Dining with Joy (36 page)

“Don't worry, cuz, she's got your back.”

Behind the wheel of the Spit Fire, with the engine rumbling, Luke texted Joy.
You awake?

Never slept. On ur way?

Ditto. Yes, on my way
.

Joy rolled onto her side, cradling her phone against her chest. Luke was on his way. As it should be. Portland waited. His text awakened her heart and she regretted answering because she ached, missing him.

Last night Marley's ceremonious burning of the beanbag game turned into a bonfire. Settled on the blanket with the flames warming her skin, Luke's chest against her back, Joy tossed her own logs and twigs on the fire. Fears and doubts, debris from the past. Her broken relationship with Daddy. The college boyfriend. Ruining
Dining with Joy
.

As the day's first light slipped around her blinds and cut a white box onto the bedroom floor, she felt reset. Renewed to get back to her game, to figure out what was next.

Jesus, what do You need me to do today?

The aroma of brewing coffee wafted up from the kitchen. Wonder how far Luke had driven. And if he missed her. Last night was the best night. Though a sad night. Joy curled into a ball remembering how they lingered on the porch, kissing.

“Aunt Joy?” Annie-Rae jumped under the covers and pressed her palms to Joy's cheeks. “It'll be all right. You're just sad.”

“A little.” Joy kissed the girl's sweet pudgy hands.

“Lyric comes home today.” Annie popped her eyes wide with excitement. “Granny said she gets to have crutches.”

“She'll be in a bit of pain still, so we'll have to be extra patient with her.” Joy brushed her hand over Annie's hair. She'd make an appointment for her at Julianne's. Get her hair conditioned and trimmed.

“Extra patient.” Annie-Rae curled her lip and sighed. “I don't got none to spare.”

Joy laughed low. “I imagine life is hard for a nine-year-old.”

“If Lyric is your sister, sure is.” Annie sighed away the weight of the world. “Can we make banana bread? For Lyric?”

“I don't know, Annie.” Not everything made it to the fire last night. “We'll see.”

“But you don't have to do the show. Or go to work or school. You have all day.”

“Annie, go, get ready for school.”

“Okay.” She rolled out of bed, dragging the covers with her, a slump rounding her shoulders.

And the winner of the rotten aunt award? Joy Ballard
.

Wrestling with her attitude toward Annie, Joy rolled onto her side. They couldn't make banana bread. There were no bananas in the house. An image of the brown-spotted yellow bananas on the kitchen counter flashed into Joy's mind. Right. There were bananas. Joy squeezed her eyes shut.

Bake banana bread
.

She sat up, eyes wide. The resonance of the statement swirled in her chest, sinking.
Lord, are You telling me to bake banana bread?
What an odd thing for the Creator of the universe to ask.

But the words coated her heart. Joy kicked off her covers. Bake banana bread? For what? Surely it wasn't something God would ask of her. All that sugar and flour and chocolate chips.

What she needed to do was clean out her e-mail Inbox. She'd peeked at it last night and there were over a thousand unread messages. Most of them were about Joy's Bette Hudson fiasco, but one from a former teammate asking her if she was interested in coaching caught her eye. And another, from an agent, inquiring if she wanted to a write a memoir about her journey with Charles Ballard and the show.

Carrying her laptop back to bed, Joy tried to envision the opening pages of her story, but the words “banana bread” wouldn't stop whispering across her mind. She could taste it. Smell it.

Twenty minutes later she started down the stairs, fresh from a shower, unable to free herself from the idea. Bake banana bread. What Annie-Rae started, God was finishing.

Mama sat at the table reading the paper, her coveralls clean but stained with paint. Joy slid the pantry doors open.

“Do we have any chocolate chips?”

“Don't think so.”

See, God, too bad. Can't make the banana bread without chocolate chips. Or peanut butter chips.

“Annie-Rae, get a move on. We need to get going.” Mama folded the paper and shoved away from the table. “You're on Lyric detail, right?”

“Picking her up at noon.” Joy poured a cup of coffee but let it sit without tasting it, then wandered down the hall to open the front door. The cool fall air slipped through the screen.

It was a beautiful morning . . . Joy shoved through the screen door. “What? I thought you left.” In the driveway, Luke leaned against his car, arms folded. Joy ran off the porch and into his arms.

“I was missing you.”

“I had to see you one more time.” He nuzzled her neck, warming her skin.

“How long were you going to wait?”

“Until you came out.” He kissed her ear. “And if it was too late to leave today, then—”

“Don't move. I'll go back inside, come out in a few hours.”

He laughed, grabbing her hand. “I really do need to go, but I need a kiss for the road.” His warm lips captured hers.

“Now, I'm not sure about this.” Luke reached into the car and pulled out two Publix grocery bags. “But I couldn't shake this urge in my spirit to buy fixings for banana bread.”

Joy peeked into the bag. Chocolate and peanut butter chips. Brown sugar. Cinnamon. Flour. Sugar. Eggs. Vanilla. Buttermilk. “Everything but the bananas,” she whispered.

Luke stretched inside the Spit Fire and brought out a final bag. “Several bunches of just-brown-enough. In case the first batch doesn't go well.”

“Oh, Luke.” She collapsed against him, the bags swinging from her hands. His hands felt good tracing the long line of her spine. When she finally glanced up, he held her face in his hands.

“I love you. You need to know that. I love you.”

A trail of tears ran down her cheek. “I don't deserve you.”

“Too bad. You're stuck with me.”

Mama and Annie-Rae came out as Luke bent for a final kiss and their last good-bye was full of commotion and conversation. A bright place to be.

As Luke motored away, Joy stood in the driveway with bags in hand, the ardor of his love filling up her heart.

Thirty-three

Making banana bread was easy. It had to be. Annie-Rae had the ingredients mixed in a bowl all by herself the other day. Surely Joy could conquer bananas, sugar, flour, and eggs. Mash, mash, swirl, swirl. Pour in bowl. Bake at three-seventy-five. Easy.

Lining up the banana bread fixings, Joy eyed them from the center of the kitchen, hands on her hips, approaching the task as if she faced the opposing team's big hitter.

This was just unsanctified fear. “Daddy,” Joy pressed her palms together. “I know you loved me. You didn't mean to ignore me.” Her heart fluttered under the power of truth.

Flipping to the marked page in Daddy's recipe book, Joy wedged the top corners under the flour and sugar canisters, smoothed her hand over the paper, and squinted at Daddy's handwriting.

Banana Bread. For my Joy
.

For a long moment she read the words over and over.
For my Joy
. Truth sank into the cracks created by the lie. Shifting her stance, Joy drew a long, strong breath, clearing her soul of all guilt. She'd been the other player in her relationship with Daddy, not really wanting to know him, see the truth about him.

Never did she have to wonder where he was at night. She knew. Always knew. In the kitchen or in his attic office. Only she chose to see him as absent.

“Daddy, I'm sorry.” No tears or painful sorrow. Just an honest, cleansing confession. She startled when her phone pinged from the kitchen table. Luke's message appeared on the screen.

U can do it.

How do u know?

B cause u whipped me with ur fastball 15x.

Please tell me ur still here.

Getting gas. At hiwy. I still love u
.

Still don't deserve u.

Joy waited to see if he would respond, then on impulse, ran to the living room window, imagining him turning into the driveway and parking in the dappled sunlight cascading through the trees.

But he didn't. With a sigh, she returned to the kitchen, yanking her worn Bama ball cap from the hook by the sliding door. It was time. Game on.

Tugging the hat onto her head with the bill in the back, Joy jigged around the kitchen. Might as well have fun with this. She smiled her TV smile and faced a pretend camera.

“Hi everyone, Joy Ballard here, and today I am making my father's fabulous banana bread. All by myself. Yes, all by myself. I'm going to make Charles Ballard proud.” Joy snatched up the first banana and started to peel. “Cooking, baking, seemed like impossible tasks to me, but now I know my heart beats with the same blood of a truly devoted foodie gastronome. Don't you love that word,
gastronome
? It's like Old World sophisticated meets third-grade snickering. Can't you see a couple of kids on the school playground going, ‘She said gastronome. Hehe.'” Joy plopped the banana into the bowl with a rising sense of peace and pleasure. “First, we're going to mash up three ripe bananas. Then stir in the eggs and vanilla . . .”

I DID IT! 4 tries.

So proud. Knew u had it in u.
Wish u were here for the 1st bite.

Luke,

I saw on the news it's sleeting in Portland. Ha! I'd send you some long undies but Walmart is still selling beach gear here. Want a float ring? I hope you're warm. How's Roth House?

After two weeks at home, Lyric is back in school. Thank goodness. The family is saved. Either she went back to school or the rest of us were moving into a hotel.

Otherwise, she's doing well, hobbling around on her crutches, dealing with the pain, which has eased up. The accident has made her a mini celebrity. The boys felt so guilty for shoving her out of the cab to the bed of the truck, they dote on her a bit.

Even Parker humbled and apologized to me and Mama, brought Lyric flowers. So he's graduated from scum of the earth to just dirtbag.

Haven't made any decisions about what's next for me. Kind of enjoying not knowing, leaping out, aiming for the hand of God. Such an odd sensation. But thrilling.

God is good. God is love.
Missing you,

Joy

P.S. Made so much banana bread, Mama banned it until Thanksgiving. Sheesh, first she wants me to cook, and now . . .

Joy, short note to say I'm thinking of you daily. Roth House is swamped. We are going nonstop from the time we open until we close. I won't see the end of eighteen-hour days for a while.

Still loving you,

Luke

“Any word from Sawyer and Mindy?” Joy asked, entering Mama's room and curling up next to her on the bed, dipping into the Cheetos bag.

“He did call, Joy. Talked to Lyric last night when you went to Elle's.”

Joy sat up. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Didn't want to get you all stirred up. It wasn't a big deal.”

“Mama, it's a huge deal.” Joy rolled off the bed. “What did he say? What did they talk about?”

“See, this is why I didn't tell you. You're getting all worked up.”

“You bet I am.” Joy paced along the width of the footboard. “He doesn't call, doesn't e-mail or make contact, then finally, after she's out of the hospital for two weeks.” She came back to Mama's side of the bed. “I'm thinking of suing for custody.”

“Oh, Joy.” Mama closed her novel and tossed it to the nightstand. “No, you're not. Those kids belong with Sawyer and Mindy. He sounded good when I talked to him. Settled, confident. I think maybe they're getting their act together.”

“
Act
is right.”

“You know those girls belong with their parents. It's what they want. It's the reason for the sadness in Annie-Rae's eyes. Do you realize she never mentions them, Joy? Does that seem right to you? She and Lyric love Saw and Mindy. And they love the girls.” Mama popped her palm in front of Joy. “I know what you're going to say, so just button it.”

Joy lowered Mama's hand. “Loving them is not the problem. Sending them off to Saw and Mindy's Viva Las Vegas world is the problem. You want the girls living in Sin City? Look at the trouble Lyric found right here in Beaufort, with you and me watching, plus half the town. What will happen to her and Annie-Rae if they go to Vegas? No,” Joy waved her hands, “they are better here with us. I just learned how to bake banana bread. I can teach Annie-Rae, pass on Daddy's recipe. We're their family, Mama. We're home.”

“Speaking of family.” Mama plumped a pillow behind her back. “I have something to tell you. But first, there will be no suing. If Sawyer and Mindy want the girls, they'll have them. You can still teach them to make banana bread.”

Joy reclined on the second pillow, stretching out, staring at the ceiling. “I'm worried for nothing, right? Why would they show up now when Lyric needs so much care? That would cramp their style.” Disaster avoided.

“I want you to know . . .” Mama hesitated. Joy glanced over at her, thinking she looked so young and pretty.

“Are you blushing?”

“Am I?” Mama pressed her hands to her cheeks. “I'm going on . . . well, I've been asked . . . mercy.” Mama fanned her face with her fingers. “I feel like I'm the daughter and you're the mother.”

“Really.” Joy sat up. “Is this where I get to tell you how I walked to school uphill both ways and never had a TV or record player until I was married?”

“A date.” Mama rushed Joy with her words. “I'm going on a date. There, I said it.”

“A date?” Joy sat up, squared her shoulders. “Really? With who?”

“Baxter McMullens. And I don't want to hear another word.”