by Stacy Finz
He said it like the decision was final. And she guessed it was, because she intended to take him up on his offer. The meetings were difficult and depressing, often leaving her feeling desolate until the next morning. The last one had been so bad that she’d nearly taken solace in a man eleven years her junior. Cute, cute Griffin. Clay’s company would ease the sadness. He was strong, solid, and his mere presence had a way of reassuring her that there was still goodness in the world.
“We should leave at six,” she said. “That okay?”
“Yep.” He turned to look inside the corral, where something had distracted him.
Emily left him to his work and hurried home to get back to hers. With a little focus, she might be able to knock out two recipes by the time Clay picked her up. Unlike the French dishes she developed for Le Petit Déjeuner, Southern comfort food was less fussy. Today: lemon chess pie. If it came out right, she’d give it to Clay for him and the boys. Luckily, the Baker’s Dozen had provided her with good guidance on baking in high altitude, saving her hours of temper tantrums. The ladies never failed to entertain her with their harmless meddling and endless yarns about Nugget. That Donna Thurston could have her own talk show. So far, not one of them had made reference to Hope. By now they must know. And until now, Emily hadn’t been ready to talk about her daughter.
But in group, the leader had stressed how important it is to preserve the memories of loved ones by telling favorite stories about them.
“Your most vivid recollections should not be the day of the crime, it should be the wonderful times you had together,” she’d said.
Emily had begun to think about that a lot. The events surrounding Hope’s disappearance had been etched on Emily’s brain like a tattoo. It was as if all the sentimental photo albums—pictures of her daughter at her first birthday party, losing her first tooth, all the holiday celebrations—had been replaced with one violent graphic novel. And she didn’t want it to be that way. Emily wanted all her memories of Hope to be happy.
On the kitchen counter, she laid out her ingredients for the pie. Outside her window she saw Justin pumping up an inner tube down at the Hot Spot. The girl she remembered from the alcohol incident sat on a rock, watching him. Emily scanned the beach, looking for anything that resembled booze. But there was no contraband in sight. Maybe Justin had learned his lesson, but just the same she’d keep an eye on him. Clay would want her to.
She let her baking take her away, occasionally pressing her face to the glass to check on Justin. A couple of times he caught her spying and rolled his eyes. But, she noticed, he was keeping it clean. Even the girl had on a respectable pair of board shorts. Not that itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny bikini she had on last time.
Hmm, like father like son, Emily noted, and wondered how things were progressing with Clay and Lauren. She hadn’t asked him about her because it wasn’t any of her business. And she simply didn’t want to know. As long as he appeared single, she could continue to entertain her X-rated fantasies. Once he belonged to someone else, the sex dreams had to stop. Dreaming about another woman’s man broke the girl code. She was all about the girl code.
The phone rang and Marge’s number popped up on the caller ID. Emily considered avoiding her, but decided it would be not only unprofessional but immature.
“He said yes,” she told Marge. Why bother with a greeting, when she could cut right to the chase? That’s why Marge had called, anyway. “But he wants three thousand bucks.” Emily would give it to the boys if Clay didn’t take it.
“That’s bupkes to someone like Della James,” Marge responded. “She makes half a mil just for waking up.”
“And I need an assistant for the day,” Emily said, thinking that maybe Donna could do it. She had cooking experience, and if anyone could keep Princess Della in line . . . Between the Bun Boy, the Ponderosa, and the Lumber Baron, Emily could borrow enough props to keep shopping down to a minimum. But the tight deadline would still be a killer.
“That could be arranged.” Marge was being awfully accommodating. Probably because even she could see the absolute lunacy of this. “I’m getting Hayne Baker.”
“Really?” Emily perked up. Although she didn’t know him personally, he had an excellent reputation as one of the best food photographers in the business. “That’s great. Does he realize how soon this is happening?”
“About that . . .” There was a pregnant pause on the other end of the line.
Uh-oh. “Mar-r-ge.” Emily drew out her agent’s name.
“Della is playing the Oakland Coliseum next week. She wants to move the shoot to Sunday to make it more convenient.”
“Next Sunday?” And convenient for whom?
“Mm-hmm.”
A litany of profanities that Emily wasn’t even aware she knew sprang furiously from her mouth. Even Justin came running to see what all the hullabaloo was about. Together they spent the next hour scraping the chess pie off the rafters.
Chapter 17
Come the Sunday of Della’s big arrival, Emily prayed for patience and then took the Lord’s name in vain—many, many times.
The country singer had repeatedly called from the road to make sure Emily hadn’t forgotten any of her many demands, including a special brand of toilet paper. “The others give me a rash,” she’d announced.
This time, she called to tell Emily about the “ruffled” popcorn she’d had at a restaurant in San Francisco. “It was phenom,” she drawled. “My blood sugar is really low. So, Emily, could you have some ready for me when I get there? Like as a snack?”
“Do you mean truffled popcorn?” Emily asked, clenching a meat cleaver. She’d been running around all morning like a chicken with its head cut off, trying to prepare for the shoot. And the girl wanted popcorn?
“Uh, I guess. But it didn’t have any chocolate on it.”
That’s when Donna, who had witnessed a number of Della’s needy phone calls, intervened. “Della, we have a really bad connection, girl. We’ll see you when you get here.”
An hour later, a line of Lincoln Town Cars as long as a politician’s funeral procession crawled up McCreedy Road. From the last one, Della alighted in a spangled minidress and silver cowboy boots, waving. “Hey, y’all.”
To Emily the dress looked like a tank top. The boots were sort of cute—if you were a stripper. A van pulled up and two muscled security men opened the back doors, pulling out a series of rolling racks jammed with blingy outfits.
“Each one’s trashier than the next,” Donna said.
For a time they just stared at all the clothes. Teeny skirts, bustiers, leather jeans, lace dresses, and enough boots to fill the state of Texas. There were only 272 pages, including the index and dedication, in the entire Della James cookbook. But Della had brought enough outfits to fill Joy of Cooking. That is if the late Irma Rombauer wanted to sex up her 1936 classic tome with a lot of slutty pictures of Della.
“Her wardrobe is not our problem,” Emily told Donna. “Hayne’s due here any second and we need to have our first session ready to go.”
Emily had planned a fried-chicken picnic shot. Doing anything outside was tricky. The earlier they started the more luck they’d have catching the natural light. Hayne would ultimately have to set it up. But she wanted the food and props ready to go. In advance, she’d sent a list of the shots to Della’s stylists, who were supposed to have assembled the proper attire for her to wear. Instead, they’d brought the Victoria’s Secret flagship store with them.
“I’m famished, Emily,” Della whined. She’d immediately splayed herself on the couch and flicked the flat screen to a cable station that was showing Entertainment Tonight. Most of her people had assembled outside, but a few had commandeered the barn, covering every inch of floor space with Della’s wardrobe and beauty gear. They themselves took up room, standing or lounging on chairs, furiously texting on their Androids and iPhones.
“There’s a whole table full of food on the deck.” Emily had set up refreshment and dri
nk stations for the crew, everything catered by the Bun Boy and charged to Della.
“But I’m a vegan.” Della pouted.
“There are plenty of vegetables. Go ahead.” Emily shooed her outside as though she were a six-year-old.
“I hate vegetables,” Della screeched.
Then why the hell did you become a vegan?
Thank goodness, Donna took over. “Come on, girl, let’s get you some French fries. We can dip them in the ketchup—that’s vegan, right?”
On their way out, as Emily was trying to artfully arrange pieces of fried chicken into a basket, Della stopped. “What do you think of this color nail polish?”
“It’s great,” Emily said, scarcely giving Della’s fingers a glance. “We can always borrow another set of hands if we want to change up the shot.”
“Uh, I don’t think so. This is my book and we’re using my hands.”
Because she didn’t want to ignite a world war, Emily acquiesced. “Whatever you say.”
Donna managed to get her outside, leaving Emily alone for a few blessed moments to finish. She’d made many of the dishes the night before and had decided to go rustic country, borrowing a set of gorgeous copper pots from the Lumber Baron; some red, white, and blue burger baskets from the Bun Boy; and a few excellent stoneware pieces from Sophie and Mariah’s private collection. Clay had an awesome antique cast-iron bean pot that would serve double—first for a gumbo shot on the stovetop and then for a photo of Southern pinto beans cooking over an open campfire.
If Emily stuck to her organizational chart it would all come together. Unless, of course, there were too many distractions—like Della cutting short her trip to the snack table.
“She’s b-a-a-ck,” Donna whispered in her best Poltergeist voice.
“Emily, where am I supposed to change?” Della asked.
“My bedroom.” She pointed to the back of the barn.
“There’s like no room in there, and I’m seriously claustrophobic.”
Kill me now, Emily repeated in a silent mantra. Couldn’t the woman be a good sport and slum it like the rest of them?
“Why don’t you have Miss James and her people use my house?” Clay sauntered into Emily’s kitchen like a white knight. She wanted to wrap her arms around his magnificent body as a gesture of thanks. With Della out from underfoot, Emily could actually get work done.
“Are you sure?” she asked. “It’s a horrible imposition.”
“No imposition at all,” he responded.
The man was an absolute saint. “Thank you. I owe you a million times over.”
Della’s people asked for instructions, and before Emily knew it a train of rolling racks was being pushed out the door and down the trail to Clay’s house. A cadre of makeup and hair people followed with the trunks and duffels that had littered her floor, making Emily feel like she could breathe again. Hallelujah!
Della just stood there as if waiting for porters to transport her on a litter, like Cleopatra.
“Allow me to show you the way, Miss James.” Clay offered his arm, and once again Emily had to keep from kissing him.
He held the door open and gestured for Della to take the lead. When Emily turned to mouth a silent but beholden thank-you, she saw Clay checking out Della’s ass. He wasn’t even being sly about it. His eyes slid over the woman like she was a hot fudge sundae. And the worst part was that Della sensed it, turned, and showered Clay with a provocative smile that made Emily want to barf on the fried chicken.
Why don’t you use my house? Emily mimicked to herself. He’d probably be tapping the little tart within the hour. Jerk!
“The photographer’s here,” Donna called from the deck, where she’d been replenishing the refreshment table, snapping Emily’s attention back to the shoot.
A whirlwind half hour later, she realized two things: Hayne Baker would be her salvation on this hellish Sunday, and Della James would die. By Emily’s own hands. She’d had six wardrobe changes before deciding on the Daisy Dukes and a gingham halter for the picnic shot. All the while they were losing the good light.
It had been Hayne who’d manipulated her into finally sticking with the outfit. “Ah, Della, smokin’ hot, babe. That’s the look, girl.” Then he’d secretly winked at Emily and behind Della’s back whispered, “What a dipshit.”
Emily had pretty much loved him on sight. In a pair of low-riding cargo pants, a black T-shirt, and a bandanna wrapped around his head, he had a face that reminded her of Johnny Depp. And a body honed from carrying eighty pounds of camera equipment. From the get-go, he’d sized up the situation and used his rakish charm to bend Della to his will.
“Okay.” He directed Della to a spot on Clay’s expansive lawn, where they’d had to change to a solid picnic blanket so as not to clash with Crazy Town’s gingham top. Hayne shot cookbook photos for the likes of such luminaries as Thomas Keller and Jacques Pépin, and glossy magazine spreads for Bon Appétit and Food & Wine, but he was doing a great impersonation of a fashion photographer. “I want you to love the camera, Della. Purse those plump lips.”
Emily noticed that his lens focused on the fried chicken and the buttermilk biscuits as he repeatedly clicked the shutter release.
“Looking good,” Hayne called as he continued to shoot from various angles. “That’s it. Right there.”
Clay sat on his front porch watching the action and staring at Della’s boobs, which she had trouble keeping contained in the halter. Thank heavens the boys were nowhere to be found, because this book would probably redefine food porn.
Hayne motioned Emily over so they could view a few frames in his camera’s display. They stood in a tight huddle with Hayne’s arm draped over Emily’s shoulder to block out the sun. She couldn’t believe how good the pictures turned out. The food was front and center with Della in the background, spread out on the blanket. Somehow he’d managed to remove the cheez factor of Della’s ridiculous get-up and make the picnic image stunningly iconic.
“You are a true artist, Hayne Baker.” They both knew what she was talking about.
“You’re the artist, babe. Look at that finger-lickin’ chicken.” It really did look delectable. They laughed, and Emily caught Clay glowering out of the corner of her eye.
Without any reason Emily could discern, he seemed to have taken an instant disliking to Hayne. Maybe Mr. Alpha Male didn’t like having competition for Della. This was not Clay McCreedy’s best side. Now she’d have to rethink every good thought she’d ever had of him.
“Clay said we could do something with his horses.” Della got off the blanket and barked an order at one of her people to get her a sweater. Her girls must’ve gotten chilly out in the eighty-degree weather. “I love horses.”
Emily started to say, “Yeah, nothing says appetizing like a giant fly attractant.” But Hayne stopped her.
“We can do that, Bella Della. Go get your riding togs on.” As Della sashayed into Clay’s house to change, Hayne put his lips close to Emily’s ear. “You want to fight or do you want to win? Just go with it; we’ll make it work.”
She glanced over at Clay, who was positively blowing fire. Surprised that he hadn’t accompanied Della inside to help her with her pasties, or whatever prostitute costume she was planning, Emily asked, “Do you not want us using the horses?” She couldn’t imagine what else his problem could be.
He turned his back and headed to the stable, leaving Emily befuddled. A little while later, Della emerged in painted-on jeans, a Western blouse tied just above her belly button, and a white cowboy hat.
“Where’s Clay? I wanted him to help pick my boots.” She held up two pairs.
“The red ones for sure,” Hayne said, looking up at the sky. “But if we want to catch this light, let’s get a move on.” To Emily, “You want to put the chess pie in a basket. We might be able to do something with her carrying it on horseback.”
She cringed but ran back to the house, where Donna helped her style the pie. On her way out, she grabb
ed a can of hair spray. But before making it halfway to the stable, an idea struck her and she hung a U-turn.
“Donna, can you take this hair spray and all the pies to the stable? I’ll meet you there in a few.”
While Emily pawed through a craft box, looking for a brush and a tube of paint, Donna gathered up the pecan, buttermilk, and peach pies. Satisfied that she’d found the right supplies, Emily took a detour past the chicken coop. There, she remembered seeing some scrap wood and grabbed a couple of pieces. Hopefully Ramon kept a hammer and nails at the stable. She’d also need one of Colin Burke’s custom-made farm tables to pull this off, and hoped Clay had his number. If Colin didn’t want to lend the table just for the shoot, that cost would go on Della James’s tab.
When she arrived at the barn, Clay had saddled up a horse. This one was smaller than Big Red and was a pretty chestnut color. All the hands had come out to gawk, and Della offered to sign autographs while Hayne went in search of the perfect light.
She pulled Clay aside. “Do you have a way to get in touch with Colin Burke?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“I want one of his little farm tables—a rectangular one that would seat about six people.”
Clay punched a few buttons on his cell phone and walked off to the side, away from the commotion, where Emily could see him talking to someone. After he slid the phone into his back pocket, he rejoined Emily. “He’s bringing it right over.”
“Thank you,” she said, and ran off to find the tools she needed. Ramon helped her find a hammer, nails, paint, and a pail of oats. With her scraps of wood she made a T, freehanded “Pies” in bright red paint—to match Della’s boots—across the top, and stuck it into the bucket of oats.
Della had stopped giving autographs and had gotten her hands on the Aqua Net, which she was liberally spraying on her hair, despite the protests of her stylists.
“I told her it was to make the pies look fresh and shiny for the photos,” Donna said.