rang urgently. He plucked his BlackBerry from the holster on his hip and pressed a button.

  “Barry!” he exclaimed. “Yeah! How about that? We were just talking about it. I know! A million bucks worth of publicity for sure. What?” Scott shook his head vehemently. “No, no, Fresh Start is not off the air. I’m in negotiations with a couple of other sponsors. No, I’m not at liberty to say just yet…

  “Really?” Scott’s face brightened. “That big a response, huh?”

  But now he was frowning. “Utah? I don’t see the draw of Utah. I mean, it’s not even in the South….”

  The smile returned as he listened. “Oh. I gotcha.” He was nodding rapidly, reaching for a pencil, making notes. “Well, that’s not much notice, but I can talk to Gina, see if she can clear her calendar. She’s got a heavy promotional schedule….”

  His eyebrows shot upward. “That’s our share, guaranteed? Prime time?” He whistled. “Barry, let me just run the numbers by our people, see what we can work out. Today?” He gave a dramatic, beleaguered sigh. “Yeah. I’ll get back to you. Absolutely.”

  Scott busied himself with finishing his note-taking, then looked up at Gina.

  “What’d he say?” she demanded. “Did I get it? Why am I clearing my calendar?”

  “Whoa!” Scott said. He put his BlackBerry back in his holster.

  “Deborah was right,” he said slowly. “There is no such thing as bad publicity. As soon as the People story hit, the president of TCC was on the phone with Barry.”

  “What about the show?” Gina begged. “Stop torturing me. Who got the show? Me or Tate?”

  “You both got it,” Scott said. “In a manner of speaking.”

  Chapter 31

  Valerie Foster was sitting in the Vagabond, going over production notes with her star, when her cell phone rang.

  “Barry?” Her face brightened. She got up from the dinette and walked outside. Tate watched her through the window as she talked and gestured, all the time walking
in a tight little circle in the parking lot.

  After five minutes, she came back inside the trailer and took her seat at the dinette, frowning at the coffee that had gone cold.

  “Well?” Tate said. He put his cereal bowl on the floor, and Moonpie obligingly lapped up the last half-inch of milk and soggy cereal. “Who won?”

  Val blinked. “Didn’t we tape a show at a place called Eutaw Island?”

  “Sure,” Tate said. “We did it our first season. Don’t you remember? You found a tick on your ankle when we got back to the lodge over there, and you screamed so long and loud, you’d have thought we’d have to amputate your leg.”

  “I knew it,” she said. “Eutaw Island. At the very top of my never-again places. Along with Disney World and Gatorland. And let’s not forget the Okefenokee Swamp.” She shuddered violently.

  “Val?” Tate said. “We were talking about The Cooking Channel—remember? What did Barry Adelman say just now? Who won?”

  “You both won, sort of,” Scott said. “Barry says the network wants to cash in on your sudden notoriety. They’ve been looking at the popularity of all the reality shows the big networks are running, and he says he’s come up with an idea that’s a guaranteed out-of-the-park hit.”

  Gina felt a chill of dread go up her spine. “Like what? No more boxing matches. I mean it, you two,” she said, glaring at Deborah. “No more weird getups. I don’t care what kind of ratings or money they’re offering. I cook. That’s it. That’s all I do from now on.”

  “That’s what they want you to do,” Scott insisted. “They’re even calling it Food Fight. They want to take both of you to this barrier island, down off the coast in South Georgia.”

  “I thought you said something about Utah,” Gina said.

  “Not Utah as in Salt Lake City,” he said. “Eutaw Island. With an E-U. It’s some godforsaken sand spit that Barry’s research people dug up. Like a dozen people live over there. You have to get there by ferry, and there’s only one paved road on the whole island. They’ll take us over—our crew, and Moody’s. Put us all up at some lodge. Then the two of you will be given a box of groceries—just staples like salt and pepper and cooking oil—and the first challenge. You have to plan, cook, and serve a meal using only what you find on the island. There’ll be a couple of judges. Barry says they’re still working that part out—and whoever wins the Food Fight wins their own show on TCC’s fall lineup. The whole thing will be taped, and they’ll show it in three installments during the fall sweeps.”

  “It’s brilliant!” Deborah gushed. “Don’t you get it, Gina? The object is to use fresh, natural, native ingredients. It plays to all your strengths.”

  “She’s right,” Scott said. “Tate Moody is toast.”

  Regina Foxton is dead meat,” Val declared. “There’s no way you can lose. You’re a lock.”

  “Riiight,” Tate said, looking dubious.

  “Look. The rule is that the meal has to be made of stuff you find on the island. That’s what you do every week on Vittles. The beauty of it is, we’ve already been there. We’ve got the place scouted already. And from what I remember of the place, there were no organic broccoli forests or herds of free-range chicken breast.”

  “There’s just one hitch,” Scott warned.

  “We leave Saturday,” Val said. “I gotta go shopping for snake boots.”

  Chapter 32

  Lisa was sitting on the living room sofa, surrounded by a mound of just-washed laundry.

  “What’s going on?” Gina asked, sinking down onto the sofa beside her. “Who’s dead?”

  “Nobody’s dead,” Lisa said serenely, moving a stack of her thong panties aside. “Can’t I do our laundry without you assuming the worst?”

  “No,” Gina said. “Who told you how to operate the washer?”

  “There’s a diagram on the inside of the lid,” Lisa said. “Plus, I might have asked Mom.”

  “Mom?” Gina covered her face with the sofa cushions. “Our mom? Why would you talk to her without warning me?”

  “We leave for Eutaw Island on Saturday,” Lisa said. “You’ll have a thousand things to do ahead of time to get ready for the Food Fight. I was just trying to help out.”

  Now Gina sat up straight. “How do you know about the Food Fight deal? Scott just told me about it an hour ago.”

  “Zeke? He’s Barry’s assistant? He called here while you were at the studio,” Lisa said airily. “They’re couriering over our itineraries and plane tickets, and he wanted to make sure he had the right address.”

  Gina narrowed her eyes. “What makes you think you’re going to Eutaw Island?”

  “Of course I’m going,” Lisa said, rolling a T-shirt into a tight ball. “I’m your personal assistant. I’m invaluable. And by the way, Mom would really like to talk to you. She’s already left two messages on your machine.”

  “What did she say?” Gina asked, taking the T-shirt away from Lisa and folding it so that it looked factory fresh.

  “She said I should hand-wash delicates,” Lisa said, frowning at the mangled remains of her best bra.

  “I guess she’s seen this week’s People, huh?”

  “Ooooh, yes,” Lisa said, rolling her eyes.

  Gina went into the bedroom. The blinking light on her answering machine reminded her of the twitching her left eyelid had been doing all day. She backed all the way out to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of chardonnay, which she sipped while refolding all the clothing her sister had wadded up.

  She turned on the television and flipped channels until she got to The Cooking Channel. Research. For the next two hours, she watched back-to-back episodes of Light and Luscious—a dreary diet show hosted by a skeletal gay nutritionist—and Pizza Power!, which featured a pair of cheery Italian sisters who traveled the globe in search of the perfect pizza. She made notes about what worked and what didn’t work. And when she’d finished that, she made more lists—lists of clothing to take to Eutaw Island, equipment she’d need, questions she had about the logistics of the Food Fight. Shortly after midnight, unable to avoid the inevitable any longer, she crawled into bed and punched the play button on the answering machine.

  “Hello?” Her mother’s high-pitched quavery voice seemed to have gone up an octave since they’d last talked on the phone.

  “This is Mrs. Birdelle Foxton. Regina? Honey? Are you all right?”

  The bedroom door opened, and Lisa stood in the doorway, dressed in panties and a severely shrunken T-shirt, swigging from a can of Red Bull. “I told her you were fine,” Lisa offered.

  “Honey,” her mama went on, “I saw that article in People magazine today. And I like to have died. The girls at the Beauty Box tore it out of the magazine before I got there today, but afterward, I stopped into the drugstore to pick up your daddy’s Gasex, and the girl behind the counter gave me such a nasty smirk, and then she gestured toward the magazine right there, and asked if you’d be moving home to Odum now that you were out of a job! Did you ever? Naturally, I just smiled and said ‘We’ll see’ and then I bought it, and when I got home and saw the story, and that unfortunate picture of you, and well, I like to have died.”

  “She like to have died,” Lisa said helpfully.

  “Of course, you know, everybody down here in Odum is just real proud of you,” Birdelle said. “Except for some un-Christian types whose names I won’t mention, who are just jealous of how sweet and smart and successful you were.”

  “Were?” Gina repeated. “Were?”

  “Now, Regina, honey,” Birdell said, a little hesitantly, “I wish you had told us that you lost your job. It is nothing to be ashamed of. We would have completely understood. I swannee, I don’t know what those people at Tastee-Town were thinking. What could have gotten into them, canceling your show like that?”

  “I heard it was Scott Zaleski’s getting into Danitra Bickerstaff’s drawers that made them cancel the show,” Lisa said. Gina responded by throwing a shoe at her.

 
“Anyway, the girls at the Beauty Box, and my Sunday school class, and Laura Anne across the street, and your aunt Opal, we are mounting a letter-writing campaign to Tastee-Town. We are going to give them a piece of our minds, believe you me. And, of course, we are completely boycotting Tastee-Town. Well, except Laura Anne says she can’t be expected to give up her Tastee-Town frozen biscuits.”

  “Can’t blame her,” Gina said ruefully. “They do have the best frozen bagged biscuits. Better than Mama’s even.”

  Birdelle’s voice droned on. “Now, don’t be mad at me, sweetheart, but I put a little box together for you. It’s nothing much, just some coupons for canned goods, and some toiletries, and a package of my Coco-Nutty Toffee Bars.”

  “Sweet,” Lisa said. “Dibs on the cookies.”

  “Your daddy tucked in some mad money for you too,” Birdelle said. “Just a little something until you get yourself back on your feet. Well, I’ll let you go. I’m sure you have a lot more important things to do than listen to me run on. You be sweet, now, you hear?”

  Gina punched the stop button on the answering machine and pulled the covers up over her head.

  “There’s one more message,” Lisa pointed out. She sat down on the bed beside her sister, patted her back, and punched the play button.

  “This is Birdelle Foxton calling again,” her mother said. “Gina, honey? Your daddy wants to know can you get that nice Tate Moody to autograph a cookbook for him. We’re just crazy about Vittles down here. We never miss a show.”

  Chapter 33

  Val Foster looked dubiously at the sixty-foot launch idling alongside the dock at Darien. The Belle of the Seas had once been painted white, but now most of that paint was gone, and its hull was streaked with green mold and clumps of dying barnacles.

  The passenger “cabin” had a rickety roof and open sides, and the deck was littered with huge coils of oily ropes and vaguely nautical-looking machinery. Its engines spewed foul black smoke into the sticky summer air. The Belle had seen better days.