Deep Dish

by Mary Kay Andrews

  “I’m headed for the room,” she told her sister. “Are you coming up soon?”

  “Yeah,” Lisa said vaguely. “Soon. I just want to unwind with the guys a little. Don’t wait up for me, though. I’m a big girl, I can handle myself.”

  “She worries about you, okay?” Scott said, glaring at the younger sister. “As long as you’re out partying your ass off, she won’t sleep. So for once, could you just think of somebody else?”

  Lisa glared right back. She took a long sip from her beer and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Fuck off, Scott, will you? My mama’s alive and kickin’ in Odum, so I sure as hell don’t need you to tell me what to do.”

  “Don’t!” Gina interjected. “I’m too tired to play referee.” She turned to Scott. “You don’t need to walk me to my room. I want to sit on the porch for a minute, get some fresh air.”

  “I’ll come with you. We need to discuss the plan for tomorrow.”

  “Not tonight,” she said gently. “I really just want to be alone for a while, to think about what went wrong today and regroup. We can talk in the morning. I’ll meet you downstairs for breakfast. Is seven too early?”

  He shrugged in a way that telegraphed his hurt at what he perceived as a snub. “Fine. I’ll see you at seven.” He hurried out of the ballroom without looking back.

  “Night-night, Scottie,” Lisa sang out.

  “Lisa!”

  Unrepentant, her younger sister put down her empty bottle and reached for another beer from the open cooler on the table.

  “Why do you even put up with his crap?” she asked. “You broke up, didn’t you?”

  “He’s still my producer,” Gina said. “And in a crazy way, I guess he still thinks he cares about me.”

  “But you’re over him—right?”

  Gina bit her lip and nodded. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Zeke, bent over his open laptop at the director’s console.

  “What’s with Zeke?” she asked. “Did you two have a fight or something? He looks like somebody stole his lollipop.”

  “Let me ask you something,” Lisa said, running her fingers through her hair. “Why does a man think it’s his job to boss a woman around?”

  “I don’t know,” Gina said. “Is that what Zeke’s trying to do?”

  “Trying? He’s becoming a major pain in the ass,” Lisa said.

  “In what way?”

  “He thinks I drink too much.”

  “Do you?”

  “I have a good time, that’s all,” Lisa said. “It’s not like I’m hurting anybody. I have a few beers, I party. I’m not an alcoholic, for God’s sake.”

  Gina stared pointedly at the line of empty beer bottles on the table. “I think Zeke is sweet. And I think it’s sweet that he worries about you.”

  “You would,” Lisa said, swaying ever so slightly. “You always think you have to have a big ol’ man to look after you, don’t you? Well, not me, sister. I can take care of my own damn self.”

  “I see that,” Gina said. “Just make sure that you do take care of yourself. Or I’ll have to answer to Mom.”

  “Mom!” Lisa said, her eyes widening. She reached in the pocket of her capris, brought out her cell phone, and handed it to Gina. “She wants you to call her. She’s left half a dozen messages on my phone. Text and voice.”

  Gina dropped her clothes on the bathroom floor and stepped into the shower. The shock of the ice-cold water on her sweat-soaked skin was delicious. She put her face into the full force of the spray, soaped up, rinsed, and then soaped and rinsed again. She patted herself dry, slathered night cream on her face, and slipped into a pair of faded cotton jeans, a worn but clean T-shirt, and a pair of hot pink flip-flops.

  Stifling a yawn, she got out the research materials she’d brought with her. Spiral-bound cookbooks from various coastal church and community groups—including her favorite, Soul Stirrin’, from the ladies’ circle of the Darien Church of God in Christ—natural history books, and a well-thumbed field guide to coastal Georgia plant life. Somewhere in these books, she knew, was the inspiration—and the recipes—that would lead her to success in the second round of the Food Fight.

  She dug a bag of pork rinds out of the bottom of her suitcase and crammed one into her mouth, trying not to chew too fast. Her stomach growled loudly. She quickly ate half a dozen and was reaching for another when she heard her sister’s voice outside the bedroom, telling somebody good night. She shoved the empty bag under her mattress just as Lisa stepped unsteadily inside.

  “Hey!” Gina said. “You’re in early.”

  Lisa threw herself down on her bed. “Everybody else wimped out on me. Claimed they have to work in the morning. And I thought TV people were supposed to be such party animals.”

  “What about Zeke?”

  “Zeke!” Lisa said, wriggling out of her pants and tossing them onto the floor. “All he does is look at me with those big ol’ puppy-dawg eyes. Talk about a buzz killer.”

  Lisa pulled a sheet up over her bare shoulders and looked over at her sister. “What are you doing? Studying? I thought you were dead tired.”

  Gina yawned widely. “I’m wiped,” she admitted. “But I’ve got to figure out a way to win tomorrow. It’s my last chance. Otherwise, I go home to Mama and Daddy.”

  They shuddered in unison.

  “Lord, I’m so tired, I could sleep for a year,” Gina said, standing up to stretch.

  “Then go to bed. That’s what you told Scott you were doing.”

  “I just didn’t feel like being fussed over anymore,” Gina said. “If I leave the light on, will it bother you?”

  “Nope,” Lisa said. “Nothin’s botherin’ me.”

  “I think I’ll go downstairs and see if there’s any more coffee left,” Gina said, standing up and stretching. “I’ve gotta find a way to stay awake for a while.”

  “Coffee? Nah,” Lisa said. She swung her legs out of bed and went to her canvas tote bag, which she’d slung onto the back of a chair.

  She reached inside, brought out a bright red-and-black soft drink can, and popped the top. Dipping into the bag again, she brought out a small pill bottle and dropped two capsules into the can.

  “Here,” she said, thrusting the can at Gina. “Drink this.”

  “What is it?” Gina asked, with a mixture of horror and fascination.

  “Red Bull and NoDoz,” Lisa said. “The kids at school call it a Raging Bull. We drink it when we have to cram for a final.”

  “Is it legal?” Gina asked, sniffing the can.

  “Who cares?” Lisa said, flopping down on her bed again. “Call Mom, okay? She’s driving me nuts.” She turned over, sighed loudly, and moments later was softly snoring.

  Gina sighed and put Lisa’s cell phone in the pocket of her jeans, deciding she would call her mother later—much later. She looked down at the pile of books on her own bed, and then at the soda can.

  “What the hell.” She held her nose and chugged the Red Bull. The taste was odd, vaguely citrus, with undertones of chemicals. Definitely an acquired taste. But if it would keep her awake long enough to do her research, she decided, it was worth the weird aftertaste.

  The old lodge was quiet as she padded down the worn wooden stair treads, down to the lobby, and to the front door. She opened the door and peeked out. The porch was empty. Bliss.

  She settled herself into one of the rockers and opened her copy of Soul Stirrin’.

  At first, all was serenity. She watched moths flickering around the yellow globe of the porch light, and once, unbelievably, she saw a bat swoop in and snatch an unfortunate insect in midair. She heard the croak of tiny green tree toads from a palm tree at the edge of the porch, and when the wind wafted in just the right direction, she smelled the exotic scent of Confederate jasmine and honeysuckle from the vines that threaded their way up the trunk of an ancient oak near the driveway.

  Gina worked on, leafing through her books, making notes on ideas for the next day. Oysters
? Conventional wisdom—and Birdelle Foxton—had always declared that oysters were inedible in summer months. But her field guide begged to differ, stating that though summer oysters would be somewhat smaller, they were definitely edible. She’d spotted a promising-looking shell bank earlier in the day, during her unsuccessful fishing expedition. If not oysters, perhaps she’d walk along a sandbar and dig her toes in, searching for the quahog clams that the book said should be abundant in the summertime. Fried clams—let Tate Moody top that, she thought.

  If the field guide was to be believed, there were wild greens to be had on barrier islands like Eutaw—something called sea purslane, which grew on sand flats in the high marsh. The guide had a small, fuzzy photograph, which she tried to memorize. If she could find the sea purslane, maybe she could fashion her own version of oysters Rockefeller. Oysters Eutaw, she’d call them.

  Gina blinked. Suddenly, she could feel the adrenaline pumping through her bloodstream. Her pulse raced. Her eyes and mouth were dry. She put her hand over her chest and could have sworn her heart was beating so hard it lifted her hand up and off her body.

  “Holy crap,” she whispered. She’d been gored by a Raging Bull.

  She rocked faster, slapping her flip-flops rhythmically on the porch floor. She tried writing, but her hand was too shaky. She had to get up, had to move, go somewhere. She was hungry. She glanced down at her watch. After midnight. Would the kitchen be locked up? More importantly, would there be any food?

  The kitchen was dark, bathed in the eerie blue-gray light of the microwave’s digital readout. She yanked open the refrigerator door, and silently blessed Iris and Inez.

  A large platter of neatly sliced sandwiches, blanketed in plastic wrap, rested on the top shelf of the fridge, beside a huge glass pitcher of iced tea—also swathed in plastic.

  She put the platter on the old-fashioned marble countertop and lifted the plastic to investigate. Chicken salad. Thinly sliced turkey, and ham with Swiss cheese. Her stomach growled so loudly, she was afraid she’d awaken the entire house.

  Gina helped herself to half a chicken salad sandwich and half a ham and cheese on whole wheat, placing both on a paper towel. She put the platter back and poured herself a tall glass of tea.

  There was a tin breadbox on the island, in the same funny jade green color as her mother’s breadbox. She lifted the lid and was rewarded with a bag of potato chips, clamped shut with an old-fashioned wooden clothespin, the same way her mother fastened opened bags of food.

  She added a handful of potato chips to her sandwich and sat down on a wooden stool pulled up to the counter.

  Gina thought it might have been the best food she’d ever tasted. But maybe that was just the bull talking. She took a swig of tea and a bite of potato chip, and in less than five minutes—she knew it was only five, because she was watching the readout on the microwave—she’d polished off her whole dinner. Mortifying—but tasty.

  She was sponging off the counter—erasing any clues about her presence there—when she heard soft footsteps coming down the stairs.

  When the footsteps headed away from the kitchen and toward the front door, she decided to investigate. Was the midnight traveler Lisa—off for an assignation with Zeke? Unlikely—her sister was passed out upstairs. Could it be Scott? And if it was, who was he slipping out to meet?

  Without stopping to think, she tiptoed out of the kitchen and down the hall, pausing again when she heard the slight creak of the front door opening.

  Peering around the edge of a grandfather clock, she saw a familiar feathery tail—and the spotted butt of Moonpie—going out the front door. Tate Moody was right behind him, stopping at the door and looking warily around. She ducked down behind the massive carved oak console table in the hall to avoid being discovered. A minute later, she was back at the door, peeking out from the sidelight to see Tate going down the porch steps. Her heart was still pounding and her brain was obviously fogged, because the next thing she knew, she was slinking onto the porch, hiding behind one of the columns, peering into the darkness to see where Moody and Moonpie had gone.

  A moment later, she heard the high-pitched whir of a golf cart, and saw the cart’s headlights flash past.

  Crap! He was off on another of his midnight hunting expeditions. But she’d be darned if she was going to let him get away with it this time. Tomorrow was her time to shine, not his.

  She crept off the porch and ran—as best she could run in flip-flops—to her own golf cart. She turned the key and headed off into the night, bumping along the shell path, staying back as far as she could and still keep Moody in her sights. She left her own headlights off, praying that she wouldn’t run off the path and into one of Eutaw’s alligator-infested ditches or ponds.

  Chapter 49

  Tate looked down at the crude map he’d drawn earlier in the day and stared off into the darkness. The paths weren’t marked this far from the lodge, but the landmark—and the turnoff he was looking for—was a palm tree with most of the top sheared off. In the dark, though, nothing looked familiar.

  He stopped the cart once, got out, and played his flashlight over a palm tree, but on closer examination, he discovered it was not the right tree. He heard a noise on the path behind him. Moonpie whimpered. Tate ruffled the fur on his neck. “It’s okay, buddy, probably just an armadillo bumping around out here in the dark like the rest of us.”

  He got back in the cart and traveled another five hundred yards before spotting a palm tree he was sure was the right one. The flashlight confirmed it, so he veered hard right when the road forked.

  “Gettin’ close, buddy,” he told the dog. He was so close to the water now, he could hear waves lapping on the shore.

  Finally, maybe half a mile down the path, he sighted the strip of his own white T-shirt that he’d tied to the branch of a hunk of driftwood on the left side of the path. He stopped the cart, got out, and stretched.

  From out of the darkness he heard a faint humming noise, then nothing. Moonpie whimpered and got out of the cart, his tail raised as though he were flushing a quail.

  “Stay, boy,” Tate told him, grasping the dog’s collar. He took a few steps away from the cart and played the flashlight over the path, but could see nothing, except a couple of tree toads engaged in what looked to him to be toad-humping.

  “Nothing there but a couple horny toads,” he told the dog, grinning at his own pun. “Come on, let’s see if she’s still here.”

  Tate walked to the edge of the path, to the point where the oyster shells seemed to merge with marsh grass. He felt mud squishing beneath his sneakers, then water seeping up to his ankles. Holding the flashlight over his head, he shone it in the direction of the marsh.

  “Jackpot!” he said smugly.

  There, snagged in the trunk of a dead tree, was an old aluminum johnboat, maybe fourteen feet long, that he’d spotted bobbing in the water earlier in the day at high tide. From where he’d stood then, it had appeared that the boat was snagged on something beneath the water’s surface. And now, at the ebb tide, he could see that, yes, the boat was still there, and, yes, its bow appeared to be wedged into the crotch of an old dead tree on a sandbar.

  He took a deep breath and looked back at Moonpie, who sat very straight, looking out at the water. “You stay here,” he told the dog. “Don’t let those toads steal our cart.”

  “Let me give you a hand there, old buddy.” A woman’s voice came out of the darkness, startling him so that he dropped the flashlight into the water.

  “Oopsie,” the voice came again.

  He whirled around but could see nothing in the now total darkness.

  “Dammit, Reggie, is that you?”

  “Yup.”

  “You made me drop my damned flashlight.”

  “So I see.”

  He fished around in the knee-deep water but, finding nothing, let out a stream of colorful expletives.

  “You always talk that way around an impressionable dog?” Gina called.


  “If Moonpie could talk, he’d say a lot worse,” Tate yelled. “Dammit, this was my one chance to grab that boat.”

  “You could come back in the morning,” she suggested.

  “It’ll be high tide in the morning. I’d have to swim out—and that’s only if it’s still here. It’s snagged on something, and I’m afraid it’ll float away by then.”

  “If you had another light, say right now, could you get to it?”

  “Hell, yeah.”

  A tiny beam of light hit him in the face. He put his hands in front of his eyes to shield them.

  “Great,” he said. “How about bringing the flashlight out here to me?”

  “In the water?”

  “It’s only knee-deep.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Afraid you’ll drown?”

  “I don’t like snakes. Or alligators. This place looks like it could be crawling with both.”

  He sighed. “If I come back up there, you’ll give me the flashlight, right?”

  “We can discuss it.”

  He muttered another string of colorful phrases, but slogged slowly back through the marsh muck until he reached the shell bank.

  “Give me a hand up,” he said.

  She considered it. “You wouldn’t pull me down into the mud, would you?”

  “The thought hadn’t entered my mind,” he lied.

  “I’ll bet.”

  She stuck her hand out, and helped him up the bank.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “You followed me here.”

  “No, I was just out for a midnight joyride and bumped into you and your dog out here in the middle of nowhere.”

  He took the flashlight out of her hand and flashed it in her face. Her eyes were huge, her face flushed. She had a loony grin on her face that was most un-Reggie-like.

  “Are you on some kind of dope or something?”

  She blinked. “It’s not dope. I was trying to stay up so I could research and get myself ready to whip your butt tomorrow, but I was tired, so Lisa gave me a can of her Red Bull.”