Dining with Joy

by Rachel Hauck

  “Cut,” Allison called over the intercom. “You forgot to say, ‘It’s true and it’s reality.’”

  “I said we’re turning foodie television into TruReality.” Joy searched for Allison beyond the spotlight. “What more do the folks need to hear?”

  “Right, I’m with you, Joy, but TruReality’s brand is for all hosts or commercial bites to say, ‘It’s true and it’s reality.’”

  Emphasis on reality.

  “Okay, here we go . . .” Chin up, shoulders back, breathe in, breathe out, gaze into the camera. Smile. “It’s true and it’s reality.” Joy punched the air with an ah-shucks fist.

  “Cut. Perfect. That’s my Joy.”

  “We love everything we’ve seen so far, Allison. Wild Woman Productions and Dining with Joy are exceeding our expectations.”

  “Glad to hear it, Dan.” Allison reclined back in her desk chair, the bright July heat pressing against her window, warming the ends of her hair. “We’re real pleased with what we’ve been able to accomplish.”

  “Kudos on The Bette Hudson Show too, Allison. She’s five city blocks from us and we can’t get half our hosts scheduled on her show.”

  “Then we need to talk, Dan. Bette and I go way back. I’ll call in a few favors.”

  “I like how you roll.” Dan Greene’s laugh vibrated over the speakerphone. “We’ve decided sixteen shows is not enough. Joy’s a real eye-pleaser—charming, engaging, and downright funny. We want to amend your contract for twenty shows. Can you do it?”

  “Try and stop me.”

  “Allison, this is Mark Feinberg.” She perked up. Head of sales. First time he’d been in on the call. “Our team has secured spots on Dining with Joy for all our key national accounts. Joy’s winning everyone over with her strong fan base and previous sales numbers. People are catching the vision for breakout foodie television.”

  This was a good day. Better than good. Allison spun her chair around and glanced out the window. In a million years, she’d never imagined she’d find paradise in a small coastal town like Beaufort.

  “We’ve set up test audiences in New York, Sacramento, Dallas, St.

  Louis, Seattle, Miami, and Atlanta. We want the first five shows in the can, ready for distribution by the end of August. Will you be ready?”

  “I’m heading into the editing room as soon as we hang up to review the first three shows.” Allison’s confidence dimmed as she thought of her chore after this call. She’d rather stay focused on all the good news. But she had to face her biggest obstacle. Luke still came off a bit too stiff.

  “We want you up for the screenings, then for a day of meetings about midseason replacements.”

  The word midseason buoyed her confidence. “I have a few shows in the works you might like, Dan. I’ll have my assistant call your office.” Allison doodled on a notepad. Hire assistant.

  Allison exited her office, straining to gather her focus, put on her producer hat, and see what they had for the first three shows. But today’s news called for a little bit of celebration.

  So she crossed the studio, past the conference table, to Joy’s office, entered without knocking, grabbed the girl’s face, and kissed her forehead.

  “You are pure magic.”

  “I take it the call went well.” Joy rocked back in her chair, smiling, then sobered. “I want a raise.”

  “If this morning’s call was any indication of the season we’re going to have, you’ll not only get a raise but a big one. And a bonus. The whole crew too.” Allison folded into the seat next to Joy’s desk. “TruReality loves us. Loves you.”

  “And Luke?”

  “I’ve not shown them much. I’m about to review Ryan’s edits of the first three shows.” Allison rose to go. “The first five go to testmarket in two weeks.”

  “Allison, did you read my e-mail? About bit ideas?”

  She paused at the door. “Didn’t I respond? I love your ideas, but let’s get through the first half of taping. TruReality is talking about extending our season by four shows so we have plenty of time to introduce new segments.” She twisted open the door. “I’m hiring an assistant and a staff writer too.”

  Joy stood, her expression pale. “But I do all the writing, Allison?”

  “Once we hit the airways, you’re not going to have time to do all the writing.” Allison let the door close. “Joy, I like to do things my way. I’m a bit of a control freak. And hiring a staff writer is my way.”

  “I see.” Joy came around her desk, her posture indicating she had something to say. “Then I’ll speak my mind, let you know what I want.” Allison regretted singing her praises too loud, too soon. Had she created a diva? “Luke should do more of the cooking segments, free me up to do more writing and producing, developing comedy and viewer segments. I want to get out more, among the people. The Joywalking segment could be as popular as Stupid Cooking Tricks. Send me out to ask people about cooking, spices, recipes, their favorite restaurant or family dinner.”

  “I love it.” And she did. But not now. Not today. “But, Joy, I’m not replacing you for Luke. Don’t worry.”

  “Worried?” She pffbbtted and flapped the air with her hand.

  “No, no, just started thinking how we could use Luke more, play to each other’s strengths.”

  “You’re the backbone of the show. Luke is still two-dimensional, and without you, I fear he’d be unbearable to watch. You make him funny. Real. You’re not going to do less or turn segments of the show over to your cohost; you’re going to do more.” Allison regarded Joy, wondering for the first time if Joy truly understood what was about to happen. “Once The Bette Hudson Show airs, it’ll be hair on fire, flying at Mach 10. That’s why I’m hiring a writer. Shoot, I should hire two. Note to self.”

  “Mach 10?” Joy relaxed against her desk, arms and ankles folded, her laugh withering. “Let’s pray I don’t pass out.”

  “Good thing I know CPR.” What caused the shadow on Joy’s face? It seemed to cloud her excitement. Insecurity? Disbelief? Allison formed words to drill deeper, dig up the issue that troubled Joy, but she decided to leave it. Over the years, she’d learned show talent, and actors who struggled for their own answers lasted longer, made better cast members. “I’ll be in the editing room if you care to join me.”

  Allison grabbed a cup of coffee along the way and settled in the ten-by-ten editing room, reached for the clipboard, and pressed Play for the edited version of DWJ S4E1.

  Joy came on screen and Allison instantly smiled, the warmth of success swirling around her heart, flowing over her mind. Poor Duncan. He had a gem like Joy and never polished her to shine her true potential. And Luke. Despite being cardboard now, he was the sexiest chef on television.

  For the first two minutes and thirteen seconds, it was all Joy. Allison made no marks or comments on her clipboard. When Luke appeared, his cowboy smile sent a tingle to her toes.

  Then he started talking and all the light faded from her heart.

  Twelve

  “Tin man, what are we making today?” Joy hip-checked Luke as he walked onto the set.

  “We are making Ami’s lasagna.” Under the lights, his perspiration production doubled. Someone shoot him, please. Put him out of his misery. His early days in Hell’s Kitchen had been more successful. He hated watching himself fail. Like his last year of high school.

  “This was your mother’s recipe, right?” Joy emphasized every word, cuing him.

  “Sure was, Joy.”

  She laughed a merry little laugh, angling toward the camera. “Sure was . . . don’t you love him?” She wrapped him in a side hug, shaking him gently. “Once a cowboy, always a cowboy.”

  “Yeah, you can take the cowboy out of Oklahoma, but—” What was his line? Luke peeked at the teleprompter as he reached for the ground beef. Perspiration thickened along the base of his neck. Sometimes when he glanced up, the letters shimmied and transposed.

  He’d come in determined to loosen up for the taping of s
how four, have fun. He knew the kitchen, he knew cooking. He’d been a top prankster in his Hell’s Kitchen days.

  Memorizing the script boosted his confidence, some. He’d spent every evening this week reciting the script in front of the bathroom mirror, feigning laughs, mocking up spontaneous dialog. But the moment the camera light clicked on, words blurred, letters flip-flopped.

  When he stood next to Joy, it was deep-freeze.

  Then during the production meeting, Allison, loud and irritated, announced they were reshooting Luke’s segments of shows one, two, and three today and tomorrow instead of moving on.

  “We’ll just have to eat the cost.”

  Every bit of good news she shared after that was lost on him. Something about national advertising accounts and additional shows. Sure, why not? Extend his humiliation.

  “So, Luke, what are we going to do first?” Joy nudged his ribs with her elbow.

  You’re in your own kitchen, your own kitchen. . . “First, we sauté the onions and garlic.” Luke put a fire under a skillet and added olive oil. “We don’t need a lot of oil, because the onions will sweat and add moisture to the pan. But the oil adds a great flavor.”

  Today they worked without a re-shoot script. Allison believed if the cameras rolled, capturing Luke working without a script, he’d come across more relaxed. Instead, he felt out of sync, his instructions monotone in his ears. And how could he look natural when he had to keep checking with Joy for cues?

  “This was the first recipe you ever made, isn’t it?”

  “Sure was.”

  “Sure was?” Joy dashed over to the heart chimes hanging over the sink and put them in motion with a wave of her fingers. The bright blue, red, and pink ceramic pieces rang through the kitchen station. “How about I ring the chimes every time Luke says ‘sure was’?” The crew’s cheer linked with her soft, merry laugh. Next to him again at the stove, Joy ran her hand gently down his back. I’m with you here.

  “Now you make this with a béchamel sauce. Tell our friends at home why you want to do this.”

  “Béchamel is just a roux with milk. It makes a nice, thick base.”

  “‘A roux with milk,’ he says.” Joy hip-butted him. “Luke, break it down for our frat bros. A what with milk?”

  “Flour, butter, and milk.” He set the saucepan on the back burner, feeling a bit more like himself. “I’m going to get the ground beef and add it to our onions and garlic. Our lovely onions are nice and clear.” He motioned to the flour and butter. “Why don’t you get started on the roux, Joy?”

  “Why don’t you get started on the roux?” She wore a funny expression. What was she doing?

  “Yeah, why don’t you get started on the roux?”

  “I’d rather make the béchamel.” Joy moved the pan from the right back burner to the left. “I love that word, don’t you? Béchamel, béchamel.”

  “Then you get the béchamel going, and I’ll brown the meat.” The aroma of onions and garlic coated his nerves like a warm balm.

  “So for the frat boys at home, Luke, go over the béchamel recipe again. They might need to go shopping.”

  “I doubt it. Most guys, single or frat, have butter, milk, and flour lying around. Béchamel is simply five tablespoons of butter, four tablespoons of all-purpose flour, four cups of warm milk, two teaspoons of salt, and half a teaspoon of nutmeg.”

  “Nutmeg? How’s that simple? Nutmeg is a once-a-year, Christmas spice. Show of hands, how many single men have nutmeg at home?”

  Joy strolled among the crew with her hand in the air. Reba followed with the remote camera on her shoulder.

  “Fine, fine.” Luke laughed, shaking his head. “Use cinnamon or ginger, whatever you have lying around that resembles nutmeg.”

  “Show of hands . . . cinnamon or ginger. Garth? You have . . . what . . . cinnamon? Cinnamon it is.” Joy dashed back to the kitchen and moved the saucepan back to the right burner. “Know what we need? A béchamel song. Ryan?”

  A blues beat hit Luke in his belly. A bass and drum rhythm. Joy slid up next to him, swaying, snapping her fingers.

  “Five t’blespoons butter.” Joy sang to the melody of “Bad to the Bone.” The studio lights faded from bright white to cabaret gold.

  “Ba-da-da-da-dump.” The crew played the part of the chorus, snapping and swaying in time with Joy.

  “Add your milk and your flour.” Trombones and trumpets came in, boosting the melody.

  “Ba-da-da-da-dump.”

  “And stir them together.” Joy snap-stepped, jigged, and twirled her way around the studio.

  “Ba-da-da-da-dump.”

  As an accent, the smell of browning meat rose from the skillet and mingled with the music and the lights. Luke stirred, smiling, freeing his thoughts from the tension of taping, grateful for Joy’s showmanship. Over his head, one of the cameras eased down for a tight shot of his work.

  “Cinnamon . . . ,” Joy sang loud and strong, head back, arms wide.

  “Ba-da-da-da-dump.”

  She promenaded toward Luke, hiding behind his back, snapping, tapping, then peeking around him on the downbeat.

  “Cinn-a-mon.”

  “Ba-da-da-da-dump.”

  “Bé-cha-mel.” She fluttered her hands out to her sides like the end of a jazz routine. What’s that move called? Jazz hands? “Bé-cha-mel!”

  “Cut.” Ryan intercomed, his voice echoing in the silent chambers of the studio.

  Then the crew burst out, Joy walked among them, slapping high-fives, reliving her song and snap-step move. Allison approached the stove as Luke stirred the meat. Sharon swooped in from the prep kitchen with a simmering pan of thick, white béchamel.

  “Perfect, Luke. You’re relaxing. Let the chemistry between you two do its thing, okay?”

  “She makes it easy.”

  “And we’re taking it to the bank. Now have fun.”

  “Luke, Joy, we’re back in thirty seconds,” Ryan directed. “Pick up with adding the béchamel to the meat and walk the viewers through the recipe. Sharon, is the baked lasagna camera-ready? Make sure the noodles are Vaselined well this time. Nice song, Joy.”

  Luke peered at her as she stood for a makeup retouch. She could’ve left him hanging, watched him timber flat on his face and by this time next week have her show back.

  Luke would be at the Frogmore Café asking Andy for more hours. Or calling Red for a loan. As if he didn’t owe the man enough already.

  As of today, he knew what he had to do. Learn to love the camera. This show was his future, his way back to the world he loved. And he’d be darned if he’d ride there on Joy’s coattails.

  “Thank you,” he said low, when she returned to the set, bubbling underneath from her routine. “But you won’t have to do that for me again. I’m going to get this down, Joy.”

  “Don’t worry about it, cowboy.” She hip-checked him and reached for a bit of beef. “Who knows, you might be able to do the same for me sometime.”

  Awake at midnight, Joy kicked off her covers. Her corner room was always hot around this time in August. No matter how low Mama ran the air.

  Kicking free from her sheet, Joy crossed the creaking hardwood to the rolltop desk she’d inherited from her granny, pausing at the window. The moon’s glow lit a path from the porch to the black edge of the creek, a pearly runner over Mama’s textured lawn.

  Since going to Common Ground with Luke, Joy struggled to define her passions. At twenty-nine, she didn’t know what she wanted to be or how long she had before it was too late. Oh, we’re sorry, you’ve hit thirty . . . tick, tock, the game is locked . . . cooking show host the rest of your life.

  She’d be a cooking show host the rest of her life if she believed it was what she was really called to do.

  What was the will of the One who sent her? Who created her. God, show me Your will.

  Tugging open the bottom desk drawer, she peered at the deserted notebooks and journals. There could be worse fates than hosting Dining with J
oy. She supposed she could just quit the show and be done with the charade, but the infernal question, “Then what?” rattled around her soul. Editing? Writing? How could she get those doors to swing open like the hosting door?

  The truth was, she liked hosting. And last season she’d discovered her flair for producing. She liked being behind-the-scenes without the spotlight of the lie blaring down on her. Producing made an honest woman out of her.

  Joy slipped one of the journals from the drawer and thumbed through the pages. It was from the year she took over the show.

  Joy flipped through another journal. The entries were from the summer she attempted a novel, asking Heath McCord stealth questions at Luther’s one night until he finally said, “What’s going on, Joy?”

  Eric McAllister wanted a wife. Yet between his friends, doting sisters, and a career in law, he didn’t know he wanted a wife. Or even needed a wife in his rather full, complete days. That is, until he met Jane Darling, a striking woman with sapphire eyes and hair the color of honey.

  Joy slammed the book shut. Drivel. A sad attempt at a Jane Austen knock-off. She reached for the next book, a journal with a thin leather tie. Joy fanned the pages, stopping near the end, where she’d written a verse and drawn copious circles around it.

  “My food is to do the will of Him who sent Me.” John 4:34 “Aunt Joy?” Annie-Rae stood in the doorway, small and pale in the moon’s light.

  “What are you doing up?” Joy hugged the journal to her chest and crawled back in bed, patting the sheets as an invitation to Annie. “Bad dreams again?”

  The girl burrowed under the covers. “Lyric yelled at me when I tried to sleep in her bed.”

  “Don’t mind her. She’s mad at the world right now.” Joy tucked the covers around Annie-Rae’s narrow shoulders and curled up next to her. “Hey, Annie, does Siri’s brother like Lyric?”