Deep Dish
Page 36
“We leave in the morning,” Gina said. “And my complaint is—I don’t need Tate Moody patronizing me. I’m a danged fine cook all on my own. Winning it this way—that’s not what I wanted. It changes everything. Cheapens it.”
Val stubbed out the cigarette and lit another one. “Oh, no. You’re not gonna give me a load of ethics crap, are you? This is show business, sweetie. There’s no room for ethics in our line of work. The bottom line is, you won. That’s all that counts.”
“Not with me,” Gina said, crossing her arms over her chest. “I don’t want to win this way. I won’t. So just tell me where he is.”
“He’s gone.”
“Where to?”
“Somewhere up in the mountains. He’s supposed to be scouting a location for the fall shoot. He doesn’t check in with me on a regular basis when we’re not in production. All I know is, when he came by here a couple of days ago, he had the Vagabond hooked up to his truck.”
“All right.” Gina stood, hesitated, then stuck out her hand. “Thanks, Val. I appreciate your honesty. And don’t worry. I’m going to straighten this whole thing out.”
Val ignored the peace offering. “Good luck trying. I should tell you, once he makes up his mind about something, Tate Moody gets what you southerners call downright mulish. And he’s got his mind made up about you, Regina Foxton.”
“I’m pretty mulish myself,” Gina said.
“Suit yourself.”
“I will.”
Gina was halfway down the hall, standing in front of the elevator, when Val stuck her head out the office door.
“Hey, Reggie,” she called.
Gina turned around and frowned. “Nobody calls me that.”
“Excuse the hell out of me,” Val said. “I just remembered. Tate said something about a caddis fly hatch on the Soque.”
“What’s a caddis fly? And what’s the Soque?”
“I’m not sure about the caddis fly part, but the Soque is a river. Or more like a stream, if you ask me. Up in the mountains. We did a show up there last summer. I remember we bought groceries in Clarkesville. Whole damn county is dry. I had to drive all the way to Gainesville just to buy a bottle of Dewar’s.”
“Okay. That’s a start. Thanks.”
“Just don’t tell him I told you where to look,” Val cautioned. “He made it pretty clear when he was here that he didn’t want any company.”
Even though it was midweek, traffic on I-85 was especially brutal. It was only when she sailed past the exit for Lake Lanier that Gina allowed herself a brief, grim smile of satisfaction. She and Scott had spent several weekends at the lake earlier in the year. He’d made noises then about the two of them moving in together, but by then her mother had already shipped Lisa to Atlanta to live with her. Thank the Lord for Lisa, Gina thought, and not for the first time that week.
Gina headed north on U.S. 441, and before long she saw the deep green of the mountains ahead. The highway dipped and rose, and she sped past signs for towns like Homer, Lula, and Cornelia, intent on trying to make it to Clarkesville before five.
She slowed as she reached the courthouse square in Clarkesville, realizing for the first time that she had no idea where to start looking for Tate Moody. The map she’d consulted before leaving Atlanta showed the Soque River as a thin blue squiggle, meandering all over Habersham County.
When she saw a gas station with a sign advertising “Soda, Cigs, Milk, Red Wigglers, Ice, Bread,” she pulled in.
Gina got a Diet Coke out of the walk-in drink cooler, and, after making sure no one else was in the store, a large bag of fried pork rinds.
The elderly woman behind the cashier’s counter added up her purchases, and Gina handed over her money.
“Excuse me,” Gina said, offering what she hoped was a winning smile. “I’m trying to track down an old friend of mine who’s up here fishing this week. And I’m wondering if you could suggest where would be a good place to start looking?”
The woman, who wore a flowered cotton scarf over a headful of pink sponge rollers, looked doubtful. “Honey, I ain’t much for fishin’. Farris, my husband, he liked to fish some, but he passed back in October.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Gina said, impulsively reaching out and clasping the old woman’s hand. “I think my friend was going to fish on the Soque. And he might have stopped in here, for groceries or something. He drives a red pickup truck, and he’s got this big silver travel trailer that looks kind of like an old toaster hooked up to it. And a dog. He’s got an adorable English setter, named Moonpie. Maybe you’ve seen them?”
“You talking about Tate Moody?”
“Yes!” Gina cried. “Do you know where he is?”
“He come in here yesterday, bought some potted meat, soda crackers, and bananas,” the old woman said. “He didn’t tell me his name, but me and Farris, we used to watch Vittles all the time. I knowed him right off the bat. He’s shorter in real life, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” Gina said.
“But he’s real easy to look at,” the woman went on. “I wouldn’t kick him out of my bed, if you know what I mean.”
“Did he say where he’d be staying?”
“Didn’t ask,” the old woman said. “But last summer, him and that whole gang of show folk stayed over at Glen-Ella Springs.”
“That’s a motel?”
“More like an inn. I reckon I could call Barrie, see if he’s there.”
“Oh, would you? I’d be so grateful.”
The old woman plucked a cell phone from a holder on her hip and punched in the number. “Barrie? It’s Annette from the Gas ’n’ Go. Listen, there’s a pretty young lady here huntin’ Tate Moody. He come in the store yesterday, and I thought maybe he’s stayin’ with you.”
She listened and nodded. “That so? I’ll tell her. You too.”
“Is he there?” Gina asked.
“Well, he comes in there in the morning and gets breakfast with Barrie and Bobby, and she lets him use her shower, but she says she thinks he’s got the camper set up on Don Pate’s property on Twin Branch Gap. You know where that’s at?”
“I don’t know where anything’s at up here. Could you draw me a map?”
The woman sketched a drawing on the back of a brown paper sack and handed it over. “It ain’t easy to find,” she warned. “And once you leave the county road, it’s all gravel back up in there. Gets pretty dusty this time of year.”
“I’ll be all right,” Gina said. “Thank you again for all your help.”
The old lady studied her face for a minute. “I keep thinking you favor somebody famous. You ever been on television your ownself?”
Gina dimpled. “Well, as a matter of fact—”
“I knew it,” the old lady said, slapping her palm on the counter. “You’re Peggy Jane Shannon from QVC—right? I just love those Capodimonte statues you sell on there.” She grabbed her pen and another paper sack. “Would you autograph that for me? Wait till I tell my sister who come in here today. Peggy Jane Shannon. Lookin’ for Tate Moody. Boy howdy.”
“Boy howdy is right,” Gina said, scribbling the QVC host’s name on the sack.
An hour later, as the Honda wheezed up the steep grade of Twin Branch Gap Road in a cloud of dust, Gina was having serious doubts about the Gas ’n’ Go lady’s talents as a cartographer. Thick greenery crowded in from both sides of the narrow road, and occasionally, off to her left, she could see the glint of the sun on rocks and water, down a dramatic incline.
“He better be here,” Gina fumed, scanning the horizon for any sign of a bright red truck or a big silver canned ham on wheels. She’d crunched her way through the whole cellophane bag of pork rinds as she rehearsed her lines. Now if she could just find the rat…
It was close to seven o’clock when she spotted a flash of silver through the tree line. She turned the Honda into a short, rutted dirt path that cut through a blooming meadow of daylilies, Queen Anne’s lace, and purple clover. At the end of th
e path, the Vagabond was set up in the shade of a huge sycamore tree, with Tate’s truck parked beside it. A bright blue awning extended from the Vagabond’s side, and beneath it were a charcoal grill, a folding picnic table, and a beach chair.
Gina pulled the Honda alongside the truck and got out. The air was cool and sweet and smelled of honeysuckle.
“Tate?” She strode over to the Vagabond, intent on treeing her quarry.
Moonpie, who’d been sprawled on his side in the open doorway of the trailer, sprang to his feet, his bark surprisingly fierce. But when he saw who the visitor was, he leaped up, placing his front paws on her chest.
“Hey, spotty.” Gina scratched the dog’s ears. “You glad to see me?”
The dog slurped her face lovingly.
“Where’s the boss?” she asked, stepping inside the trailer.
Gone fishing was the obvious answer. The Vagabond’s interior was tidy. A coffee mug sat in the dish drainer, a faded blue work shirt hung from a hook by the bunk area, and a laptop computer was stowed on the dinette table, beside a flat plastic box that held an assortment of tiny fishing flies stuck to a strip of Styrofoam.
“Dang it,” she said, clomping back down the steps. She followed a worn path through the meadow and came to a steep bluff looking down at the rock-bound Soque River.
She cupped her hands over her mouth to make a megaphone. “Tate Moody! Where are you?”
When no answer came, she considered climbing down to the river. But her shoes, flat-soled canvas espadrilles, would be no match for the rocky incline. And anyway, she had no idea of which direction to take.
“Tate Moody,” she called again. “I want to talk to you.”
Gina stood on the bluff, staring down at the deepening shadows on the riverbank. It would be dark soon, she knew. He’d have to come back. And when he did, she would be right here, waiting to rip him a new one.
She didn’t have long to wait.
Ten minutes later, she heard footsteps in the underbrush, and Moonpie went shooting past, scrambling with ease down the slope to meet his master.
“Hey, buddy. What’s happening?”
He had a fly rod slung over one shoulder, and a canvas fishing creel slung over the other. His face was tanned even deeper than usual, and he climbed the bluff slowly in hip-high rubber waders.
“About durned time,” she called down.
“Reggie!” His face creased into a wide smile. “I knew you couldn’t stay away from me for long.”
“I need to talk to you,” she said, steely-eyed.
“So I gathered.” He walked past her, to the campsite. He put his fishing equipment on the picnic table and sat down on the bench beside it, slipping off the suspenders that held up the waders.
“I get the feeling this isn’t strictly a pleasure visit,” he said quietly, stepping out of the boots and hanging them from a clothesline he’d strung between the tree and the Vagabond. “So what’s up?”
“I know what you did,” she said, glaring at him. “It took me a while. But then I saw D’John’s movie, and it became very clear.”
“You’re not very clear,” Tate said, leaning back on his elbows. “Or else I’m pretty dense. Exactly what are we talking about here?”
“You rat! You threw the Food Fight! You weren’t drunk. It was all a big fake-out. You deliberately lost.”
He got up and opened the door to the Vagabond. “You want a beer or something? Or dinner? I’ve got a couple of steaks in the cooler.”
“Hey!” Gina yelled. “I’m talking to you. Don’t just walk away like you can’t hear me. At least give me that much respect.”
Tate ducked inside the Vagabond and emerged a minute later with two bottles of beer. “I hear you,” he said, extending a beer toward her. “Hell, the whole county probably hears you. I just thought we could discuss this quietly like a couple of mature adults, over a cold beverage and a hot steak. How do you like yours, by the way? Me and Moonpie generally go rare.”
“I…don’t…want…a…steak,” Gina said, her fists clenched. “That’s not why I came here.”
He dumped some charcoal in the grill, squeezed some lighter fluid onto it, and flipped in a match. Flames shot up, and he nodded his approval. He dropped the grate back onto the grill and took a seat at the picnic table.
“So why are you here?”
All the sentences she’d so carefully rehearsed on that dusty mountain road were gone. The logic, the chilly demeanor she’d imagined, had fled. Anger, rage, resentment—these simmered in her chest, and to her dismay, boiled over in a well of hot tears.
“How could you?” she cried. “I thought you cared about me. How could you deliberately humiliate me like that?”
“Humiliate?” He seemed dumbstruck. “What are we talking about here? I mean, yeah, I admit it, I deliberately screwed up. But it’s no big deal. You probably woulda won anyway.”
“No big deal? Are you serious? This is my career we’re talking about. My life. I had everything on the line. And you took it upon yourself to throw it all away. And by the way—just so you know? I would have won without your help.” She stuck her chin out. “I don’t need to cheat to win. And I don’t need you to cheat for me. I told you that even before we got to Eutaw. I thought you understood. I can’t stand a cheater. But then, you’re a man. That’s how you play. You make up your own rules, and the hell with everybody else.”
“That’s what you think?” Tate grabbed her by the shoulders. “That I don’t care about you? That I did this lightly? Woman, you don’t get it, do you? Damn it, Reggie, I love you. But every time I get close, you back away. You were so all-fired intent on winning this stupid Food Fight; that’s all you could talk about. Then, out there on Rattlesnake Key, in one moment of weakness, one crazy, amazing moment, you let your guard down. You actually let me in. And then a minute later, you shut me out.”
Tears stung her eyes. “I told you, that was a mistake.”
“And I told you, you’re a liar. And now I’m telling you, you’re a damned fool too. I thought I was giving you what you wanted. I gave you a gift when I threw the Food Fight. A gift of love. Okay, it was the wrong thing to do. But I did it for all the right reasons.”
She wrenched away from him. “You want to give me a gift? How about believing in me? That’s the only gift I want from you, Tate Moody. Everything else, you can keep.”
Somehow, she made it back to the Honda. She slammed the car into reverse and sped out of the meadow. In the waning light of dusk, she saw him, in her rearview mirror, turn and go back to his fire, to his dog, to his life. Without her.
Chapter 69
Thanks to Lisa’s ruthless efficiency, most of the furniture in the town house was already packed or crated. But some of the bedroom furniture was still intact: her bed, and the dresser holding her television set. Arriving home at ten o’clock, Gina flung herself facedown onto the bed.
Eventually, hunger pangs reminded her that she’d had no food for most of the day. She padded out to the kitchen and found that Lisa’s annoying efficiency extended to the refrigerator too. It was bare, except for a plastic takeout container of fried chicken wings and Lisa’s cache of Natty Lite.
She helped herself to the chicken and a can of beer and went back to bed. Eventually she would have to decide what to do about the mess she called her life. But for now, she decided, it was much easier to dwell on the recent past.
Gina popped D’John’s documentary in the DVD player. Propping herself up on her pillow, she gnawed on a drummette, then washed it down with a dainty swig of beer. She’d watched D’John’s documentary all the way through once, and was halfway through a second viewing when she heard the front door open. She heard her sister’s footsteps in the hall, and then Lisa was standing in the doorway. Gina was miserable, heartbroken, and depressed. Lisa, on the other hand, was runway-ready, with new blond highlights in her hair and full makeup. She wore a chic short black chiffon cocktail dress and stiletto-heeled bronze sandals.
“Yeah, sorry,” Lisa said. “The girls wanted to take me clubbing one last time for old time’s sake. All my stuff’s already packed. I’ll have it cleaned when we get to New York.”
“Keep it,” Gina said. “It never looked that good on me.”
“For real? Thanks!” Lisa sat down on the bed beside her sister. “Wait.” She picked up the empty chicken container. “You ate this whole thing?”
“Yup.”
Lisa held up an empty beer can. “How many of these did you drink?”
“How many were in the fridge?”
Lisa pursed her lips in disapproval. “You drank five cans of Natty Lite? You don’t even like beer.”
“True,” Gina said. “But it’s not so bad with the fried chicken. Could you move over to the other side of the bed? You’re kinda blocking my view.”
Lisa turned to look at the television. “Oh. D’John’s masterpiece.”
She went into the other room, and when she padded barefoot back into the room, she was dressed for bed in an oversize Hi-Beams football jersey.
“Scoot over,” she told Gina, climbing into the bed. “The movers took all my stuff already, so I’m bunking in here with you tonight, if that’s okay.”
“S’okay,” Gina said with a sigh. She picked up the remote, pointed it at the television, and punched the play button. The DVD started again.
“How many times have you watched this tonight?” Lisa asked.
“This makes three,” Gina said. “Shh.” She fast-forwarded the DVD until it came to a segment showing Gina and Tate horsing around on their kitchen set, in between shoots for Food Fight.
Gina was listening to something Zeke was saying off camera, and Tate was pelting her with what looked like Ritz crackers. For a while, she ignored the rain of crackers, but then, suddenly, she turned and without warning dumped a pan of thick white stuff on his head. The goo dripped onto his face, and Gina could be heard giggling hysterically off camera.