Dining with Joy (15 page)

Red tucked the check back into his pocket. “A thousand dollars on entertainment. I got hands to pay and livestock to feed.” He snapped his pocket closed. “The money I lent you was from your mother's egg money. Did right nice just letting it sit in the account.

She'd have wanted me to help you, so I did.”

“I gave Ami's my best shot, Red. The restaurant business is—”

“Like ranching. Good years chasing bad, barely hanging on from day to day.”

“I'm not savvy with the business end.” Luke pressed his thumb over a recent burn spot and took a clean, deep breath. “Things got behind . . . I was overwhelmed.”

“You're a good chef, Son. I bet a good businessman can't make a fancy French dish like you.”

“Can I freshen up your coffee?” Mercy Bea started to pour in Red's cup, but he'd only taken a sip. “How about a nice ham plate with a side of scalloped potatoes?”

“Guess I could sit for a bite.” Red slid his John Deere cap from the tabletop to the seat. He lifted his cup to his lips. “Got any pie?”

Mercy Bea smiled with a long, thick-lashed wink. “Now you're talking.”

“My place is about two blocks from here, Red. I'll take you over after supper.”

“Naw, naw, Luke, can't impose.” Red held his coffee cup steady at chin level. “I just came to see how you fared.” He patted the table with scarred, worked fingers. “I knew I didn't raise a quitter.”

“You drove halfway across the country to see how I fared?” Luke hated the crater opening in his heart, the ambiguous hole that was his relationship with Red. “You could've called.”

“Calling ain't seeing you.”

“Then you'll stay.”

“If you got room.” Red nodded. Once. “Guess I should see the sights while I'm here. Never seen the ocean.”

“You can see it out my window every night.” Luke leaned across the table. “Red, is everything else okay?”

“Sure.” Red stuck out his chin, peering out the window. “Just tired from the drive.”

“All right.” Luke regarded him a moment before sliding out of the booth, the soft edge of Red's emotions deflecting his bravado answer. “Have Mercy Bea bring you to the kitchen when you've finished supper. I'll take you on home.”

Thirteen

Sunday morning worship had just started when Joy slipped inside the sanctuary door, leading Lyric and Annie-Rae to seats in the back. The full room contained more than flesh and blood, more than beating human hearts.

Getting here with the girls about killed her last ounce of holiness. But the John verse she'd discovered the other night, the one that had been tacked up in her truck for months, maybe years, wedged its way into her soul.

What was the Father's will?

Glancing toward the front, Joy spotted Mama and her two best friends with their hands in the air, swaying in time with the music.

In Your presence, God, there is fullness of joy I've got the joy, I've got the joy

Mama and her friends arrived early to teach Sunday school to the widows, divorcées, and never-marrieds. She'd given up urging Lyric and Annie-Rae out of bed in time to drive in with her. As long as Joy set the example of sleeping in, the battle was futile.

“Can we go?” Lyric crumpled forward in her chair.

“We just got here. Stand up. Sing.” Joy hooked her hand under Lyric's elbow and pulled her to her feet.

“I don't know the song.”

“Funny, you never say that when you're trying to follow along with Taylor Swift.” Joy turned Lyric's face toward the screen behind the worship leader. “The words are up on the screen. This isn't about you, Lyric, it's about Jesus and what He deserves.”

“And what do you know about Jesus?”

“Not as much as I should.” Joy clapped to the rhythm, working on a resolve that didn't feel like she was negotiating with God.
If I pray three mornings a week, can You help me
. . .

Something, someone stood behind her. She peered around to see Luke, his gaze steady on her. She whipped back forward, closed her eyes, and tried to sing.

But she peeked around the thin veil of her hair to see if he was still there. He was, but he wasn't paying attention to her. His head was tipped back with his eyes closed, his hands raised in surrender. Tears swelled in her eyes. Luke seemed . . . captivated. Not just going through the motions like she did so often. And she envied him.

On her left, Annie-Rae's voice pierced the air with her clear song. Joy cupped her hand on the girl's shoulder and tried to find the river.

I've got the joy, I've got the joy
She reached down, fumbling for Lyric's hand, and intertwined their fingers. By the second verse, Lyric curved in close and surrendered her cheek to Joy's shoulder.

In Your presence, God, there is fullness of joy

“My family is here.” Mama hurried across Beaufort Community's green lawn as Joy exited the sanctuary with the girls. “What's wrong? Everything okay?” Mama clutched her old, peeling handbag to her chest. “It's Sawyer and Mindy, isn't it? Something happened to them.”

Joy squeezed Annie-Rae's shoulders. “No, Mama, we came to worship.”

“Well, good, good.” Mama lowered her bag and shoved the wind from her curls.

Annie squirmed free to meet one of her friends. Lyric chatted with Siri and her brother, Parker, under the shade of a deep-rooted live oak.

“Beautiful day.” Luke strolled toward Mama and Joy with an older, sun-kissed man. “This is my dad, Red Redmond. Red, this is Joy Ballard, my cohost. Boss, really. And her mother, Rosie.”

“Nice to meet you.” Red gripped his cowboy hat in his hand, thin wisps of his hair lifting in the breeze, revealing the same piercing blue eyes as his son.

“Same to you, Mr. Redmond.” Joy took his rough and hardened palm in hers.

“Red, folks call me Red. Mr. Redmond was my father and, well, even at seventy-five, I ain't ready to tug on his boots.” He settled his hat on his head. His plaid shirt and stiff blue jeans looked new.

“No sir, you're your own man, I can see that.” Mama slipped her arm through Red's. She had a way of just
knowing
folks. “Come to the house for lunch. I won't take no for an answer. Since our kids are hosting a show together, we're practically family.”

“Mama,” Joy called after her. “Don't force your will on Red and Luke. They might have other plans.”

“No, no, we got no plans.” Red lifted his hat as he glanced back at Luke. “Do we, Son? I'd love some home cooking.”

“You okay with us coming over?” Luke asked Joy.

“Sure, why not?” So what if none of the Ballard women cooked?

Joy called to Lyric and Annie-Rae, slowly following Mama and Red's trail.

“Think Annie-Rae could heat up some Chef Boyardee for us?”

Luke laughed at his own suggestion.

Joy whirled around and stepped toward him. “What are you implying, Luke? Do you have something to say? Then say it.”

“Whoa—” He backed up, hands surrendered. “I'm kidding, Joy.

I figured after a hard week of work, you and Rosie wouldn't want to cook. I didn't mean anything by it.”

Joy tucked her Bible under her arm, the noon sun hot on her skin. No, how could he? He didn't live inside her head, hear her thoughts, see her posing as someone she wasn't. She only imagined Luke saw right through her.

“Of course, I'm sorry, Luke.” As she backed away, the air shifted the light behind Luke and the sights of the churchyard faded. The parade of summer dresses and shirts without ties blurred into the background, and the sea blue of Luke's eyes soaked her senses.

“Joy, did you hear me?” Luke snapped his fingers beside her ear.

“W–what?” She angled away and squinted down at her sandals. “Yeah, yeah, Chef Boyardee.”

“No, I asked if you had a grill. I could run by Publix and—”

“A grill? Yes, charcoal, in the shed.” Perfect. “Mama and I can haul out the picnic table, set it under the trees. It's nice with the breeze off the creek. When I was little, we were always picnicking. Weekend in and weekend out.”

“Are you okay?” Luke brushed her hair away from her face. “You look pretty today.”

“So do you.”

His laugh was becoming one of her favorite sounds. “Steak or burgers?”

“Burgers. Hot dogs. Nothing fancy, Luke.”

“Side dishes? Any preference?”

Red returned from escorting Mama to her truck and stood alongside Luke.

“Coleslaw, potato salad.” Joy shrugged as she listed her favorites. “Cheetos.”

“I'll pick up some peppers, onions, and mushrooms. We can cook them on the grill in tinfoil. And I have a great seasoning for wedge potatoes . . . Do you have chili powder at home?”

“Chili powder? Sure. I mean, who doesn't?” Joy lifted her wallet from her purse. “Luke, let me give you money. You're invited to our house for lunch.”

“Forget it. Red practically invited himself. Meet you at your house in an hour or so.”

Red tipped his hat at Joy.

Once the Spit Fire exited the parking lot, Red in the passenger seat holding on to his hat, Joy whistled and called for the girls and sprinted for the truck. Once they were in the cab and buckled up, she shot out of the church parking lot.

“Where are we going?” Lyric asked, hand jutting out to hang onto the dash.

“Bi-Lo.” It was the opposite direction of Publix. “Lyric, get Granny on the phone. Annie-Rae, take the bulletin out of my Bible and start a list on the back. Write at the top ‘tinfoil and chili powder.'”

Lunch under the canopy of swinging Spanish moss went in Luke's memory book as a perfect day, despite the fact that Red had insisted on manning the grill (“Give you young cook-show hosts a break.”), firing the meat until it was cowhide tough.

Luke covered the well-done burgers with a blue cheese sauce stirred together in Rosie's kitchen. By the time Lyric begged off to be with her friends and Annie-Rae went inside to read, the table had been picked clean.

“Rosie, I've been looking at them trees along the creek.” Red motioned toward the back of the yard, wielding a toothpick between his teeth. “You need to trim them back or they're going to take over.”

“Now, Red, there is nothing wrong with those trees.” Rosie led him away, pointing here, then there, with arching, sweeping gestures.

“If she listens to him, she'll have the whole yard torn up by nightfall.” Luke slipped onto the table next to Joy, his feet flat on the wooden bench seat.

“I don't know . . . Mama's the yard queen around here.” Joy peered up at him. “Your sauce saved the day. Thank you.”

“I'd planned to make it anyway. Didn't know we'd need it so desperately.”

“Thanks for letting Annie-Rae help. She loves the kitchen.” Joy propped her arms on her thighs, the ends of her ponytail dusting her shoulders.

“So what's the deal with her parents being in Las Vegas?” While she stirred the sauce for him, Annie-Rae had chatted about her daddy and mama getting “good jobs” in Las Vegas and buying a house.

“My brother, Sawyer, and his wife, Mindy, married in college, had Lyric before they graduated, and by the time Annie-Rae came along five and a half years later, Mindy'd had enough. She was a trained dancer and tried to find an outlet with troupes in Charleston and Savannah, but last year she hung up motherhood and headed to Vegas. My brother followed her a few months later.”

“Your nieces mean a lot to you, don't they?” Luke etched the moment in his mind when Joy didn't seem so guarded, and later, when all was quiet, he'd write the impression to his heart.

“We're all they have. They're family. My girls.” Joy shifted back, propping her hands on the table behind her, crossing her legs and letting her flip-flop dangle from her toes. “Next to hosting the show, they are my life.”

Oh boy. Luke exhaled as he gazed toward the creek, squinting toward the refracted light, trying to burn away the soft silhouette of her tanned, sculpted legs lingering in his mind.
Think of other things, like fishing, worms. Baseball. Burnt meat. His father, her mother talking twenty yards away. Cold, snowy winters. The cold walk-in at the Frogmore
.

“. . . what's crazy is Mindy ended up getting a dancing gig in a show, which led to my brother being hired on as the customer service manager for the hotel.”

“That's good, right?”

“For them. But, Luke, they don't write or call. They don't send money. And Lyric wears all the rejection right here.” Joy patted her arm. “She's pretty bitter.”

“And Annie?”

“She's the pleaser and peacemaker.” Joy slid off the table and started collecting the ketchup and mustard, tucking the pickles and relish under her arm. “I think she gets what's going on somehow, in a deep, intangible way. She understands. It's a gift, I think.”

“She's blessed. Say, I was thinking of a new recipe last night. An Italian sausage dish in a béchamel sauce. I think your frat boy fans would love it. Easy, rich, and tasty. You want to work it up and—”

“No, no,” she tucked the pepper mill under her arm, “sounds like you have it under control. Go ahead. In fact, you can take one of my segments this week. You only had one—”

“It's really simple, Joy. We could do it together.”

“I'm not a big Italian sausage fan.” When she looked up at him, she smiled her television smile. “You can do a guys-to-guys recipe corner.”

“Why don't you want to do it? The college men would much rather—”

“Because, Luke . . . what's the big deal? Your idea. Your segment. I have plenty to do.” She crammed a stack of napkins onto the load in her arms. “Do you want to cohost or not?”

“Sure, sure. I'll do it.” What just happened here? The tone from the churchyard returned. Watching her, the breeze scented with rain, odd images and conversations from the past month started connecting.