Dining with Joy (3 page)

If he ever opened another restaurant, he wanted servers like Mercy Bea and Paris, characters who brought the café's essence to life. Luke raised his tea jar up to the light. And he'd have strong sweet tea on the menu.

The café's front bells rang out, clattering against the glass as the door opened. Luke glanced up just as
she
walked in. Athletic, confident, beautiful. In full stride, she made her way to the counter, perched on the middle stool, focused on her phone. He jerked his back straight and set his tea aside, checking the room for Paris. Mercy Bea was still engaged with her customers.

Luke, man, wait on the customer
. “Welcome to the Frogmore Café.” Grabbing a menu, a napkin roll, and a paper place mat, Luke set up Joy's place. “What can I get you?”

“I'll have a piece of apple pie and a Diet Coke.” She tapped the phone's screen, her posture resolute.

“Diet Coke and apple pie coming up.” Luke lifted a drink jar from the tray. Filling the jar with soda, he watched her, almost willing her to lift up her head. “Must have been a heck of a day.” Ah!

Soda spilled over the rim of the glass and covered his hand. With his free hand, he reached to the second shelf for the dish towel.

“To put it lightly.” She turned her phone sideways and started typing. “It was supposed to be my first day of vacation, but instead my producer—”

She stopped when he set the Mason jar in front of her, his blue gaze meshed with hers. “I'm sorry, I'm sure you don't care about . . . Luke, right? Heath's cousin.”

“One and the same.” He handed her a straw. “And you are Joy Ballard, cooking host, friend of Heath's wife.”

“Elle, yes, I'm impressed.” She peeled the paper from her straw, then stirred her ice and soda. “You remembered me.”

“Sure, why not?” How could he forget? They'd met in Heath's backyard under a twilight sky with the tangy scent of barbecue perfuming the breeze. “Apple pie, right?”

“I need it like I need a hole in the head, but yeah, apple pie.” She regarded him for a moment as if she wanted to say something more, but she returned her attention to her phone.

He scrambled for something suave and witty to keep the conversation going, but the steely blue of her eyes stymied his thoughts. As Joy bent back to her phone, a silky sheen of burnished hair drawing a curtain over her face, Luke stepped toward the kitchen doors.

“Apple pie coming up.”

Joy peeked up at him. “Make it a small piece, please.”

Luke plated a warm, crusty slice of pie, dusting the crumbling crust with a cinnamon and brown sugar mix. Joy Ballard could sit at his counter anytime.

He'd heard his New York foodie friends talk about the
hot
cooking show host, Joy Ballard, but at the time, he'd been consumed with keeping his restaurant alive and well.

Then during his first month in Beaufort he attended a barbecue at Heath and Elle's. He'd just pulled an icy root beer from the cooler when a
vision
emerged through a gauzy veil of sunlight. Elle introduced him to her friend, Joy Ballard, and in his suave, debonair manner, Luke offered her the root beer in his right hand while tipping up his left for a nice cool drink of . . . air.

The rest of the night he watched her from afar, fascinated and curious, an odd sensation twisting in his chest. When she walked in tonight, the same fascination and odd sensation gripped him.

In the kitchen, Mercy Bea peeked around his arm as he trimmed the blue apple-pie plate with caramel and chocolate.

“What are you—Oh, great day in the morning.” Mercy Bea fell against the prep table and shoved his arm so he had to look at her. “Right here, in my eyes . . . Luke, looky. Sakes alive, she got to you that fast? Vroom, gone in sixty seconds.”

“She who?”

“She who? The redheaded bombshell out there. That's who.” Mercy sighed with a faraway look in her eyes. “I should've been a redhead.”

“Got to me? I'm serving a slice of pie.” He wiped the edge of the plate with a damp towel. Presentation was as important as taste.

“Bubba, we don't swirl caramel on our plates 'round here. What'd you charge, ten, fifteen bucks for something like that in New York? That's two-fifty on the menu.”

“You can read minds now? You know what I'm thinking and feeling? I'm a chef, Mercy. I make specialty items for our customers.” He held up the cinnamon-salted plate and started for the door. “Besides, she's the first customer all night who doesn't smell like coconut oil or fish bait.”

Luke set Joy's plate on the counter, scooting it close to her hands as she tapped on the phone. He reached for her coke glass, but she'd barely sipped past the rim.

With one glance, Joy reared back. “Wow, fancy.” She turned the plate, examining it from different sides. “Does Andy know you're doing this to his dishes?”

Luke's soul bristled. “I thought you'd appreciate a finer presentation.”

“I guess you did.” Joy picked at the cinnamon-topped crust, smiling, then sipped her soda and returned her focus to her phone.

Luke waited.

Joy shoved the plate aside as she tapped out a message.

Luke inched the plate back in place. “Can I get you anything else?”

With a weighted sigh, she glanced up at him. “How about the last few hours of my day? Got any of that kind of magic back in the kitchen?”

“Time travel? Nope. All out.” Luke scooted her pie plate closer.

Eat, Joy
.

“Joy, hon, welcome home. Ain't seen you around in a while.” Mercy Bea set a tub of dirty dishes on the counter, propped her elbow on the edge, and leaned toward Joy. “But I heard about Omaha.”

“Did you, now?” Joy set her phone aside and unrolled her napkin from her silverware, her confidence burdened by something subtle and intangible.

“Falling off the stage?” Mercy swatted gently at Joy's arm. “You could've broken your neck.”

“You sound like my producer.” Joy speared the tip of her pie, cutting off a small bite.

“Well, shoot, girl, I sound like anyone with a sound mind.” Mercy wrung a towel she pulled from a tub of clean water and started wiping down the counter. “I see you've met Luke. He's filling in for Andy until his back heals. Used to own a restaurant up in Manhattan. Ami's, right?”

“Yeah, Ami's.” Luke split his gaze between Joy and Mercy Bea, holding his breath, bracing to act if Mercy brought up their kitchen conversation.
Vroom, gone in sixty seconds
.

“What happened?” Joy set her fork down, the bite of pie still on the prongs, and drew a short drink from her soda glass.

“A little bother called bills and debt.” He nodded to Joy's plate. “I can make that pie à la mode if you want. The crust is extra fluffy tonight.”

“À la mode? And ruin your caramel and chocolate swirl?” She surveyed the plate, tucking her hair behind her ears. Her phone pinged and she shoved the pie forward again, lost in the world of tiny e-mails.

“Okay, I'm off to run these through the dishwasher.” Mercy Bea picked up the tub of dirty dishes. “The book club gals will be in soon. Don't you know they're more sugar than a quarter can buy?”

Joy laughed, shaking her head, tapping her phone's screen. “Any business is good business, Mercy.”

“Says the girl who fell off the stage.” Mercy disappeared through the kitchen doors.

Joy still smiled, snickering softly. Luke liked the melody of her voice. It made him wonder how long it'd been since he laughed. A good belly laugh. Turns out the bankruptcy, losing Ami's and the life he'd chosen for himself, was a real killjoy.

But lately, he'd been waking up whispering prayers, hope in his thoughts, the weight of despair off his chest.

And right now, if he had any idea what Mercy Bea was talking about, he'd laugh along with Joy.

“Not worth the effort.”

Luke bent to see Joy's face. “Excuse me?”

“More sugar than a quarter can buy. It means it's not worth the effort.”

Luke smiled. “Ah, good to know. The book club ladies can be demanding.”

“You need a dictionary to understand Mercy Bea's sayings.”

“Just when I thought I was catching on too.” Luke shoved Joy's pie plate forward, under her hands, as she held her phone. “I can warm up the pie for you if you want.”

“I've known Mercy my whole life and still get caught off guard.”

Joy shoved the pie out of the way. “The pie's warm enough.”

Luke wondered if she even liked pie. For a second he watched her, then shuffled around the counter, checking the napkin rolls and stack of clean glass trays, thinking it rude to stare at a customer. No matter how beautiful she was. After another minute he backed away, brushing his hands down his apron. “Well, I—”

The café bells chimed and clattered, weighting the air with a brass ting. Luke expected to see the book club ladies filing in, mingling, chatting about the evening's selection of what they wanted off the Frogmore's menu.

But it wasn't the book club making a beeline for their spot in the back corner booth. It was Helen Woodward, a recent and annoying acquaintance of Luke's, striding for the counter.

“Luke, there you are, shug.” Helen dropped down hard on the stool next to Joy, her apple-round cheeks flushed, her dark hair frizzing about her forehead. “This is my lucky night.” Helen pulled aside Joy's hair. “Don't think you can hide behind your gorgeous red sheen, Joy Ballard. You never returned my calls.”

Joy raised her chin to Helen. “I'm not emceeing the Water Festival Cook-Off, Helen.”

“Heavens to Betsy, not this again. I get it. A thousand times over. You do not want to
compete
. I have your rider right here in my folder.” Helen waved a black attaché above her head. “Well, you can
talk
like nobody's business, and since you're one of our most famous citizens, you are the emcee of this cook-off.” Helen jerked some papers from her attaché and slapped them down on the counter. “So stop your bellyaching. Luke Redmond here is going to cook against Wenda Divine. So you can lower your hackles and stop baring your teeth. These are the release forms. One for Luke, one for you, Joy. Luke, be a sweetie and pack a jar with ice cubes and drown them in sweet tea.”

“Release form?” Joy held her form up to the light as if examining for some secret code.

Luke reached for a jar and scooped it with ice. He'd done a few cook-offs in his day and a bit of television. The release form appeared to be the standard lingo—permission to use his likeness and name for the contest, for media and television.

“It's hotter than you-know-what tonight, I tell you.” Helen knocked back her iced tea like it had a bit of extra kick besides sugar. “You got any questions, Luke?” Helen flipped her hand at the paper. “It's just a silly little thing that says we can use your name and image to promote the cook-off. And if you accidentally cut off your finger while preparing the food, or catch fire, you won't sue the pants off us.”

“Helen, I'm not going anywhere near Wenda Divine. I'm thinking of leaving town that day.” Joy dropped the form, floating and fluttering, in front of Helen.

“Oh, grow up, Joy Ballard. You're not leaving town. You're doing your civic duty and hosting your town's Water Festival Cook-Off. It's great publicity for all involved.”

“I host a television show from this city. That's great publicity. This cook-off is all about Wenda.”

“You should've finished her off in Omaha when you had the chance.” Helen nodded at Joy, tipping up her tea jar for another long slurp.

“How does everyone know about Omaha?” Joy stabbed at her pie. “I'm not emceeing anything if Wenda Divine is involved.”

Luke stared at his release form. “I don't know about Omaha.”

Silence. Then, “What'dya live under a rock, Luke?”

“Nope.” He lifted his gaze to Helen, then Joy. “Just haven't heard about Omaha.”

“Well, see, Wenda Divine, you know who she is, right? Of course you do. She got our Joy up on a food convention stage and challenged her to a cook-off. So Joy can't stand to be in a contest, though she's twice the cook of Wenda, I'm sure, and what does she do? She falls—”

“Helen, just . . . stop.” Joy dropped the fork to the plate. “I fell off a stage. No big deal.”

“Shug, you can fall off the stage here if you want, I don't care, but you're my emcee. End of story.” Helen blew a stream of hot breath toward her bangs and rolled her eyes at Luke, mouthing
diva
.

“Can I get you anything else, Helen?” Luke reached for his form, taking a pen from the jar on the counter. He'd signed forms for the other shows and events he'd participated in, including as a contestant on a season of
The Next Culinary Star
.

“Just get this girl here to do her duty.” Helen thunked her glass down on the counter. “And I'll be happy as a tick on a bloodhound.”

“Since you love this event so much, Helen, why don't you emcee?” Joy unzipped her purse, dug around, and dropped a ten-dollar bill onto the counter.

She was leaving? Without touching her pie? Luke stepped around the counter. “Come on, it'll be fun.” His words bounced around the café.

“Fun?” Joy paused and leaned against the counter. “Have you met Wenda Divine, Luke?” She plopped her bag down on the counter. “Have you ever been in a cook-off?”

“I've not met her, but she seems like a nice woman. And yes, I've been in cook-offs. It's just cooking on speed.” Luke passed his signed form to Helen. “An adrenaline rush.”

“Looky there, Joy. Luke signed. And he's only been in town six months. All the flyers and advertising have gone out. If our own
Dining with Joy
backs out, do you think other celebs and distinguished guests will want to come in the future? I think not, I think not.”