Dining with Joy

by Rachel Hauck

  “She’ll calm down.” Joy tossed out her first pitch to include Sharon. “Allison, you need to include Sharon on this project.”

  “Why? Because she’s upset? Joy, I need you to back me here. Maybe in the spring we can launch a second cookbook and include Sharon, but I’m not letting the show’s first cookbook come off the press without my stars. The publisher expects big numbers.” Allison shifted her stance. “Are we going to lose her? Is she going to steal our recipes?”

  “I’ll talk to her.” Joy walked slow and methodical toward the door and stairs, her thoughts surfing possible solutions. “She loves the show, and even as mad as she is, stealing recipes would damage her own reputation more than hurt the show.”

  Joy half expected Sharon to be gone when she stepped out into the parking lot, but found her pacing beside her car, a cigarette dangling from her fingers. “Smoking? Really? It isn’t worth it, Sharon.”

  “You listen to me.” Sharon lunged at Joy. “For three years you and Duncan promised me a cookbook, that I’d get half the royalties, have my name and picture somewhere on the cover.”

  “Look around, Sharon, things have changed. Duncan isn’t here, and he’s the one who promised you, not me. You think I like this?”

  “I have a contract. Those recipes are mine, Joy.”

  “Well, apparently Duncan didn’t pass that one on to Allison. Just like he didn’t tell her I can’t cook. You know as well as I do, you can’t copyright recipes.”

  Nose to nose. “Then tell her.”

  Joy stepped back. “Then we all lose. I have a plan . . . to move Luke into my cooking segments . . .”

  “Just as I thought. Coward.” Sharon flicked her cigarette to the pavement and ground it in with the ball of her foot. “Never thought you’d surrender your integrity to fame, Joy.”

  “Surrender my integrity? I stuck the white flag in my integrity a long time ago. For the show. For you, Ryan, and Duncan. For Daddy. Don’t you see? This cookbook, The Bette Hudson Show, being on TruReality isn’t about me. It’s about all of us. Our show family.

  So what, I’m the face. If you take a minute to calm down, come back upstairs, Allison would probably talk to you about a spring book featuring you. I can ask her for a bonus for you. She’ll feel a bit more generous if you’re a team player.” Joy paused, contemplating her offer. “I’ll give you sixty-forty on my royalties.”

  “Oh my stars, how generous. I can’t believe it.” Sharon spun slowly, arms wide, facing the street. “Did you hear that, Beaufort? Our own Joy Ballard offered me, a poor show prep cook, forty percent of her cookbook money.” Sharon shot Joy a steely glance. “No thanks. I don’t want to be more indebted to you. And a team player? What a joke. A term invented by fat-cat CEOs to get their people to work harder for their own private wallets.” Grit and pebbles crunched under Sharon’s heels as she headed to her car. “Consider this my resignation.”

  “In the middle of taping?” A couple strolling past slowed, listening. Joy lowered her voice. “We have another two months of shows.”

  “Then it’s a good thing you have Luke.”

  “Come on, don’t do this, Sharon.”

  “Tell you what.” Sharon paused before getting into her car. “I’ll be in Monday to clear out my desk. If you get me on the cookbook deal by then, I’ll stay, lips sealed. Otherwise, I’m gone. I have other options to consider.”

  “Other options? What other options?”

  “See you Monday, Joy.”

  Joy crossed the dark studio toward the light burning under Allison’s door and knocked softly.

  “Come in.” Allison glanced up as Joy entered and sat down. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy, uneven ponytail as if she were ready for a long evening of work. “You’re still worried about Sharon?”

  Joy gripped her hands in her lap, sitting straight, feeling hollow. “Worried? No, but seeing more and more of her position.”

  “You understand why I’m doing it this way, right?” Allison rocked back in her chair and stuffed her pen in her hair.

  “I do, but she doesn’t.” For a mountain of unexposed reasons. Joy exhaled, twisting her fingers together. It wasn’t her integrity in the balance but her courage. “Allison, you need to include her as part of the cookbook project. She deserves it. Duncan promised her that when we published a Dining with Joy cookbook, it’d be hers.”

  “Hers? All of it? Aren’t you generous? Now I see why Duncan never pursued the project. No one will buy a cookbook written by Sharon Jobe. It’s marketing suicide.”

  “Yes, but the Dining with Joy cookbook by Joy Ballard and Sharon Jobe wouldn’t be.”

  “There’s no such thing as a Joy Ballard and Sharon Jobe as far as the viewers are concerned.”

  Joy rose from her chair. “But there is in here, in the studio. We all know it. Does everything have to be about marketing and the viewers?”

  “That’s odd coming from you, Joy. The one who pioneered this new way of involving viewers in the show’s brand.” Allison walked to the window and stood in the evening shadows. “Luke is who the viewers will connect with, and frankly, by the time the book comes out, everyone will be saying Joy Ballard and Luke Redmond. By the way, TruReality loved the retakes with Luke. You really brought him to life. Thank you.”

  “If you don’t include Sharon, she’ll resign, Allison.”

  “Then that’s her call. I won’t be threatened, Joy.” Allison leaned against the windowsill. “Duncan may have had an agreement with her. You may promise her coauthorship, but I don’t. I even checked her file, and there’s nothing about a cookbook in there.”

  Joy headed for the door. “It doesn’t seem fair.”

  “No, but she’s the one shooting herself in the foot. I was open to doing another cookbook in the spring with her. But the first one? No.”

  Joy twisted open the door. She’d need to talk to Ryan before giving up the secret. He’d need to know his van payments were in jeopardy. “Thanks, Allison. But please, think about it. Will you?”

  “I already have, Joy.” Allison swung her chair aside to sit. “Joy, I just remembered. Guess who I ran into in New York?”

  “If you tell me George Clooney—” Joy waited in the doorway.

  “Don’t I wish.” Allison rocked back. “Your rival. Wenda Divine.”

  “Oh, please. Can we make her go away? Melt her with a bucket of water or something?”

  “She had the gall to tell me you can’t cook.” Allison eyed Joy for long moment.

  “Sh– she’s—” Joy couldn’t feel the knob beneath her hand.

  “Crazy? No kidding. She’d better be careful or she’s going to sabotage herself. I have a lot of friends in the industry. A few timely phone calls and she won’t be able to pour Kool-Aid on a kiddie show.”

  Joy laughed, feigned and weak. “Ah, Wenda’s all right, Allison. She petty and competitive. Keeps it interesting for us. She’s our Waldo. Never know where she’s going to show up.” Exhaling, Joy prepared for the question. Come on, Allison, ask me. Follow up on Wenda’s claim. Give me a reason to tell you.

  Instead, Allison laughed, swerving toward her laptop. “I like your attitude. I’m going to keep the Waldo Wenda bit in mind. Maybe we can have fun with it next season.”

  Yeah, next season. “’Night . . . Allison.” Anything else?

  “’Night, Joy.” She looked up, the bluish hue of the computer screen dancing across her cheek. “Don’t worry about Sharon. Shake-ups always happen when a show changes hands. We can hire a new prep chef, Joy. There are hundreds of trained, qualified professionals waiting for a chance like this. She’s not the only prep in the world.”

  No, but she is the only one with a secret. Crossing to her office, Joy fell against her door as she eased it closed.

  Fifteen

  When Joy arrived home at quarter after six, bone tired, the summer evening had just exhaled the heat of the day. Between Sharon, Allison, and putting up walls to keep Luke out, she felt beat up, emotion
ally suffocated.

  She’d praised God today was Luke’s day to demonstrate the recipe. Joy hid for a good portion of the afternoon in the prep kitchen, covering for Sharon with Reba’s help. Even Ryan pitched in, helping to chop and stir.

  Passing Mama’s work truck, the doors painted boldly with Ballard Paint & Body Shop, Joy nearly collided with a mini mountain range of pine-scented mulch. “Mama?” She scanned the yard, the trees, and the porch, half expecting to see Mama come around the side of the house wearing camo and goggles, carrying a bazooka-size pesticide can. “Are you out here?”

  Joy buried her big toe in the base of the mulch and stained it red. Up the front porch and through the unlocked door, Joy called, “Lyric? Annie-Rae?” She dumped her bags on the kitchen table and picked up the mail, glancing toward the ceiling, listening.

  Silence. Even the house didn’t settle and moan in greeting. Pizza boxes lay partway open on the counter.

  “Yo, anyone home?” Joy swung open the pantry doors. But she wasn’t hungry. Instead, she carried the burden of Sharon and Allison’s response. And her guilt. Why didn’t she tell her? Just . . . blah . . . there it is.

  Joy dug in her bag for her phone and dialed Sharon, collapsing in a kitchen table chair, listening to voice mail.

  “Sharon, hey, I talked to Allison. I’m so sorry, but she’s doing this her way and since Duncan didn’t pass along his—our—agreement with you, she’s not going to budge. But she did say she wanted to do a book with you in the spring. So, please, stay. You’re family. You know that we need you. I need you. This will work for good. I promise.” She laughed, trying to sound casual, like she’d sounded a hundred times before while leaving voice mails. “See you Monday.”

  Joy ended the call with a stir of determination in her gut, knowing a foxhole confession wouldn’t change the points of the book deal. Let Sharon air her beef with Duncan. He’s the one who cut her out when he sold the show.

  Joy jogged up the stairs, the moment of determination fading, wondering if she should just get in the truck and drive over to Sharon’s and reason with her.

  When she passed Annie’s open door, she paused. “Well, there you are. Why didn’t you answer when I called?” Joy dropped to the floor next to her niece and Annie’s row of dolls. The fancy one in the middle was an American Girl collectible sent by Sawyer and Mindy a few months ago. “No friends over today?”

  “Emma called, but I didn’t feel like playing.”

  “Why not?” Joy brushed aside Annie-Rae’s springy curls. She seemed sad. At nine, it was rare for her to play with dolls. She listened to music while reading or doing extra credit homework. “Which doll is this now?”

  “Kirsten. She lived on the prairie. Like Laura Ingalls.”

  “She’s very pretty.” Joy peered toward the door. “Where’s your sister?”

  “Locked in her room, mad.”

  Fun, fun, fun, fun. “About?”

  Annie-Rae shrugged.

  “Did something happen at softball?”

  “She didn’t go to practice. She quit.” Annie carried Kirsten to the closet and returned without her. When she sat back on the floor, she curled in the cradle of Joy’s arm. “Can we rent a movie?”

  “Sounds fun.” Joy kissed her forehead. “Why don’t you get online and pick one out while I see what’s up with Lyric.”

  “It’s your life.” Annie-Rae hopped up and ran down the hall to Mama’s room to use the “kids’” computer.

  Joy stood in the shadowed hall and faced Lyric’s door, feet apart, arms arching at her sides. She could take her. Lyric wasn’t as clever as she imagined.

  Joy knocked on the door, then pressed her back against the wall. Hadn’t she been here before? Only she was on the other side of the door, with Mama outside hugging the wall, whispering to Jesus. Joy knocked again, feeling weary from the shackles of her debate with Sharon.

  “Go away, Annie-Rae.”

  “It’s not Annie.” Joy clinched her hand at her side to keep from reaching for the knob. She preferred Lyric open the door freely.

  “Aunt Joy?” Alarm boosted Lyric’s pitched response.

  “Yep, it’s good ol’ Aunt Joy. I wanted to be the tooth fairy, but—” A thud vibrated across the hardwood and under the door.

  She strained to listen. A heavy, tight whisper chased Lyric’s frail one.

  “Lyric?” Joy rapped her knuckles against the door. “Open up.”

  The door careened open and Lyric stood in the low glow of evening light, out of breath. “What do you want?”

  “Annie said you were mad. Why didn’t you go to practice?” Joy crossed the threshold, scanned the room, and gasped. Except for the mound of covers in the corner, the room was bare.

  “Lyric, where is your furniture?” Joy’s chest expanded with the yell collecting in her lungs as she peered into the empty closet. All that remained of Lyric’s clothes was a small pile on the floor. The girl had lost her mind.

  “Didn’t want it.” Lyric tugged the thin strap of her top in place and tossed her loose hair over her shoulders.

  “How can you not want your furniture and clothes? Granny moved out all of her furniture to make room for your things and set this up just like you wanted.” Lyric’s hair had the mussed look of being pressed against a pillow—or a mound of blankets on the floor.

  “It’s my stuff from them. I can do what I want with it.” Lyric tumbled back onto the bedding and snatched one of her pillows into her arms.

  “This is unbelievable. What did you do with your things?” Joy leaned out the window, expecting to see Lyric’s clothes and dresser drawers strewn on the ground. But the only thing on the ground was Mama’s manicured lawn soaking up the sunlight.

  “I moved them to the garage.”

  “By yourself?” Joy stooped to meet her eye to eye, but Lyric concentrated on digging her toe into the carpet pile. “I heard whispering. Who was in here with you?” The branches of the hundred-year-old live oak made a perfect escape ladder.

  “No one.” Lyric buried her face in the bedding.

  “Are you lying to me?”

  Lyric looked up. “Do I look like I’m lying?”

  Actually . . . “Lyric, just so we’re clear, boys—specifically Parker Eaton—are never allowed in your room. In fact, he’s not allowed on the second floor, ever. Do you hear me?”

  “If Parker was here, don’t you think Annie-Rae would be blabbing?” Lyric expired against her pillows as if the weight of the world exhausted her. “I should’ve known you wouldn’t understand.”

  “I understand more than you know.” Joy settled down on the edge of Lyric’s pallet. “Not so long ago, I was fourteen going on fifteen, mad at my parents, especially my dad.” Lyric’s glassy eyes stared at the ceiling, her arms crossed over her chest. “Annie-Rae said you quit softball. Did something happen today?”

  “See, I told you she’s such a tattletale,” Lyric shouted in the direction of Annie’s room. “The girls on the team are snobs. They don’t like me, and I don’t like them.”

  “So you quit?”

  “Sorry I’m not like you, some kind of softball freak.” Lyric spit out the word freak.

  Joy bit back her first response. She’d absorb Lyric’s anger at her parents if it helped her process. “I didn’t want to play softball in the first place. But Granny made me.”

  “Granny thought you’d enjoy it. Sports is a great way to gain confidence, make friends, open up opportunities.”

  “Well, I don’t like softball.” Firing off the bed, Lyric searched around the blanket’s edges. When she found her flip-flops, she slipped her toes through the thongs and started for the door.

  “Lyric, where are you going?” Joy pushed up from the floor and trailed Lyric down the hall, catching the girl’s arm before she rounded the banister for the stairs. “Don’t ignore me.”

  “I’m going to Siri’s.” Lyric wrangled free, but the reflection in her eyes told Joy the whole story. She was hurting. More th
an Joy realized. But what could Joy say or do to change the damage inflicted by Sawyer and Mindy? “And don’t worry, Parker’s not there.”

  “Lyric, I want to trust you.” Joy smiled, lifting her tone, lightening the moment. “Parker? Not so much.”

  From the porch, Joy watched Lyric trail the hem of the gravel drive to the road. Just before she started down the road, Joy cupped her hands around her mouth. “Be home by eight.”

  Lyric barely waved before she broke into an easy jog and disappeared around the bend.

  A glint of light, like a silver flash, broke through the air just above Lyric’s shoulder.

  Joy leaned against the porch post, her eyes welling up. Perhaps it was the way the wind blew light through the ancient live oaks and pines, but the glint reflected with a holy memory, something Joy had witnessed once before as a girl—the soft southern tip of an angel’s wing.

  Saturday afternoon Luke carried Red’s duffel bag from the third-floor loft out to the truck, cutting through the hazy drape of eastern light falling over Miss Jeanne’s veranda.

  “Going to be a scorcher.” Red jumped from the top step to the grass, hitching up his jeans, scooping his hat onto his head.

  “Red, why don’t you wait and leave early Monday morning?” Luke opened the passenger door and set Red’s bag on the floorboard.

  “It’ll be hot on Monday too. If not here, somewhere along the Georgia highway or Alabama. No offense, Son, but that room of yours ain’t big enough for the both of us.” Red shuddered. “Ain’t that television show paying you good money?”

  “Decent money. It’s my first season. I’m saving to pay off debts.” Luke leaned against the truck, the red paint faded and scarred from years on the ranch, and peered up at the nautical window just above the third-floor gable. The loft wasn’t so bad. The room where he’d had some sweet talks with Jesus. “You going to be okay, Red? Mercy Bea insists you look peaked.”

  “Peaked? That woman is a fussbudget. I’m just a bit pale ’cause I ain’t been in the sun for a few weeks. I’m fine.”