Dining with Joy (24 page)

“How's the project?” Mama tugged open the pantry door and took out her bag of Cheetos. “You know what they say, everything you need to know in life you learn in kindergarten.”

Luke slipped off his stool to join Joy. “We've broken up the book into sections. We have soups. Oyster?”

“Chick made a lovely oyster soup.” Mama leaned over the magazine picture of a can of Campbell's soup.

“It'd be great if we could find his recipes, Rosie. Otherwise, I'll have to develop one. And there's no story or history about it.”

Joy sat on the kitchen tile, listening to Mama and Luke. When had Luke become one of them? The perfect spice to the house female blend?

“We included sandwiches because Chick loved sandwiches, right?” Luke stooped to straighten the pages pasted with McDonald's, Subway, and Panera products. “I've got a recipe for homemade potato chips that people seem to love.” He tapped a picture of Lays.

“Chick used to make homemade ketchup. Remember, Joy?”

“When did Daddy make homemade ketchup?”

“When you were kids. Early on in his cooking days. You don't remember?” Mama continued listening to Luke, hunched over, as he talked about the meat dishes with optional sides, then the casseroles and party dishes.

“Chick was always up for a party.” Mama approved, pinching her chin with her fingers.

“Now
that
I remember,” Joy said. “Sawyer and I used to sneak downstairs, grab a handful of tortilla chips, scoop Daddy's famous Mexican hat dip into a cup, and skedaddle before anyone saw us.”

“We saw you every time, Joy.” Mama tore open the Cheetos bag. “You two giggled like hyenas thinking you got away with something.”

“So if you didn't bury Chick with his recipes,” Luke glanced between Joy and Mama, “and they aren't in the studio, they must be here, right?”

“We've looked.” Mama munched on Cheetos. “After Chick died, Sharon and I scoured the attic.”

“You don't think she—”

“No, I never let her out of my sight. I didn't trust her like you and Duncan did.”

“Then we'll just have to get busy and develop his recipes ourselves. Rosie, you can help us taste test.” Luke scooted to the next section of construction paper and paste. Desserts. Annie-Rae's schoolgirl handwriting adorned the pages pasted with instant pudding and Pop-Tart cutouts.

A dormant guilt stirred around Joy's heart. She'd grown up with a father who loved to cook good food. Annie-Rae was growing up with an aunt who couldn't turn eggs into an omelet.

Joy had grown up chasing cousins around Granny and Granddaddy's yard, playing tag in the sweltering sun, the heady aroma of grilling meat spicing the air. When the dinner bell rang, she clambered to picnic tables laden with southern richness—homemade salads and desserts, warm breads and jams, and soul-stirring sweet tea.

What did Annie-Rae get when the dinner bell rang? Meals of solitude with a commercially pressed pastry. Standing in the kitchen, eating pizza from a box. Best of all, she got to dump her SpaghettiOs into a microwaveable bowl and watch it spin.

“Did Chick bake much?” Luke regarded Mama.

“Some. He liked to make French bread and yeast rolls.” Cheeto dust fell on the cookbook's pages. “But his specialty was banana bread. Sweet Georgia Brown, it was to die for.”

“Really, I'm sorry I won't get a taste of that.” Luke shuffled the pages around. “My mom had a chiffon cake I can add. I've wanted to do more baking, so it'll be a fun challenge to work up some recipes.”

“Stop.” Joy sliced the air with her hands. “Just stop. Luke, you don't have to keep adding your own recipes.” She sighed at the reflection of her image on the mock pages. “In fact, you
shouldn't
add any of your recipes.”

“Joy, come on, I don't mind. It's for the show. Besides, I'll add dishes I'm doing for the season. Allison—”

“Luke.” Joy rose off the floor. “You've been on the show for what . . . six weeks? And now you're helping me with a cookbook. I've hosted the show for three years, and I can't remember one recipe. Not one.”

Mama slipped away, the din of munching hanging in the air. Annie-Rae peered up at Joy from her spot next to Luke.

“It's not a big deal.” He shuffled pages absently.

“But it
is
a big deal.” She spun, facing the window outside. “I grew up with Charles Ballard and I can't boil water. What kind of woman doesn't learn to roast meat and steam veggies? What kind of television host doesn't learn her craft?”

“Remember the summer of '08?” Mama said from the living room, the low hum of the television riding her words. “You tried to learn, Joy.”

“Don't make excuses for me, Mama.”

“I'm adding my recipes, Joy.” Defiance fortified Luke's tone. “We're going to compile the best recipe book in the foodie kingdom.”

“Stop. You're too nice to me. I don't deserve this.”

Annie-Rae launched off the floor and ran for the stairs.

“Annie, honey, where are you going? We're not arguing, just discussing.”

Mama came around, eyes on the stairs, setting the Cheetos bag on the counter, her stained fingers splayed. “I'll go check on her. I need to call Lyric home anyway. Her room, what's left of it, is a mess. I'll be so glad when school starts next week.”

But as Mama arrived at the stairs, Annie-Rae raced back down, launching off the bottom step, a white laminated card in her hand. “Can we make this?” Annie shook the card under Luke's nose, then Joy's. “I found this. It says banana bread. Papaw made banana bread.”

“I'll be darned . . .” Mama gripped Annie's hand, holding it steady. “This is Chick's recipe. In his own hand. Maybe the original. See here, the date, October '85.”

“Annie, where did you find this?” Joy peered at the card, the hard ground of her soul softening at the sight of Daddy's neat, angled handwriting.

“In the attic.” She looked up at Mama. “You didn't say we couldn't go up there.”

Joy broke from the huddle, taking the stairs two at a time. At the end of the hall, the narrow attic door stood ajar. Up the curved narrow staircase, Joy burst into Daddy's office.

A square of sunlight hit the sun-baked hardwood from the skylight. Under the pitched roof, the room, hot and fragrant with the scent of warm wood and molding books, was everything Joy hated about Daddy.

His devotion to food, not to her, Mama, or Sawyer. Hours and hours he spent at the rolltop desk pushed against the wall, reading and writing until he came down to test his masterpieces, turning the family kitchen into his private laboratory where children were not seen or heard.

When Granny and Granddaddy died, Daddy's brothers scattered and the light of love seemed to fade from the family. No more picnics with the cousins playing tag. No more meat-scented air. No more hot buttered rolls with black raspberry jam.

“Do you want me to go?” Luke's voice rescued her from the emotional swirl.

Joy motioned to the bookshelves. “Mama said Sharon shook every cookbook trying to dislodge Daddy's notes and recipes, but nothing slipped from the pages.”

“Annie said she found the card behind the desk, on the floor.”

Joy glanced at the rolltop. “She probably did. I've only been up here once since he died. And I didn't look for recipes. But I remember he always had a leather book . . . like a journal.”

She'd been so mad at him when he died. Why didn't he take care of himself? Give up salt, cream and sugar, fatty foods? He'd be with them today if he'd just . . .

“Joy, talk to me.” Luke's hands caressed her shoulders, his fingers brushing her neck so that intoxicating tingles tightened her skin.

“He loved food more than us.” She stared at the recipe.
Three ripened bananas
. . .

“Men can get lost in their careers and passions, but he'd have been a fool to love food more than his family.”

“He was here physically, but emotionally—” Joy shook her head. “He missed ball games and award ceremonies. He barely made it to my graduation.” She swept the tears from under her eyes with her fingers, inhaled, and heeled her racing emotions. “Will you help me look for the cookbook?”

“Tell me where to start.” Luke glanced around the room. “Any secret hiding places in here?”

“Not that I know of.”

“All right, Lord.” Luke closed his eyes and tipped back his head. “Where would Charles Ballard stash his secrets?”

God, where do we look?
Joy gripped the arm of the Barcalounger, the seat and back permanently molded with Daddy's form, and lifted, glancing underneath.

Luke pressed along the wall, stomping his foot. Joy snorted.

“What?”

“We're insane, that's what.” Joy stomped on the boards under her feet. “Daddy's looking down from heaven right now going, ‘Cold, cold, brrr, you're getting colder, oh my, you're in polar bear country now.'”

“It's got to be here somewhere.”

Joy dug through the desk and checked for secret panels while Luke shook the cookbooks and knocked on the shelves.

The heat of the room soaked Joy's skin as she rifled through the old blue chest in the corner. “Come on, room. Give up Daddy's cookbook.” The quest became about more than recipes for the show.

On her hands and knees, she knocked on the floorboards along the wall, waiting for the hollow echo reply.

“Luke, do you hide your recipes?” Joy sat back on her heels, wiped the moisture from her brow. “Of course not, you're giving them to the show.”

“Well, not all of them.” Luke stooped over into the alcove. “I'm keeping some to myself, waiting for a special show or my own cookbook. Don't nominate me for sainthood yet. Restaurant chefs can be very proprietary, especially in big cities. Since we can't copyright the work we slave over to perfect, we just don't share. What's behind this little door?”

Joy angled to see. “Asbestos and trusses.”

“And boxes. Labeled ‘taxes.'” Luke retrieved a file box with a glance back at Joy. “If I were going to hide my recipes . . . I'd hide them to look like boring old tax papers.”

In the third box she examined, on the bottom, under a manila folder, Joy retrieved a soft, well-worn leather journal, thick with notes and pressed spices, bound together with rubber bands.

“Daddy's recipe book.”

Twenty-one

On the porch, Joy rocked, listening to the night's song, the wind in the trees, the chorus of the creek. She'd found Daddy's book. In a box of tax papers.

Daddy had sketches and notes on every page, thoughts jotted along every edge. It was a map into his heart and mind.

Mama came to the door. “It's eleven.”

“I'll be in.”

“Don't mull too long, Joy. It ain't worth it. The past is the past.” Mama stepped onto the porch, the screen door squeaking closed.

“Was I as horrible as I remember? Did I yell and scream a lot?”

“You were a handful, downright ugly at times, but not
so
horrible. You wanted Chick's attention, but he didn't get it. He was kind of obtuse at times. He didn't see you for you. He only saw what he thought you needed from him.”

“Luke asked to take the book home to study and pull out recipes, but I wanted to keep it tonight.” As she fanned through the pages in the porch light, she couldn't see much, but the cacophony of notes and jots, sketches and pressed herbs somehow comforted her. “I came home from that year in London to get to know Daddy. Joined the show. Then he died.”

“We went on two different journeys, you and me. When your daddy died, I went on a quest to find myself, do what I wanted to do. You, on the other hand, went on a journey to find him.” Mama's rough palm caught on Joy's hair, sending a soft tingle running over her scalp. “Maybe in part that's what you did tonight with the book.”

“It was Luke. He said to look in the tax boxes.”

“He's a good man, that Luke.”

“He's all right.”

Mama tugged Joy's hair, her soft laugh raining over her. “Good night, my dear Joy who lives so much of her life in denial.”

“Please, I'm not in denial.”

“He's a good man, Joy. In case you haven't noticed, good men are quite hard to find.”

“In case you haven't noticed,” Joy flipped the corner of the notebook with her thumb, “I'm busy keeping a show afloat and helping you raise your son's daughters.”

“Oh, I noticed. But just don't keep too busy, hear me? And miss out on love.” For a moment Mama stood against the side of the house, breathing deeply. “You know, I'm looking forward to tasting Chick's banana bread again.”

The door closed softly.

Resting her head against the back of the rocker, Joy replayed Mama's words. Luke was a good man. And his kisses ignited a part of her heart she'd not put before a flame in a long time, not since Tim, but—

Joy lifted her head. A bump resounded from the other side of the porch. Around the side of the house. She listened, shivers running over her skin. There. Another thump. And a . . . giggle followed by a low hush. Then a muffled response.

Joy slid off the rocker and inched along the porch, her heart thumping as she walked into the billow of whispers. Reaching down, she nabbed one of her flip-flops. Properly thrown, it could inflict pain to the face. Sure. Why not.

“Hey, who's here? Anyone? Come out into the light.”

Joy lunged back as a thick frame scrambled from the porch floor and into the thin shadows. Parker Eaton? His unbuttoned shirt hung open and loose around his lean chest.

“Aunt Joy. What are you doing?” Lyric, breathless, sat up, twisting and tugging, gathering herself. “You were going to hit us with a flip-flop?”

“Get inside, Lyric.” Joy dropped her shoe to the porch and slipped it on. “Parker, get on home.”