Dining with Joy (27 page)

“Joy Ballard, you do something with your mama, and I mean now.” Miss Dolly shuffled toward Joy, the hem of her silky blouse bulging at her waist, a wilted, so-sad looking flower slumping over her hand. “Look what that . . . that . . . woman did to my garden.”

She tried to wave the flower, but the stem just sank lower. “Plastic.

And how do I find out? When the garden club comes to supper.

Regina Whetstone nearly suffocated when she snorted up a nose full of wax. Every garden club in Beaufort and Jasper County has heard by now.” Miss Dolly threw the wilting bloom to the ground and faced Mama, who was propped securely against the work shed's door. “I'll get you for this, Rosie, if it's the last thing I do.”

“Oh, Dolly, get over yourself.” Mama eased across the yard, hand in her shorts pocket. “Regina Whetstone would've spread some rumor about you no matter what, and you know I'm telling the truth. Might as well give her something good to tell. But as long as you know, I'll confess. I sprayed pesticide to kill those worms of yours feasting on my hibiscus and your weak little blooms choked to death. So I replaced them.”

“You replaced my prize black-eyed Susans with wax?” Miss Dolly wobbled, her eyes rolling back in her head, red cheeks jiggling.

“I don't know what went wrong,” Mama said with a singsong.

“They were guaranteed up to a hundred and ten degrees.”

Steam shot from Miss Dolly's ears, and Joy could've sworn she heard the faintest sound of hissing. Miss Dolly tore through the hedge to her yard, peppering the air with a string of wax-melting phrases.

“And she calls herself a lady.” Mama sauntered around Joy toward the porch door. “Is Luke cooking dinner tonight? I'm getting spoiled.”

“No, we're having pizza. He's cooked enough.” Joy followed Mama to the porch. “Speaking of ladies, you really put wax flowers in Miss Dolly's garden?”

“I did, and I'd do it again.” Mama collapsed into a wrought iron chair, crossing her legs with exaggerated energy. “Did you see her face? I need to get one of those phones with a camera.”

“Mama, what are you going to do to make this up to her?” Joy perched on the edge of the rocker. “She's pretty upset.”

“She should've thought about that when she was moving all her bugs and worms into my lawn
and
telling the garden club she saw me out on the dock smoking a pipe like a hick granny from the hills. A pipe. I never. Not even a cigarette. These lungs are tobacco virgins.”

“So you ruined her garden. You'd have tanned my hide and fed me soap for a lesser crime. And since when do you care about the garden club?”

“It's the principle.” Mama shot Joy a narrowed glance. “Simmer down. I'll talk to her tomorrow. Offer to pay for a new,
real
garden. Just let me have fun for tonight, will you?”

“How will you be able to sleep?”

“Right fine. Unless I get to picturing her face. Then I'll start laughing all over again.” Mama moved to the chair next to Joy, stretched out her tanned legs, and locked her hands behind her head. “Only thing better would've been to see Regina Whetstone with blue wax dripping from the end of her cosmetically enhanced nose.”

“I've a good mind to send you to bed without supper.”

“Go ahead. I have MoonPies tucked away in the closet.”

“Aunt Joy, Granny?” Lyric peered through the door, her hair swinging over her shoulder. “I did my homework.”

Mama angled around to see her. “And? You want to do something, don't you?”

Lyric twisted her hair around her hand. “Can Parker come for pizza? Please?”

“On a Friday night? Doesn't he have a football game?”

“It's tomorrow night. Out of town. He can come for pizza.

Please, Aunt Joy.”

Joy peeked at Mama, who voted yes with a glance. Lyric had humbled up some since the porch debacle. Softened. And in the last few days she had bloomed into a bright-eyed freshman.

When did Joy become old? At twenty-nine?

“Okay, but he goes home by eight.”

“Thank you.” Lyric fired onto the porch, reaching over the chairs to hug their necks. “Oh, Aunt Joy, your man is here.”

“He's not my—”

Lyric disappeared in a golden blonde dash. Mama laughed. Joy flicked the top of her hair as she headed to greet her friend, her
colleague
. Her cohost. Nothing more.

Twenty-four

Entertainment News

Quirky cooking show host Joy Ballard of Dining with Joy will guest on The Bette Hudson Show Thursday, September 24, promoting her debut on the supernetwork TruReality. Ballard first gained notoriety for her Letterman-like show format and popularity among college students after taking over Dining with Charles when her father, Charles Ballard, died of a heart attack at the age of fifty-six.

Owner of Wild Woman Productions, Allison Wild, said, “We are thrilled to be a part of the TruReality team. This is big for Wild Woman, for Dining with Joy, and for TruReality. Joy is the face of their fall lineup.”

Ballard and her cohost, Luke Redmond, acclaimed chef and former Manhattan restaurateur, release their first cookbook together this fall, the eponymous Dining with Joy.

“We have a really great guest with us today . . .”

In the green room, Joy waited perfectly still on the edge of the sofa. However, jitters rumbled over her heart, knocking terror into her excitement.

Eyes closed, she listened to Bette introduce the show. Joy hadn't seen the set, nor Bette, today. She liked to enter fresh, unpolished, as if she were a first-time guest in someone's home. She wanted all her reactions to be genuine.

Luke quizzed her for two days before the show. Then she flew to New York, and he hopped a plane to Oklahoma for Red's surgery.

“What's your favorite spice?”

“Posh. No, Sporty.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The Spice Girls. Please tell me you're not that square?”

“Like your great-grandma at a rock concert. How about cinnamon as your favorite spice? Is there a cinnamon Spice Girl? Because cinnamon is a great favorite spice. Why? Because it goes with everything. Joy? Joy. Attention. You were seeing yourself as Cinnamon Spice, weren't you?”

“You think I'd need a tan to pull it off? Hey, how about vanilla? It could be my favorite spice.”

She'd pinched the pale skin under her forearm, and when she let go, a red dot marked the spot. He laughed, a resonating tenor she'd tucked away in her heart and labeled Favorite Melody.

A knock fired Allison out of her chair.

“Five minutes, Miss Ballard.”

“Thank you.” Allison cupped her hands around her mouth, yelling as if the door were steel, the walls poured concrete. But there was no need. The walls didn't even go all the way up to the ceiling.

Joy's phone pinged from her handbag. Luke. She cradled her phone in her palm.

Praying 4 u. Own the show, Joy
.

Praying 4 u, 2. How's Red?

Resting. He looks old
.

He just came out of surgery, cowboy! Sheesh, give him a break
.

Ok, ok. Down girl . . . Call me when ur off set
.

K
“That Luke?” Allison beamed from the other side of the room where she checked e-mail on her BlackBerry. “Tell him the publisher's test kitchen is loving the recipes we've sent so far. And I forgot to tell you, but I pitched the idea of you writing anecdotes. They were all over it. I asked for an extra week since we're still in show production.” Allison rattled off her words without a breath.

Joy messaged Luke.

Allison said, wahwah, wahwah, wah.

Huh?

LOL. Test kitchen, loves recipes. Publisher likes anecdote idea
.

Was there ever a question?

“Dan is thrilled with the retakes too. Your mojo with Luke is finally coming through. Please tell me you two are romantically involved.” Allison arched her brow, asking the personal question.

“No, no, we're friends. Period.”

“Really? 'Cause the chemistry on the set is changing.” Allison gasped, sitting back, mouth parted. “So you two are keeping it
professional
?” She laughed. “Perfect. The sexual tension is simply perfect. You still scare him a bit. I like it.”

Allison says ur a wimp. I scare u
.

Ha, u don't scare me, u terrify me
.

“What's he saying?”

“That his dad is recovering from surgery.”

“Oh right, yes.” Allison's thumbs flew over her phone's miniscule keypad. “Give him my best.”

Allison wishes Red well
.

Thx. How long b4 u go on?

“Two minutes, Miss Ballard.” The floor manager peeked through the door this time, checking for Joy's acknowledgment.

2 mins
.

“I'll be right there.”

Go get em.

Joy checked her hair and makeup in the lighted mirror as she passed to the door. Bette's stylist gave her the just-walked-into-a-wind-machine look. Hand on the knob, Joy pulled back, tipped her head forward, and shook the stiffness from her hair, combing her fingers through the spray. Better. The just-ran-off-the-softball-field look.

“Just be yourself, Joy.” Allison quick-grabbed Joy's arm.

“Do I have a choice?” An uneasiness shimmied through Joy. “Unless something's going on. Alli, is there something I should know?”

“Just that this is it. Our big moment.
The Bette Hudson Show
. I've worked my whole life for this and here it is . . . in your hands.” She slowly opened her palms to Joy. “After twenty-five years in the business, my own production company is moving to the center stage.” Her eyes glistened. “Thank you.”

“You're . . . welcome.” Joy fell stiff into Allison's tight hug. The revelation of Allison's heart was unexpected. Troublesome. Her hopes and dreams, the validation of her life's work rested on Joy?

“Allison.” Joy inhaled all the air between them. If Allison was dishing out burdens, Joy might as well reciprocate.
I can't cook
. What better time? Right before the ballyhooed debut on
The Bette Hudson Show
. At least Allison couldn't, wouldn't, kill her. “This is probably the worst possible time, or perhaps the best possible time, depends on whose perspective you're coming from, but I need to tell you—”

“No, don't.” Allison backed up, palms pushing against the invisible. “Don't jinx this. Nothing negative. Or positive. Don't stir the cosmos. Whatever you have to say can wait. Right? It can wait.”

“Miss Ballard, thirty seconds.”

“Yeah, Allison, it can wait.” So much for the coward's road to truth. Drop the bomb, then exit stage left. Joy owed Allison the right to have a proper conniption.

“Break a leg, Joy.” Allison smoothed her hand down Joy's arm.

“Be funny, witty, all the things you are on the show.”

And a fraud. Sure, no problem
. Joy paused at the door with a quick smile. “I'll try.” Allison gave her thumbs-up with an excited scrunch of her shoulders.

The long walk down the dimly lit hall to the main stage echoed with Joy's footsteps.

On Bette Hudson's elevated, in-the-round stage, Joy waved to the applauding audience, letting the
love
sink in. She might be able to get used to this.

“Joy, it is so good to see you.” Bette hugged and welcomed Joy as if she belonged on her opulent stage designed to seat A-listers and presidents.

“It's great to be here. Thank you for having me.” Joy smoothed her skirt before sitting in the white leather club chair. She reached for the glass of water and took a long drink, cooling her hot nerves. “I love your necklace, Bette. It's gorgeous.” Joy angled within the acceptable personal space for a closer look at the turquoise and silver piece. If she knew one thing in her years of faux cooking show hosting, it was always, always compliment the host.

“You like it? I wasn't sure when my husband bought it for me last year in New Mexico, but my New Year's resolution was to try new things, go outside of my comfort zone, especially when it comes to fashion. When Stan showed it to me I was like, ‘Turquoise? What? Am I in seventh grade?'”

“It's fabulous. You were smart to wear it. I might have to go to New Mexico to get one for myself.”

“Girl, you do not.” Bette reached up behind her neck. “I'd love to give you this one. A gift from me to you.”

The audience ohhed, then applauded. Through the years, Bette solidified her fan base with lavish gift shows. The producer had briefed Joy before the show to
“accept a gift no matter what Bette should offer. But she's only given a gift to new guests twice in the last five years, so you're probably safe. She has to really like you.”

“Bette, I'm honored.” Joy shrugged and grinned at the audience as she lifted her hair for Bette to clasp the piece around her neck. She was just one of them—unknown and undeserving. “I hope this doesn't mean I'm somehow engaged to Stan.”

The audience rumbled with a swelling laugh. Bette joined in with a louder-than-necessary cackle, hugging Joy's shoulders. “I don't know . . . something could be arranged.”

“I'm afraid of what just happened here.” Joy fingered the heavy silver piece, eyeing Bette, gauging when the bit was over.

Bette collapsed back in her seat. “I'm mad Allison didn't introduce you to me earlier. We are going to be friends, Joy Ballard. So tell me about your new show. It sounds exciting. And girl, I've seen that cohost of yours.” Bette cocked her eyebrows and puckered her lips. “I'll trade you two Stans for him.”

“Luke Redmond is a great guy and a fabulous chef. He's been a fun addition this year.” She liked talking about him. “
Dining with Joy
is about food and fun. Not always in that order. We do a lot of comedy and give our viewers a chance to participate in the show. I'm not a trained chef. I'm like every other cooking woman out there, so we wanted to open up the show, let the outside in, tell the world what you're cooking. Most cooking shows have a closed, canned feel. We wanted something open, inviting.”