He frowned again. “All right. Yeah. Okay.” He clicked the phone closed.
“So,” he said cheerily. “Here’s the plan. Barry has the camera crew on their way down to the ferry dock at Eutaw. They’ll be all set by the time we get back. And they’ll start the cameras rolling when we tie up, and then you guys will just step off the boat.
“Barry will give a little recap of the day’s events, and then he’ll interview you both. You’ll tell the story of your adventure—”
“And the thrilling rescue,” Lisa added. “That part was my idea, wasn’t it, Zeke?”
“Absolutely,” Zeke said. “Oh, I almost forgot. Barry says you’ll do a little cameo, too, Lisa. And Captain Coyle, too, of course.”
“Ohmygawd!” Lisa shrieked, jumping up and down on the bench where she and Gina had been napping. She dug into the pocket of her shorts and triumphantly brandished a tube of lip gloss. “I knew this would come in handy.”
“Great,” Zeke said. “And then,” he said, gesturing to Tate and Gina, “the plan is, you’ll go right over to the kitchen at Rebeccaville, and start setting up to cook. Barry says the judges are gonna be a little peeved about having to schlep over there in the rain, but—”
“No,” Tate said, crossing his arms over his chest.
“No way,” Gina agreed, crossing her own arms in solidarity.
“People, please,” Zeke pleaded. “Barry is really, really excited about the potential for this.”
“Not happening,” Tate said.
Zeke sighed and flipped the phone open again. He punched in the producer’s number and waited for an answer.
“Barry?” he said, his voice apologetic. “They’re having some reservations about the idea.”
Tate stalked over to the production assistant and held out his hand. “Gimme.”
Zeke handed the phone over.
“Adelman? There is no way in hell. No. I don’t care. Anyway, we got nothing to cook. We ate my fish for dinner, and we left the cooler with Gina’s fish back at the campsite at Rattlesnake Key. So you can just forget—”
He listened some more, glowering at what he was hearing. “All right, put her on, not that it’ll make any difference.”
Hi, Val,” he said.
“Tate? You’re okay? No injuries—right? The last thing we need right now is for you to go on the disabled list.”
“I’m fine,” he assured her. “Really. Just kinda sunburned. And fed up. Now, about this bullshit idea of Adelman’s—”
“It’s not bullshit,” Val said quickly. “And I need you to be a team player. So just suck it up and get on board.”
“This is nuts!” he exploded.
“It’s a guaranteed ratings bonanza,” Val said. “Deborah’s back here right now, working the press angle.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about ratings,” Tate said bitterly.
“You signed a contract,” she reminded him. “There’s a lot on the line here, Tate.”
“Yeah, I know I signed a contract, but nobody ever said anything about—”
“Listen to me,” Val said urgently. “You’re not the only one affected by this thing. You walk away now, your credibility takes a big hit. Mine too. And let’s talk about Gina, while we’re on the subject. If you walk away, they’re gonna have to use what they’ve got so far. That’s you, Tate Moody, winner of the Food Fight. Gina Foxton gets nothing. Fresh Start is history. She’s history. And why? Because Tate Moody, selfish bastard that he is—”
“Fine,” he said finally. “I get the picture. You win.”
He glanced over at Gina, who quickly looked away.
He closed the phone and handed it back to Mick Coyle. Without another word, he turned and walked out of the pilothouse. He put his forearms on the bow rail and looked out at the foaming waves below.
“Shit!” Despite the howl of the wind, they all heard it clearly.
Chapter 60
Look,” Zeke said, grabbing Lisa’s elbow. He pointed to a bright white light glowing in the distance. “That’s Eutaw. Barry’s already setting up the cameras.”
“Cameras?” She ran over to Coyle. “A mirror. We need a mirror. Also, some concealer, hot rollers, and a hairbrush. Stat!”
His answer was a guffaw. “We got a mirror, and there might be a comb somewhere around here. In the head.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of a narrow door set into the opposite wall of the pilothouse.
“It’s not just in my head,” Lisa said hotly. “I’m a wreck. And just look at Gina. We can’t go on camera looking like this.”
Gina gently pulled her sister away from the boat captain. “The head is what they call a bathroom on a boat.”
“Oh.” Lisa walked over and opened the door to the head. Blanching, she took a step backward. “Ick.”
“Mouth-breathe,” Gina instructed, shoving herself and her sister inside the cramped cubicle.
The Maggy Dee’s claustrophobic head consisted of a grimy porcelain sink set beneath a fly-specked mirror, a commode, and a rusted sheet-metal shower stall.
“Oh,” Gina said, cringing at her reflection in the tiny mirror. She sighed. “Doesn’t matter. My television career is officially over.”
“Screw that,” Lisa replied. “Sit,” she ordered, flipping the commode seat to the down position. She picked up a lank lock of Gina’s hair. “Nothing we can do about this,” she said briskly. She reached over and turned on the shower. “Strip and get in.”
“No way,” Gina said. “Not without a tetanus shot.”
But Lisa wasn’t listening. She opened the door and edged out. “Be right back,” she promised.
When she came back five minutes later, she had a crumpled Kroger grocery sack under her arm, and Gina, showered and wrapped in a faded blue towel, was sitting on the commode, right where she’d left her.
“Here,” Lisa said, dumping the bag’s contents in her sister’s lap. “Put these on.”
Gina held up a white cotton T-shirt and a pair of worn, time-shredded blue jeans. “Where did you get this stuff?”
“One of the boat’s mates left them behind after he was unfortunately incarcerated for public drunkenness, according to Captain Coyle,” Lisa said. “Don’t worry. They passed the sniff test.”
“But they’re a mile too big.” Gina stretched the waistband of the jeans over her own much smaller waist.
“Got it covered,” Lisa said, flashing a roll of duct tape and a handful of safety pins. “But hurry, the captain says we’ll be docking in less than fifteen minutes.”
While Gina finger-waved her hair into soft curls, Lisa tucked, pinned, taped, and tied. “Good thing I’ve never missed an episode of Project Runway,” she said, running a length of rope through the belt loops of the jeans and cinching it around Gina’s waist. She grabbed a hunk of the T-shirt, whose hem hung almost to her sister’s knees, and, with a fishing knife, slashed off the bottom eight inches. Then she pulled the fabric tight across Gina’s chest, and knotted it in the back.
“Lisa, no, you can see my nipples,” Gina cried, reaching to undo the knot. But Lisa slapped her hand away.
“Nipples are in this year,” Lisa said.
“Tell that to Birdelle Foxton,” Gina said. “Mama would just die if I let myself be seen on television this way. Do something. Gimme your bra.”
“What bra?” Lisa said. “Wait. Hold it.” She reached for a white first-aid kit sitting on the commode tank. Opening it, she found a box of Band-Aids, extracted two, and handed them to her sister.
“Instant bra,” she proclaimed.
Finally, Lisa applied a coat of lip gloss to Gina’s lips and pronounced her camera-ready. With Gina’s sunburned face and shiny hair, and the blue jeans, with their safety-pin-tightened back seam and rolled-up hem, plus the tight white T-shirt, she looked like a fresh-faced, all-American, small-town goddess.
“You look good,” Lisa said, critically appraising her sister. “Sorta haute shipwreck. Wait till Scott gets a load of you.”
It was the first time Gina had thought of Scott since boarding the shrimp boat.
“Where is Scott?” she asked. “Why didn’t he come out here with you guys?”
“He didn’t want to get shrimp guts on his Burberry,” Lisa said with a sneer.
“Was he…worried? I mean, when I didn’t show up on time?”
“I guess so. He went out looking with the rest of us, well, that is, he and Deborah went out looking for you. And he did try to charter the shrimp boat, with his American Express card—”
There was a knock at the bathroom door, and when Lisa opened it, Zeke stuck his head inside. His eyes lit up when he saw Gina’s transformation.
“Wow,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “You look terrific. Both of you.”
“Thanks,” Gina said. “This is all Lisa’s doing.”
Zeke looked adoringly at the younger sister. “Awesome.” And then he remembered the rest of his mission. “Captain says we’re docking in five minutes. So, you guys are ready?”
“As ready as I can get,” Gina said, exiting the bathroom. “But tell me this. Just how, exactly, does Barry plan for us to cook a meal with nonexistent fish?”
Zeke’s cheeks reddened. “Barry’s a logistical genius. Don’t worry. He’ll have it all worked out.”
“Hey, assholes!” Coyle’s voice boomed out. “Somebody get up there and take care of the bowlines.” He raised his voice even louder. “And for Christ’s sake, turn off those gawddamn camera lights. I can’t see shit with them shining right in my eyes.”
Once the Maggy Dee was snugged up to the ferry dock and a wooden gangway was lowered to the boat’s deck, Gina could see the camera crew waiting for them.
“I want Gina to be the first one off the boat,” Barry called. “Then Tate, then Lisa, Zeke, and the shrimp guy, whatever his name is.”
“Captain Coyle,” Coyle yelled. “Mick Coyle.”
“Whatever,” Barry called. “Okay, we’re rolling tape. Come on, Gina.”
Gina took a deep breath and stepped onto the gangway. She straightened her shoulders, looked backward, and caught Tate’s eye.
“Traitor,” she whispered.
Harsh white lights bathed the end of the dock in artificial light. Barry Adelman, dressed in a yellow vinyl rain slicker, hip waders, and his ever-present Adel-Weis Productions ball cap, folded her into his arms.
“Thank God, you made it back,” he said, looking past Gina and into the cameras. “Now, Gina Foxton, in the past twenty-four hours you’ve survived a storm at sea and a harrowing rescue by valiant Food Fight production assistant Zeke Evans. I think it’s fair to say there’s just one question America wants to ask.” He paused dramatically. “What’s for dinner tonight?”
Gina gazed coolly at the producer and then at the camera pointed at her. “Well, Barry, I guess America will just have to see what I’ve got up my sleeve.” And with that, she walked away and out of camera range.
“Cut!” Barry bawled. “That was brilliant. Gina, sweetie, you’re a natural. Honest to God. I couldn’t have come up with a better line myself.”
“What are we going to be cooking, Barry?” she demanded. “I won’t fake it. I don’t care what Tate does, but I am not going to cheat on my audience.”
“Cheat?” He thumped his fist over his heart. “Gina! Barry Adelman does not cheat. My shows are all about authenticity. We would never ask—no, allow—you to fake it. What we are going to do is simply come up with a different challenge. We’ve got everything all set up in the kitchen for you guys. And let me tell you, that crew of ours have really humped it to make that happen.”
“A different challenge?” Gina narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “What kind of challenge?”
“Tate Moody!” Barry called, gently pushing her away as he turned to greet his other Food Fight contestant.
“Wait, I want to know—”
But Barry was already busy conducting his next interview.
Scott met her on the steps of the plantation house. “Gina!” he exclaimed, folding his arms around her. “My God! I can’t believe you made it back in one piece. I’ve been worried out of my mind.”
She wriggled out of his grasp. “Really? Out of your mind?”
He frowned and looked over her shoulder at Lisa, who was parking the golf cart. “What kind of crap has Lisa been telling you?”
“She didn’t have to tell me anything. Actions speak louder than words,” Gina said, walking straight past him.
“That damned boat captain wouldn’t let me come with them!” Scott said, his face reddening. “I tried everything. I even called the Coast Guard.”
She stopped on the porch, turned, and gave a grave smile. “I’m sure you were deeply concerned. But it looks like I’ve got a show to tape, so maybe we could just concentrate on that for now.”
“Fine,” Scott said, following her inside. “Did Barry explain the setup to you?”
“No.”
“He’s only got the lodge and plantation location booked for one more day,” Scott said. “And the crew’s got to get back to New York for another shoot too.”
“I still don’t see how we can pull this off,” Gina protested.
“The guy’s brilliant,” Scott continued. “He’s cleaned out the lodge’s kitchen for ingredients. You and Tate will both have the exact same grocery list, and you’ll have two hours to come up with a meal incorporating everything you’ve been given. Brilliant, huh?”
Gina pushed an errant strand of hair out of her eyes. “Maybe if I’d had a little time to process all that’s gone on today, I’d appreciate his brilliance. But right now, Scott, what I really want is eight hours of sleep and my own clothes.”
“Later,” he said, pointing to the ballroom and her kitchen. “Right now you’ve got a Food Fight. It’s yours to win or lose, Gina.”
Chapter 61
Gina stood on the kitchen set, staring down at the counter, which was covered with a white bed sheet. “What’s this supposed to be?” she called.
“Don’t touch that!” Barry hustled onto the set. He’d left the rain suit behind and was dressed in his customary black shirt and pants. Zeke trailed not far behind, dressed in dry clothes—also black.
Barry took her by the arm and ushered her to a quiet corner of the ballroom, set up with folding tables and chairs. “Your surprise ingredients are under those sheets,” he told her. “I don’t want either one of you to see what you have to work with until we start taping. I gotta tell you, Gina, I like this challenge even better than the first one. Don’t you?”
“Honestly? Barry, we’re exhausted. Do we really have to do this tonight? I’m dead on my feet. And I look like crap. Where’s D’John?”
He patted her cheek. “You look fabulous. Fresh as a daisy. Which is why I told D’John we won’t need him tonight. I want you and Tate to look just the way you do—fresh from a brutal confrontation with the elements.”
“But,” Gina sputtered, “I can’t work looking like this. These aren’t even my clothes, Barry—these jeans have got a row of safety pins running up the butt. And this T-shirt—”
“You look awesome,” he said, getting up to leave. “You’ll start a new fashion trend. The day after this show airs, you wait, every chick in America will be wearing jeans just like those.” He glanced down at his watch. “Okay, cookie. Since you’re so tired, I’m gonna give you a break. Ten minutes, then I want you on set. Okay? Terrific.”
Hey,” Tate whispered. “Are you pissed at me?”
She refused to look over at him. The sound tech snaked a mike up underneath her T-shirt and clipped it to the neckline.
Despite Barry’s edict, D’John hovered at her side, makeup kit in tow. “I’m just going to powder her nose a little,” he told Adelman. “To take the shine down, that’s all. And I’ll put a little gel in her hair, to make her color more dramatic.”
“What’s going on between you two?” D’John whispered, cutting his eyes from Tate to Gina. “And don’t ev
en try to stonewall D’John.”
“Nothing’s going on,” she insisted.
“He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since he walked onto the set,” D’John said. “He’s looking at you like he looks at that dog of his. And you’re treating him like dog—crap. What’s the story? I thought you two made nice after the first Food Fight.”
“He sold me out,” Gina said stonily. “If we’d presented a united front on this thing, we never would have had to do this crazy taping tonight. But Barry insisted, and Tate folded, like a cheap tent. He’ll do anything to win this thing.”
D’John squirted styling gel into his hands and began working it into her hair. “The two of you, marooned alone on an island. It’s crazy sexy.”
“You weren’t there,” Gina said.
“Ooh, but I wish I had been,” he said.
“All right, everybody,” Barry called from his seat at the production table. “Let’s get this thing cranked up. I’m going to come out, detail the challenge, and unveil your secret ingredients. You’ll have two hours to cook up a storm, using as many of the ingredients as possible. You can also draw from the supply of kitchen staples that are already in each kitchen. But you’ll have penalty points subtracted from your total if you don’t use one of the surprise ingredients. When the food’s done, we’ll bring the judges back and do the presentation and the scoring. Everybody good with that?”
Tate cleared his voice. “Uh, Barry? What exactly are we supposed to be cooking? A southern meal, or what?”
“Whatever you think will tickle the judge’s taste buds,” Barry said, chuckling at his own cleverness. “Use your imagination. Go nuts. Comprende?”
“Comprende,” Tate said sourly.
Gina stared down at the groceries assembled on her kitchen counter in disbelief. She glanced over at Tate, whose reaction was even stronger than her own.
Deep Dish Page 31
