Deep Dish

by Mary Kay Andrews

  “Red Bull. That’s all?”

  “Well. It’s sort of a college cocktail the kids all drink when they’re studying for exams. Lisa calls it a Raging Bull.”

  “What else is in it?”

  “NoDoz.”

  “NoDoz and Red Bull? Jesus H. Christ on a crutch, Reggie. That’s a heart attack in a hurry. You mean to say you drank some?”

  “Just one can.”

  He shook his head. “I want to beat you fair and square, but I can’t do it if you’re dead.”

  “I’m fine,” she insisted. “Finer than fine.”

  “You’re amped out of your gourd. You just up and followed me out here in the dead of night? Didn’t even put the headlights on in the golf cart?”

  “I wanted to see where you were going. Find out what you were up to. And now I have.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “What do you intend to do now?”

  She gave it some thought. “I’ll hold the flashlight and shine it on the boat, while you go out and drag it back here.”

  “And then?”

  “And then tomorrow, we’ll go out in it and catch some nice fresh fish.”

  “We? No. No way. It’s my boat. I found it, and I’m gonna go out there and drag it back up here. And that’ll be the end of it.”

  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll just take my itsy-bitsy old flashlight and go home.” She grabbed the flashlight back and turned to leave.

  “Wait,” he called. “Let’s see if we can figure this out.”

  “We?”

  He swore quietly. “You and me. I’ll play fair. I swear.”

  Chapter 50

  Safely back in her room at the lodge, Gina did not sleep.

  She read all of her reference books. She took notes. She tiptoed downstairs to the library, found an old copy of The Yearling, and read it in one sitting, crying, as she always did, at the end of the book. She filed her nails and washed out her underpants in the bathroom sink. Then she washed her sister’s underpants. She even considered, but only briefly, calling her mother, but at six thirty, she decided it was time to get ready for the big day.

  Showered and dressed in khaki slacks and a tank top with a blue cotton work shirt thrown over it, she looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes still looked, as Tate had pointed out, a little loony. But her heart had finally stopped pounding, and her pulse seemed to have slowed down to the rate of a moderately hyperactive gerbil.

  She went bouncing down the stairs to the lobby, but stopped, mid-bounce, when she saw Scott standing there, looking up at her.

  “You’re in a great mood,” he observed.

  “Today’s the day,” she agreed. “Today I win. Or die trying.”

  “That’s kind of extreme, Gina,” he said, frowning.

  “But true. Let’s face it. My show has been canceled, and so far, not a whole lot of people are banging on my door begging to put me on television.”

  “They will. I told you that. Even if, God forbid, you lose today, your career is far from over. I promised you that, didn’t I?”

  “You promised me a lot of things,” she said.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t,” she said, stopping him. “It’s in the past. I’m just saying, it’s up to me to make my own career path. I can’t count on you—or anybody else—to do it for me. And that’s fine. It’s great. I believe in me.”

  He put his finger under her chin and lifted it up and gazed into her eyes. “You’ve changed in the last week, you know that? You’re, I don’t know…tough, I guess, is the word. How did that happen?”

  “Resilient,” she corrected. “Let’s go get some food. I could eat a horse.”

  It was only seven, but the rest of the production crew was already sitting around the long polished mahogany table, passing an oversize basket of bread.

  “Biscuits?” Gina swooped down and short-stopped the basket before it could reach Zeke. She folded back a checked cotton napkin and nabbed a biscuit, still warm from the oven.

  She took the vacant seat next to Zeke’s, pulled the biscuit in half, and proceeded to slather it with butter and honey.

  Scott looked on openmouthed. “You’re eating carbs? And butter? And honey? All in the same meal? In front of other people?”

  “Hungry,” Gina said between bites. “Very hungry.”

  “Uh, Gina,” Zeke said quietly. “Is Lisa up yet?”

  “Not yet,” she said, turning toward him. “But don’t worry, I’ll run up and get her after I’ve had my eggs and bacon.”

  “Good God,” Scott said, clutching his chest. “Who are you?”

  “Lisa’s mad at me,” Zeke said, his eyes downcast.

  “She’ll get over it,” Gina said, filling her glass with orange juice. “My baby sister has the attention span of a toddler. Trust me, she’s probably already forgotten what you were fussing about.”

  “I told her she was drinking too much,” Zeke whispered. “And she was. She called me an old lady.”

  “Don’t worry. She calls me that all the time. And worse.”

  “Did she say anything about me last night?”

  “She thinks you’re sweet,” Gina said, patting his hand reassuringly. “We both do.”

  “Zeke!” Barry Adelman stood in the dining room doorway, dressed in a sky blue silk tropical print shirt and cream silk slacks. He had paper napkins tucked around the collar of the shirt, to keep his orange pancake makeup from ruining it. “The meter’s running, sport. Production meeting in five minutes.”

  He looked at his crew members, at Gina and Scott and the others. “Big day, everybody,” he boomed. “Round two. Let’s go make some television!”

  Chairs were pushed back and forks put down mid-bite. The crew members rushed for the door.

  Scott took Zeke’s vacant seat next to Gina.

  “Did you have some time to figure out a plan for today?” he asked.

  “I was up all night,” she said simply. “It’s taken care of.”

  “All right,” he said slowly. “What are your thoughts?”

  “Oysters, if I can find them. Or flounder. If the tide’s right. Maybe both, if I get really lucky.”

  He frowned. “Oysters? You can’t do oysters now. They’re poison or something. Nobody eats oysters in the summertime.”

  “Au contraire,” she said. “I can, and I will, if I can find them.”

  “What about the flounder?” he asked, deciding to let the oysters drop for the moment. “You didn’t have any luck fishing yesterday. What makes you think today will be any different?”

  She smiled serenely. “I’ve got a whole different approach today.”

  “Moody did pork yesterday. So he’ll for sure be doing fish today,” Scott said. “I think you should do some counter-tactics. Maybe chicken. Something homey like that. Everybody always loved that show you did with the fried chicken.”

  “I’ve got it under control, Scott,” Gina said, standing up. “I gotta go get made up. See you on set.”

  She hummed as D’John did her comb-out.

  “Stop that,” he said. “You’ve never hummed before.”

  She hummed another bar. The song was her own off-key version of “Brick House,” although she would readily admit it was nothing the Commodores would recognize.

  “Shake it down, shake it down, shake it down now,” she sang.

  Tate slid into the chair next to hers.

  “Is that supposed to be ‘Brick House’? Because if it is, it’s the worst version I’ve ever heard. I was at a wedding reception in Pittsburgh once, and the polka band did a better version.”

  Gina sang on.

  In defense, D’John carpet-bombed her entire head with hairspray.

  She quit singing.

  She glanced around the makeup room to make sure that nobody else was listening.

  “Are we all set?”

  “Yes.”

  “You checked? It’s still there?”

  “As of half an hour ago.”

&nb
sp; “All systems go?” she asked.

  “Roger that.”

  The makeup room door opened, and Zeke walked in, followed by an unhappy-looking Moonpie.

  “D’John?” Zeke said, his voice tentative.

  “What are you doing with that dog in here?” D’John demanded.

  “Uh, Barry wants Moonpie in the shoot today.”

  “What?” Tate asked. “Just in the stand-up part? That should be all right. He’s used to being on camera with me.”

  “Uh, well, that, and uh, Barry wants you to take Moonpie out with you today. And afterward, he wants him in the kitchen with you.”

  “Hell, no!” Tate exploded. “He’s a dog. He sees a mockingbird or a squirrel, and he thinks it’s time to go hunting. I love my dog, but I don’t have time to go chasing after him when we’re on a deadline like this. When we shoot my show, we always have somebody off set tending to him while we finish the shoot.”

  “Aw, come on, Tate,” Gina said, laughing. “Moonpie wants to go. Don’t you, Moonpie?”

  The setter put his front paws on Gina’s lap and thumped his tail happily.

  “Absolutely not,” Tate said, crossing his arms.

  “Afraid so,” Zeke said. “And uh, D’John?”

  The makeup artist rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me…”

  “Barry wants to know if there’s anything you can do to emphasize Moonpie’s eyes more. Like uh, eyeliner or something? Also, he wants you to trim the droopy stuff around his ears, and maybe fluff up his tail a little. He suggested a blow-dryer.”

  Tate started to argue, but then thought better of it. He climbed down off the makeup chair and thumped its padded seat. “Here, boy,” he called. “Your turn.”

  The day was hot, but overcast. Barry decreed it the perfect weather for an outdoor shoot.

  He guided Tate and Gina toward the front door of the lodge, an arm over each of his would-be stars’ shoulders.

  “All right, kids,” he said. “The crew’s out front, waiting for you. Here’s the plan:

  “We’ve already shot an interview with the judges back in the ballroom. And P.S., before we started taping, I did mention to Beau and Deidre that you two are concerned about their impartiality. They both swear they have no biases against either of you.”

  “Riiiight,” Tate said.

  “I’m gonna give them the benefit of the doubt,” Barry said. “So. I’ll go outside and do my stand-up about how it’s the second round of the Food Fight, blasé, blasé, blasé. Zeke is going to stand inside the door with you two, and at his signal, I want you both to come bustin’ full-tilt boogie out this door. Then, I want you to run to your golf carts, get behind the wheels, and glare at each other. Got it?”

  “Glaring,” Tate said. “Check.”

  “Full-tilt boogie,” Gina answered. “Got it.”

  “Knock ’em dead,” Barry said, slapping their backs.

  Zeke took his station beside the front door, with the freshly groomed Moonpie’s leash wrapped loosely around his wrist. The dog sat patiently waiting for his cue. Zeke glanced at the yellow sticky note posted on his left forearm, and then at the watch on his right wrist. He wore a headset and a worried expression.

  “Lisa still hasn’t come downstairs,” he told Gina. “Do you think she’s all right?”

  “She was in the shower a few minutes ago,” Gina told him. “Aren’t you supposed to be giving us a signal to go out?”

  “Oh. Yeah. Right.”

  He spoke into his microphone. “Barry? Are we ready?”

  He nodded.

  “Two more minutes,” he told Gina. “On the signal, I’ll hold the door open, and you guys go charging out. Barry wants to do it all in one long shot, so try not to mess up.

  “Should I go up and check on Lisa?” he asked. “Or is that too old-lady-like?”

  “Concentrate on this shot,” Gina suggested. “Lisa’s not really a morning person.”

  They could hear Barry’s voice through the door. “And now, let’s get our chefs out here and ready to rumble,” he said loudly.

  Chapter 51

  As they’d planned the night before, Gina and Tate each took different forks in the road at the end of the Rebeccaville driveway. And as planned, Gina took the loop path that followed the island’s coastline, then cut across the island to meet Tate at the spot she’d followed him to the night before.

  The sky was a dull gray this morning, and there was not a hint of a breeze to dispel the damp, sticky humidity that seemed to close in around her body as she bumped over the oyster-shell cart path. She could feel her energy starting to flag, but shook her head violently, as though to shake off any doubts about the day’s outcome.

  Ten minutes later, she arrived at the palm tree with the shorn-off top, and two minutes after that, she saw Tate standing beside his parked cart, unloading his fishing equipment. Moonpie stood at the edge of the marsh grass, nose in the air, tail erect.

  “He saw a heron,” Tate said as a greeting to her. “Talk about an incurable optimist, he actually thinks he’s gonna flush and fetch me a three-foot-tall blue heron.”

  Gina leaned over and rubbed Moonpie’s ears. “Go get ’em, boy.”

  Tate made a face and started down the shell bank. He looked back at Gina, who stood motionless, her cheap plastic spinning reel in one hand, her cooler in the other.

  “Come on, then, if you’re coming,” he said, glancing up at the clouds. “I think we may be in store for some rain.”

  “Did you check the boat to see if there are any leaks?” she asked, stepping daintily down into the mud before getting in.

  “It’s floating,” he said, handing her a weathered oak oar. “It probably has a little seepage, but nothing major.”

  Tate stepped out of the boat, whistled, and Moonpie jumped in. He shoved the boat’s bow off the shell bank, and waded it out until the water was nearly waist high before climbing in and taking a seat at the front.

  “You know how to row, right?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she said indignantly. “Did you say something about seepage?”

  “It’s an old boat,” he said, dipping his oar into the water and pulling it forward with one fluid motion. “The rivets are probably a little loose. But if it wasn’t seaworthy, it would have sunk long ago. I pulled all kind of gunk out of it before you got here. It’s been sitting on that snag for some time now.”

  Gina dipped her own oar into the water on the other side of where Tate’s was. “So, this boat probably belongs to somebody. Somebody who’d probably consider us as thieves, since we’re taking it without their permission.”

  “You could always hop out,” he suggested. “Before you become an accessory to grand theft, boat.”

  Instead, she kept rowing, working to get her strokes in rhythm with his. She hadn’t rowed a boat in years. She could already feel blisters rising on the palms of her hands, and after fifteen minutes, the muscles in her shoulders were protesting.

  They didn’t talk. The dark water flashed by, and red-winged blackbirds rose out of the tall marsh grass as they glided along. She could see shrimp popping at the point where the water met shell banks, and occasionally a mullet would jump and slap the water, causing Moonpie much excitement.

  “Hey, we’re getting pretty good at this,” she said at one point, marveling at their relative speed.

  “Tide’s going out,” he said, deliberately bursting her little bubble.

  In thirty minutes, when she turned around, she could barely see the point in the marsh where they’d left the carts. They were out of the creek, she thought, and in the ocean. The thought made her pulse race again.

  “Do you actually know where you’re going?” she asked anxiously. “I mean, this creek just seems to curve and meander, and it all starts to look the same to me.”

  “I know what I’m doing,” he said simply.

  Her feet were wet. There was half an inch of water in the boat.

  “Uh, Tate,” she said.


  “It’s just a little water. You won’t drown.”

  “I was just saying…”

  He grunted and kept rowing, so she did the same. She could feel beads of sweat rolling down her face, and her shirt was damp with perspiration. She wanted to take a break, have a sip from the bottled water she’d stowed in her cooler, but she didn’t want Tate Moody to think she was a slacker. Or worse, a girl.

  Thirty minutes later, he put his oar down and frowned. They could see the dark green shape of Eutaw Island behind them. The sky had darkened to a pale pewter shade, and the wind whipped little whitecaps on the dark green sea. “This looks like the place Iris told me about.”

  “Inez told me about a place too. Where her daddy used to take her to catch spot-tail bass. But if it’s the place, why are you frowning?”

  “No anchor,” he said, slapping his thigh in disgust. “How could I not have thought of that?”

  She hadn’t thought of it either, but she didn’t intend to volunteer that information.

  “We’ve got that rope up in the bow,” she said. “Could we tie up to something?”

  He gestured toward the creek bank, which seemed half a mile away. “You see anything we can tie up to?”

  “What do we do now?” she asked. “Go back?”

  “Hell, no,” Tate said. “We’ll just have to take turns. One can fish, while the other keeps rowing us back toward the island.”

  “What do we use for bait? I’m used to fishing with shrimp. Or minnows.”

  “There’s that we thing again,” he said, reaching for the plastic tackle box. He pawed through the contents. “Most of this stuff is worthless,” he said. “But there’s a couple halfway decent jigs in here. It’s better than nothing.”

  He busied himself rigging his fishing line, and in a moment, he’d cast out in the direction of the creek.

  “I take it that means I’m on rowing duty first?”

  He nodded, not taking his eyes off the water. “Keep trying to move us back toward the island. You’ll have to work at it too, the way the tide’s moving.”