Deep Dish

by Mary Kay Andrews

  D’John leaned over the side of the boat to catch the action on camera. “Lisa, baby,” he called. “Look this way.”

  “Ohhhh.” Lisa moaned, pressing her face to the rail. “Get me off this boat.”

  “You okay?” Gina asked, pulling a tissue from the pocket of her shorts to wipe her sister’s face.

  “Noooo,” Lisa said. “I need this thing to stop moving.”

  Gina looked up. They were only a few yards from a long wooden dock extending out over a stretch of salt marsh and sea grass. Parked under a covered pavilion at the end of the dock were half a dozen golf carts.

  “Five minutes,” Tate assured her. As they watched, a golf cart trailering a string of luggage carts came bumping over the dock toward the end. “The guys from the plantation will get the baggage and equipment unloaded, but we’ll take those carts up to the lodge for check-in,” he said.

  “Gina? Lisa?” Scott strode toward them. “I’ll get you guys up to the lodge.” He put a proprietary hand on Lisa’s elbow. “Come on, Lisa. You’ll feel better once you’re out of the sun.”

  Lisa groaned, pressed both hands to her mouth, then barfed all over Scott’s Ralph Lauren polo shirt.

  “Got it! D’John said triumphantly, neatly sidestepping the mess as he panned the camcorder for a wide-angle shot of the disaster.

  Chapter 35

  Lisa!”

  Zeke rushed up and put his arms around Gina’s retching sister. He tenderly helped her back to her seat and proceeded to mop her up with the roll of paper towels fetched by one of the crew members.

  Scott stared down at his ruined shirt and his spattered shoes. “She did this on purpose,” he said, his voice low and furious. He pointed his finger at Gina. “You told her to do this.”

  “Me?” Gina sputtered. “You think I can make my sister barf on command?”

  Tate had to move away, his shoulders heaving with suppressed laughter.

  Sensing the tension, D’John quietly followed, his camera switched to off.

  Scott watched them walk away. “You think this is funny too?” he asked Gina. “This was a Purple Label Ralph Lauren. It cost a hundred and eighty-five dollars,” he said, stripping it off and flinging it into a nearby trash barrel. “It was a gift from a very special friend,” he added, with more than a touch of malice.

  He looks good shirtless, Gina thought idly. All those hours on the rowing machine, on the elliptical, at the weight bench, and on the beach had paid off. His shoulders rippled with muscles, his golden chest hair glinted against the deep bronze of his skin. He was flat-bellied. He was buff, he was tan. He was soulless.

  “Maybe if you play nice, she’ll buy you another one,” Gina offered.

  His eyes clouded. “I’m sorry,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “That was way off base. Danitra did give me the shirt, but I swear, it was just that one time, when we were at the Ritz.”

  “None of my business,” Gina said lightly, feeling a faint stabbing in the vicinity of her left ventricle.

  “I want it to be your business again,” Scott said. “I want you to know I haven’t seen her or talked to her since that night.” His voice faltered. “I…don’t know why I wanted to throw that in your face. I was mad at Lisa. And maybe…” He gazed into the distance, and she saw he was watching Tate, sitting beside Val Foster, deep in conversation. “I was jealous. I saw you this morning, in the diner. With him. You looked pretty friendly. And just now…”

  “We were talking,” Gina said coldly. “About dolphins. And then we were talking about the island. He’s been to Eutaw before. I think it gives him an unfair advantage.”

  “Shit!” Scott said, suddenly energized. “That sucks. I’d never even heard of the place before.”

  The sharp bleat of the air horn sounded, and suddenly the launch bumped hard against the dock.

  “Debarkation point, Eutaw Island,” the deckhand called.

  “People?” Zeke was standing beside the deckhand now, his laptop and briefcase strapped across his chest, bandolier-style.

  “Everybody?” he repeated. “This is Eutaw Island. Before you depart the boat, I’ve got dossiers for everybody.” He reached into the briefcase and pulled out a stack of shiny orange vinyl packets, which he started passing around.

  Gina grabbed one of the packets. “Food Fight!” read the label on the packet. “An Adel-Weis Production for The Cooking Channel.”

  She opened it up and scanned the first page, but she needn’t have bothered, since Zeke had already started his briefing session.

  D’John stood against the boat’s deck rail, panning the camera at the crew, and then focusing on Zeke’s big moment.

  “Eutaw Island is the southernmost coastal barrier island in the state of Georgia,” he began. “The name is thought to be derived from a Creek Indian word that, translated loosely, means ‘damned good oysters.’”

  That drew a faint round of laughter from the surprised crew. Zeke adjusted his reading glasses on the end of his nose and plowed onward in his lecture.

  “Before the Civil War, the entire island was owned by Colonel Bradyn Nathaniel Hooker, a wealthy cotton planter. Colonel Hooker built a plantation home here, called Rebeccaville, named for his only daughter.

  “At one time, nearly one hundred slaves lived and worked on Rebeccaville, which produced the highest quality Sea Island cotton on the Georgia coast. The old tabby-shell slave quarters have been preserved and are sometimes rented—”

  “Slaves!” D’John lowered the camera. His voice was indignant. “I’m not staying in any damned slave quarters.”

  Zeke blanched. “We’ll all be staying in the lodge while on the island.”

  “Fine,” D’John said, gathering up his belongings. “As long as we’ve got that settled.” He came and stood beside Gina, listening for more details.

  Zeke cleared his throat. “The island and the plantation remain today in the hands of Brady Hooker’s heirs, who operate it as a conference center, wildlife preserve, and corporate retreat.

  “The entire building complex was completely restored and modernized by the Hooker family five years ago. At the lodge, you’ll all have access to the living areas, which include a living room and dining room, library, and of course, a screened porch that looks out over the plantation’s grounds, much of which have been allowed to return to their natural, unspoiled state.”

  “Does that mean bugs and snakes?” D’John asked. He poked Gina in the ribs. “You know this queen does not mess with bugs and snakes.”

  “Where will we be doing the actual cooking for the Food Fight?” Gina asked, hoping to quiet D’John.

  Zeke beamed his approval. “I’m glad you asked. We’ve had a crew over here all week, building a state-of-the-art kitchen in the ruins of the mansion’s old ballroom. I haven’t seen it myself yet, but Barry says it’s stunning.”

  “A kitchen?” Tate frowned. “We don’t each have our own kitchen? We have to share?”

  “Barry feels it’ll make for great television,” Zeke said. “And there will be plenty of room for both of you.”

  “I don’t like it,” Scott said, folding his arms across his chest. “Nobody said anything to me about shared facilities.”

  Valerie yawned loudly. “Can we just get the hell off this boat? I’ve got to pee. And I’m hungry.”

  “And I don’t feel so good,” Lisa said, wobbling as she stood.

  “Fine,” Zeke announced, throwing her a sympathetic look. “The golf carts will take you all up to the lodge, and the caretaker will meet you in the lobby and give everybody their keys and room assignments.” He glanced down at his watch. “Our lunch should be ready when we get there, and the dining room will be open until one thirty.”

  “Is there a bar?” Val asked pointedly.

  “I believe wine and beer will be available after five o’clock,” Zeke said. “After lunch, we’ll have a meeting to go over the rules and procedures for the Food Fight, and we’ll discuss the taping schedule.”


  “Let’s go,” Scott told Gina, moving toward the ramp that had been lowered from the ferry to the dock. “I want to start getting the lay of the land as soon as possible. Moody’s already got a head start on us.”

  Gina nodded in agreement and looked around for her younger sister. But Lisa was already being helped off the boat by Zeke.

  Chapter 36

  Val watched Gina Foxton and her producer/boyfriend climb into the first golf cart lined up at the end of the dock at Eutaw Island. Scott Zaleski swung himself behind the steering wheel and patted the seat beside him. But Gina shook her head, motioned to D’John, the makeup artist, to take that seat, and instead sat on the backward-facing backseat. Val chuckled at the look on Zaleski’s face. A moment later, he was flying down the dock in the direction of the island.

  Tate sat back in the passenger seat of their cart and watched them go.

  “Trouble in paradise?” Val asked.

  “Yeah,” Tate said. “You could say that. The dickhead got her show canceled because he was screwing the sponsor’s wife.”

  “Ow,” Val said. She backed the golf cart away from the pile of baggage mounded on the dock, and then steered the cart down the dock, her head bouncing as the cart sped along on the weathered board planks.

  “She’s pissed that I’ve already been on the island,” Tate said, hanging on to his seat with both hands. “Seems to think it’s cheating.”

  “Tough,” Val said.

  The woman who opened the front door at the Eutaw Island Lodge was as tall as she was wide, with short silvery hair and bright blue eyes set into a deeply tanned and lined face. She wore khaki slacks, a pink T-shirt with “EUTAW ISLAND” embroidered in script over her left breast, and weather-beaten leather deck shoes.

  “Welcome,” she said, shaking hands with D’John, Scott, and Gina as they walked into the lodge’s entry hall, Lisa trailing slowly in their wake. “I’m Alice McLemore, but everybody around here just calls me Sis.” She put a sympathetic hand on Lisa’s shoulder. “You okay, shug? Usually the boat ride over from Darien is pretty smooth.”

  “It was very smooth,” Gina said. “It’s not seasickness. She’s just a little…hung over.”

  Sis looked from Gina to Lisa. “You two are the sisters? I’ve got you sharing a double. It’s two beds. I hope that’s all right.”

  “Fine,” Lisa mumbled.

  The door opened again, and Tate and Val and the rest of both crews stepped inside the lodge’s living room.

  “Welcome, everybody,” Sis said. “Lunch is in the dining room in fifteen minutes. That’ll give you time to drop your stuff in your rooms, and then meet back down here. Please don’t be late, because I promise you, you do not want to get off on the wrong foot with Iris and Inez.”

  “No lunch,” Lisa said, groaning. “Bed.”

  While everybody else was stepping up to the counter to check in and pick up their keys, D’John was strolling around the lodge, camcorder in hand.

  “So, this is the lodge at Rebeccaville,” he said, in a golf commentator’s hushed voice.

  It was a large, pleasant room, Gina thought. Low ceilings with heavy age-blackened beams, polished heart-pine floors scattered with worn Oriental rugs, and furniture that reminded her of the living room of any well-bred Atlanta matron. The overstuffed sofas and squashy armchairs were covered in a bright flowered chintz, and the tables and cabinets were good antique reproductions in the expected mahogany. Around the walls were nicely framed bird and botanical prints, with a large, well-done oil seascape hung over the mantel of the large fireplace that took up most of one wall.

  D’John didn’t seem overly impressed. “Hmm,” he said, panning the camera across the room. “I’d call it very Buckhead wannabe. Not really shabby, but it’s not a Veranda magazine cover, either.”

  “Shh!” Gina hushed him. “I’m going to go look in on Lisa. See you down here in ten minutes. I don’t know who Iris and Inez are, but I know I don’t want to get ’em mad at me.”

  She found her room on the second floor of the lodge. Lisa was sprawled out facedown on one of the queen-size beds in the room, dressed only in her panties and bra, her clubbing ensemble left in a heap on the floor.

  “Lisa?” Gina bent down to check on her younger sister. “Are you all right?”

  “Hot,” Lisa said. “No air-conditioning.”

  Gina stood up and looked around the room. There was a set of triple windows on the wall facing the bed. The windows were open, and the frilly lace curtains moved slightly in the breeze coming off the marsh.

  “It’s not so bad,” Gina said. “We’ve got a nice sea breeze, even though it’s midday.”

  “No AC,” Lisa mumbled.

  “I’ll see if Sis will send up a fan,” Gina said. She stepped into the bathroom to wash her hands and face, and then hurried downstairs to the dining room.

  She met Scott on the broad stair landing between floors.

  “How’s your room?” he asked solicitously. “Everything okay?”

  “Fine,” she said. “No air-conditioning, but there’s a decent breeze coming in. Lisa’s not too happy about it, though.”

  “She all right?” He didn’t even try to look concerned.

  “She’ll be fine,” Gina said. “I’ll take her some ginger ale and saltine crackers after lunch. That usually perks her up.”

  Barry Adelman stood outside the entrance to the dining room, beaming at them as they approached. He was dressed in what Gina guessed was a Manhattanite’s version of island-wear, a scientifically pressed Tommy Bahama shirt adorned with parrots and hibiscus blossoms, soft banana-colored silk trousers, Italian leather loafers, sans socks, and a black ball cap bearing the Adel-Weis Productions logo.

  “Gina!” he exclaimed. “And Scott! How are you two?” He took Gina’s hands in his. “Isn’t this great? Are you two as excited as I am?”

  “Absolutely,” she said, accepting the kisses he landed on both cheeks. “I’m thrilled to be here, Mr. Adelman.”

  “It’s Barry,” he corrected. “Come on into the dining room and meet the rest of the kids. We’ll bring everybody up to speed on what we’ve got planned for this week.”

  The dining room had faded chintz wallpaper, a long, polished mahogany table, and a dozen good repro Chippendale chairs arranged around it. A huge brass chandelier held candles instead of lightbulbs. Seated around the table were “the kids,” as Adelman referred to them: gaffers, cameramen, sound and light techs, and two or three other assorted crew members whose names Gina couldn’t remember and whose job description she didn’t quite understand.

  Tate Moody and Val sat at the far end of the table, and Adelman pointed Scott and Gina to two chairs beside D’John, who was already seated near the door, chatting away with one of the New York crew members.

  “All right, everybody,” Barry announced, standing at the head of the table like the patriarch of his newly formed clan. “Let’s get some lunch under our belts, and then we’ll have our powwow.”

  He sat down, and as he did so, two scrawny, dour-faced women in their early sixties entered the room, each balancing an enormous food-laden tray on one shoulder.

  The women wore black slacks and the same pink T-shirt as Sis. With their high cheekbones and gray hair pulled back into tight knoblike buns, they appeared to be identical twins.

  “Miss?” one of the women said, pausing beside Gina’s chair. “You want da swimp or da chicken salad?”

  “Uh…” Gina paused, trying to decipher the server’s question.

  “Get the shrimp salad,” Tate called from the far end of the table. “Inez makes the best shrimp salad on the Georgia coast.”

  Inez flashed a dazzling smile in Tate’s direction and giggled girlishly. “Oh, you hush up, you,” she retorted. She turned to Gina. “He’s a mess, ain’t he?”

  “A big mess,” Gina agreed. “I guess I’ll try the shrimp salad.”

  The thick white crockery plate held a mound of shredded iceberg lettuce and a
huge scoop of pale pink shrimp salad, along with two slices of dead-ripe tomato and a handful of Town House crackers.

  She loaded a cracker with a forkful of the shrimp salad, tasted, and nearly swooned. The shrimp were sweet and moist and perfectly cooked, finely diced, and mixed with mayonnaise that could only have been homemade. She could taste a hint of lemon juice, and a bite of green that she identified as chopped capers. She was superbly happy and deeply disturbed.

  Tate Moody was right. Again.

  Talk swirled around the table. Barry Adelman and Scott had a long discussion about wine, and college basketball, and some kind of digital technology that Gina did not understand. When Gina looked up, she saw Tate, down at the end of the table, idly chatting with his producer when he was not giving her that cocky told-you-so look of his.

  Gina managed to finish her lunch and restrain herself from picking up her plate to lick clean the last remnants of the shrimp salad. Iris came back around the table, offering small dishes of dessert—some kind of cake, peach cobbler, or butterscotch pudding.

  “No, thanks,” Gina said, sipping her iced tea. What she really wanted was another scoop of that shrimp salad. And the recipe. She’d kill for that recipe.

  Suddenly, Barry was tapping the side of his glass with his spoon. “Everybody,” he called, getting to his feet. “I know you’ve all been on pins and needles, so let’s get down to business.”

  Gina sat back in her chair, arms crossed.

  “Food Fight”—Barry said, pausing to add dramatic effect—“is going to be the biggest hit of the fall season.” He looked around the room, nodding thoughtfully. “And you people are going to make that hit.”

  “Yeah!” Scott said, pumping the air with his fist as the others applauded politely.

  “You!” Barry said, pointing at Tate, “are going to go mano a mano against the South’s leading lady of healthy regional cuisine!