Book Read Free

Deep Dish

Page 37

by Mary Kay Andrews


  “Oh, my God.” Lisa laughed. “What was in that pan?”

  “Cold grits,” Gina said mournfully. She pointed the remote and fast-forwarded again, this time to a scene where she and Tate sat rocking and talking on the front porch of the lodge at Rebeccaville. Perched on a porch rail in the background, Scott glowered at them, unnoticed.

  “This is my favorite part,” Gina said, fast-forwarding again. In this scene, Tate and Gina stood at the end of the ferry dock at sunset. Tate had a long bamboo fly-casting rod and reel in his hand, and he was patiently trying to demonstrate its use to Gina, who repeatedly ended up snagging the line on pilings, the dock, and even the ferry itself. On the film, D’John could be heard laughing, saying to Gina, “You suck!”

  The sisters watched the rest of the movie in companionable silence. When it was over, Lisa gently pried the remote from her sister’s hand before she could hit the play button again.

  “Can I say something here?” Lisa asked, lying back on her pillow and turning out the lamp on the bedside table.

  “Only if it’s not ‘I told you so.’”

  “Okay. We’ll skip that part. Even if it’s true.”

  Gina sighed deeply and turned on her side, her back to her little sister. “I’m listening.”

  “Geen, this is just so stupid. You’re making yourself sick over Tate Moody. You want him, but you don’t want to want him—have I got that right?”

  “It’s slightly more complicated than that.”

  “You only want to make it complicated,” Lisa said. “You’re furious with him because he let you win—right?”

  “It’s more than that.”

  “He let you win because he loves you. Is that such a crime?”

  Gina sat up in bed and pounded the mattress. “I could have won without him! I know I could. But now everybody who knows will always wonder—what if? What if he hadn’t thrown that last challenge?”

  “Why can’t you both win?” Lisa asked.

  “Don’t be silly,” Gina said. “What—TCC is going to give us both our own shows? Two southern cooking shows? Never happen.”

  “Not two shows,” Lisa said. “One show. Starring Gina Foxton and Tate Moody. Together.”

  Silence. Lisa could hear her sister thinking it over.

  “Keep talking.”

  “You saw the DVD,” Lisa said. “The two of you are great together. Don’t get mad at me, but I think you’re better together than separate. You know—like the sum equals more than the parts? Zeke talks all the time about chemistry, about how that emotional connection can’t be faked, not even for television. You and Tate have chemistry. The way you laugh and tease and look at each other—Geen, it gives me goose bumps. It’s the real deal.”

  The light snapped on again. Gina turned and put her arms around her baby sister’s neck, resting her forehead on Lisa’s. “When did you get so dadgummed smart?”

  Chapter 70

  Gina kicked the Honda into a low gear and gritted her teeth at the slow, dusty ride down Twin Branch Gap. She’d gotten a late start leaving Atlanta. It was nearly ten o’clock. Would he be out on the river still? And after her performance just a day earlier, would he even be willing to listen to what she had to say?

  She saw the turn-in for the meadow and pulled up, but knew immediately it was too late. The Vagabond was gone. She got out of the car and walked over to the spot where it had been less than twenty-four hours ago. The only sign that he’d even been here were the ruts in the grass and meadow flowers.

  “Damn,” she cried. She ran over to the bluff and looked down. The river flowed below, but no fisherman stood on its banks, flicking a fly back and forth over the water.

  She pulled into the parking lot at the Gas ’n’ Go and ran inside. Annette, her informant from the previous day, stood at the cash register, unloading bags of potato chips and clipping them to a metal rack.

  “You find your friend yesterday?” the old lady asked.

  “Unfortunately.” Gina winced. “I kind of made a mess of things. I came up here this morning to apologize, but his trailer’s gone. I know it’s not your job to keep track of Tate Moody, but I was wondering—”

  “He’s at the Bargain Mart on 441,” Annette said promptly. “Which is where I’d be too, if I didn’t have this durned store to run. Every woman in this county is headed over there right now, to watch him and that dog of his demonstrate some kinda mini deep-fat fryer. They’re givin’ away hot dogs and Cokes too, but I’d settle for a front row seat if I just had somebody to mind this place.”

  “Maybe your boss wouldn’t mind if you took an early lunch?” Gina suggested, looking down at her watch. “It’s nearly noon.”

  Annette clipped the last of the potato chip bags to the rack. She went to the door and flipped the OPEN sign over so that it read CLOSED. “Now you’re talking, sister,” she said, holding the door for Gina. “It’s my durned store, and if I want to take lunch early, it’s nobody’s business but my own.”

  Multicolored plastic flags waved gaily in the wind, and a uniformed sheriff’s deputy stood in the middle of the highway, directing a logjam of cars and trucks into the Bargain Mart parking lot.

  Gina circled the lot three times before finding a parking space, at the farthest end of the lot.

  As she entered the store with a knot of women—on walkers and wheelchairs, pushing strollers or tugging on the arms of husbands—a smiling senior citizen in a blue vest offered her a bag of popcorn.

  She took the bag and absentmindedly ate a handful as she followed the women toward the back of the store, where a portable stage had been set up in the housewares department.

  Abandoning every vestige of good manners Birdelle had ever taught her, Gina elbowed her way through the throng until she stood at the far right edge of the stage.

  A makeshift kitchen counter held a mountain of boxed mini deep-fat fryers, and standing in the middle of the counter was Tate Moody, in the flesh.

  He wore a bright blue golf shirt with the Bargain Mart logo embroidered on the sleeve, and khaki cargo shorts. There was a cordless mike clipped to the collar of the shirt, and Moonpie sat quietly at the edge of the stage, looking expectantly out at the audience.

  “Now, folks,” Tate was saying, holding up a big green mixing bowl. “There’s about a hundred different recipes for fish breading and hush puppies. But as far as I’m concerned, there’s only one that’s worth making—and that’s the one my mama taught me when I was no bigger than a tadpole.”

  The crowd laughed on cue. Tate held up a bag of stone-ground cornmeal and dropped two handfuls into the bowl. He poured in some buttermilk and, with a fork, quickly mixed up the batter.

  “Now,” he said, looking up and flashing an intimate smile, “we’ll wait a minute for the oil to heat up in our Fry-Baby. We’re using peanut oil here today, but you could use whatever oil you happen to have on hand. While we wait, does anybody have any questions they’d like to ask?”

  “What’s the biggest fish you’ve ever caught up here in the mountains, and what’d you catch him on?” a man in a green-and-yellow John Deere hat called out.

  “Caught a brownie that weighed seven pounds on a woolly bugger last summer,” Tate said. “I’ve been over on the Soque for the past couple days, but didn’t do much good.”

  “What’s your favorite thing to cook?” a hefty woman in a flowered blouse asked.

  “Hmm,” Tate said. “I guess it’d have to be bluefish. Hard to beat fresh-caught bluefish with just a squeeze of lemon and fresh herbs cooked on a grill over a wood fire.”

  Gina’s hand shot up. “Hey, Tate,” she called. “I thought you liked to bake pies. Especially pecan.”

  “Who said that?” He stepped out from behind the counter and peered into the audience.

  “Right here,” Gina called, stepping forward.

  Moonpie gave a short, happy yip of recognition and wagged his tail wildly.

  “You,” Tate said, frowning down at her. “Why aren’t you
in New York?”

  “Hey, Tate,” a woman to Gina’s right called. “I read in People magazine about that Food Fight you did this summer. How did it turn out? Who won?”

  “She did.”

  “He did,” Gina said loudly.

  “Ignore her,” Tate said. “She’s unstable.”

  “I’m not going to New York,” Gina said, looking up into his face. “Not without you, anyway.”

  “Hey, Tate,” hollered a stringy old man at the back of the crowd. “Your Fry-Baby’s smokin’.”

  “So’s he.” A trio of teenage girls standing beside Gina dissolved in a fit of giggles.

  Tate walked right up to the edge of the stage and looked down at her. “What are you talking about?”

  “Come down here, and I’ll tell you,” Gina said quietly. “I’ve got a proposition I’d like to discuss.”

  “Nope. You come up here. The last time you propositioned me, you took it back. I want witnesses this time.”

  Gina’s face turned bright crimson. “No. Really. Look, this can wait till your demonstration is over.”

  Tate held out his hand. “Now or never.” He looked out at the audience. “Right, folks?”

  “Yeah!” the crowd yelled. “Do it!”

  “Booooo,” the girls called.

  “I’ll take him if you don’t want him,” yelled their ringleader, a petite blonde in an orange tube top and booty shorts.

  Tate’s hand stayed right where it was. “You coming or not? I need to get those hush puppies going before this bunch turns on me.”

  “Do it. Do it. Do it,” the crowd chanted. Moonpie ran around the stage in circles, barking wildly.

  Reluctantly, Gina took his hand and allowed him to lead her up to the stage. Her pulse was racing like a gerbil on steroids.

  “Now. What was it that you wanted to ask me?” Tate said. He lowered the mesh cooking basket into the vat, took a spoonful of the cornmeal batter, and carefully dropped it into the boiling oil. He rapidly added half a dozen more blobs of batter.

  “See, folks?” he said cheerfully. “The Fry-Baby has a built-in thermostat, so you don’t have to worry about making sure the oil’s hot enough.”

  “I don’t want to win,” Gina said, under her breath. “Not if it means losing you.”

  Tate cupped his hand to his ear. “Come again? I don’t think the folks heard that.” He tapped the microphone clipped to his shirt collar. “Speak right in here, Reggie, so everybody can hear.”

  She could feel herself blushing all the way to the roots of her hair. She edged as close to him as she could get. He smelled like soap and fried foods. He pulled her closer, his hand resting lightly on the curve of her spine.

  Gina took a deep breath. “I said I love you, Tate Moody. I don’t want to move to New York I don’t want to win if it means losing you I think we should do a cooking show together.” She looked up into his hazel eyes and felt herself melting, madly, deeply, crazily.

  The audience erupted in a wild chorus of cheers and applause.

  She took another deep breath and spoke again into the mike. “Also, you forgot to say they should definitely use stone-ground white cornmeal, not yellow, and beat the egg whites separately to make the lightest possible hush puppy.”

  “Quit while you’re ahead,” he ordered, and then he kissed her quiet.

  Epilogue

  She knew she should be nervous, but for the first time in her adult life, Gina Foxton felt totally fearless. They had two hours to go until their first taping before a live Atlanta audience, but already she felt alive with excitement and anticipation. Their show would be a hit. And the best part was—they were doing it right here, at home, in front of a hometown audience.

  Val and Lisa had been disappointed at Tate’s insistence on keeping the production in Atlanta, but they’d both been somewhat mollified with the promise that at least four shows a year would be taped in the TCC studios in New York. Things were working out beautifully.

  Now, if only her costar would concentrate on dressing himself instead of undressing her.

  “Stop,” she said, slapping Tate’s hand away from the zipper on her bright cotton sundress. “Put your shirt on. I can’t concentrate on what I’m supposed to be doing.”

  Tate nuzzled her neck. “Then concentrate on me. I’m what you’re supposed to be doing.”

  “Absolutely not.” Gina giggled. But she caught his hand in hers and kissed it.

  “Just get yourself dressed, and let me get dressed, and get this show done, and I’ll do whatever you want. Deal?”

  “Whatever I want?” He turned her around and circled her waist with her hands. “Can I get that in writing?”

  Gina fumbled around on the floor for her shoes. “Did anybody ever mention that you have a one-track mind?”

  “It’s what makes me great,” Tate agreed. “Did anybody ever tell you what a great little butt you have? I’ve been admiring it since that day the UPS driver ran over your phony pumpkin, and you had to crawl under my car to get your canned goods.”

  “Speaking of goods,” Gina said. “Did I ever tell you that Lisa and all her college girlfriends invented a drinking game they played while they watched Vittles? Every time the camera showed your backside, they’d chug a Natty Lite. They were all totally obsessed with your butt. And your abs. And your pecs.”

  Smirking, Tate flexed his muscles and did a slow-motion pelvic grind. “And they haven’t even seen my best feature.”

  Gina reached out and caught him by the belt. “And they better not. Ever.”

  “Never,” Tate agreed. “I’m like Moonpie. A one-woman dog.”

  “Hey,” Gina said, looking around. “Where is Moonpie?”

  “D’John took him for a walk,” Tate said casually. “And then he said he’s going to give him a comb-out. Whatever that is.”

  He took her by the hand and pulled her toward the Vagabond’s bunk. “So…”

  “Tate Moody,” Gina said, pretending to be shocked. “You bribed D’John to take the dog so we could be alone. You conniving, calculating—”

  “Horny bastard,” Tate said. “I’m the victim here. You’ve been so busy with all this tour and publicity, you’ve been neglecting your wifely duties.”

  “I am not your wife. Yet,” she reminded him primly.

  “Two more weeks,” he said. “As soon as we get the first six shows in the can. It’s practically a done deal.”

  “Not as far as my mama’s concerned, it’s not,” she said.

  He stretched out on the bunk and pulled her down beside him “Your mama’s not here. But I am. And I’m tense as all get-out. You know what would relax me?”

  “A cold beer?”

  “Afterward,” he agreed, working on her zipper again.

  “We can’t,” she murmured, even as her lips found his. “You’ll mess up my hair.”

  “And D’John will comb you out too,” Tate said. “I bribed him double.”

  Val Foster paced back and forth in the parking lot of Morningstar Studios, chewing her Nicorette at a machine-gun pace as she listened to Barry Adelman on her cell phone.

  “Barry, I swear, everything is under control,” she said. “The crew is great. We’ve got the best guys from Fresh Start and Vittles, and the prep girls have worked their asses off getting everything ready. Did I tell you? They’re doing Brunswick stew—whatever that is—sounds gruesome to me, but what do I know? And Gina’s going to demonstrate her mother’s recipe for pickled squash. They both swear it’s a southern thing. The set looks terrific, better even than the plans. Gina and Tate did another round of press interviews this morning. The TV Guide guy was practically drooling over Gina, and the local CBS and NBC affiliates taped cooking segments with them on their morning shows.”

  She nodded as Barry rattled off yet another set of unnecessary instructions.

  “Got it,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Yes. I did. I wrote it all down on yellow Post-it notes. Not that Lisa needs it. The girl is a genius of o
rganization. Better than Zeke, even, if that’s possible. I’m gonna hate to lose her when film school starts in January.”

  She listened and nodded. “All right. Yes. I’ve gotta go. We’ve got the studio audience starting to trickle in, and I want to make sure the VIPs get seated up front. Yes. Absolutely. I’ll call you the minute we’re done.”

  “Christ.” She clicked the cell phone’s end button, spit out the Nicorette, took the cigarette from behind her ear, and lit up, sucking her cheeks hollow with the first drag.

  Lisa stood at the studio door, clipboard in hand, checking off the guests who’d been invited to be in the audience for their first taping.

  “Hi!” she said warmly, recognizing the television critic from the Atlanta paper. She checked her list and told her where to sit. More guests streamed in. The bleacher seats in the audience would hold ninety people, and Lisa nervously tried to keep count as more and more people appeared.

  “Everything going okay?” Zeke stood close behind her, his hand on her shoulder.

  “So far, so good,” she whispered. “Have you seen Gina and Tate yet? We’ve only got thirty minutes.”

  “They were out in the Vagabond last time I checked,” Zeke assured her.

  “Alone?”

  “Yeah. Why not?”

  “Alone’s no good,” Lisa said nervously. “They can’t keep their hands off each other. They’re like a couple teenagers. I don’t like it.”

  “Relax,” Zeke said, rubbing her shoulders. “They’re not going to miss their own first show.”

  “I guess,” she said dubiously. “I’m just a little keyed up, what with everything going on. Tell me what time we have to leave for the airport again?”

  “Not until six o’clock,” he told her, for the tenth time that day. “We’ll have plenty of time.”

 

‹ Prev