Deep Dish

by Mary Kay Andrews

  “Listen at her!” Inez crowed. “She just mad ’cuz she been tellin’ everybody Mister Tate gonna put her on his TV show after he won this Food Fight. Now that old fool gonna have to eat crow while I’m eatin’ fried chicken made with mashed-up Frosted Flakes.”

  Gina laughed. “How about if I put both of you on my new show? Would that be all right, Iris?”

  “Don’t know,” the old lady said. “How much you reckon bus fare might be from Darien to New York City?”

  “No buses,” Gina promised. “We’ll either come down here and film a show with you right here on Eutaw, or we’ll fly you up to New York.”

  “New York’d be good,” Iris allowed. “You reckon we could ride in a taxicab? I always did want to ride in one of them yella cabs.”

  “Cabs, limos, whatever you like,” Gina said.

  “Gina, Lisa,” Zeke poked his head into the dining room. “Last call, girls.”

  “Here!” Inez said suddenly. She thrust something into Gina’s hand, turned, and ran back into the kitchen.

  “What is it?” Lisa asked.

  Gina smiled as she unfolded the rumpled sheet of notebook paper and read the tiny, cramped handwriting. “It’s the secret shrimp salad recipe,” she said. “Now that’s what I call a real prize.”

  Scott found her up on the top deck, her arms on the stern rail, watching the island slowly recede into the horizon.

  “There you are!” he said, tipping up his sunglasses and crowding in beside her, much closer than was necessary.

  “Here I am.” She inched sideways.

  “Great party last night,” he said. “Of course, we totally earned it. Did I tell you how proud I am of you?”

  “Several times.” He’d gotten amazingly drunk in an amazingly short period of time, and had spent most of the evening slobbering on her shoulder.

  “Sorry to interrupt your reverie,” he said now, pulling a sheaf of papers out of the back pocket of his slacks. “But I’ve been looking over this contract from Adel-Weis, and frankly, I can’t believe the kind of penny-ante crap Barry’s trying to get away with.” He slapped the papers on his thigh and sighed dramatically. “I’ve already told him we can’t accept this thing.”

  Gina blinked. “You…did what?”

  “This contract is a piece of garbage,” Scott said angrily. “For one thing, they’re only offering us six shows! With no guarantees that the network will order a full season. It’s an insult, and I told Barry so in no uncertain terms. And don’t even get me started on what they’re offering us for syndication.”

  Gina felt her ears buzzing. She felt a slow burn working its way up from her chest, to her cheeks, to her ears, and then she knew, definitely, that her head was on fire.

  “Give me that!” She snatched the contract out of Scott’s hands and shoved it in the pocket of her capris.

  “But—”

  “But nothing.” Gina bit the words out. “I’ve tried repeatedly to tell you this, but your selective hearing keeps tuning me out.”

  She grabbed one of his ears in each hand. His designer sunglasses went flying off and into the brine.

  “Are you listening?” she asked.

  “Gina, for God’s sake.” His face was pale. Although his ears were getting pretty red, clutched as they were between her thumb and forefinger.

  “Listening?” She pinched tighter.

  “I’m listening.” It came out as a squeak.

  “You don’t represent me, Scott. I fired you back there in Atlanta, after you slept with Danitra Bickerstaff and got my show canceled. I shouldn’t have let you come to Eutaw. That was a mistake on my part. So I want to be very clear with you now. There is no we. My contract with TCC has nothing to do with you. You are not my producer. You are not my agent. You are not my friend. You are not my boyfriend. Do you hear me, Scott?”

  “You don’t mean that. You’re overtired, overexcited. You don’t know anything about these kinds of negotiations. You’re a naive small-town girl; these Yankees will eat you alive.”

  She rotated the right ear clockwise and the left ear counterclockwise, as though tuning a faulty radio.

  “Aaaiii-eeee,” he screeched. “Stop, for Christ’s sake.”

  Reluctantly, she returned his ears to their normal upright position.

  “Gina,” he whimpered, clawing at her hands.

  “Scott.” She whispered it. “Are you listening?”

  “Yes.” He had real tears in his eyes. She really should stop. She was starting to enjoy this much more than was seemly for a nice Christian girl.

  “Good,” she said. “I’m going to count to three, and then I’m going to let you go. At that point, I want you to go to the farthest end of this boat. I don’t want to talk to you again, or see you again, or hear your weaselly voice ever again. Do I make myself very clear?”

  “Yes.” A thin trail of snot worked its way down his handsome, tanned face.

  “Excellent. Because, Scott? You are dead to me. Now. One. Two. Three.”

  She released her hold. He tore away from her, slid on a slick spot on the deck, fell hard on his butt, scrambled to his feet, and scurried away. She noted, with satisfaction, a large streak of grease on the seat of his formerly immaculate linen slacks.

  Gina leafed through the contract, but in the harsh sunlight, and without her reading glasses, the small print swam before her eyes. But that was all right. The last time she’d gone to a University of Georgia football game she’d run into one of her classmates at half-time. Sharon Douglas had laughingly confessed to being a failure at journalism, which was why she’d ended up going to law school. These days, she was an entertainment lawyer in Los Angeles. Gina had her business card tucked away at home.

  Home. For the first time it occurred to her that the town house wouldn’t be home for much longer. Funny. She’d been panicky about keeping it after Fresh Start had gotten canceled. Now she’d gotten her heart’s desire—and she’d still have to move.

  She turned and rested her back on the rail, leaving Eutaw Island behind. She closed her eyes and willed herself to be still. She wanted to be in the moment, in the sunlight, with the wind whipping her hair, and just for now, just until this ferry docked in Darien, she didn’t want to think about the future or the past. Just the now.

  Chapter 67

  Gina needed to pack. She needed to pack, she needed to look at the schematics for the kitchen set for her new show, she needed to read the TCC contracts Sharon Douglas had faxed over—two days ago—and she had a list of phone calls to return.

  Instead, she lay on the floor of her living room and stared up at the ceiling fan, which whirred away effortlessly. She had the telephone on one side of her, and her list, neatly typed by Lisa, on the other. But she had neither the energy, nor the will, to do much more than wonder at that ceiling fan. She’d lived in the town house two whole years, and never even cleaned its blades, which were caked with dust. What would Birdelle say about such a state of affairs?

  The curtains at her windows fluttered slightly, and she could see and hear the gray rain beating down on the balcony. Pop-up thunderstorms, the weatherman called this kind of summer rain. The front would move through soon, and more of the usual stifling humidity would blanket Atlanta. In a way, the thought comforted her. It matched her mood.

  She glanced at her to-do list. It was actually a list of lists, with numbers and bullets, even an index of color-coded Post-its. When had her party-child sister suddenly become such a model of anal-retentiveness?

  Gina heard the lock turn in the door, but didn’t bother to get up.

  Lisa and D’John came bustling in, their arms full of boxes and bags, the rain glistening on their faces.

  “Geen,” Lisa called, but she stopped short when she saw her sister, lying prone on the floor.

  “What’s wrong?” Lisa asked, dropping an armful of shopping bags from Neiman-Marcus, Bloomingdale’s, and Saks, and kneeling beside her sister. “Oh, my God, tell me you didn’t fall and break some
thing.”

  “I’m fine,” Gina said, fanning her arms and legs to demonstrate how fine she was.

  “Then why are you just lying there like a beached jellyfish when we have about a bajillion things to do?” Lisa demanded. She picked up the list. “Did you check anything off this while we were gone?”

  “I’m feeling overwhelmed,” Gina said.

  “You’re feeling overwhelmed? I’m the one who’s been running all over town, trying to get everything ready for New York,” Lisa said. She yanked at her sister’s arm. “Come on, get up. D’John and I brought back all these yummy clothes for you to try on. That’ll cheer you up.”

  “What’s wrong with her?” D’John asked, opening up a row of shoe boxes and propping a shoe on each lid. He gave Gina’s outfit—faded black yoga pants, baggy white T-shirt, and bare feet—a withering appraisal. “I mean—besides those rags she’s wearing.”

  “She’s been like this since we got back from Eutaw,” Lisa said, removing the protective plastic from the thick bundle of hanging clothes. “She hardly eats, sleeps most of the day, won’t leave the house. And you can see for yourself, she’s decided to dress like a bag lady. You’d think she’d lost the damned Food Fight instead of Tate Moody.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with me,” Gina said, standing up slowly. “I’m fine. Gimme the danged clothes.” She took an armful of dresses and retreated to the bedroom.

  “Come out and show us when you’ve got the first thing on,” Lisa instructed. “And for God’s sake, do something with your hair.”

  “Ooh,” D’John said, reaching into the black leather Prada messenger bag hanging from his shoulder. “I’ve got a surprise for you girls. Wait till you see.”

  He handed Lisa a diskette. “Here. Put that in the DVD player. It’s my masterpiece.”

  “How’s this?” Gina asked, emerging from the bedroom. She wore a brilliant lime green, scoop-neck silk tank over a short pink, yellow, and lime flowered skirt. She’d combed her hair, but it still hung limp around her face.

  “Stand up straight.” Lisa poked her between the shoulder blades.

  “Turn around.”

  Gina did a desultory twirl.

  “I don’t get it.” Lisa’s face puckered in concentration. “This outfit looked adorable on the mannequin.”

  “I’m not a mannequin,” Gina said.

  “Right,” Lisa said. “A mannequin has a spine.”

  “Girls, girls, girls,” D’John said, brandishing the remote control. “Play nice. Now let’s sit down together and watch the show.”

  Lisa sat on the sofa, and Gina flopped down onto the love seat. “What’s this supposed to be?” Gina asked, fiddling with the sash of the skirt.

  “It’s my documentary of the Food Fight,” D’John said. “I only just finished editing it this morning. And it’s fabulous, if I do say so myself. I call it ‘A Star Is Born.’”

  “That’s original,” Gina said.

  “Shhh.” D’John and Lisa both glared at her.

  The television screen flickered on, and Gina and Lisa appeared on camera, standing arm in arm in front of the ferry at Darien, before their departure for Eutaw Island.

  “Nooo,” Lisa wailed, covering her face with her hands. “I am soooo hungover. My face is pea green. Gina, how could you let me go out in public looking like that?”

  From off camera, D’John’s voice asked, “Are you girls excited about the Food Fight?”

  Gina’s face glowed. “We’re gonna kick butt! Girls rule. Boys drool.” The girls turned toward each other and slapped a giddy high five.

  Now Tate Moody was strolling toward the ferry, his back to the camera, with Moonpie trotting along right beside him.

  Lisa leaned toward the television to get a closer look, and sighed. “He does have the cutest ass.”

  “Why do you think I shot him from this angle?” D’John giggled.

  “Tate, hey, Tate,” D’John’s voice called from the television.

  Tate turned and frowned briefly when he saw he was on camera.

  “Oh. Hey, D’John.”

  “All of America wants to know. Do you think you can outcook Gina Foxton and win this Food Fight?”

  Tate stuck his hands in his pockets. “I’m gonna give it my best shot. The lady’s good, no doubt about that. I feel like I’ve gotta dig deep and stay focused. But I’m feeling great. Moonpie and I are bringing our A game. We came to play.”

  “Could he stick in one more tired sports cliché?” Gina muttered.

  “It’ll be a fight to the finish,” Tate concluded.

  Gina settled back into the sofa cushions, her gaze riveted to the screen.

  For the next hour, D’John’s documentary had the two women groaning, cheering, and catcalling as the moviemaker caught the cast and crew at work and at play on Eutaw Island.

  “Booo!” Gina called, the first time Beau Stapleton strolled onto the set. “Do you believe that pompous twit with his greasy ponytail? Who does he think he is, Steven Seagal?”

  “Look at Zeke,” Lisa cooed. “Y’all, I know he’s kind of a geek, but seriously, don’t you think he’s so geeky he’s adorable? And now that I’ve gotten him out of all that dreary black, and into some decent clothes and eyeglasses made in this century, doesn’t he look kind of like a young George Clooney?”

  “He’s transformed,” Gina said dryly.

  “By the love of a good woman,” D’John added.

  They watched each of the first two challenges, and cheered and jeered at the judge’s comments, and made catty comments about everybody who appeared on screen.

  “It’s a good thing you filmed all this,” Gina told D’John. “By the time we got to that third challenge, I was so tired, I could barely hold my head up. I honestly don’t know how I managed to be coherent on camera.”

  The documentary showed Barry giving both Tate and Gina their recipes, and unveiling the ingredients, and then skipped ahead to the first break in the television shoot.

  “Speaking of coherency, or the lack of,” Lisa said, pointing with a can of Natty Lite to the screen, where D’John’s camera focused on Tate, taking a healthy belt from the pint bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

  “I still can’t believe Tate did that,” she went on. “He didn’t even bother to try to hide the fact that he was drinking. Zeke was really upset about it. He even warned Tate during the break, but he said Tate just blew him off.”

  “So, Tate, how do you think it’s going?” D’John’s disembodied voice asked.

  The camera showed Tate leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping from a bottle of water. “It’s all right.” He frowned a little. “I’m a little concerned about the oven. It doesn’t seem to be hot enough. Plus, these idiots gave us butter to make a pie crust. But what do you expect? They probably think lard is something straight out of Deliverance.”

  D’John laughed off camera, and the two men chatted for a moment more, until Zeke’s voice could be heard. “People, people?”

  The camera panned over the counter, showing Tate’s mixing bowl and rolling pin, the opened sack of flour, and the Jack Daniel’s bottle.

  “Hey,” Lisa said, pointing again with her beer can. “Does that bottle look pretty full to y’all?”

  “Can you back this thing up?” Gina asked.

  Lisa took the remote control and reversed, until she came to the still life of the counter again.

  “It’s totally full,” Gina said, leaning forward to stare. “And when Tate was talking to you, D’John, did it seem like he was totally sober?”

  “Sure,” D’John said.

  “Hmmm.” Gina sat back against the cushions again, watching the rest of the movie with renewed interest, especially any part that showed Tate Moody.

  “He’s fine when he’s not on camera, when he thinks nobody’s watching,” she said as the movie wound down. “But as soon as that green light flashes on, he’s slurring his words and stumbling around and acting like a total butthead.”

&nbs
p; “A total drunk butthead,” Lisa added.

  “Did you take another shot of Tate’s kitchen?” Gina asked.

  “Can’t remember,” D’John said. “I had hours and hours of tape. It took me all night just to boil it down to a little under two hours.”

  He picked up the remote control and punched the play button again.

  Gina leaned forward, all her concentration focused on the television.

  “There,” she said, pointing at the screen, where Tate busily cleaned up his kitchen. His movements were quick and efficient.

  “He’s not drunk at all,” Gina said, her eyes widening.

  “But why would he act drunk?” Lisa asked. “That makes no sense.”

  “He’s faking the whole thing,” Gina said angrily. “He deliberately threw the last challenge so that I could win.”

  “But why?” D’John asked.

  “Because he didn’t think I was good enough to win on my own,” she said, choking on the words. “Damn him.”

  Chapter 68

  Gina blew into the Vittles production office without bothering to knock. She found Val Foster hunched over her laptop, her long fingertips racing over the keyboard as a lit cigarette spiraled smoke ceilingward.

  “Where is he?” Gina demanded.

  “Hello, nice to see you too,” Val drawled. “I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

  “He deliberately threw the Food Fight,” Gina said. “He lost on purpose.”

  Val propped her chin on her fist. “Ya think?”

  Without waiting for an invitation, Gina unloaded a teetering pile of mail, tapes, and scripts and collapsed into the only other chair in the room.

  “You knew?”

  Val took a long drag on her cigarette. “Yes.”

  It was not the answer she was expecting. Gina sat back in the chair. “And that was okay with you—that he blew your chances at a network show?”

  “No,” Val said. “It wasn’t okay. I wanted to wring his neck. But he didn’t ask for my permission. So, excuse me for asking, but what’s your complaint? And why are you even here? Aren’t you supposed to be in New York for production meetings?”