Dining with Joy (21 page)

“Let's just air it out, Joy.” Luke followed on her heel, a slight adjustment in his tone. “What exactly do you mean by ‘can't cook'? I have CIA-trained friends who absolutely must have a recipe. You'd never catch them in a cooking competition. I have other friends who couldn't follow a recipe to save their necks. One friend has to time everything. The number of seconds to sweat onions. The exact minutes to whip cream. One of my chef friends tends to overcook everything, so his sous chef has to watch his back.”

“Luke, you're kidding, right?” Joy snapped her fingers in the air around his head. “Can't cook means
can't cook
. I could win
America's Worst Cook
show. Give me a recipe and watch me destroy it. More than likely, I'll destroy the kitchen along with it.”

“How is that possible?” He regarded her with his focused blues, disbelief ringing in his question. “You're Charles Ballard's daughter.”

“I inherited his flair for the camera but not for cooking. I'm telling you, I can't follow a boxed cake recipe without some kind of disaster.” Joy made a strip motion across her eyebrows. “They're always the first to go. Ask Sharon.”

“Where'd the deep-fried PB&J come from, then?”

“Okay, that was me, but I've always had a relationship with grease. As in fire. As in burns. Even for the fried PB&J show, Sharon had to mix up the batter and heat the oil.” Joy jingled her keys against her palm. “I'm sorry—”

“It's okay.” Luke backed toward his car. “At least I know.”

He was leaving. That spoke louder than words. “Bye, Luke.”

“See you, Joy.” The Spit Fire rumbled and rattled toward Boundary Street, turned, and disappeared from view.

Joy exhaled, falling against the side of the truck, beige sand dusting over the red stains on her feet. Hard day.
Hard
day. But somewhere way deep down inside, she could finally hear the song of her soul.

Eighteen

When Joy pulled up at home, Mama was pushing a wheel-barrow of potted flowers toward Miss Dolly's backyard. Joy tucked her keys into her bag and sneaked up on her.

“What're you doing?”

“Joy.” Mama slapped her hand over her heart, her cheeks flaming with heat. “You scared me to death. Now hush, or you'll blow my cover.”

“You're putting flowers
in
Miss Dolly's yard?” Joy stooped to sniff one of the plant's petals. It was so perfect. So blue. “Did you inhale too many fumes at the shop today?”

“Back it up, Joy. Don't sniff the perfume from my blooms.” Mama shoved Joy upright with the back of her hand. “My stars, what happened to you? You're all sweaty. And look at your feet. Do not walk into my house with those. Go down to the creek and wash them off. Where have you been?”

“Running the bases at Basil Green.”

“Uh-oh.” Mama folded her arms, a wry twist on her lips. She looked pretty in the afternoon's watermelon light, her blue eyes full of spunk, a kink in her brown coils. After Daddy died, she switched from blonde to her natural brown and exchanged her slacks and skirts for overalls and garden gloves. “Tell me what happened.”

“Sharon quit.”

“Aw, mercy, that girl is a loon.” Mama ducked for a quick look through the hibiscus. “If I told Chick once I told him a hundred times, Sharon is only out for herself.”

“Out for herself? Mama, she hung around the show for three years, helping me—graciously, I might add. She never said a disagreeable word until the cookbook deal.”

“Which is the deal she always had with your daddy. She'd share the book rights and royalties, have her name on the cover.”

“Can you blame her? She's developed some great recipes. Duncan promised her the same thing. Enter Allison and—”

“And the hound bit you in the butt, didn't she? I told you to be careful. She did the same thing to Chick. If Sharon suggested basil instead of bay in a recipe, she wanted her name on it. I told you to get ahold of those recipes, get copies or something.”

“We had copies.” Joy traced her finger lightly over the tiger lily's thick, creamy bloom. “Sharon took them.”

“In some places, folks call that stealing.” Mama swatted at her hand. “You're getting your oily fingerprint all over my lily. Stop.”

Joy stuffed her hands in her pockets. “I need Daddy's recipe books. Allison wants me and Luke to start from scratch, use our own recipes. Then on my way home, she texted me about writing stories or anecdotes to add to the cookbook.”

“Well, you'll finally get to use your creative writing degree and make up little stories about how you and your daddy baked banana bread in the kitchen while singing ‘Mockingbird.'”

“Next time you bust my chops for sarcasm, I'm throwing this moment back at you. Maybe I won't write stories about my life with Daddy, just his life with the food.” Joy eyed her mama. “I'm going to need to ask you a lot of questions.”

“He used to keep his recipe notebooks in the attic, underneath a floorboard. If they're not there, I have no idea where he kept them. He might have taken them to the studio.” Mama hoisted up her wheelbarrow and wedged her way through the bushes. “You want pizza for dinner? Dave over at Upper Crust owes me a free large veggie.”

“No, he doesn't. I told you—”

“I'm telling you those peppers were really anchovies.” The hibiscus leaves wrapped around Mama as she disappeared through the hedge. “Now, if she'd just get going to bridge club. Ah, there she goes. Have fun at bridge, Dolly. Don't drink too much julep.”

Joy poked her head into the bush blind. “Dare I ask why you're planting flowers in Miss Dolly's garden?”

Mama shoved forward, breaking through to Dolly's yard. “Remember how you told me not to spray pesticides?”

At five minutes until seven, Luke swung into the Ballards' driveway, cut the engine, and climbed out with his personal cookbook and a trunkload of groceries.

The front door swung open and Annie-Rae came out with a slice of pizza in her hand. “I thought you were Lyric.” She giggled, hunching up her shoulders. “But you're prettier.”

“No, you're prettier.” He stooped to her eye level. “Is your Aunt Joy here?”

“Yep.”

“Is she in a good mood or a bad mood?”

“I don't know.” Annie-Rae shrugged. “Good, I guess. Unless you're Lyric, then she's in a bad mood.”

“What if you're Luke?”

“Don't tell him, Annie-Rae, he's just using you to get information.”

Luke raised his gaze to see Joy standing in the door, swinging a dish towel. “You looking to pop someone with that thing?”

“Anyone whose name starts with L.”

“Then I'll be going.” He took the steps up, passing Joy his cookbook. “Start picking out what you think should go in the book. I have groceries in the car.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Um, working on a cookbook. Seven o'clock, right?” He jumped the steps, motioning for Annie to follow him. “Let's unload.”

“Wow, groceries.” She dove in, headfirst, loading up her thin arms, drawing her lips back as she carried her load to the house.

“Looky, Aunt Joy, groceries.”

“Yeah, baby, shh, let me help you.” Their voices faded as they disappeared into the house. “Why are you acting like we've never bought groceries before?”

“I can't remember . . .”

Luke carried the last bags in, closing the door with his foot, striding for the kitchen. He'd been ticked for a while, but then he put himself in her place and, well, he'd have done the same thing. “I bought everything I thought we'd need for tonight.”

Annie brought a tall stool around the counter, set it in the middle of the kitchen, and climbed on, her hazel eyes thirsty sponges, absorbing the scene.

“Can I see you on the porch?” Joy led Luke through the sliding glass door. “What are you doing? We have no
Dining with Joy
recipes. Ryan called to say he's e-mailing the dish names from the show's database, but a title isn't going to get us very far. I can't cook. Your reputation is on the line. Just call Allison and get it over with.”

“And then what?” He captured her with a pointed glance. “You go to work with your mom at Ballard Paint & Body? Try to find a writing or editing job? I think you're more experienced at fake cooking than editing and writing.”

She stepped back. “You're enjoying this? Mocking me?”

“I'm not mocking you. I've thought about this. I've prayed about it, and I'm in, Joy. Let's execute your plan. I'll take over more and more of the cooking while you entertain, make us laugh, do the spontaneous stuff that's so genuine. Think about it. No other cooking show is like
Dining with Joy
. It's why TruReality loves you.

Besides, what good is a show called
Dining with Joy
without the Joy?”

“What about all the purist foodies?”

“They can sit in their white chocolate towers and sneer. We'll be boots on the ground having fun, bringing good food to people who'd never turn on the food channels.”

“Then tell Allison.” She remained with her arms crossed and shoulders stiff, her tone flatly demanding.

“Yeah, about that . . .” He exhaled, scuffing his boot over the porch boards. “I tried.”

“Oh my gosh.” She slapped her hands on her head. “You tried? You tried.” Joy slapped out the screen door.

“I was mad, Joy. I was nervous. I wasn't sure I wanted to cohost, knowing it was a sham. Give me a break, I had to take a second to consider my own career.”

“What'd she say?” Joy stopped by the side of the house, reached for the shovel leaning there, and rammed the edge into the ground.

“When you didn't come back this afternoon, she came to my cubicle and started talking. I probed her thoughts on me doing more cooking, which she's open to, but, Joy, you're her golden goose. No way is she backing you away from any part of the show. Then I said,” Luke yanked the shovel from her, “‘wouldn't it be a fun show if the host couldn't cook?' Allison turned white and she looked like she'd seen a black widow. She said, ‘Not in my world. A cooking show with a host who couldn't cook would be the death knell of any production company.' So, no, she didn't think it was funny.”

“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh.” Joy spun toward the wooded half of the yard, hands over her head, then slicking down her ponytail. “Here I am again. It's Duncan all over. The balance and weight of the show is on me. If I quit, Allison loses everything she's invested. Her reputation with TruReality is shot. The crew is out. You're back at the Frogmore.”

“What do you want?” Luke eased the shovel against the side of the house. “For once, Joy, decide for yourself. If you want to go on with the show, I'm with you. But if you want a way out, Joy, this is it. I'll tell Allison with you.”

“You'd do that?” Her shoulders rounded forward as the fire in her heart flickered low.

“Yeah, I'd do that for you.” He lowered his hands before he lost his senses and swept her into his arms. She had a way of burrowing under his skin and into his heart. With every passing second, she burrowed deeper, leaving him marked by her presence.

Without a word, she stepped into him, crushed her forehead into his chest, and wept.

The intimate friendship, got-your-back moment from the yard that swelled in Joy's heart with a sense of well-being and hope vanished within the hour.

“What is hard about an omelet, Joy?” Luke took the skillet from her. “It's eggs folded over. I've turned ex-cons and recovering alcoholics into top Manhattan sous and line chefs. But I can't teach an ex-softball player how to make a simple omelet?”

“I told you. I told you. I can't do it. I don't get it.” Joy backed into the counter, crossing, uncrossing her arms, treading to stay above a meltdown.

“It's eggs in a pan. What's not to get?”

“She's just no good.” Annie-Rae, still perched in the center of the kitchen, shook her head with exasperation in her eyes. “Never has been.”

“Thank you, mini-Granny.” Joy bent toward her. “Gee, isn't it past your bedtime?”

Annie popped up straight and softened her expression. “Lyric's not home yet.”

The girl was too smart for her own good. Joy peered at the stove clock. Nine thirty. Lyric was late. Again. Her infatuation with Parker was turning to obsession. “Run upstairs and call her. Siri's number is by the phone in Granny's room. Tell her to get home. Now.”

Annie hopped off the stool and scurried up the stairs. Luke dumped the burned omelet into the trash. It was her fifth one. The first three were raw and runny. The last two, burnt.

“I told you not to turn up the heat,” he said.

“You know what?” Joy pulled off her apron, the one he'd tied for her, his nearness driving her to decide he could kiss her tonight. “I don't need this. It's like being in here with Daddy.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Luke turned on the faucet and rammed the skillet under the stream.

How did she know? She wasn't monitoring her words well tonight. Those little beauts popped off her lips before checking with her brain. “Daddy, I don't know . . . he possessed this kitchen like some men possess the garage or a workshop.”

“And it had to be his way or no way? Perfect? If you moved a utensil or pan he'd know it? If you used his vinegar or sherry, he'd demand to know why?”

She eyed him. “I can promise you we never touched his vinegar or sherry, but we were guilty of using a slotted spoon or spatula from time to time.”

“I worked for a chef who was a control freak.” Luke set the skillet on the stove and started cleaning up. “I don't want to do that to you, Joy. I'd convinced myself your issues were just a matter of confidence. That it was all psychosomatic. Most bad cooks just need to relax, have fun, enjoy the process.”