Dining with Joy

by Rachel Hauck

  “Don’t do it, Wenda. Joy doesn’t want to be on this stage. I promise you.”

  “Oh, but I think she does.” Wenda turned to go. “Just yield the stage, Luke. I’ll make sure it’s worth your while.”

  Watching Wenda go, he pondered her plan. If she manipulated Helen into letting Joy compete after all her protesting at the Frogmore that night a few weeks ago, then who was he to stand in the way? Maybe Wenda was right.

  Who was he to fight for his right to compete? He was trying to gain back his good name, not destroy it.

  Six

  At five till four Joy nestled in the cab of a Carolina Carriage. Helen would come looking for her soon, but Joy was determined to stay out of sight until absolutely necessary.

  Alfred agreed to let her sit in his ride until a paying customer came along. A few minutes later his bristled face peered down at her.

  “The big clock is ticking.”

  “I can hear it from here.” She pushed out of the carriage, stepping down hard on the pavement. “Thanks, Alfred.”

  “One of these days, you ought to actually hire a ride.”

  “Yeah, one of these days.” Joy pressed a twenty in his hand.

  “Where have you been?” Helen scurried down the center aisle toward her. “We had show prep to do. You missed it.” She jabbed Joy with her elbow.

  “Just hand me the mike.” Joy reached for the handheld and took to center stage. She’d done four weeks and twenty cities of hosting and emceeing. She could probably do this in her sleep by now.

  “Good afternoon, everyone, and welcome to the Water Festival’s Food Fair and Cook-Off!”

  A small applause swelled from the crowd.

  “Come on, y’all, you can do better than that!” The applause was strengthened with cheers and whistles. “That’s more like it. This is going to be on national television, and we need the viewers to hear and see our lowcountry pride.” Joy walked the stage, pointing to the empty seats in the front row. “We have room up here. If I didn’t know better, I’d say y’all were acting like this is Sunday morning church.”

  Waiting for a family to make their way up front, Joy jerked around at a movement just beyond her peripheral vision. She exhaled relief. It was Allison, dressed in khaki shorts and a white T-shirt, scooting across the stage with cameraman Garth and sound tech Reba in tow.

  Since their Tuesday morning meeting in June, Allison had been in transition. This was her first week in Beaufort, and she was ready to go to work.

  “Are you ready for a cook-off?” Joy’s voice swept through the air and rousted the crowd to their feet with applause. “Let’s meet our contestants.”

  Joy motioned to the kitchen station on her left. “Please welcome the lovely and talented Wenda Divine, star of the All Food Network’s Cook-Off! ”

  Instead of greeting the crowd with her signature bow, Wenda exited her kitchen station, striding toward Joy with one of her cameramen tight behind her.

  “Y’all want to see a real duke-’em-out competition?” Wenda bent toward the crowd and punched the air with her fist. “Then let’s hear it for Joy Ballard, my real competitor for this year’s Water Festival!”

  “What?” Joy’s hand tightened around the mike. “Wenda, what are you doing?” She snatched at the woman’s long, thin arm. “You’re cooking off with Luke, not me.”

  “No, you are my competitor today.” Wenda’s smile widened with bold confidence. “All cleared with Helen.”

  Joy whirled around, scanning the stage area. Come out from hiding, Helen, you coward.

  “Y’all want our own host, the woman who is going to star on Thursday nights this fall on TruReality, to beat ol’ Wenda Divine at her own game?” The crowd applauded in response, chanting, “Joy. Joy. Joy. Joy.”

  Wenda spurred on the chanting until Joy couldn’t hear herself think.

  “No, no.” Joy waved off the cheering. “Luke Redmond is your competitor. A chef at our very own Frogmore Café. Don’t diss the man, y’all.”

  “We want you, Joy.” A passel of college-age men stood on the edge of the crowd, being good fans and cheering her on.

  “Chefs, take your kitchens . . .” Now Helen appeared, jerking the mike from Joy. “You have fifteen seconds. Joy, best get going.”

  The low rumble of her name paralyzed her. Joy, Joy, Joy . . . A sound tech wired her with a mike pack.

  When the buzzer sounded, Joy stood in her kitchen station, pure panic surging through her.

  “And the secret ingredient is—” Helen unveiled the item with grand flair. “Peaches! And the Water Festival Cook-Off! is happening now.”

  Think, think, think. Joy raced to the grocery station. If she loaded up with peaches, all the peaches, then there’d be none left for Wenda. And what could she cook?

  As Joy carried an armload of peaches back to her kitchen, she caught sight of Luke watching from the edge of the stage and fired him a thousand blazing daggers. Traitor.

  Dropping the peaches into a ceramic bowl, Joy gave them a cold water rinse and then set them on the counter. There you are, honorable judges, washed peaches. Believe me, it’s way better than some of the dishes I’ve eaten for competitions. Did I tell you about the roadkill in Ohio?

  “Psst, Joy, what are you thinking of making?” Luke had moved closer to the front of the stage.

  Joy turned off her mike. “Roasted Luke à la peach sauce.”

  “Don’t get mad at me. This wasn’t my idea.”

  “Why didn’t you refuse?” Joy snatched up a couple of peaches and bent to Luke’s ear as she walked around the kitchen station to the front of the stage, peach water dripping from her hands. “I think you could’ve taken her if she’d agreed to wrestle for it.”

  He laughed. “But it wasn’t me she wanted to wrestle.”

  “Lucky me.” Facing the crowd, Joy switched on her mike and began to juggle, water droplets arching in the air as the fruit sailed in a circle. “Hey did you hear the one about the peach, orange, and banana?” The peaches floated up and around faster and faster. “Anyone? The peach, orange, and banana.”

  “You would sure look good in my fruit salad,” a man called from the crowd.

  “What? Fruit salad? That’s all you got?” Joy caught the peaches, making a face, searching the crowd for the one who delivered the line. “I was hoping one of you could tell me a good punch line.”

  No one laughed. She was dying here. In more ways than one. When would she learn? Never, never get within a gazillion miles of Wenda Divine. “All right, enough of this, back to work.” Joy ran around to the other side of the set, peeking over at Wenda, who worked with intensity and precision-chop-chop, blend-blend, sear-sear.

  The air intended for Joy’s lungs hovered just beyond her nose, refusing to fill her chest. She gazed out at the crowd. Maybe she should call for volunteers.

  “Joy, psst, what are you doing?” Luke knocked against the stage floor, calling for her to look at him. “Wenda’s way ahead of you.”

  “Giving her a head start.” Joy tossed the peaches to the bowl. Falling off the stage wasn’t an option. She’d already done that stunt. A repeat would look unprofessional. Probably arouse Allison’s suspicions and blast Wenda to the moon.

  The briny breeze off the river warmed Joy’s already hot skin and brushed the hem of her skirt against her shins. A narrow sliver of light cut through the crowd . . . She could run.

  “Fifty minutes to go, chefs,” Helen announced.

  “Joy.” Allison moved across the front of the stage with her little crew. “Love the juggling and bad comedy bit, but get cooking. The TruReality host should destroy the All Food Network’s host.”

  “Since when were we at war?” Joy tried to grip the paring knife laid out on the countertop, but her fingers refused to hold on.

  “Since she challenged you to a duel. Look, I know Duncan said you have a phobia about this sort of thing, but you’re here, onstage, so get going.” Allison backed away, giving Joy a thumbs-up and motionin
g for Garth to shoot some footage of Wenda.

  Okay, Jesus, what should I do? Just, you know, confess? Blurt it out.“I’m a fraud. ” The idea paralyzed Joy. I’m in Your hands here. You can have it all.

  Even you, Joy?

  Joy snapped her head up as the wind dipped low and shook the tree limbs. She hesitated, pondering the echo moving across her heart, just as Luke swept past her, his shoulder brushing hers.

  “Let’s get a plan,” he whispered. “Are you thinking of a peach sauce? How about with pork? We’ll have to do chops since we don’t have time to do a roast.” He set a food processor on the counter.

  Hello, my way out, where have you been?

  “Sauce is good. I like pork.” Her fingers tightened around the paring knife.

  “For dessert, what about peach ice cream? If we can’t get it cold enough, milkshakes.”

  “I like milkshakes.”

  “Joy, we need to move fast.” Luke’s hand covered hers and slipped the knife from her grasp. “Go to the grocery area and pick out four thick chops. Bring some potatoes and rosemary. I have a good idea for them.”

  “Why are you doing this?” The fragrance she’d encountered on the stairs the other morning wafted around her head—a textured, warm musk. “Helping me?”

  “The first time I was in a competition, I panicked.” He spoke low and melodic as he worked. “My blackened beef was raw on the inside, I cut my hand, and I caught the emcee on fire. And I’d willingly entered the competition. Here you are, yanked out of the crowd more or less, all flustered and off-kilter.” His knife slipped clean and smooth through the tender peaches. “Better get going.” His eyes searched hers. “But walk slow, take a few seconds to pull your thoughts together. When you come back, have on your game face and we’ll kick Wenda’s dish clean out of the lowcountry. You do have a game face, right?”

  “I have a game face, but I need blacking for the full effect.”

  “Save it for next time.”

  There won’t be a next time. Joy stretched out her hand to touch his arm—thank you, my way out—but hesitated, folding her fingers to her palm. “Thick chops, you say?”

  “About an inch. Less, if you can find them. Hurry, Joy, time is—” He paused all motion, all sound. “Hey, sorry, guess I’m taking over.” Luke backed away from the counter, motioning to the food processor.

  “Take over, Luke.” She pressed her hand against his back, pushing him toward the counter. “I’m not such a big ego we can’t share the stage. You do your thing . . . food process. And I’ll do mine.” Joy smiled at him. “Shop.”

  “Hey, hey, hey, what’s going on over there?” Wenda’s objection sounded over the kitchen station. “Are you cheating, Joy?”

  “The only one cheating is you, Wenda,” Joy said, running down the ramp to the grocery station, snatching a waiting wicker basket.

  “Helen, what is going on here? Joy is cheating. She can’t have kitchen help.”

  “Oh, good grief, Wenda.” Helen rose from the judges’ table. “You wanted to compete against Joy and you’re competing. Be quiet and cook.”

  By the time Joy returned to the kitchen with her basket loaded, Luke had the sauce reducing in a pot as he zoomed about the station in chef mode.

  As she unwrapped the pork chops, Luke shoved a bowl of flour at her and pointed. “Salt, pepper, dunk in the chops and go. Oil’s heating up in the large skillet.”

  Oh, sweet Jesus, I owe You. I owe You. Joy seasoned the flour with sea salt and ground pepper and covered the pork chops, pressing the flour into the meat like she’d done a dozen times on the show.

  When the chops were ready, she flicked a few drops of water into the skillet to check the oil temperature. The hissing sizzle gave her the green light to start frying. Joy arranged the pork chops in the skillet, glanced at Luke fussing with the ice cream maker, then made her escape to the front of the stage.

  “Don’t you love a man who can cook? The aromas up here are delectable.” Joy released her lavaliere mike and aimed it toward the saucepan. “Can y’all smell it?”

  Luke watched her, scooping his cream mixture into the ice cream maker, his gaze piercing. Her heart surged with the passion behind his eyes. What was he seeing, so deep and intense? Surely he couldn’t see through to her weak, trembling core.

  “Want to check the chops?” He tipped his head toward the skillet.

  “Checking on the chops.” Joy hooked the mike back to the edge of her top, picked up a fork, and did a jig as she headed for the stove.

  The seasoned juice flowed over the side of the meat into the bubbling oil.

  “How do they look?” Luke ran his knife through a pile of rosemary leaves.

  “Scrumptious.” Maybe a moment ago, with his acute stare, he saw her. But this time she saw him—kind, selfless, knight in a white chef coat.

  The low murmur of conversation faded from her hearing. The grind of boat motors on the river silenced. Wenda disappeared.

  Allison and the crew were faraway specks on the horizon.

  In Joy’s universe, scented with sweet peaches, the only beating hearts belonged to Luke and her.

  She pressed her hand against his arm and he straightened. “Are you okay?”

  Without a word, she pressed her hand to his chest and touched her lips to his. At first, he didn’t respond. He barely breathed. Joy gripped her hand around his collar, pulling him tighter, closer.

  When she broke the kiss and stepped back, exhaling, the magic of the moment fading, the heat of realization crept up the side of her neck. She’d apologize the first moment her heart found a sane word.

  But before she could back away, Luke captured her with the taut power of his arm, bringing her into him, his lips covering hers. He tasted like flour, vanilla, and cream, like the comforts of home at the end of a long, hard journey.

  Allison snatched the collar of Garth’s T-shirt. “Please tell me you’re getting this. Every last delicious inch of it.”

  “I’m getting it. Trust me, I’m getting it.” He might have been taping, but he wasn’t watching the stage from behind the camera. Instead, Garth lifted his eyes above the lens, gaining an unobstructed view, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

  Allison felt downright giddy. Unbelievable. Twenty-five years in the biz, working like a mule, giving up vacations and holidays, letting romances slip through the thin cracks of her heart, leaping over obstacles, crashing through iron doors, lining up for every parade of opportunity television offered, and Allison had finally discovered her own pot of gold.

  Right here in the steamy corridors of the lowcountry. In the heart and soul of delectable Joy Ballard.

  Oh, God, if You’re real, thank You. Even if You’re not, thank You. Allison engaged the camera on her BlackBerry and lifted it over her head. “Garth, look at the screen. Do I have them framed?”

  He leaned over, grabbed her wrist, and lifted her arms another inch. “Now you do.”

  Allison snapped the shutter just before Luke broke the kiss. It was a sign . . . a sign. Everything was going her way.

  Not quite a month into her deal with TruReality, and the starryeyed phase was already over and they were asking Allison for little changes and tweaks. Marketing had gotten involved, advertising and program development. “We need a bigger ‘wow’ factor for the show,” they said. “A slightly better angle to fit within our network brand.”

  Allison peered at the image of Luke embracing Joy and smiled. She’d been sleepless the last few nights, her mind racing with ideas of how to “wow up” Dining with Joy, but on this blessed day, the “wow” factor came to her.

  The kiss started out innocently enough, in Joy Ballard’s grandstanding style. Allison enjoyed a small tingle of magic musing over the idea of having Luke as a guest on the show.

  But then Joy’s little peck grew into a bushel as Luke surrounded her, drawing her into him, firing sparks and amore into the atmosphere. Beside her, Garth cleared his throat and ducked back behind the camera.


  “Jealous?” Allison peeked up at him. Onstage, Joy and Luke were fumbling around.

  “Three years I’ve been filming her show. One hour on the stage and he gets the kiss?”

  Allison laughed. “This is my lucky day.”

  What motivated Joy to pull such a stunt, Allison didn’t know or care. The girl was pure gold. She’d stolen the show right out from under Wenda Divine. It wasn’t about food anymore.

  Allison forwarded the picture she’d just taken to Dan Greene at TruReality with “Wow Factor” in the subject line. Then she motioned to Garth and the camera. “Upload this clip to YouTube. I’ll get it up on Joy’s website. Let’s get the buzz going, start invoking the magic.”

  Seven

  Monday evening Luke carried the Frogmore’s trash across the sand-and-broken-shell parking lot to the Dumpster.

  The dinner rush ebbed a few hours ago and he’d spent the evening prepping the café for Andy Castleton’s Tuesday morning return. Luke’s tenure as executive chef was complete.

  After tossing the Hefty bag into the open container, he walked to the edge of the yard and gazed toward Waterfront Park, his heart straining to see the ghost of his Saturday afternoon kiss with Joy.

  For two days his lips had tingled with her phantom taste. She invaded his thoughts. Every time he heard the café’s front bells ring out, he craned around the edge of the stove to see if she entered the dining room.

  At first, Joy’s spontaneous kiss robbed his breath, then morphed to a fun stunt, a dig at Wenda. Bravo, Joy. But then it became something deeper, and when she softened to break away, his heart panicked. Don’t let her go.

  He’d been kissed many times, but not wooed until he drowned in the sensation of being wanted.

  Luke’s eyes scanned the park one last time before turning back to the café and the waiting inventory. UPS would deliver an early morning shipment of supplies tomorrow, and he wanted the walk-in and stockroom organized and ready to go for his boss.

  When Luke entered the kitchen, Mercy Bea eyed him from her propped position on the porch post, cleaning her teeth with a toothpick.