Deep Dish (24 page)

She added a handful of potato chips to her sandwich and sat down on a wooden stool pulled up to the counter.

Gina thought it might have been the best food she’d ever tasted. But maybe that was just the bull talking. She took a swig of tea and a bite of potato chip, and in less than five minutes—she knew it was only five, because she was watching the readout on the microwave—she’d polished off her whole dinner. Mortifying—but tasty.

She was sponging off the counter—erasing any clues about her presence there—when she heard soft footsteps coming down the stairs.

When the footsteps headed away from the kitchen and toward the front door, she decided to investigate. Was the midnight traveler Lisa—off for an assignation with Zeke? Unlikely—her sister was passed out upstairs. Could it be Scott? And if it was, who was he slipping out to meet?

Without stopping to think, she tiptoed out of the kitchen and down the hall, pausing again when she heard the slight creak of the front door opening.

Peering around the edge of a grandfather clock, she saw a familiar feathery tail—and the spotted butt of Moonpie—going out the front door. Tate Moody was right behind him, stopping at the door and looking warily around. She ducked down behind the massive carved oak console table in the hall to avoid being discovered. A minute later, she was back at the door, peeking out from the sidelight to see Tate going down the porch steps. Her heart was still pounding and her brain was obviously fogged, because the next thing she knew, she was slinking onto the porch, hiding behind one of the columns, peering into the darkness to see where Moody and Moonpie had gone.

A moment later, she heard the high-pitched whir of a golf cart, and saw the cart’s headlights flash past.

Crap! He was off on another of his midnight hunting expeditions. But she’d be darned if she was going to let him get away with it this time. Tomorrow was her time to shine, not his.

She crept off the porch and ran—as best she could run in flip-flops—to her own golf cart. She turned the key and headed off into the night, bumping along the shell path, staying back as far as she could and still keep Moody in her sights. She left her own headlights off, praying that she wouldn’t run off the path and into one of Eutaw’s alligator-infested ditches or ponds.

T
ate looked down at the crude map he’d drawn earlier in the day and stared off into the darkness. The paths weren’t marked this far from the lodge, but the landmark—and the turnoff he was looking for—was a palm tree with most of the top sheared off. In the dark, though, nothing looked familiar.

He stopped the cart once, got out, and played his flashlight over a palm tree, but on closer examination, he discovered it was not the right tree. He heard a noise on the path behind him. Moonpie whimpered. Tate ruffled the fur on his neck. “It’s okay, buddy, probably just an armadillo bumping around out here in the dark like the rest of us.”

He got back in the cart and traveled another five hundred yards before spotting a palm tree he was sure was the right one. The flashlight confirmed it, so he veered hard right when the road forked.

“Gettin’ close, buddy,” he told the dog. He was so close to the water now, he could hear waves lapping on the shore.

Finally, maybe half a mile down the path, he sighted the strip of his own white T-shirt that he’d tied to the branch of a hunk of driftwood on the left side of the path. He stopped the cart, got out, and stretched.

From out of the darkness he heard a faint humming noise, then nothing. Moonpie whimpered and got out of the cart, his tail raised as though he were flushing a quail.

“Stay, boy,” Tate told him, grasping the dog’s collar. He took a few steps away from the cart and played the flashlight over the path, but could see nothing, except a couple of tree toads engaged in what looked to him to be toad-humping.

“Nothing there but a couple horny toads,” he told the dog, grinning at his own pun. “Come on, let’s see if she’s still here.”

Tate walked to the edge of the path, to the point where the oyster shells seemed to merge with marsh grass. He felt mud squishing beneath his sneakers, then water seeping up to his ankles. Holding the flashlight over his head, he shone it in the direction of the marsh.

“Jackpot!” he said smugly.

There, snagged in the trunk of a dead tree, was an old aluminum johnboat, maybe fourteen feet long, that he’d spotted bobbing in the water earlier in the day at high tide. From where he’d stood then, it had appeared that the boat was snagged on something beneath the water’s surface. And now, at the ebb tide, he could see that, yes, the boat was still there, and, yes, its bow appeared to be wedged into the crotch of an old dead tree on a sandbar.

He took a deep breath and looked back at Moonpie, who sat very straight, looking out at the water. “You stay here,” he told the dog. “Don’t let those toads steal our cart.”

“Let me give you a hand there, old buddy.” A woman’s voice came out of the darkness, startling him so that he dropped the flashlight into the water.

“Oopsie,” the voice came again.

He whirled around but could see nothing in the now total darkness.

“Dammit, Reggie, is that you?”

“Yup.”

“You made me drop my damned flashlight.”

“So I see.”

He fished around in the knee-deep water but, finding nothing, let out a stream of colorful expletives.

“You always talk that way around an impressionable dog?” Gina called.

“If Moonpie could talk, he’d say a lot worse,” Tate yelled. “Dammit, this was my one chance to grab that boat.”

“You could come back in the morning,” she suggested.

“It’ll be high tide in the morning. I’d have to swim out—and that’s
only if it’s still here. It’s snagged on something, and I’m afraid it’ll float away by then.”

“If you had another light, say right now, could you get to it?”

“Hell, yeah.”

A tiny beam of light hit him in the face. He put his hands in front of his eyes to shield them.

“Great,” he said. “How about bringing the flashlight out here to me?”

“In the water?”

“It’s only knee-deep.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Afraid you’ll drown?”

“I don’t like snakes. Or alligators. This place looks like it could be crawling with both.”

He sighed. “If I come back up there, you’ll give me the flashlight, right?”

“We can discuss it.”

He muttered another string of colorful phrases, but slogged slowly back through the marsh muck until he reached the shell bank.

“Give me a hand up,” he said.

She considered it. “You wouldn’t pull me down into the mud, would you?”

“The thought hadn’t entered my mind,” he lied.

“I’ll bet.”

She stuck her hand out, and helped him up the bank.

“Hi,” she said.

“You followed me here.”

“No, I was just out for a midnight joyride and bumped into you and your dog out here in the middle of nowhere.”

He took the flashlight out of her hand and flashed it in her face. Her eyes were huge, her face flushed. She had a loony grin on her face that was most un-Reggie-like.

“Are you on some kind of dope or something?”

She blinked. “It’s not dope. I was trying to stay up so I could re
search and get myself ready to whip your butt tomorrow, but I was tired, so Lisa gave me a can of her Red Bull.”

“Red Bull. That’s all?”

“Well. It’s sort of a college cocktail the kids all drink when they’re studying for exams. Lisa calls it a Raging Bull.”

“What else is in it?”

“NoDoz.”

“NoDoz and Red Bull? Jesus H. Christ on a crutch, Reggie. That’s a heart attack in a hurry. You mean to say you drank some?”

“Just one can.”

He shook his head. “I want to beat you fair and square, but I can’t do it if you’re dead.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “Finer than fine.”

“You’re amped out of your gourd. You just up and followed me out here in the dead of night? Didn’t even put the headlights on in the golf cart?”

“I wanted to see where you were going. Find out what you were up to. And now I have.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “What do you intend to do now?”

She gave it some thought. “I’ll hold the flashlight and shine it on the boat, while you go out and drag it back here.”

“And then?”

“And then tomorrow, we’ll go out in it and catch some nice fresh fish.”

“We? No. No way. It’s my boat. I found it, and I’m gonna go out there and drag it back up here. And that’ll be the end of it.”

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll just take my itsy-bitsy old flashlight and go home.” She grabbed the flashlight back and turned to leave.

“Wait,” he called. “Let’s see if we can figure this out.”

“We?”

He swore quietly. “You and me. I’ll play fair. I swear.”

S
afely back in her room at the lodge, Gina did not sleep.

She read all of her reference books. She took notes. She tiptoed downstairs to the library, found an old copy of
The Yearling
, and read it in one sitting, crying, as she always did, at the end of the book. She filed her nails and washed out her underpants in the bathroom sink. Then she washed her sister’s underpants. She even considered, but only briefly, calling her mother, but at six thirty, she decided it was time to get ready for the big day.

Showered and dressed in khaki slacks and a tank top with a blue cotton work shirt thrown over it, she looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes still looked, as Tate had pointed out, a little loony. But her heart had finally stopped pounding, and her pulse seemed to have slowed down to the rate of a moderately hyperactive gerbil.

She went bouncing down the stairs to the lobby, but stopped, mid-bounce, when she saw Scott standing there, looking up at her.

“You’re in a great mood,” he observed.

“Today’s the day,” she agreed. “Today I win. Or die trying.”

“That’s kind of extreme, Gina,” he said, frowning.

“But true. Let’s face it. My show has been canceled, and so far, not a whole lot of people are banging on my door begging to put me on television.”

“They will. I told you that. Even if, God forbid, you lose today, your career is far from over. I promised you that, didn’t I?”

“You promised me a lot of things,” she said.

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t,” she said, stopping him. “It’s in the past. I’m just saying,
it’s up to me to make my own career path. I can’t count on you—or anybody else—to do it for me. And that’s fine. It’s great. I believe in me.”

He put his finger under her chin and lifted it up and gazed into her eyes. “You’ve changed in the last week, you know that? You’re, I don’t know…tough, I guess, is the word. How did that happen?”

“Resilient,” she corrected. “Let’s go get some food. I could eat a horse.”

It was only seven, but the rest of the production crew was already sitting around the long polished mahogany table, passing an oversize basket of bread.

“Biscuits?” Gina swooped down and short-stopped the basket before it could reach Zeke. She folded back a checked cotton napkin and nabbed a biscuit, still warm from the oven.

She took the vacant seat next to Zeke’s, pulled the biscuit in half, and proceeded to slather it with butter and honey.

Scott looked on openmouthed. “You’re eating carbs? And butter? And honey? All in the same meal? In front of other people?”

“Hungry,” Gina said between bites. “Very hungry.”

“Uh, Gina,” Zeke said quietly. “Is Lisa up yet?”

“Not yet,” she said, turning toward him. “But don’t worry, I’ll run up and get her after I’ve had my eggs and bacon.”

“Good God,” Scott said, clutching his chest. “Who
are
you?”

“Lisa’s mad at me,” Zeke said, his eyes downcast.

“She’ll get over it,” Gina said, filling her glass with orange juice. “My baby sister has the attention span of a toddler. Trust me, she’s probably already forgotten what you were fussing about.”

“I told her she was drinking too much,” Zeke whispered. “And she
was
. She called me an old lady.”

“Don’t worry. She calls me that all the time. And worse.”

“Did she say anything about me last night?”

“She thinks you’re sweet,” Gina said, patting his hand reassuringly. “We both do.”

“Zeke!” Barry Adelman stood in the dining room doorway, dressed in a sky blue silk tropical print shirt and cream silk slacks. He had paper napkins tucked around the collar of the shirt, to keep
his orange pancake makeup from ruining it. “The meter’s running, sport. Production meeting in five minutes.”

He looked at his crew members, at Gina and Scott and the others. “Big day, everybody,” he boomed. “Round two. Let’s go make some television!”

Chairs were pushed back and forks put down mid-bite. The crew members rushed for the door.

Scott took Zeke’s vacant seat next to Gina.

“Did you have some time to figure out a plan for today?” he asked.

“I was up all night,” she said simply. “It’s taken care of.”

“All right,” he said slowly. “What are your thoughts?”

“Oysters, if I can find them. Or flounder. If the tide’s right. Maybe both, if I get really lucky.”

He frowned. “Oysters? You can’t do oysters now. They’re poison or something. Nobody eats oysters in the summertime.”

“Au contraire
,” she said. “I can, and I will, if I can find them.”

“What about the flounder?” he asked, deciding to let the oysters drop for the moment. “You didn’t have any luck fishing yesterday. What makes you think today will be any different?”

She smiled serenely. “I’ve got a whole different approach today.”

“Moody did pork yesterday. So he’ll for sure be doing fish today,” Scott said. “I think you should do some counter-tactics. Maybe chicken. Something homey like that. Everybody always loved that show you did with the fried chicken.”

“I’ve got it under control, Scott,” Gina said, standing up. “I gotta go get made up. See you on set.”

S
he hummed as D’John did her comb-out.

“Stop that,” he said. “You’ve never hummed before.”

She hummed another bar. The song was her own off-key version of “Brick House,” although she would readily admit it was nothing the Commodores would recognize.

“Shake it down, shake it down, shake it down now,” she sang.

Tate slid into the chair next to hers.

“Is that supposed to be ‘Brick House’? Because if it is, it’s the worst version I’ve ever heard. I was at a wedding reception in Pittsburgh once, and the polka band did a better version.”

Gina sang on.

In defense, D’John carpet-bombed her entire head with hairspray.

She quit singing.

She glanced around the makeup room to make sure that nobody else was listening.

“Are we all set?”

“Yes.”

“You checked? It’s still there?”

“As of half an hour ago.”

“All systems go?” she asked.

“Roger that.”

The makeup room door opened, and Zeke walked in, followed by an unhappy-looking Moonpie.

“D’John?” Zeke said, his voice tentative.

“What are you doing with that dog in here?” D’John demanded.

“Uh, Barry wants Moonpie in the shoot today.”

“What?” Tate asked. “Just in the stand-up part? That should be all right. He’s used to being on camera with me.”

“Uh, well, that, and uh, Barry wants you to take Moonpie out with you today. And afterward, he wants him in the kitchen with you.”

“Hell, no!” Tate exploded. “He’s a dog. He sees a mockingbird or a squirrel, and he thinks it’s time to go hunting. I love my dog, but I don’t have time to go chasing after him when we’re on a deadline like this. When we shoot my show, we always have somebody off set tending to him while we finish the shoot.”

“Aw, come on, Tate,” Gina said, laughing. “Moonpie wants to go. Don’t you, Moonpie?”

The setter put his front paws on Gina’s lap and thumped his tail happily.

“Absolutely not,” Tate said, crossing his arms.

“Afraid so,” Zeke said. “And uh, D’John?”

The makeup artist rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me…”

“Barry wants to know if there’s anything you can do to emphasize Moonpie’s eyes more. Like uh, eyeliner or something? Also, he wants you to trim the droopy stuff around his ears, and maybe fluff up his tail a little. He suggested a blow-dryer.”

Tate started to argue, but then thought better of it. He climbed down off the makeup chair and thumped its padded seat. “Here, boy,” he called. “Your turn.”

T
he day was hot, but overcast. Barry decreed it the perfect weather for an outdoor shoot.

He guided Tate and Gina toward the front door of the lodge, an arm over each of his would-be stars’ shoulders.

“All right, kids,” he said. “The crew’s out front, waiting for you. Here’s the plan:

“We’ve already shot an interview with the judges back in the ballroom. And P.S., before we started taping, I did mention to Beau and Deidre that you two are concerned about their impartiality. They both swear they have no biases against either of you.”

“Riiiight,” Tate said.

“I’m gonna give them the benefit of the doubt,” Barry said. “So. I’ll go outside and do my stand-up about how it’s the second round of the Food Fight, blasé, blasé, blasé. Zeke is going to stand inside the door with you two, and at his signal, I want you both to come bustin’ full-tilt boogie out this door. Then, I want you to run to your golf carts, get behind the wheels, and glare at each other. Got it?”

“Glaring,” Tate said. “Check.”

“Full-tilt boogie,” Gina answered. “Got it.”

“Knock ’em dead,” Barry said, slapping their backs.

Zeke took his station beside the front door, with the freshly groomed Moonpie’s leash wrapped loosely around his wrist. The dog sat patiently waiting for his cue. Zeke glanced at the yellow sticky note posted on his left forearm, and then at the watch on his right wrist. He wore a headset and a worried expression.

“Lisa still hasn’t come downstairs,” he told Gina. “Do you think she’s all right?”

“She was in the shower a few minutes ago,” Gina told him. “Aren’t you supposed to be giving us a signal to go out?”

“Oh. Yeah. Right.”

He spoke into his microphone. “Barry? Are we ready?”

He nodded.

“Two more minutes,” he told Gina. “On the signal, I’ll hold the door open, and you guys go charging out. Barry wants to do it all in one long shot, so try not to mess up.

“Should I go up and check on Lisa?” he asked. “Or is that too old-lady-like?”

“Concentrate on this shot,” Gina suggested. “Lisa’s not really a morning person.”

They could hear Barry’s voice through the door. “And now, let’s get our chefs out here and ready to rumble,” he said loudly.