Dining with Joy (25 page)

He jumped over the rail without a word or backward glance, stumbling over a root or one of Mama's potted plants and crawling a good twenty yards before launching to his feet.

“There, you happy? You scared him off.” Lyric passed Joy with the defiance of an angry fourteen-year-old.

“You're darn right I scared him off.”

“Now he'll never come back.”

“Good. If he only wants you because you're making out with him, then you don't need him.”

“He's the coolest boy in school, Aunt Joy.” Lyric flared, her long waves wild and free, her spirit a gathering storm. “And he loves me. Lyric Ballard. Me.”

“Is that what he said? He loves you?”

“Why do you ruin everything?”

“I'm trying to keep
you
from getting ruined. Please, go inside and don't say another word. I'm so angry with you right now, and I don't want to say things I don't mean.”

Lyric jerked the screen so hard the handle slapped the side of the house. Through the house and up the stairs, her heels thudded.

Joy picked up Daddy's recipe book from the floor and collapsed against the porch post, her emotions churning in her chest. It was painful to get a glimpse of her former self in fiery Lyric.

Sawyer and Mindy had better come home. Soon.

Twenty-two

Luke idled the Spit Fire in front of the Ballards' and dialed Joy. “Come outside . . . because . . . Joy, the cookbook can wait. It's Friday night. We've been working all week.”

The front door flew open and Joy stood on the porch, the sexiest sight he'd ever seen, haloed in the light of home.

She still held her phone to her ear. “No, come inside. I picked up fresh shrimp from Gay's. We need to remake the scampi.”

“We?” He stepped toward her, slow, casual, trying to detach from being her colleague. At least for tonight.

She gazed down at his feet and ended the call, lowering her hand by her side. “You're wearing flip-flops. The cowboy has toes.” Joy angled for a better look.

“What's this about the scampi?” He stepped up onto the bottom step.

“I didn't write it down.” She moved back an inch, her eyes latching with his. “I was too busy eating . . .” Joy smoothed her hand over her shorts. “I think I've gained another five pounds this week.”

“If you did, it's in all the right places.” He moved closer, her fragrance like walking into a cottony wall.

“Luke, what are you up to?”

“We're not cooking tonight.” He reached for her hand but decided she looked leery enough. Odd to have the barrier be handholding instead of something as intimate as kissing. He ached to travel that familiar path, but promised that tonight, heaven help him, was all about Joy. And the treasure of her father's recipe book.

He'd been reading and studying it since Joy gave it to him the day after she found it. “We've been reshooting every day and taping new shows, then cooking every night. I'm exhausted. How much smiling can an introverted chef do in five days?”

“But I bought shrimp.”

“It'll keep.”

“It'll keep?” Joy made a face. “What's going on, Luke?”

“Get in the car and find out.”

Her eyes widened. “No, I'm wearing old shorts. My hair is in a ponytail—”

“For crying out loud.” Luke swooped Joy into his arms, cradling her against his chest as he carried her off the porch. “I've branded calves more cooperative than you.”

Driving down Hwy 170 under the last of the August sky, Joy settled in the passenger seat. Luke blessed the wild idea of taking Joy on a date. “I think we both need a night off.”

“I didn't know I was so tired. I just kept gearing up for the next thing.”

Luke braked and cut off the highway, taking a dirt road through the pines and palmettos. Rube said the turnoff would come up fast . . .

“How do I know you're not driving me into the swamp to kill me?”

“You don't.”

“Should I turn on my phone's GPS?”

“If it makes you feel better.”

She reached back, tugging her iPhone from her hip pocket. “Does anything rattle you?”

“Sure. Burnt meat. Overcooked pasta. People who refrigerate tomatoes. Mispronouncing
béchamel
.”

“Then you must be a nervous wreck around me.” She rode with her feet on the dash, the setting sun glinting off smooth, sculptured legs.

“I am. But not for those reasons.” Maybe it wasn't a good idea to be alone with her in the meadow on a sultry summer night.

Rube Butler appeared on the horizon atop his horse, standing guard over the fire pit and picnic spread.

When Luke stopped the car, he glanced at Joy. “Wait.”

She nodded. And in her eyes he saw what he hoped for—Joy the woman, not a colleague. Stepping out, Luke tossed his keys to Rube.

“Give us a couple of hours?”

“See you then.” Rube dropped the horse's reins to the ground.

“Joy, this is Rube.” Luke held her door open. “And he's letting me borrow a square of his land for the night.”

Rube nodded, tipping his hat. “I seen you on TV.” He gunned the Spit Fire and fishtailed through the grass, grinding the gears as he sped away.

“How do you know him?”

“Café. He comes in every week.” Luke slipped his arm around her. “Hungry?”

“What are you doing?” Stiffening, Joy regarded him, but didn't pull away.

He shrugged. “Just wanted to spend time with you when cameras weren't watching. Or Annie-Rae.” Luke released her, the soft scent of her skin challenging his resolve. “I–I made a picnic.” He cleared his throat and dropped to the blanket. “We have homemade bread and store-bought cheese. I haven't mastered dairy yet. Sliced apples with caramel chocolate sauce. Beef tips on the spit over the pit. And my own special lemon raspberry iced tea.”

“Luke, when did you put all of this together?” She curled her legs under her as she sat on the blanket, reaching for the glass of tea he offered.

“It didn't take long. Just started the bread last night.” He broke a piece off the loaf. “Open your mouth and close your eyes.”

She stared at him. “Why? It makes me feel weird.”

“Please.” Luke cradled the bread in his palm, taking up a slice of cheese. “I want to show you something.”

“With my eyes closed?” She laughed, loud and nervous.

“Joy.” He grasped her arm and she shivered. “Open your mouth and close your eyes.”

She surrendered to Luke as he settled the bread and cheese in her mouth. His pulse charged through his veins. But tonight was about the sensation of food and nothing more.

“What do you taste?”

“Warm and crunchy but with a tangy cream.” She covered her mouth as she chewed and kept her eyes closed.

“Breathe deep. Do you taste the layers of the bread and cheese?”

“Mmm, so good.”

“What kind of cheese?”

“Swiss.”

“Try again.” Luke prepared a portion for himself.

“Brie?”

“Very good, chef. Now, what kind of bread?”

“French.” Joy laughed, swallowing. “Who came up with this game, Luke? Name That Food.”

“Cyrano used words. I use food.”

Joy's eyes fluttered open. “Use food for what?”

“Hey, no peeking. Close your eyes and taste. Don't think or fret. Just taste, Joy.” Luke settled a new bite on her tongue. “What are you tasting?”

“Apples with chocolate.”

“And?”

“Caramel.”

“Good, but those are surface flavors. What else are you tasting or feeling?”

“Sweet and tart. The thickness of caramel, the smooth flavor of chocolate. It's going good, isn't it, Luke? You cooking and me tasting?”

“I think it's the most amazing time of my life.” He touched his finger to her eyelids. “Keep them closed. Here's another bite. Forget the apples, the chocolate and caramel, what are you
tasting
?”

“I taste . . .” She pressed her hand over her middle, then a thin veil of moisture touched her lashes. “Memories.” Her chin quivered.

“Yeah? Like what? What do you remember when you taste bread or apples or chocolate and caramel?”

She brushed the water from under her eyes. “Well, the bread makes me think of holidays at Granny Ballard's. She always had a big spread with homemade rolls, jams, desserts. The whole family was together. I mean, everyone. No one missed a Thanksgiving or Christmas. In-laws of in-laws came to Granny's. When she and Granddaddy died, it was as if death took the whole family. It was seven years before everyone came together again. For Daddy's funeral.”

“Food is powerful with families. What else?”

“The apples remind me of Daddy in the fall. At Halloween.

He'd make caramel apples outside by a fire pit. All the kids in the neighborhood came over and we'd run around in costumes. Daddy showed us how to dip apples and cool them on wax paper. Then drizzle them with warm chocolate. He went all out. He . . .” Joy hesitated, a pool of water collecting under her eyes. “He made it fun.”

“You're tasting his recipe. I found it in the book.” Luke lightly touched the smudge of chocolate on the corner of her lip. His finger sizzled and he felt weakened by the music of the fire and smoky hues of twilight.

“We should . . . add it . . .” Her breathing inflated each word. “. . . to the book.”

He cleared his throat, drawing his hand back to the food. “Think Annie will lend us more construction paper for our mockedup book?”

She laughed. “We might need to make a Walmart run.”

“Joy, did you read through the book at all before you gave it to me to take home?”

“I flipped through the pages, but I didn't really read it.” She sighed in a way that made him feel like he never wanted to leave home. She gathered her legs in her arms, eyes still closed. “I was afraid reading all those ingredients and notes would remind me of the bad times. And how he loved food more than us.” Joy peered at Luke through a watery sheen. “I just wanted to hug the book. Hug him.”

The wind snapped low and stirred the fire. Luke's heart caressed her words. “Eyes closed again.” He reached for the skewer sizzling with meat, luscious juices dripping into the fire. “Now what do you taste?” Luke cooled the meat, then offered it to Joy's tongue.

She laughed, fanning her parted mouth. “Hot, but mmm, so good. Savory, with a hint of sweet. Is that brown sugar?”

“Joy Ballard, you are your father's daughter. It's his brown sugar and honey barbecue sauce.”

“This . . .” Joy chewed, the expression on her face more than a thousand words. “Is definitely going into the book.”

In the background, the mare stomped and whinnied. “Easy, girl.” Luke looked around as the mare tossed her head. She wanted to run.
In a minute
. Turning back to Joy, he lifted Chick's recipe book out of the basket. “You know that verse in the Bible where Jesus says, ‘My food is to do the will of Him who sent Me?'”

Joy snapped up straight, eyes open. “It's the verse in my truck. I've been trying to memorize it for . . . ever.” She anchored her chin against her knees. “I don't think I understand it.”

“I think it has to be something like this. Feeding on God's Word, the bread,” he motioned to the broken French bread, “it's like when I feed people with my creations. Like your dad. When Jesus said, ‘My food is to do the will of Him who sent me,' was He saying God feeds me? He's my satisfaction? So, is the Father our spiritual chef? For lack of a better phrase.” Luke thumbed the book's pages. “I don't make a very good preacher, but—”

“You sound passionate.” Joy lightly swept her fingers over his arm. “It's good to be passionate.”

“What do you think the Father sent you to do, Joy? I know I'm to serve food. What about you?”

She cradled her face against her arms. “I have no idea. And I'm too terrified to ask. What if the answer is ‘nothing'?” She raised her head. “No
food
for you, Joy.”

“Impossible.” Luke brushed her hair from her eyes and Joy leaned into his touch. “He loves you too much. Why would He leave you, or any of us, out?”

“Don't you ever doubt, Luke?”

“I do, less today than I did yesterday. Faith in God is a journey, a marathon. We want it to be a sprint.” He held up the book. “I want to read to you. Is that okay?” If he didn't move on to the purpose of this picnic, he'd scoop her in his arms and ease her down on the blanket.

“I don't know. If you're going to read ‘brine the meat in a container of water and sea salt for at least twenty-four hours,' I'm going to be snoring in six seconds or less.”

Luke laughed, flipping through the pages. “When you repeat recipes, you use your TV voice.”

“I don't have a TV voice.”

“Yeah, you do.” Luke squared his shoulders, raised his chin, and tried to mimic the voice he heard in his head. “Brine the meat in a container of water and sea salt.”

“Oh my gosh. Is that how I sound? Like Mrs. Doubtfire ate Julia Childs?” Joy flung her arms wide with dramatic flair.

“Something like that, only younger. And funnier.” Luke propped on his elbow to read Chick's pages by the firelight. This was a good night. “Here we go. Date: February first. ‘Joy's birthday. Ordering softball cake from Magnolia Bakery. My baking skills inadequate for such a feat.'”

Joy angled to lean against Luke, the press of her shoulder soft against his back. “What are you reading?” She sat next to him, tucking her hair behind her ears, pressing the book lower to see the pages in the firelight.

“Your dad's recipe book.” Face-to-face with her, he felt himself sinking. “It's full of personal notes. Like a journal.”

“I remember the softball cake. I was fourteen going on fifteen.