Dining with Joy (22 page)

“Then we're doomed.” Joy sat on Annie's stool. “I don't enjoy the kitchen. I don't get the big deal about cooking. How in the world can it be relaxing? All the chopping and dicing, the mess, the cleanup, the time standing in front of a hot stove. Slap together a PB&J and I'm off to a movie or softball game or floating on the creek with my friends.”

“So what do you want to do?” Luke tucked his cookbook under his arm. “Tell Allison and see what happens. I still want to teach you to cook.”

“Well,” she shrugged, interrupted by Mama coming through the sliding door.

“What's burning? Luke, you didn't let her cook, did you?”

“I tried.”

“Next time, if there is a next time, let me show you where the fire extinguisher is first.”

“All right, Mama, one small kitchen fire—”

“One?”

“Okay, good night, take a shower, go read your book, here are your Cheetos.” Joy hopped off the stool, slid open the pantry, and tossed Mama her nightly snack.

“Giving me the old brush-off.”

“Yes. Did you plant the flowers?”

“Oh yeah, I planted the flowers.” Snickering, Mama headed for the stairs.

“What was that about?” Luke leaned to see out the dark window.

“Yard wars. Long story.” Joy sat on the stool again. If she was going to commit to the show, she needed to commit to Luke, the cookbook, the process, and maybe seeing the kitchen from another man's perspective.

“I acted just like him, didn't I? Your dad.”

He did it again. Peered into her soul and listened to her thoughts.

“Pretty much.” She slouched, gripping her hands against her legs.

“Don't think I realized it until the fifth omelet.”

“I'm sorry.” Luke inched closer to her. “I kept thinking any NCAA All-American who pitches eighteen no-hitters on the ride to the national championship could take some coaching, fold over a few eggs.”

“Surprise.”

The front door slammed, shaking the house. “I'm home. Happy?”

“I'm glad.” Joy met Lyric in the living room. “But you're late.”

“Do you know how embarrassing it is to have your little sister call and tell you it's time to come home?”

“The only person to blame is yourself, Lyric. You broke curfew.”

“It's almost the end of summer vacation.” She collapsed on the sofa. “All my friends are out having fun, going to the drive-in or the beach, having parties, and I have to be home by nine. I'm not a baby.”

“Current temper tantrum aside—”

“What's that smell?” Lyric curled her lip. “You haven't been cooking, have you?”

“That was me.” Luke stood at the other end of the living room. “I was trying something.” He glanced at Joy. “Didn't work out.”

“You'll have to try again,” Joy said. “Maybe take it slower, relax.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“What in the world are you two talking about?” Lyric pulled herself off the sofa and thumped upstairs.

“Tomorrow night? I'll do the cooking, you do the testing?”

“Sounds like a plan.” Joy propped against the wall.

“By the way, I think Lyric had a date with a vampire tonight.” He tugged his keys from his pocket and motioned to his neck, nodding toward the stairs. “On her neck, under her ear.”

“Nice, can't wait to have that conversation.”

“See you tomorrow?”

“If I survive the night.” Joy walked him out to the porch, then leaned against the post as he cranked up the Spit Fire.

As he eased down the drive, he glanced at her through the rearview mirror. She may be caught in the memories of Charles Ballard, but by the end of this season, he'd see that she was free, gazing forward, discovering the Joy inside.

Nineteen

The following Saturday evening Luke staffed on at the Frogmore, settling into the solitude of the kitchen, the ting of the spatula on the grill, the clatter of dishes, the sizzle of a good sear, an old-home melody.

Luke plated the day's special, barbecue chicken, his thoughts drifting over the past week of cooking with Joy. Man, she could be exasperating. Then the next moment his heart would be beating, his arms aching to grab hold of her.

She couldn't cook, but she'd taken the lead in dictating which recipes—from his own collection—went in the cookbook. Thursday night he argued with her for fifteen minutes about corned beef.

“Mercy.” Luke slid the plate through the window. “Bebecue chicken is up.”

“Got a visitor, Luke.” Mercy peered through the window as she picked up her order.

“Me? Who is it?” He angled to see the deep part of the dining room. He hoped to see Joy at the counter or a back booth.

“Some dude with a Yankee accent.”

Yankee accent? Didn't narrow it down much. Wandering through the kitchen doors, he scanned the room. A familiar face watched him from the back corner booth.

“Linus Cariboni.” Luke squinted at his Manhattan friend as he slid into the booth. “Slumming in the lowcountry. What's up?”

Linus slapped him a side-five. “Did I hear right? You cohosting an avant-garde cooking comedy show,
Dining with Joy
?”

“Seems the rumor mills are getting it right these days.” Luke shifted forward, arms on the table. “We're in the middle of taping the season.”

Linus clicked his tongue and added a low whistle. “Looked her up on the Internet. She's hot. Funny too.”

“You drove all the way down from New York to tell me Joy Ballard is
hot
?”

“I've done more for less.” In his early forties Linus was a gambler. Not in the tradition of Atlantic City, Reno, or Vegas, but in restaurants, bistros, and all things food. Handsome in a stock-Italian kind of way, he used his charm and wealth to hedge his bets for restaurants, chefs, food writers, foodies, and their patrons.

“Still losing your hair, I see.” Luke grinned.

“And are you still poorer than a church mouse?” Linus knocked his diamond-studded platinum ring on the polyurethane-coated tabletop.

“As a matter of fact, I'm saving up to pay you back.” Luke motioned for Paris to bring around a couple of teas and hoped God might lend him some wisdom here. Linus didn't just
happen
by Beaufort. No one happened by the coastal city. Linus was on a mission. As an original investor in Ami's—with a handshake and an envelope of cash—he'd lost out in bankruptcy proceedings. Luke's pledge to repay him was his only collateral. But that's how Linus did business. Payback came in the form of favors. Imbedded, serious favors.

“You think I'd show up in this dive for a couple of measly grand?” Linus sat back, regarding Luke down his Michelangelo-sculpted nose. “I want more than money.”

“A pound of flesh. And I owe you more than a couple of measly grand.” More like twenty-five.

“Forget the money. And the pound of flesh. I want the whole bag of bones. All six-one, hundred and eighty pounds of you. Give or take a few. Have you been hitting the weights?” Linus winked at Paris as she set down the teas. “Thank you, beautiful.”

“What's going on, Linus?”

“Ami's was a top-notch restaurant with unique recipes. Good Midwest food with French panache. You were on the cusp of culinary greatness.” He smiled and nodded at the couple at the next booth like he knew them. “How're you folks doing? Listen, Luke”—he tapped his ring against his glass—“I came to save you. And eventually, get some of my money back. My partners and I are opening a place in Portland, Maine. We'll run the business side, but we want you to be our executive chef.”

“Maine? At the top of the world Maine?” Maine without Joy Maine? “Way too cold.”

“It's a fantastic place, Luke. Portland is the fastest-growing culinary hot spot in the country.” Linus reached for a napkin, then took the pen from Luke's chest pocket. “We need to get in there before the chains and tourist hounds turn the city into Broadway and 42nd. Loading up the town with run-of-the-mill, you-can-find-this-stuff-anywhere places. In the ten years I've known you, Luke, you've never turned down an opportunity for a new kitchen. At least not until you opened Ami's.”

“I have no reason to go, Linus. I'm doing well here, finally on my feet again. I've got the show. Working here on Saturdays keeps me in the kitchen. My cousin is here. I'm making friends—”

“I bet you are, and she has long flaming hair and a great face. I'd say more but you look like you're going to punch me.” Linus slid the napkin across the table.

“Maine is too far from Red and Oklahoma. I'm all he's got, and he's not getting any younger.” Luke refused to look at the napkin, knowing the number would bug out his eyes and shove his heart into his ribs.

“Take your time. We don't need an answer tomorrow.” Linus tapped his manicured finger on the napkin. “This is your salary, but we can negotiate and I'll be generous on vacations. Once you get a crew in place, of course.”

“Of course. And what constitutes the crew being in place? A mini-me as exec when I'm not there? A clone? I know you, Linus, you'll build the restaurant's rep around the skills of your exec. I'll never be able to leave because someone or something will always be on the horizon. If we're losing money or making money, the executive chef must be in-house.”

“My partners and I want you. We're willing to be flexible.” He shoved the napkin to the edge of the table, under Luke's line of vision. “To a point. But that's your first year's salary plus bonus. We stay in the black, that number goes up by ten percent. Eventually, you buy in. I'm not sure if I can match the pay of a
classy
culinary show like
Dining with Joy
, but this is the bucking bronc you've been dying to ride, Luke. Designing the menu and kitchen the way you want, but without any of the financial responsibility. We'll control the business, and everything else is yours.”

The figure was ridiculous. Too much for a startup place. But Linus loved the ridiculous. He loved shooting the whole wad on a chance the next card gave him twenty-one.

“When?” Luke folded the napkin and tucked it into his pocket.

“Couple of months. Still working out details. Should we buy or lease . . . you know the hassle. But we'd like to be open by December. For the holidays.”

“I'm contracted to the show for a year.”

“When are you through taping? October? November? Send me your contract. I'll have my lawyer look into it.”

“The show debuts in September and the season is twenty shows. We've done eight.” The leatherette creaked under Luke as he shifted forward, then back, letting his emotions settle. Six weeks ago this offer would've been a no-brainer. Even in the early weeks of the show, he'd have leapt at this offer. The white paper napkin exposed his heart. Money wasn't it for him. Luke was attached to Joy. “I'll have to think about it. Pray.”

“I figured as much.” Linus held him with a long, hard gaze. “We can get you where you want to be, Luke. You know it. We have contacts all over the food world. You won't have to play second fiddle to a home-trained show host. I don't care how gorgeous she is, am I right? Or play sous chef to whoever runs this dive.”

“See, Linus, there you go, assuming, talking without authority.”

“Maybe, but I know you.” Linus exited the booth. “The first day you opened Ami's, I saw your hunger. The yearning for success. But you didn't make it.” He picked up his tea for a final swig, letting his words gum up the air and stick to Luke. “And I'm betting that doesn't sit well with you. I'll be in touch.”

The bells clattered as Linus left the café. Luke yanked the napkin from his pocket, tore it in two, and stuffed it in the remains of Linus's tea. The thin paper swirled and dissolved as it drifted to the bottom.

Dan Greene's command and presence consumed the air in Allison's office. He perched across from her with his vice-president-of-programming-glare fixed on her as she skimmed the focus group survey results.

No reading required. Dan bullhorned the news.
Not good
. Okay, attitude up, creative solutions in motion, this need not be the end of the world as she knew it.

“We'll reshoot.” Smiling, shaking her hair a bit as she tossed the survey to her desk.

“Are you going to reshoot every Luke segment?” Dan remained steady, unmoved, his brow arched. “That's nine shows. You have that kind of money stocked, Allison?”

Her sigh slipped out. “The crew is committed . . . But, Dan, let's think outside the box.” She snatched up the survey and walked around to the front of her desk. “Why not let Luke be a bit bland? He's real.

It's the true part of the show. He's the everyday man. What was it the women consistently said—” She flipped the pages. “‘Monotone but great to look at' . . . ‘He can come to my kitchen any day of the week' . . . ‘Luke is the best-looking chef on television' . . . ‘I'll watch if he's on, even if he's kind of boring.' This is real, Dan. We can use this to our advantage. Joy
is
the show, the star, then in walks this man who could've come from anybody's living room or frat house. Besides, honestly, can we really stomach two shining hosts? No.”

“You're right, you're right.” Dan sat back, resting his arms casually over his crossed legs, his conciliatory tone not comforting. “And none of that would matter if there was chemistry. It's all gone, Allison. Where's the spark I saw on YouTube? We loved the show with Joy, but when you wanted to add Luke, it was for sex appeal, spice, getting the audience to wonder what those two are doing offscreen. With what you've given us, I get visions of Scrabble and crossword puzzles. No one is tuning in to watch two beautiful people figure out a double word score.”

“Then I'll reshoot. There's good feedback on those first few shows we reshot. I'll do it again. We'll get Joy to spice it up. She's the one who kissed him at the cook-off.”