Deep Dish (23 page)

Gina felt a tear working its way down her cheek. She swiped at it, blinked, then turned to Tate.

“Congratulations,” she said, her voice shaky.

W
ell, that’s it for round one of The Cooking Channel’s Food Fight!” Barry said, reading from the teleprompter. “Our esteemed panel of experts awarded round one to Tate Moody for his unique take on a wild hog supper, but only by a slim one-point margin. Don’t forget to tune in tomorrow night for round two of our Food Fight, when Regina Foxton has vowed to come out of her kitchen hotter than hot!”

The number-two camera flashed on Tate, who nodded politely, and then at Regina, who, at Barry’s direction, brandished a giant cast-iron skillet in what he assured her would be a menacing gesture.

“Okay, let’s take a break,” Barry called. The lights switched off, and the cameramen trotted off to the craft table.

Gina exhaled slowly. She closed her eyes and rolled her neck clockwise and then counterclockwise, trying to diminish the tension knots in her upper body. When she opened her eyes, she saw Zeke escorting Beau, Deidre, and Toni off the set.

She noticed with grim satisfaction that the three judges looked just as bedraggled as she felt. Deidre Delaney’s mascara seemed to have melted off, and Toni Bailey’s perky demeanor had finally faded. Beau Stapleton’s shirt was dark with perspiration, and even his ponytail looked waterlogged.

“Christ, the humidity here must be two hundred percent,” he griped. “It’s like a damned steam bath in here.”

Zeke handed Beau a cold bottle of water and murmured something reassuring about the air-conditioning in the production trailer, and then they were all gone.

She was about to leave herself when she felt a large hand clamp her shoulder.

“Great show, you two,” Barry exclaimed, clamping his other hand on Tate’s shoulder. “No kidding, guys, this one had it all. It had drama, it had comedy, it had suspense—”

“And tragedy,” Gina said wryly. “At least from my point of view.”

“Will you stop?” Barry said. “Forget about the crab shell thing. It was nothing. Coulda happened to anybody.”

“That’s what I told her,” Tate said, gently easing his shoulder out from under Barry’s grip.

“It shouldn’t have happened to a pro,” Gina said.

“That’s the point of this show,” Barry said. “Don’t you get it? The audience at home will love that about you. You think Sally Subdivision in Horseplop, Arkansas, hasn’t dropped a hunk of eggshell in a birthday cake? Of course she has. Everybody has! And that’s why they’ll love you. You let them see that even a pro messes up sometimes. People are gonna relate to you, Gina. They’ll relate to both of you. Because you’re real. And that’s what we’re looking for. Real cooks with real personalities. We’re not looking for polish and perfection.”

“Tell that to Beau Stapleton,” Scott said, striding onto the set with a cold Diet Coke for Gina. “What a jerk! Barry, are you aware of how biased he is against Gina? It’s so blatant. I can’t believe you let him get away with that crap.”

“But what about Deidre?” Valerie chimed in. She uncapped a bottle of Heineken and handed it to Tate. “She crucified him—and why? Because he politely declined her offer of a free fuck!”

“Val!” Tate exclaimed, slamming the bottle down on the countertop, “For God’s sake—”

“People, people, people,” Barry said soothingly. “Yes, I am aware that there are some undercurrents. Some creative tension. But as I told you before, conflict makes for drama. And that’s what entertainment is about, right?”

He looked from Val to Scott to Tate to Gina for affirmation.

“It’s still not fair,” Scott grumped. He tugged on Gina’s hand. “Come on, Geen. It’s after ten.”

Gina nodded and yawned. “I gotta get some sleep. Good night, everybody.” She trailed dutifully behind her producer. On the way out of the ballroom she stopped at the craft table, where Lisa was laughing and joking noisily with the crew, cutting her eyes every so often at Zeke, who pretended not to notice.

“I’m headed for the room,” she told her sister. “Are you coming up soon?”

“Yeah,” Lisa said vaguely. “Soon. I just want to unwind with the guys a little. Don’t wait up for me, though. I’m a big girl, I can handle myself.”

“She worries about you, okay?” Scott said, glaring at the younger sister. “As long as you’re out partying your ass off, she won’t sleep. So for once, could you just think of somebody else?”

Lisa glared right back. She took a long sip from her beer and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Fuck off, Scott, will you? My mama’s alive and kickin’ in Odum, so I sure as hell don’t need you to tell me what to do.”

“Don’t!” Gina interjected. “I’m too tired to play referee.” She turned to Scott. “You don’t need to walk me to my room. I want to sit on the porch for a minute, get some fresh air.”

“I’ll come with you. We need to discuss the plan for tomorrow.”

“Not tonight,” she said gently. “I really just want to be alone for a while, to think about what went wrong today and regroup. We can talk in the morning. I’ll meet you downstairs for breakfast. Is seven too early?”

He shrugged in a way that telegraphed his hurt at what he perceived as a snub. “Fine. I’ll see you at seven.” He hurried out of the ballroom without looking back.

“Night-night, Scottie,” Lisa sang out.

“Lisa!”

Unrepentant, her younger sister put down her empty bottle and reached for another beer from the open cooler on the table.

“Why do you even put up with his crap?” she asked. “You broke up, didn’t you?”

“He’s still my producer,” Gina said. “And in a crazy way, I guess he still thinks he cares about me.”

“But you’re over him—right?”

Gina bit her lip and nodded. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Zeke, bent over his open laptop at the director’s console.

“What’s with Zeke?” she asked. “Did you two have a fight or something? He looks like somebody stole his lollipop.”

“Let me ask you something,” Lisa said, running her fingers through her hair. “Why does a man think it’s his job to boss a woman around?”

“I don’t know,” Gina said. “Is that what Zeke’s trying to do?”

“Trying? He’s becoming a major pain in the ass,” Lisa said.

“In what way?”

“He thinks I drink too much.”

“Do you?”

“I have a good time, that’s all,” Lisa said. “It’s not like I’m hurting anybody. I have a few beers, I party. I’m not an alcoholic, for God’s sake.”

Gina stared pointedly at the line of empty beer bottles on the table. “I think Zeke is sweet. And I think it’s sweet that he worries about you.”

“You would,” Lisa said, swaying ever so slightly. “You always think you have to have a big ol’ man to look after you, don’t you? Well, not me, sister. I can take care of my own damn self.”

“I see that,” Gina said. “Just make sure that you do take care of yourself. Or I’ll have to answer to Mom.”

“Mom!” Lisa said, her eyes widening. She reached in the pocket of her capris, brought out her cell phone, and handed it to Gina. “She wants you to call her. She’s left half a dozen messages on my phone. Text and voice.”

G
ina dropped her clothes on the bathroom floor and stepped into the shower. The shock of the ice-cold water on her sweat-soaked skin was delicious. She put her face into the full force of the spray, soaped up, rinsed, and then soaped and rinsed again. She patted herself dry, slathered night cream on her face, and slipped into a pair of faded cotton jeans, a worn but clean T-shirt, and a pair of hot pink flip-flops.

Stifling a yawn, she got out the research materials she’d brought with her. Spiral-bound cookbooks from various coastal church and community groups—including her favorite,
Soul Stirrin’,
from the ladies’ circle of the Darien Church of God in Christ—natural history books, and a well-thumbed field guide to coastal Georgia plant life. Somewhere in these books, she knew, was the inspiration—and the recipes—that would lead her to success in the second round of the Food Fight.

She dug a bag of pork rinds out of the bottom of her suitcase and crammed one into her mouth, trying not to chew too fast. Her stomach growled loudly. She quickly ate half a dozen and was reaching for another when she heard her sister’s voice outside the bedroom, telling somebody good night. She shoved the empty bag under her mattress just as Lisa stepped unsteadily inside.

“Hey!” Gina said. “You’re in early.”

Lisa threw herself down on her bed. “Everybody else wimped out on me. Claimed they have to work in the morning. And I thought TV people were supposed to be such party animals.”

“What about Zeke?”

“Zeke!” Lisa said, wriggling out of her pants and tossing them onto the floor. “All he does is look at me with those big ol’ puppy-dawg eyes. Talk about a buzz killer.”

Lisa pulled a sheet up over her bare shoulders and looked over at her sister. “What are you doing? Studying? I thought you were dead tired.”

Gina yawned widely. “I’m wiped,” she admitted. “But I’ve got to figure out a way to win tomorrow. It’s my last chance. Otherwise, I go home to Mama and Daddy.”

They shuddered in unison.

“Lord, I’m so tired, I could sleep for a year,” Gina said, standing up to stretch.

“Then go to bed. That’s what you told Scott you were doing.”

“I just didn’t feel like being fussed over anymore,” Gina said. “If I leave the light on, will it bother you?”

“Nope,” Lisa said. “Nothin’s botherin’ me.”

“I think I’ll go downstairs and see if there’s any more coffee left,”
Gina said, standing up and stretching. “I’ve gotta find a way to stay awake for a while.”

“Coffee? Nah,” Lisa said. She swung her legs out of bed and went to her canvas tote bag, which she’d slung onto the back of a chair.

She reached inside, brought out a bright red-and-black soft drink can, and popped the top. Dipping into the bag again, she brought out a small pill bottle and dropped two capsules into the can.

“Here,” she said, thrusting the can at Gina. “Drink this.”

“What is it?” Gina asked, with a mixture of horror and fascination.

“Red Bull and NoDoz,” Lisa said. “The kids at school call it a Raging Bull. We drink it when we have to cram for a final.”

“Is it legal?” Gina asked, sniffing the can.

“Who cares?” Lisa said, flopping down on her bed again. “Call Mom, okay? She’s driving me nuts.” She turned over, sighed loudly, and moments later was softly snoring.

Gina sighed and put Lisa’s cell phone in the pocket of her jeans, deciding she would call her mother later—much later. She looked down at the pile of books on her own bed, and then at the soda can.

“What the hell.” She held her nose and chugged the Red Bull. The taste was odd, vaguely citrus, with undertones of chemicals. Definitely an acquired taste. But if it would keep her awake long enough to do her research, she decided, it was worth the weird aftertaste.

The old lodge was quiet as she padded down the worn wooden stair treads, down to the lobby, and to the front door. She opened the door and peeked out. The porch was empty. Bliss.

She settled herself into one of the rockers and opened her copy of
Soul Stirrin’
.

At first, all was serenity. She watched moths flickering around the yellow globe of the porch light, and once, unbelievably, she saw a bat swoop in and snatch an unfortunate insect in midair. She heard the croak of tiny green tree toads from a palm tree at the edge of the porch, and when the wind wafted in just the right direction, she smelled the exotic scent of Confederate jasmine and honeysuckle from the vines that threaded their way up the trunk of an ancient oak near the driveway.

Gina worked on, leafing through her books, making notes on ideas for the next day. Oysters? Conventional wisdom—and Birdelle Foxton—had always declared that oysters were inedible in summer months. But her field guide begged to differ, stating that though summer oysters would be somewhat smaller, they were definitely edible. She’d spotted a promising-looking shell bank earlier in the day, during her unsuccessful fishing expedition. If not oysters, perhaps she’d walk along a sandbar and dig her toes in, searching for the quahog clams that the book said should be abundant in the summertime. Fried clams—let Tate Moody top that, she thought.

If the field guide was to be believed, there were wild greens to be had on barrier islands like Eutaw—something called sea purslane, which grew on sand flats in the high marsh. The guide had a small, fuzzy photograph, which she tried to memorize. If she could find the sea purslane, maybe she could fashion her own version of oysters Rockefeller. Oysters Eutaw, she’d call them.

Gina blinked. Suddenly, she could feel the adrenaline pumping through her bloodstream. Her pulse raced. Her eyes and mouth were dry. She put her hand over her chest and could have sworn her heart was beating so hard it lifted her hand up and off her body.

“Holy crap,” she whispered. She’d been gored by a Raging Bull.

She rocked faster, slapping her flip-flops rhythmically on the porch floor. She tried writing, but her hand was too shaky. She had to get up, had to move, go somewhere. She was hungry. She glanced down at her watch. After midnight. Would the kitchen be locked up? More importantly, would there be any food?

The kitchen was dark, bathed in the eerie blue-gray light of the microwave’s digital readout. She yanked open the refrigerator door, and silently blessed Iris and Inez.

A large platter of neatly sliced sandwiches, blanketed in plastic wrap, rested on the top shelf of the fridge, beside a huge glass pitcher of iced tea—also swathed in plastic.

She put the platter on the old-fashioned marble countertop and lifted the plastic to investigate. Chicken salad. Thinly sliced turkey, and ham with Swiss cheese. Her stomach growled so loudly, she was afraid she’d awaken the entire house.

Gina helped herself to half a chicken salad sandwich and half a ham and cheese on whole wheat, placing both on a paper towel. She put the platter back and poured herself a tall glass of tea.

There was a tin breadbox on the island, in the same funny jade green color as her mother’s breadbox. She lifted the lid and was rewarded with a bag of potato chips, clamped shut with an old-fashioned wooden clothespin, the same way her mother fastened opened bags of food.