Deep Dish (13 page)

J
avier Soto eyed the mesh bag of Vidalia onions on the countertop of the prep kitchen with deepening suspicion. The string opening was knotted in a different way. And the bag was not as full as it had been only an hour earlier, when he had unloaded his supplies. Yes, he told himself. It had been opened, definitely. With a scarred forefinger he counted the jumbo sweets one by one.

“
Ocho!
” he said triumphantly.

“Excuse me?” Jenn had positioned herself as far away from Tate Moody’s prep chef as she could manage in the studio’s small kitchen. Which meant that they were on opposite sides of the brightly lit white linoleum counter.

Jenn and Stephanie had complained bitterly when Scott announced only two hours earlier in the day that they would be sharing the prep kitchen with Moody’s crew, and Jenn had even threatened to quit. But they both knew she wasn’t going anywhere. How many jobs were there in Atlanta, Georgia, for a CIA-trained food stylist? Jenn put down her rolling pin and scooted her pie pans away from the manic chopping of the surly man at the other side of the counter.

“I say there are only
ocho
onions here,” Javier said, raising his voice. “Somebody is taking my onions. Somebody is
stealing
my Vidalias.”

“Ignore him,” Steph said, under her breath. She quickly dumped a pan of crumbled corn bread into the bowl with the rest of the ingredients for the Foxton family turkey dressing. On top of this she dumped a skilletful of cooked breakfast sausage, along with the pan
drippings. She measured out sage, salt, cracked pepper, and chopped shallots, and began folding together the ingredients.

Javier Soto stopped chopping and sniffed the air. His gleaming black bandito-style mustache quivered with each inhalation.

“You!” he screamed with rage, pointing his knife at Steph. “You are the one who is stealing my Vidalias.” He ran around the counter and snatched up the mixing bowl. He plunged his hand into the glop and held a handful of it up to his nose. “My onions!” he cried. “My beautiful onions.”

“Hey!” Steph yelled. “That’s my dressing!” She grabbed at the bowl, but he was too quick.

“Valerie! Tate!” he called, cradling the bowl under his arm. “
Vaya te!
Come see what these thieves are doing to me!”

Val Foster was on the makeshift
Vittles
set, directing the placement of a forest of potted evergreens around the Vagabond. Tate was hooking up the propane tank to the grill, which had been relocated inside the studio.

“What now?” he muttered, turning to see his prep chef stalking toward him with a bright blue mixing bowl under one arm. Trailing close behind were two young women whom he recognized as Regina Foxton’s kitchen staff.

“Give it back!” cried the brunette with the short pigtails.

“Scott!” cried the petite redhead with the tattoos. “Scotty! We need you.”

S
cott Zaleski and Regina Foxton were standing on the
Fresh Start
set, having a decidedly chilly discussion about the pumpkin pie situation, when they heard the ruckus emanating from the set next to theirs.

“What now?” Gina threw her script onto the counter and took off in the direction of her crew’s agitated cries. Scott was right on her heels.

The
Vittles
set closely resembled an armed standoff. A stocky, mustachioed Mexican in a white chef’s coat, tight Lycra running shorts, and bright yellow rubber clogs was clutching one of Regina’s
trademark blue mixing bowls and brandishing a large wooden spoon, with which he was fending off the advances of Jenn and Stephanie. Tate Moody stood behind a stainless steel grill of Sherman tank proportions, his arms crossed, looking bemused.

Jenn and Stephanie circled the Mexican, grabbing at the bowl, but being rebuffed by random smacks from the wooden spoon.

“Gina!” Jenn said, spotting her boss. “This maniac was threatening Steph with a knife! Then he grabbed our dressing and ran over here with it. Make him give it back.”

“Look at this,” the Mexican demanded, thrusting the bowl at her. He held up a fistful of dressing. “You see? You smell? These are
my
onions. My Vidalias. They are stealing my onions.”

“Good Lord,” Gina said, backing away from the uncooked dressing. “It’s dressing. It has onions. I’m sure the girls didn’t take your onions. My recipe doesn’t even call for Vidalias. We have plenty of our own onions. Right, Steph?”

“Uh, right,” Stephanie said.

Tate Moody peered into the mixing bowl. He scooped up a bit of dressing and tasted. “Uh-huh,” he said. “These are definitely Vidalia onions.” He took the bowl from his aggrieved assistant and held it out to Gina. “Taste for yourself.”

“Ridiculous,” she said huffily. But she snagged a bit of onion and chewed thoughtfully.

“Sweet,” she admitted. She took the bowl from Tate and handed it back to Jenn, raising one eyebrow in an implied question.

“Ladies? Have we been helping ourselves to other people’s groceries?”

“It was two lousy onions,” Stephanie said crossly. “I don’t see what the big deal is. He’s got a ten-pound bag. And we just ran out. We’ve only got one onion left, and we need those for the counter beauty shots. We don’t have time to run to the Kroger,” she said defiantly. “Scott’s already on our case because we’re running
way
late.”

Gina sighed and turned toward the Mexican. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice soothing. “I’m sure it was an innocent mix-up. I’ll see to it that your onions are replaced.”

“No!” Javier said stubbornly. He spoke in rapid-fire Spanish.

Tate translated. “Javier says these onions are Vidalia onions. He says he buys a bushel of them in May, takes ’em home, and wraps them individually in his wife’s pantyhose, and then he keeps them in the produce drawer in his fridge so they don’t rot.”

“Oh,” Gina said weakly. “I did a whole show on Vidalia onions last spring. Vidalias do have a high sugar content, which makes them sweet, but prone to rotting if not handled properly. That’s what I tell my viewers to do.”

Tate translated that, and Javier spat out a reply.

“He says he never watches your show,” Tate said, his lips twitching with suppressed glee. “He only watches Telemundo.”

“I’ll replace the Vidalias,” Gina repeated. “Tell him that.”

But that much English he understood. “Where you gonna get Vidalias in July?” Javier demanded.

“Yeah,” Tate echoed. “Where you gonna get Vidalias in July?”

“My produce wholesaler can get them for me,” Gina said. “I’ll call him in the morning.”

“Sorry, man,” Scott said. He held his hand out to Javier, who took it only reluctantly. “The girls made a mistake. They won’t do it again.” He turned to Tate, who shook amicably. He turned to offer his hand to Gina, but she’d already walked off in the direction of the
Fresh Start
set.

S
cott?” Gina closed her eyes as D’John blotted powder on her nose. “Can we talk?” Her voice dripped icicles.

A few feet away, the prep cooks, Jenn and Stephanie, bustled around the set, placing the raw turkey in its roasting pan, and the finished one—a mahogany-hued masterpiece—in the wall oven. At the end of the counter, they’d already lined up the pies—pecan, apple, and even pumpkin—on a carefully draped blue-and-white-checked tablecloth. The girls pretended not to notice that their star seemed to have her panties in a wad over something. Usually a model of cheerfulness and efficiency, she was definitely having an off day.

“All right,” Scott called, looking up from the computer monitor where he’d been reviewing the just-taped scenes. “But we need to get Lisa’s scene finished, okay?”

Lisa Foxton stood near the pies, holding aloft an electric hand mixer, frowning down at the bowl of whipping cream.

“Nothing’s happening,” she said plaintively. “It’s just, like, milk or something.”

Gina stalked over to the counter, dipped the cream with her forefinger, and gave a disgusted snort. “It’s not even remotely cool,” she declared, looking right at Jenn. “Can somebody please get my sister some new,
chilled
whipping cream? And a chilled bowl? I’d like to get out of here before midnight, if nobody else minds.”

“Sorry,” Jenn said. She stomped off the set and retreated to the prep kitchen.

“What’s up?” Stephanie stood in front of a sink full of soapy water,
working her way through a mound of cutting boards, greasy pans, mixing bowls, and measuring cups.

Jenn swung open the refrigerator door and scanned the shelves, looking for the carton of whipping cream that should have been there, right beside the eggs, butter, and cream cheese.

“Gina is
not
a happy camper tonight,” Jenn reported, moving the bottles and dishes aside. “I think maybe she and Scott might have broken up. But if she doesn’t cut me some slack, she just might find herself with a bad batch of eggnog once we start on the Christmas shoot.” She looked over at Stephanie. “What did you do with the whipping cream? The stuff we were using got too hot. It won’t set up now, so we’ve got to start all over again.”

“Should be right on the top shelf,” Stephanie said, scrubbing at the casserole dish that had held sweet potato soufflé. Bits of burned brown sugar clung tenaciously to the side of the porcelain dish.

“It’s definitely not here,” Jenn said. “Don’t tell me we’re out.”

“Okay, I won’t tell you we’re out.”

“Not funny,” Jenn said, her hands on her hips. “What the hell do I do now? We’re ready to shoot the whipping cream thing, but I’ve got no whipping cream. And I swear to God, I bought, like, three cartons.” She held out the grocery list that had been taped to the refrigerator door. “See—whipping cream—three pints. And it’s checked off, so I know it got unloaded into the fridge.”

Stephanie wiped her hands on a dish towel, opened the refrigerator door, and spent five minutes surveying its contents.

“Jenn, I swear, it was right on the top shelf with the rest of the dairy stuff,” she said finally, closing the refrigerator. “I saw it when I got the butter and eggs for the pecan pies.”

“When was that?”

Stephanie glanced at her watch. “Maybe…an hour ago?

They looked at each other, and then at Javier, who was making an elaborate show of polishing his knives and placing them in a black quilted roll-up case.

“Hey!” Stephanie called. “Hey, you.”

He kept his back to them, whistling quietly.

She walked over to him and flicked the dish towel in his direction. “Hey! Did you take our whipping cream?”

He looked up. “
No se
.”

“Whipping cream,” Stephanie said, enunciating clearly. “It was in the refrigerator. And now it’s gone. Did you take it?”

“
No comprendo ingles
,” he said. He took off the chef’s smock and folded it under his arm. He picked up the carrying case of knives.

“Bullshit!” Jenn exploded. “You spoke perfect English earlier today. And we know you took our whipping cream. You were the only other person in here.”

He held out his hand and smiled maliciously. “Sorry, man.”

R
eluctantly, Jenn took the plastic tub of Cool Whip out to the set.

“What’s that supposed to be?” Gina asked when she saw it.

“I’m really, really sorry, Gina,” Jenn said. “We had two more pints of whipping cream in the fridge. But it’s all gone now.” She glanced around and jerked her head in the direction of the
Vittle
s set. “I think he took it. To get even with us for borrowing his stinking onions.”

“Tate Moody stole my whipping cream? You can’t be serious,” Gina said.

“Not Tate. That guy. His assistant. Javier.”

“What’s going on?” Scott asked, walking up. “What’s the holdup?”

“Sabotage,” Gina said. “Moody and his people are deliberately sabotaging my show. They stole my whipping cream. Now there’s none left for the pies.”

“Ridiculous,” Scott said, shaking his head. “Anyway, we don’t have time for this.” He picked up the tub of Cool Whip. “We’ll shoot Lisa whipping the stuff in the bowl, cut away to show you supervising, and when we cut back to her, we’ll put the Cool Whip in the bowl. All right? Ready, Lisa?”

Lisa put down the lipstick she’d just finished reapplying, and tucked a strand of hair behind her right ear. She lowered the beaters into the bowl, pressing her elbows together the way she’d practiced
earlier, for maximum cleavage. She glanced down and saw a gratifying spillage of breast from the V-neck of the tight red cashmere sweater she’d borrowed from Gina’s closet.

“Ready,” she said, flashing the smile she’d also perfected after hours in front of the dressing room mirror. Not too much gums, she told herself. The Foxton women all had generous gums. She tilted her chin down, so that she was looking up into the camera held by Eddie, and batted the false eyelashes D’John had painstakingly applied earlier in the day.

“We’re rolling,” Scott said.

Shortly before midnight, Gina triumphantly placed the platter with her gleaming turkey on the dining room table. Her great-aunt’s silver shone softly in the candlelight, and each plate of her grandmother’s brown-and-white transferware china was heaped with her lovingly wrought dishes: brussels sprouts in lemon butter sauce; homemade cranberry-orange relish; the bourbon-spiked sweet potato soufflé, mounded with an oatmeal brown-sugar streusel; and on each plate, a mound of creamy mashed Yukon gold potatoes swimming in a pool of herb-flecked gravy. Slowly, Eddie panned the camera around the assembled “family”—Stephanie and Jenn, hastily changed out of their aprons and into jewel-colored sweaters, and Scott, sitting at the head of the table, opposite Gina’s own empty chair.

Gina tipped the bottle and poured wine into Scott’s outstretched glass, and then Scott took the bottle and began pouring wine for the others.

“Lisa,” Gina said sweetly, gesturing toward her younger sister, who’d somehow managed to pull the neckline of her sweater even lower during the hour-long taping, “would you please ask the blessing?”

“I’d love to,” Lisa replied, leaning forward to allow Eddie to capture her best angle. She lowered her eyelashes and clasped her hands reverently together. “Bless this food, oh Lord, to the nourishment of our minds and bodies. Amen.”

“Amen,” the others replied in the chorus they’d rehearsed.

Eddie panned the camera around the table once more, then slowly backed up for the panorama shot.

“And, cut,” Scott announced.

Without rehearsing, everyone at the table picked up a wineglass and knocked back the contents.

“Wow,” Lisa said, reaching for the wine bottle again. “That was so awesome. I really had a blast today. In fact, I think I’m going to change my major to broadcast journalism.”

“Sweet,” Eddie said, reaching for the platter of turkey.

“Hold it,” Gina said, pinning his hand to the table with the bone-handled carving fork. “You don’t want to eat that, Eddie.”

“Aw, man,” the cameraman said. “Come on, Gina. It’s midnight. We’re done, right, Scott? I been smelling that turkey all day. I didn’t even have any dinner, ’cause I was saving up for this turkey.”

“Suit yourself,” Gina said, running her fingers through her hair. “But I should let you know, that thing spent nearly an hour and a half in the trunk of my car this afternoon. We only broiled it long enough to get that pretty color. So it’s about half raw. After that, it sat on the countertop under these blazing lights most of the day. I’d imagine by now there’s a whole buffet of bacteria crawling around that bird. Botulism, salmonella,
E. coli
…”

“Oh,” Eddie said. “Maybe I’ll just have some pie.”

While the crew broke down the set, Gina hurried off to her office. She sank down into her chair and popped the top on a can of Diet Coke from the mini-fridge under the desk.

“Can I come in?”

Scott stood in the doorway.

“It’s open,” Gina said.

“Great show today,” Scott said. “That’s the first tape I’ll show Adelman when he gets here tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” She set the soda can down on the table with a thunk that sent a spray of liquid all over the tabletop.

He mopped uneasily at the soda with a wad of tissue. “Yeah. Uh, they’re all hot about this story angle Deborah’s cooked up. Adelman wants to watch some tapings, and then he wants to sit in on the photo shoot.”

Her stomach cramped. When had she eaten last?

“Which tapings does Adelman want to watch?” She really should eat something. Her blood sugar was probably in the single digits.

“Yours, of course. And Moody’s.” He kept dabbing nervously at the desktop. She wanted to slap his hand away. God, she was hungry.

“But relax,” Scott said. “You’ve got the show in the bag. I know it. I can sense it.” He chuckled. “Did you see that lame-ass
Vittles
set they jerry-rigged today? Potted plants, for Christ’s sake. It looks like a cable-access show.”

“Let’s talk about that photo shoot,” Gina said. “Deborah has some insane idea about me dressing up in satin trunks and boxing gloves. And actually posing with Tate Moody.”

He laughed again. “Yeah, nutty, huh? She’s already booked time at a gym down by the airport. Some place professional wrestlers use to train at. Deborah’s amazing when it comes to that kind of authentic detail. And can you believe her media contacts? Did she tell you about
People
?”

“Scott!” Gina said. “There is no way I am getting dressed up like Muhammad Ali and posing for pictures with Tate Moody. No way. Ever. Not even for
People
magazine.”

He blinked. “Really? I thought you’d love the idea. It’s so kitschy. And Adelman is crazy for it. He says TCC could even use the photos for on-air promotion for this food fight thing they’ve cooked up.”

Her stomach growled so fiercely she was sure he heard it. She found a package of Nabisco wafers in her desk drawer and savagely ripped off the cellophane wrapper, scarfing down two cookies in one bite.

Scott stared, openmouthed.

“I’m hungry, okay? I’ve been running around all day without a bite to eat.”

He held up both hands in surrender. “I know. I’m on your side, remember? Now, why don’t we go somewhere and get a late dinner? We can have a glass of wine and discuss this calmly.”

“I am calm,” she said, finishing off the cookies. “Which is why I won’t go out to dinner with you. Ever again. And I can’t, for the life of me, think of a single reason why it’s a good idea for me to have my picture made with that baboon Tate Moody. We’re supposed to be promoting me, remember? You produce
Fresh Start
, not
Vittles
.”

He nodded agreement and gave her a smile she decided was pa
tronizing. “It is all about you, Gina. But look at it from Adelman’s point of view. Television is all about publicity. And the fact that you’re up against somebody like Moody makes a great story. Don’t you get it?”

“No,” Gina said, gulping down the rest of her soda.

“It’s a Beauty and the Beast story,” Scott said. “We can’t buy that kind of publicity.”

“Why does this have to be about publicity?” she said plaintively. “I’m a great cook. The sales of my last cookbook were strong. Our ratings were improving, until Tastee-Town canceled on us. If you’d been able to keep Little Scotty in your pants, my ratings would be even higher next year. Why can’t it be about that? Why does it have to be some fakey competition with some guy who doesn’t know grits from granola?”

He tilted his chair on its back legs and gave her another of those patronizing looks. “This is television, Gina. It is what it is. I didn’t make it that way, but I know the rules, and I know how to play the game. So you’re just gonna have to trust me on this.”

“Trust you?” She balled up the cellophane wrapper and tossed it in the trash.

He opened the door of the fridge and helped himself to a Diet Coke. He drained the soda in one gulp. “’Fraid so, babe,” he drawled. “Like it or leave it, I’m your producer and the co-creator of
Fresh Start
. I’m the one who brought you to Adelman. I’m your ticket. Without me, you’re right back at some crappy newspaper, writing fillers about the joys of cooking with frozen Spam.”

He tossed the Diet Coke can in the direction of the trash basket, and it clattered off the rim before falling just short.