by Rachel Hauck
Swinging open the shed door, Mama disappeared inside. Joy hung around by the opening, listening to the melody of clanking bottles and gurgling liquid. The last time she ventured in, she broke out in hives.
Mama emerged, testing the sprayer on the ground around Joy’s feet. She scurried out of the way. “Careful, Mama.”
“I’m going in.” Mama hunched down and inched toward Miss Dolly’s twin magnolia sentries. She peered back at Joy through the branches. “If I’m not back in twenty, send in the search party.”
“If she calls the sheriff, I’m not bailing you out.”
“Fine with me. The sheriff ’s antique Corvette is in my garage.”
Joy laughed. Mama was loony but savvy. Making her way back to the porch, Joy gathered her laptop and phone to head inside. With a single glance, she noticed a phone message from Allison.
Joy, I have the most incredible news. I just got off the phone with The Bette Hudson Show. You, my dear star, are going to be on this September. A chill of dread shimmied through her. More deteets later, but congratulations.
The Bette Hudson Show? The most popular syndicated talk-show host since Oprah wanted Joy? Sliding open the glass door, Joy took a deep gulp of cool, air-conditioned air. It was too soon to panic. Too soon to panic. Actually, being on with Bette could be fun. All Joy had to do was make sure Allison submitted her “no cook-off ” rider, and she’d be golden.
Joy paused beside the kitchen. The Bette Hudson Show. A blip of excitement journeyed through her. Then she thought of Luke with his stubborn cowboy chin and watchful expression. He’d look fine on Bette’s yellow leather couch, appealing to the women in the studio gallery.
Hello, my way out, where you been?
Ten
When he downshifted to turn into the Ballard driveway, the gears of Luke’s duct-taped Spit Fire complained and the engine backfired, blowing his planned stealth approach.
In the city, Luke didn’t own a car. Didn’t need one. But when Heath urged him to the lowcountry, he purchased the old Spit Fire, a rattletrap rust bucket, from his former sous chef.
Cutting the engine, Luke checked the time. Eight o’clock. Was it too late to stop by unannounced? In the city friends would just now be calling to see if he had plans for the evening.
Sitting in his lonely loft at Miss Jeanne’s—the eighty-year-old had more of a social life than he did—with the heat rising, seeping through the cracks in his floorboards, Luke came to a conclusion. He wanted to be with Joy. Not as a cohost or colleague, but as a friend.
As a . . . boyfriend. He’d prayed while he showered, heart wide-open to God talking him out of driving to see her, but here he sat.
He should’ve called on his way over. But forewarning a woman clearly communicated preparedness, I-was-thinking-of-you. Showing up out of the blue, however, said spontaneity, I-wasn’t-thinking-of-you-at-all-but-here-I-am. For his ease of mind, the latter worked better.
Popping open his door, he took a quick peek in the rearview, finger-combed his hair, and brushed the stubble on his chin. Rough beard indicated I’m-not-planning-to-kiss-you.
He inhaled courage and slammed the car door shut. The car horn blasted. Luke jumped, wincing and shushing. The horn blast happened every time the door shut too hard. If Joy didn’t know he was here before, she did now. Tomorrow, he’d get the dang horn fixed.
The front door swung open, revealing Joy. His heart beat a little faster. She regarded him as she stepped onto the porch. Luke stared up at her from the bottom of the steps.
“What brings you around?” she asked, her hand resting on the doorjamb, confident and casual. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders. Her baggy pants rode low on her hips, and her bare toes peeked out from under the hems.
Did it just go up ten degrees out here? What happened to the breeze? Tingles raced through Luke as he strained to focus on Joy’s face, fighting to keep his gaze above her chin. Every molecule in his body ached for a slow visual scan down the curves of her frame to the tips of her toes, then up again, absorbing every nuance, right down to the golden highlights in her hair. While the kiss had been weeks ago, the fullness of her lips and the soft swell of her hips beneath his hand remained very vivid.
Alluring without seducing, Joy’s beauty deserved to be admired.
“Thought we could grab a coffee or late supper?” Luke waited at the bottom of the steps, eyes locked on her face. Steady, man.
“With who?” She moved onto the porch and leaned against a porch post.
“The president. I heard he’s in town.”
“Oh, the president. Yeah, he called but I forgot to call him back.” She snapped her fingers and smiled, crinkling her eyes.
“You’re free then, to grab a bite with me.” Luke motioned to his car, which in nanosecond hindsight was not a bright idea. Get her to say yes before pointing out the junkmobile.
“We just ate barbecue.”
“Coffee then? Or a big Diet Coke?” He braved one step up, but he already knew he couldn’t trust himself to be within arm’s reach.
“Do we have company, Joy?” An older woman appeared in the door. “Are you going to leave him outside? Hey there, I’m guessing you’re Luke. I’m Rosie Ballard, Joy’s mama. Come on in, please, take a load off.” She approached with her hand extended, but stopped, gazing toward the yard. “My, my, is that your car? I’ll be, an ’80 Spit Fire.”
Luke laughed. “Very good. How’d you know?”
“Cars are my business. I can’t tell nothing about iPhones or BlackBerrys or computers, but I can name a car’s make and model, get it right ninety percent of the time.”
“Mama runs Ballard Paint & Body here on Lady’s Island.”
“You ought to bring that thing around. I could fix her up for you.”
“I’ll do that when I wrangle up some spare change. In the meantime, can you help me talk your daughter into going out for a cup of coffee?”
“Absolutely.” Rosie held open the screen door. “Twenty-nine years old and she’s in her sleeping pants before eight o’clock. At this rate, I’ll never get the house to myself.”
“Mama!”
“Oh hush, he knows what time it is. Luke, come on in.” Rosie waved him inside and patted the arm of an overstuffed chair with one hand while pressing Joy in the back with the other. “Joy will be right down.”
He bet she would. Luke sank into the soft chair as the women jostled and struggled up the stairs amid their bass whispers.
Warm with lamplight and the lingering glow of the fading day, the room embraced him because home knew no strangers. The limp bag of Cheetos leaning against the sofa said the room tolerated everyone.
The air was scented with lavender and vanilla.
“Oh, nooo.”
Luke rose to his feet at the small voice cry. He angled to see around the half wall.
“Stupid, stupid can. Aunt Joy?”
Making his way toward the plea, Luke peered into the kitchen. A stout, curly-haired little girl—maybe eight, nine years old—smashed the can opener against the granite counter.
“Bad can opener.” Luke approached with caution but smiling.
The child whirled around, studying him with sparkling hazel eyes. “Can you open this?” She offered up a can of Chef Boyardee. “I try and try, but I can’t get it. Stupid thing.”
“Yes, they are stupid. But necessary.” Luke smiled down at her as he reached for the can and opener, twisting until the top popped free.
The girl watched with her hand against her cheek. “I like you.”
Luke dropped the lid in the sink. “And you must like SpaghettiOs?”
“If I didn’t, I’d starve.” She dumped the can contents into a microwaveable bowl.
“I’m Luke.”
“I’m Annie-Rae.” She stretched to punch open the microwave and shove the bowl inside.
“Joy’s your aunt?”
“Yep.” She set her chin on the counter to watch the noodles spin around.
�
�Ah, very cool.” Luke leaned against the counter. “What else do you like besides SpaghettiOs?”
“Pizza. Pop-Tarts. Smokey’s barbecue takeout.”
Pop-Tarts? SpaghettiOs? Pizza and takeout? Luke bent forward to peer through the pantry door opening. The light was dim and his angle awkward, but from his vantage point, cereal boxes, Pop-Tarts, cans, and jars occupied the shelves. And a taco kit. Did he see boxed macaroni and cheese?
“I see you’ve met my niece, Annie-Rae.” Joy pushed the pantry doors closed with a short glance at Luke. “We need to go shopping.”
“Shopping . . . Hard to get it done on a busy schedule.” Luke stepped back, reckoning with the feeling Joy didn’t want him examining her pantry shelves. Around him, Joy’s floral fragrance cast its scent against the aroma of SpaghettiOs. “Annie, what are you doing? We just ate barbecue.”
She gazed down at the girl with one hand on her hip, her frown unconvincing. Her simple top exposed the curves of her arms. Her jeans hugged the contours of her hips. She was assured, more than he’d seen on the set. Comfortable. If the doorway image of Joy greeting him in her pajamas got to him, this scene sent him to the precipice.
“I was still hungry,” the girl said, without hesitation or trepidation.
“Hungry? Well, we can’t have that, can we?” Joy smoothed Annie’s hair before bending to kiss her forehead. “When Lyric comes home, tell her I said—”
“Joy.” Rosie’s voice carried from the living room to the kitchen.
“I’ll deal with Lyric. You get along now, stop fretting, stop keeping Luke waiting.”
“That’s what he gets for showing up unannounced.” Joy pressed her palm to the pantry door, picking her purse off the counter. “Next time he’ll call.”
“Next time? You think there will be a next time?” Luke tugged his keys from his pocket, turning down the hall for the door.
“Oh yeah, there’ll be a next time.” Joy jerked open the front door, glancing back at him, a glint in her eye. “Bye, Mama.”
“Have fun. Stay out late. Make me worry.”
Five minutes later the Spit Fire shimmied and rumbled down the Sea Island Parkway.
“So?” Joy captured her flying hair and worked the ends into a loose braid. Under the fluttering, ragged top, the wind collected, filling the space between Joy and Luke. From the radio sitting askew in the dash, Josh Turner sang about the South Carolina lowcountry.
“So?” he echoed, shifting gears, precise and smooth. His cuffed, three-quarter sleeve exposed the strength of his arm. “I’m not getting the hang of the show very fast, am I?”
A clear, honest question deserved a clear, honest response. “Not really. But to be fair, this is my fourth season with the same crew and I’m used to hitting the set on the run, going through the script and the recipe while constantly looking for ways to be spontaneous, have fun, add humor.”
“I feel like a talking brick.”
She laughed. “I was thinking cardboard, but brick is good.”
“I’ve done cooking shows before but not where the director sets up ten different angles of you washing your hands or stirring chocolate.” He shifted again, the scent of pine and palmetto collecting between them. “I’ve definitely not had the privilege of working with a show host who suddenly decides we can’t say the word sauce or pan for an entire show.”
Joy laughed. “But what a fun show.”
“Yeah, if you like the host yelling ‘Gotcha!’ every two seconds while you sweat through your clothes.”
A sensation, almost intangible, seeped through her as she listened to him, as she inhaled his clean, soapy fragrance. In the blink of a firefly’s light, Luke Redmond geared up from chef, from annoying cohost, to being a man.
Joy jerked around, angling away from him toward the door, wishing for cold air-conditioning to blow over her. Jutting her hand out the window, she gathered clumps of moist air to ease her hot skin.
“Sorry about the car . . . It was born in New York and delivered without air-conditioning.”
“The night air is cool enough, thick and moist.”
Luke slowed as the drawbridge light flashed from yellow to red. Beneath them, the Beaufort River cut through the darkness, flowing with the force of the tide toward the amber lights of the city. “Must have been difficult stepping into your dad’s show shoes.”
“It was, at first.” For a lot of reasons. “But I’ve worked hard to make it my own. Enjoy the journey.”
“Didn’t you have something you wanted to do before the show? Coach? What’d you study in college?”
“Coaching is too consuming. At one time I wanted a fam— Well, anyway, ideally I wanted to be paid to read and write. Majored in English at Alabama and thought I’d make it as an editor or writer.”
Luke whistled. “Speaking of torture.”
“Torture? Please.” She laughed in her chest. “There’s nothing like curling up with a good book, or that moment when an idea sparks and I sit down to write and it all flows.” Cooking? Now that was pure torture.
And living with the fear of failing, of being exposed by a nosy reporter digging too deep. Or of Wenda Divine finally trapping her beyond escape. If one reporter found the right college roommate, the whole world would know about her infamous fiascos with microwave dinners.
“Naw, naw, there’s nothing like curling up for a good, old movie with a plate of steaming tomato-and-garlic-drenched pasta, hot buttery bread, with chocolate cake waiting in the wings. It all comes together when I’m cooking, creating. I know what I’m doing in the kitchen, but not on set, not in front of cameras.”
“Just forget the cameras are there, Luke. Be yourself. The viewers will love you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She smiled, his humble yeah? slipping through her soul, a pearl casting an incandescent glow over her heart.
The bridge light flashed green and the Spit Fire motored forward, Sara Evans’s smoky vocals coming over the radio, cocooning Joy in bright, bold melody.
“Who knows, maybe Allison’s instincts are right. We’re a good team, the tortoise and the hare. The stoic chef and the effervescent entertainer.” Luke urged the car forward the second the light turned green. “Not saying you’re not a great cook too, Joy. More like maybe one day I’ll make a good entertainer.”
“No offense taken.” She glanced at him, the dash lights accenting the high plains of his face. “You taking on the role of chef works for me.” Hear what I’m whispering to you, Luke.
At eight thirty on a weeknight downtown parking slots weren’t hard to find. Luke slipped the Spit Fire into a parallel spot by the coffee shop.
“Downtown Beaufort is hot with activity tonight.” Joy motioned to the quiet sidewalk.
“Fits my plan. No waiting. But you?” He held up his hand to Joy. “Wait.”
“Wait? For what?”
His door dropped on its rusty hinges as he shoved it open. “Just let me . . . now wait, Joy.” Luke hitched up the door as he worked the door closed.
Joy watched through the windshield as he walked around the front of the car, his American-flag print shirt swaying loose over his boot-cut jeans. His boot heels resounded on the pavement until he stopped at her door and tugged it open. The hinge popped and squeaked.
Joy stepped out. “It’s been a long time since someone opened my door for me.”
“Feminism aside, it’s an honorable gesture toward women, don’t you think?”
Joy’s gaze lingered on his face. The streetlights dimmed. The city music faded. The only two people in the universe—she broke the moment by stepping back.
“Yes, I do think.” Her words sounded thick in her cloudy throat. She was going to do it again. Kiss him. What was wrong with her? There was no show, no audience, no Wenda Divine.
Clutching her handbag, she followed Luke to a corner table, away from Common Ground’s counter and foot traffic. He drew a chair out for her. “What can I get you?”
“A latte and . .
.” She tugged her wallet from her handbag as she sat. “And a cinnamon roll. They make the best in the city.”
“One latte and cinnamon roll coming up.” Luke walked away before she could fish a ten out of her wallet.
“You don’t have to buy, Luke.”
He turned, walking backward. “After I dragged you out so late? Made you get dressed? Yeah, I do.”
She dropped to her chair. What was Luke up to with his sweep-a-girl-off-her-feet, cowboy charm? Had she let her guard down too soon? If she wasn’t careful, he’d discover her secret before she had a chance to charm Allison into letting Luke man the kitchen while Joy went on the road, worked up comedy bits, provided the spontaneity and laughs.
Luke was the perfect straight man, and he might be struggling in front of the camera right now, but once he became comfortable, once the fans related to him, Joy’s pretense could fade away.
When she glanced up, Luke was watching her from the counter. Joy shifted her gaze to her purse and fished inside for her phone. How did he make her feel so exposed, so vulnerable, as if he knew what she was feeling?
She tried to focus on her e-mail, but she couldn’t seem to get past the distraction of just being out with him, the light in his blue eyes, or the cute way his brown bangs lobbed over his forehead.
When he returned to the table, Joy had gathered herself, shoving aside her imagination. Luke was a colleague, a professional chef. Her way out of this mess. But oh, the narrow pathway between success and disaster.
“Never could get into the smart phones,” he said, setting down her latte and cinnamon roll. “I just have a little flip. It rings, I answer, all is right with the world.” He tossed sweeteners and stir sticks onto the table.
“You’re an alien, then.” Joy slipped her phone back into her bag.
“From the twentieth century.”
“Growing up on a ranch, you learn to live simple and work hard.”
“You grew up on a ranch?” She smiled. “That explains the boots and plaid shirts. I just thought it was all you could afford after losing . . . I mean . . . Gee, Joy, open mouth insert foot.”