by Rachel Hauck
“I can make toast, Duncan.” Joy sank down into her chair. “You’re awfully arrogant for a man no longer holding the keys.”
He lowered his nose to hers. “I’ve worked with a lot of hungry artists and actors before, Joy. But I’ve never seen one as starving as you. You won’t walk because it’s not in you to quit. That ability made you a great ballplayer, an entertaining show host, and a determined aunt, but—”
“Not a great cook?” Joy glared at him.
“Joy, just do the show.” Duncan stood back. “See what happens. Let the routine roll like it has for the past three years. By the time Allison finds out, if she finds out, you’ll be such a big hit she won’t care.” Duncan perched on the edge of Joy’s desk and reached for her hand. “She’s right. You are definitely star quality. It’s why your daddy asked you to take over the show. He saw it before I did.” He squinted at her as if seeing Joy anew.
“Daddy saw star quality in me?” Joy withdrew her hand from his and moved her pencil tin from one side of her desk to the other. It was full of yellow number twos, sharpened to a fine point, erasers on the bottom, tips toward the ceiling. Daddy didn’t want his legacy to die. That’s why he asked her. And she answered because she had nothing else to do. Because for once in her life, she wanted to say yes to his request without an argument or stomping away to do her own thing. “What about the live competitions? I’m not doing them.”
He winked as he reached for her hands. “I told her you had a phobia.”
“A phobia? That’s the best you could do?”
“She loved it. Thought it added to your nuance and character.”
Duncan squeezed her hands. “I’m going to miss you. You are the one woman I can truly say never let me down.”
He rounded the desk for the door. “It’s going to be fine. I promise.”
“I won’t lie,” Joy said. “Not outright. I may not confess, but if she asks—”
“Believe me, she won’t. Allison is way beyond the question of whether or not her host can cook. She has a star in her pocket, and she’s going to find every way possible to let you shine.”
Five
The twilight of the June evening made the surface of Factory Creek look like melted gold. Joy positioned her porch chair to face the water. Next to her, a cold four-pack of Orangina sat on the cedar table.
Mama collapsed into her chair, stripping off her garden gloves and dropping them to the porch floor. “Today I painted one car, primed two, and repotted fifteen plants.”
“Sounds like a successful day.” Joy twisted the cap off the first bottle and passed it to Mama. “Where are the girls?”
“Swimming at the Lawfords’.” With her fingers, Mama combed her wiry bangs away from her sunburned forehead, working the ends into the rest of her hair. “Orangina?” She surveyed Joy, a glint in her hazel eyes. “What’s up?”
“Nothing.” Joy slumped down in the chair, rested her head against the broad slats, and closed her eyes. The breeze off the creek carried the scent of potting soil and dew.
“Nothing? That’ll be the day. You only break out the Orangina for special occasions.”
“Yeah, like what?” Joy sipped her soda, holding the taste of citrus on her tongue.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Mama stretched out her legs, pressed her toes against the heels of her sneakers, and slipped them off. A suntan line rimmed her ankles. “When you got your softball scholarship to Alabama. When you made the dean’s list. When you broke up with Tim. Like your daddy with his banana bread. Any excuse, any occasion, good or bad, happy or sad, he’d say, ‘Rosie, I’d better make banana bread.’”
“Did he?” Joy swigged more Orangina. “I don’t remember him making banana bread for stuff like that.”
“Joy Elaine, don’t say such things now. Makes me feel like you didn’t grow up in my house. Couldn’t walk into the kitchen without running into a bunch of brown spotted bananas.”
Joy peeled back the bottle’s label. “I remember banana bread, but not for special occasions.”
“I guess we remember what we want to remember.” Mama set her bottle on the corner of the cedar table and a lone sweat bead snaked down the side. “Sure don’t know how you could forget warm, cinnamon banana bread with chocolate and peanut butter chips. Makes my mouth buzz just talking about it.”
“Why don’t you make it, then?”
“I reckon I could, but I know me. I’ll buy the banana and fixings, get busy, forget about it, and by the time I get back round to it, the bananas will be spoiled. Besides, I don’t even know where Chick hid all his recipes. He was funny about letting people see them. Kept them close to the chest.”
“He was an up-and-coming cooking-show chef, Mama. Most of the ones I know keep their best ideas to themselves.”
The air shifted and the twilight glow moved behind the trees. A choir of crickets sang from the creek bank. Mama drank deep from her Orangina.
“He’d be proud of you. Taking over the show. I’m not sure he thought you’d do it. Growing up, you never listened to him much.”
“I majored in English and Creative Writing like he told me.”
Mama laughed. “All you did growing up was read, play softball, and write in your journals. Wasn’t hard to figure out which direction to point you.”
“Yeah, well, I sure didn’t know what to do with myself after graduation.”
“The Lord knew. He brought you right back here and plopped you on your daddy’s show.”
“Mama . . .” Joy lowered her empty Orangina bottle back into the carton and retrieved another. “Duncan sold the show . . . to a woman named Allison Wild of Wild Woman Productions.”
Mama regarded her for a long moment, the way she used to when she wanted to see whether Joy was fibbing. “My, my, Duncan sold the show. Never imagined I hear those words. Did he give you a reason?”
“He said he’d taken the show as far as he could.” Joy picked at the frayed hem of her old, baggy shorts and recounted the details from McDonald’s last night and the studio this morning. Mama listened, sipping on her soda.
When Joy finished, Mama returned her drained Orangina to the carton and rubbed her hands together.
“Does she know? This Allison woman? Can you get out of your contract?”
“She doesn’t know. Duncan and I talked it out and decided nothing needs to change about the way we do the show. He recommended giving our current way a chance, and by the time Allison finds out, if she finds out, we’ll be such a hit she won’t care.”
What defined a lie anyway? The absence of truth? No, changing the truth. Or shading the truth. If Allison asked outright, Joy would confess. But so far, none of Allison’s plans had anything to do with Joy’s cooking prowess. Or lack thereof.
“Now would be a good time to break free, Joy. You don’t have to fill in for your daddy anymore or do Duncan any favors. You could chase that writing dream of yours. Freelance, write for the Gazette. What about coaching? You were always helping your friends with their batting or pitching. You can’t tell me you don’t miss softball.”
“I’m almost thirty, Mama.” Joy stood in the last slant of sun falling through the porch screen, hunching her shoulders against the chill rising from her bones. “And all of that sounds like starting over. Duncan’s right. I need to give Allison a chance. Besides, writing is a hard life. Pays next to nothing for more years than I’ve been a host. I’d never get out of here and into my own place. And yes, I love softball. And I miss it. But that part of my life is over, you know? In the closed-up past.” Joy watched a spider work its way up the weave of the screen. “I suppose I could tug on a pair of overalls and work at Ballard Paint & Body with you.”
Mama whistled, slapping her hands against her tanned thighs as she stood. “How long have you been waiting to let that zinger out?”
“Just thought of it.”
“Felt marinated in sarcasm to me.” Mama stepped into Joy’s shadow. “Enough is enough, Joy. You can let this show thi
ng go. Get on with your life. What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know.” Joy exhaled, reaching up, trailing her finger behind the spider. “There’s this verse in my truck. Jesus says something about ‘My food is to do the will of Him who sent Me.’ That’s what I want, Mama. To figure out God’s will. And all I know right now is to do this show because Daddy and Duncan, and now Allison, are asking.” Joy faced Mama. “Really, the show isn’t Daddy’s anymore. More and more of it revolves around my personality. Shoot, in two years we may not even have cooking segments. Mama, Allison sold the show to TruReality. I am the face of their Thursday night lineup. They want me to become a household name.”
“Well, that’s something, isn’t it?”
“I can’t tell what you’re thinking with a comment like that.”
“I mean it’s something. Household name. Not many can lay claim to such a tall title.”
“The money will triple by this time next year. And that’s just the start. Allison has more ideas than Carter has pills, Mama. We’re going to revolutionize the way people think about cooking shows.”
“Revolutionize cooking by a woman who cannot cook. Not even a little bit.” Mama gripped Joy’s arms. “Make sure you know what you’re getting into, and I’ll support you. But you think about this.”
“I’ve thought about it all afternoon. Sharon will still develop the recipes. I’ll present them. In that sense, I am being honest. Besides, every cook, chef, foodie has recipe developers and food preps.”
“Yes, but at the end of the day, when all the lights are out and the cameras are dark, they can actually make what they sell. You burn popcorn.” Mama reached for the last Orangina.
“If I quit, everyone loses their jobs. Allison loses her entire investment. If I stay, nothing changes. It makes sense to me.” Joy nodded, more to herself than Mama. It did make sense to her. It did. “This feels right.”
“I can’t deny, the oddest doors seem to open to you.”
“Then maybe that’s God’s way of leading me, Mama. Some people hack out their destiny through hard work. Maybe my destiny’s in embracing the opportunities before me. I certainly wasn’t aiming for a Thursday night slot on TruReality.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“Aren’t you a little bit suspicious that He’s the one holding open all the doors?”
“Rosie, Rosie, quite contrary.” Miss Jeanne’s cherub face peeked through the screen door. “How does your garden grow?”
“Very well, thank you.” Mama eased open the door, extending her hand to Miss Jeanne, a Beaufort matriarch and old friend of Grandmamma Ballard’s, as she maneuvered up the steps.
“Shew.” She collapsed in Mama’s chair, fanning her face with her hand, her blue eyes lively. The sleeves of her dress arched above her thin shoulders, exposing white layers of undergarments. “It’s a warm one today. Any more Oranginas, Joy?”
“They’re all gone, but we’ve got iced tea in the fridge.”
“Don’t go to any bother. I just came by to see the sketches Rosie’s dreaming up for my car’s paint job.”
Mama popped her hands together. “I’ve been waiting for you to come around. The sketches are upstairs.” Mama darted inside like she might be afraid Miss Jeanne would change her mind.
“Joy, darling, what on God’s green earth is going on with you?” Miss Jeanne tugged the hem of her dress down over her fleshy, white knees.
“Just life. You’re letting Mama paint your car?” Joy angled sideways in her chair, drew up her knees, and hooked her heels over the edge of the seat. She loved Miss Jeanne. When she was little, Joy used to beg to sit with Miss Jeanne in church because she traveled with contraband—lemon drops, spearmint gum, and coloring pencils to decorate the bulletin.
“Yes, don’t you know I finally caved. She’s been after me for a month of Sundays to bring the old girl in for a fix-up. I’m just so sentimental about that car. First one I bought after I graduated from law school.” Miss Jeanne peered at Joy, the light in her eyes intense.
“How are you doing today?”
“Treading water, paddling to shore.”
“Got a little cloud forming over your head?”
Joy laughed. “And I left my umbrella in Omaha.”
Miss Jeanne sat forward. “Hold out your hands and close your eyes.”
Joy made a face as she offered her palms. “You’re not going to pull a ruler out of your purse, are you?”
“Heavens to Betsy, girl.” Miss Jeanne scooted to the edge of her chair. “Close your eyes now.”
Weariness took up residence in Joy’s soul the moment she closed her eyes. Her shoulders rounded forward as her bravado about the show’s change fell into the fallow soil of her soul. How could she do this? Really? Should she even try? Oh, Duncan . . .
“I have two gold nuggets for you.” Miss Jeanne’s fingers feathered softly over Joy’s right palm. “God is good.” Then her left. “God is love.” The older woman closed Joy’s fingers. “Hang on to them, Joy. The will of the Father is always good. Always love. And you can spend them anywhere, anytime.”
Joy clutched her fists to her chest. “Thank you, Miss Jeanne.” God is good. God is love. The declarations refreshed her dry soul.
“Here we go, Jeanne.” Mama emerged from the house, but Joy kept her eyes closed. It was peaceful sitting in “the dark,” holding her two gold coins.
“My, my, my, Rosie. A lightning bolt?”
Joy smiled. God is good. God is love.
Water Festival Food Fair
Meet the star of Cook-Off!, Wenda Divine, at Waterfront Park
Saturday, July 10 at 3:00 p.m.
Water Festival Cook-Off starts at 4:00 p.m.
against the Frogmore Café’s Luke Redmond
Hosted by Joy Ballard, star of Dining with Joy See you there
Around three thirty on a balmy Saturday afternoon with sea foam clouds drifting across a lazy sky, Luke inspected his Waterfront Park kitchen station. Unrolling his knives, he lined them up by the stove. He liked the feel of the kitchen—the rustic colors and stainless steel—the atmosphere of a competition.
He checked the burners. Tested the oven. Losing to Wenda if she outcooked him would be one thing. Losing because of a malfunction would be humiliating.
The kitchen’s drawers glided open and contained all the necessary utensils. Helen’s staff had done their job.
Stationed between Luke and Wenda’s stage, a digital clock the size of a refrigerator counted down the minutes to the cook-off.
Luke’s adrenaline injected energy into his enthusiasm as he watched the seconds tick away. Last night he’d sat down with a pad of paper in the loft apartment he rented from Miss Jeanne and brainstormed recipe options for various surprise secret ingredients. He figured he could handle just about anything but onions and octopus.
People were beginning to gather, choosing seats from the rows in front of the stage. Luke glimpsed Wenda’s golden head moving through the crowd. At one point, she tossed her hair with a laugh and disturbed the gentle breeze.
“Luke Redmond, my competitor.” Wenda greeted Luke with a phony tone and pretend applause. “Ladies and gentlemen, make him feel welcome at Cook-Off !” She kissed the air around his cheeks. “Are you ready, Luke? My crew is eager to film a great show.”
“Then I must tell you, I plan to win.” He’d spent the last few weeks researching Wenda during his short breaks from the café’s kitchen. A classic competitor, Wenda hated to lose. But as far as he could tell, she was a sincere, true-blue foodie trained in New York and France. The woman was no Cat Cora, but she had mojo. Besides wanting to win, she had an affinity for exercise and plastic surgery.
“Luke, darlin’.” Wenda patted his cheek. “I always win.”
“There’s always a first time.” He was feeling a bit of his own mojo this morning.
“I’m sorry about your place in Manhattan. I heard the food was lovely.”
“The restaurant business isn’t
for cowards.”
“Neither is the food entertainment business.” Wenda stepped into him, her arms still crossed, batting thick, black eyelashes. “My network, the All Food Network, likes to see me in fun, lively competitions.”
“I can do fun and lively.” Luke understood she was leading him, but where? If he was going to be roped and tied, he’d like to see it coming.
“Certainly, but every once in a while I like an all-out foodie war, you know? A little smashmouth cooking.” Her tone lowered as a dark glint shadowed her gaze.
“For all the bragging rights?” If she wanted a battle, Luke could step up to the line. He’d welcome the chance to win back some selfrespect he’d lost when he closed Ami’s. Earn the right to keep the title Food & Wine declared over him when he started out: “The chef to watch.”
“If it were only bragging rights, I’d not make this request. This is about a personal best, hon. The impossible.” The wind lifted the ends of Wenda’s stiff blonde hair as she strained to communicate her message to Luke. “I didn’t come here to rumble with you, Luke.”
Luke stepped back, the light dawning. “You want to battle Joy Ballard.”
“So bad I could roll it in batter and deep-fry it. She’s the trailblazing show host, Luke. Her show is fun, entertaining, and witty. She presents great food. And she’s the only host I haven’t competed against.”
“She says it’s not her thing. Doesn’t fit her brand.”
“Is she still saying that old line?” Wenda tossed her hair when she laughed. “We’ve joked about it for so long she’s actually started to believe it. She knows it’s coming sooner or later. What do you say?”
“What do I say?” Luke’s adrenaline shifted energy from enthusiasm to caution. “Nothing. This isn’t my competition to call, Wenda.”
“I’ve cleared things with Helen, and she’s game to let Joy substitute for you. My producers and crew will go nuts. And I’m sure Dining with Joy’s crew will have cameras rolling. But I won’t leave you out, Luke. I’ll work out some benefit, maybe a promotion for the Frogmore Café. What do you say?”