by Rachel Hauck
“Okay, but he goes home by eight.”
“Thank you.” Lyric fired onto the porch, reaching over the chairs to hug their necks. “Oh, Aunt Joy, your man is here.”
“He’s not my—”
Lyric disappeared in a golden blonde dash. Mama laughed. Joy flicked the top of her hair as she headed to greet her friend, her colleague. Her cohost. Nothing more.
Twenty-four
Entertainment News
Quirky cooking show host Joy Ballard of Dining with Joy will guest on The Bette Hudson Show Thursday, September 24, promoting her debut on the supernetwork TruReality. Ballard first gained notoriety for her Letterman-like show format and popularity among college students after taking over Dining with Charles when her father, Charles Ballard, died of a heart attack at the age of fifty-six.
Owner of Wild Woman Productions, Allison Wild, said, “We are thrilled to be a part of the TruReality team. This is big for Wild Woman, for Dining with Joy, and for TruReality. Joy is the face of their fall lineup.”
Ballard and her cohost, Luke Redmond, acclaimed chef and former Manhattan restaurateur, release their first cookbook together this fall, the eponymous Dining with Joy.
“We have a really great guest with us today . . .”
In the green room, Joy waited perfectly still on the edge of the sofa. However, jitters rumbled over her heart, knocking terror into her excitement.
Eyes closed, she listened to Bette introduce the show. Joy hadn’t seen the set, nor Bette, today. She liked to enter fresh, unpolished, as if she were a first-time guest in someone’s home. She wanted all her reactions to be genuine.
Luke quizzed her for two days before the show. Then she flew to New York, and he hopped a plane to Oklahoma for Red’s surgery.
“What’s your favorite spice?”
“Posh. No, Sporty.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Spice Girls. Please tell me you’re not that square?”
“Like your great-grandma at a rock concert. How about cinnamon as your favorite spice? Is there a cinnamon Spice Girl? Because cinnamon is a great favorite spice. Why? Because it goes with everything. Joy? Joy. Attention. You were seeing yourself as Cinnamon Spice, weren’t you?”
“You think I’d need a tan to pull it off? Hey, how about vanilla? It could be my favorite spice.”
She’d pinched the pale skin under her forearm, and when she let go, a red dot marked the spot. He laughed, a resonating tenor she’d tucked away in her heart and labeled Favorite Melody.
A knock fired Allison out of her chair.
“Five minutes, Miss Ballard.”
“Thank you.” Allison cupped her hands around her mouth, yelling as if the door were steel, the walls poured concrete. But there was no need. The walls didn’t even go all the way up to the ceiling.
Joy’s phone pinged from her handbag. Luke. She cradled her phone in her palm.
Praying 4 u. Own the show, Joy.
Praying 4 u, 2. How’s Red?
Resting. He looks old.
He just came out of surgery, cowboy! Sheesh, give him a break.
Ok, ok. Down girl . . . Call me when ur off set.
K “That Luke?” Allison beamed from the other side of the room where she checked e-mail on her BlackBerry. “Tell him the publisher’s test kitchen is loving the recipes we’ve sent so far. And I forgot to tell you, but I pitched the idea of you writing anecdotes. They were all over it. I asked for an extra week since we’re still in show production.” Allison rattled off her words without a breath.
Joy messaged Luke.
Allison said, wahwah, wahwah, wah.
Huh?
LOL. Test kitchen, loves recipes. Publisher likes anecdote idea.
Was there ever a question?
“Dan is thrilled with the retakes too. Your mojo with Luke is finally coming through. Please tell me you two are romantically involved.” Allison arched her brow, asking the personal question.
“No, no, we’re friends. Period.”
“Really? ’Cause the chemistry on the set is changing.” Allison gasped, sitting back, mouth parted. “So you two are keeping it professional ?” She laughed. “Perfect. The sexual tension is simply perfect. You still scare him a bit. I like it.”
Allison says ur a wimp. I scare u.
Ha, u don’t scare me, u terrify me.
“What’s he saying?”
“That his dad is recovering from surgery.”
“Oh right, yes.” Allison’s thumbs flew over her phone’s miniscule keypad. “Give him my best.”
Allison wishes Red well.
Thx. How long b4 u go on?
“Two minutes, Miss Ballard.” The floor manager peeked through the door this time, checking for Joy’s acknowledgment.
2 mins.
“I’ll be right there.”
Go get em.
Joy checked her hair and makeup in the lighted mirror as she passed to the door. Bette’s stylist gave her the just-walked-into-a-wind-machine look. Hand on the knob, Joy pulled back, tipped her head forward, and shook the stiffness from her hair, combing her fingers through the spray. Better. The just-ran-off-the-softball-field look.
“Just be yourself, Joy.” Allison quick-grabbed Joy’s arm.
“Do I have a choice?” An uneasiness shimmied through Joy. “Unless something’s going on. Alli, is there something I should know?”
“Just that this is it. Our big moment. The Bette Hudson Show. I’ve worked my whole life for this and here it is . . . in your hands.” She slowly opened her palms to Joy. “After twenty-five years in the business, my own production company is moving to the center stage.” Her eyes glistened. “Thank you.”
“You’re . . . welcome.” Joy fell stiff into Allison’s tight hug. The revelation of Allison’s heart was unexpected. Troublesome. Her hopes and dreams, the validation of her life’s work rested on Joy?
“Allison.” Joy inhaled all the air between them. If Allison was dishing out burdens, Joy might as well reciprocate. I can’t cook. What better time? Right before the ballyhooed debut on The Bette Hudson Show. At least Allison couldn’t, wouldn’t, kill her. “This is probably the worst possible time, or perhaps the best possible time, depends on whose perspective you’re coming from, but I need to tell you—”
“No, don’t.” Allison backed up, palms pushing against the invisible. “Don’t jinx this. Nothing negative. Or positive. Don’t stir the cosmos. Whatever you have to say can wait. Right? It can wait.”
“Miss Ballard, thirty seconds.”
“Yeah, Allison, it can wait.” So much for the coward’s road to truth. Drop the bomb, then exit stage left. Joy owed Allison the right to have a proper conniption.
“Break a leg, Joy.” Allison smoothed her hand down Joy’s arm.
“Be funny, witty, all the things you are on the show.”
And a fraud. Sure, no problem. Joy paused at the door with a quick smile. “I’ll try.” Allison gave her thumbs-up with an excited scrunch of her shoulders.
The long walk down the dimly lit hall to the main stage echoed with Joy’s footsteps.
On Bette Hudson’s elevated, in-the-round stage, Joy waved to the applauding audience, letting the love sink in. She might be able to get used to this.
“Joy, it is so good to see you.” Bette hugged and welcomed Joy as if she belonged on her opulent stage designed to seat A-listers and presidents.
“It’s great to be here. Thank you for having me.” Joy smoothed her skirt before sitting in the white leather club chair. She reached for the glass of water and took a long drink, cooling her hot nerves. “I love your necklace, Bette. It’s gorgeous.” Joy angled within the acceptable personal space for a closer look at the turquoise and silver piece. If she knew one thing in her years of faux cooking show hosting, it was always, always compliment the host.
“You like it? I wasn’t sure when my husband bought it for me last year in New Mexico, but my New Year’s resolution was to try ne
w things, go outside of my comfort zone, especially when it comes to fashion. When Stan showed it to me I was like, ‘Turquoise? What? Am I in seventh grade?’”
“It’s fabulous. You were smart to wear it. I might have to go to New Mexico to get one for myself.”
“Girl, you do not.” Bette reached up behind her neck. “I’d love to give you this one. A gift from me to you.”
The audience ohhed, then applauded. Through the years, Bette solidified her fan base with lavish gift shows. The producer had briefed Joy before the show to “accept a gift no matter what Bette should offer. But she’s only given a gift to new guests twice in the last five years, so you’re probably safe. She has to really like you.”
“Bette, I’m honored.” Joy shrugged and grinned at the audience as she lifted her hair for Bette to clasp the piece around her neck. She was just one of them—unknown and undeserving. “I hope this doesn’t mean I’m somehow engaged to Stan.”
The audience rumbled with a swelling laugh. Bette joined in with a louder-than-necessary cackle, hugging Joy’s shoulders. “I don’t know . . . something could be arranged.”
“I’m afraid of what just happened here.” Joy fingered the heavy silver piece, eyeing Bette, gauging when the bit was over.
Bette collapsed back in her seat. “I’m mad Allison didn’t introduce you to me earlier. We are going to be friends, Joy Ballard. So tell me about your new show. It sounds exciting. And girl, I’ve seen that cohost of yours.” Bette cocked her eyebrows and puckered her lips. “I’ll trade you two Stans for him.”
“Luke Redmond is a great guy and a fabulous chef. He’s been a fun addition this year.” She liked talking about him. “Dining with Joy is about food and fun. Not always in that order. We do a lot of comedy and give our viewers a chance to participate in the show. I’m not a trained chef. I’m like every other cooking woman out there, so we wanted to open up the show, let the outside in, tell the world what you’re cooking. Most cooking shows have a closed, canned feel. We wanted something open, inviting.”
“Just like you.” Bette squeezed Joy’s arm. “I love this path you’re paving for cooking shows. You’re real and accessible. Like we’re neighbors, running across the yard to each other’s kitchens. Being innovative is how I got to where I am. You’re going to be a star, Joy. I can tell these things.”
Okay, from your lips to God’s ears. All obstacles aside.
“Now listen, I have to ask you this.” Bette read her teleprompter. “Is this true? Did you say everything should taste like Froot Loops?”
“What?” Joy squinted at the teleprompter. “Bette, please. I never said everything should taste like Froot Loops. I hate Froot Loops. I said everything should taste like Cocoa Pebbles. Or Honeycomb. Cap’n Crunch, if you’re out of the other two.”
Joy settled back, arms stretched along the sides of the chair, her torso filled with the joy of laughter.
“A star, I tell you. Don’t y’all agree? Let’s take a look at Joy in action. Here we go. A preview of Dining with Joy.” Bette introduced the clip as the house lights dimmed. Joy watched the floor monitor, wincing, smiling as she deep-fried a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, then the flip-flop. The beginning of the zaniness. The image morphed to a Stupid Cooking Trick, to a guest appearance by an Atlanta Falcons football player, to the kiss with Luke. Joy tensed and tingled.
The audience, mostly women, sighed and moaned.
She’d avoided the YouTube version of the kiss, only viewing the fading image in her mind from time to time. The kiss that started it all. One impulsive, surreal moment. But seeing it now, vivid with all the colors restored, Joy’s heart knocked on its own door. Hey, crazy girl, let him in.
Sinking, sinking, she’d blissfully submerged into his kiss and embrace, the muffled din of the audience, the paling lights, the swelling aroma of sweet and savory peach sauced pork were merely ambrosia.
Joy dug her fingers into the arms of the chair. This wasn’t Allison’s moment to broadcast to the world. It was Joy’s. Luke’s. A yearning for him twisted around her heart.
Then the monitor faded to black and the lights burned bright, exposing the mesmerized audience.
“Joy, look what you’ve done.” Bette fanned herself, then the audience. “You’ve stunned us. I’m on fire here. Who cares about food when you have Luke Redmond in the house?”
The audience stirred with a spattering of applause.
“Joy, the show looks fantastic. And that kiss?”
“Well, there’s more than one way to beat Wenda Divine.” Uncomfortable laugh. Shifting in her seat, exposed by the audience peeking into her heart.
“So that was the kiss that defeated Wenda? Goodness. I’m about to puddle on the floor. Aren’t you all?” Bette arched her brow with wonder. “So, you and Luke are—” She crossed her fingers. “Like this?”
“I’m not sure what that means.” Joy motioned to Bette’s fingers. “But we’re just friends.”
“Oh, I see.” Bette tapped Joy’s leg and winked. “We’ll talk later.”
“We can talk now. There’s nothing between Luke and me. Friends. Cohosts.” Joy resituated in her chair, her emotions awakening from the swoon of reliving the kiss with Luke, and flirted with the audience. “He has bigger things ahead of him than me.”
“Not if he’s in his right mind. Sheesh, you’re gorgeous. Now you used to play softball in college. I can see you’re still in great shape.”
“Well, as you can see from the clip, cooking is aerobic for me.”
Nice applause. Nice laughter.
“Joy, you should know I love surprises. And by that kiss you gave Luke, I can tell you love surprises too.” The sound of Bette’s voice cast a gray shadow over Joy’s blue peace. “A friend of yours came by my office and wanted to come out and say hi.”
Friend? In this building? Joy didn’t have a friend in this building. The studio lights changed to a rolling, flashing blue, yellow, green, and red. Dining with Joy theme music played as the dais rolled backward.
A kitchen set appeared. Joy rose slowly, her legs nearly betraying her. Her lungs scrambled for air. Wenda.
“Ladies and gents, please welcome Wenda Divine from Cook-Off!” Bette linked her arm with Joy’s and walked across the stage to Wenda and a waiting Cook-Off! setup. “It’s all about food today on The Bette Hudson Show.”
Twenty-five
The show faded to commercial. Bette walked off with the floor manager. Wenda snarled. Joy dashed behind the kitchen set, fell against the wall, and fumbled for her phone. Why she carried it on stage was beyond her, but now she praised heaven.
“Allison . . . get out here and save me.”
“Joy, now calm down.”
“Calm down? Did you know about this?”
“Just do the segment, Joy. Our premiere ratings will be through the roof, it’ll give Bette a good show, and—”
“Get out here now. Stop this.”
“I can’t. I’m down at the local Starbucks.”
“Oh my gosh, Allison, and I thought I was a coward.” Joy ended the call. No wonder the woman acted so strange in the Green Room. She knew about this. Luke . . . must call Luke. The phone slipped from Joy’s icy fingers. She snatched it from the floor. Got to call . . . Luke . . . phone . . . number. She couldn’t get a decent breath.
Dropping her mocha suede jacket to the floor, Joy billowed her blouse. Perspiration trickled across her brow and down her neck, seeping through the silk arms of her top. Luke, pick up. Up. Why was it so cold in here? Her thoughts were like mini icebergs.
“Hi, you’re done already? How’d it—”
“Weeeendddaaaaa . . .” Joy’s teeth clattered the moment her lips moved. “Here. On the show. Cook-off! Sixty seconds . . .” She crouched forward with a hiss. “Sixty seconds!”
“Wenda? What are you talking about? Sixty seconds?”
“Luke! Weennnndaaa!” A TNT-proportion panic attack, no, a nuclear panic attack exploded in her chest. Joy gulped air.
“Wenda’s there? On The Bette Hudson Show?”
“No, I’m at Coney Island and she just stole my hot dog. Yessssss, she’s on the show.”
“Easy, girl. Calm down. You can do this. Easy-peasy.”
“Easy-peasy. Luke, it’s me, Joy. You know that, right? I tell you, she’s out to get me. Oh, I should’ve seen this coming.” Joy gritted her teeth. Balled her hand into a fist. “I let my guard down and bam!
Right between the eyes. Happens every time.”
“Joy, steady. Breathe. Listen to me. You. Can. Do. This. Tell me the setup.”
“The setup? I’m the setup. Luke, get on an airplane and fly here, right now. I’ll stall. I once juggled five hours straight for charity. I can do it again.”
“Joy, I’m in Oklahoma, not Kansas or Oz. And unless there’s a magical pair of ruby red shoes in size twelve men’s, I’m not going to make it to The Bette Hudson Show today. And you juggled for five hours?”
“Focus, Luke. What am I going to doooo? Help. Me.”
“Where’s Allison? Isn’t this outside your rider? Refuse.”
“She’s down at the corner Starbucks, hiding. She set me up, then hightailed it out of here.” Joy paced, chewing the tip of her thumbnail. “To think, I almost told her, Luke, before I came out here. That I can’t cook. But she looked so desperate for me to do well. I chickened out. Bak-bak-bak.”
“Did you bring any flip-flops to fry?”
“Luke—”
“What kind of shoes are you wearing now?”
“No, no way, these are brand-new Christian Louboutins.” Purchased on a Manhattan shopping spree with that Benedict Arnold, Allison. “This may be my last chance to own a pair of Louboutins.” Joy conked her fist to her forehead. “Why didn’t I pay attention all the nights you cooked at the house?”
“Or the years you’ve been cooking on a show?”
“Sure, bring that up. Okay, Jesus, right now, I just repent of all my sins. Please, forgive me. I know I haven’t been spending much time with You lately, kind of doing my own thing, but I’m sorry about that and can you please, please, deliver me from this evil.”