“Ever since the picnic, something's been bugging me, but I didn't know what . . .” He looked at her, eyes narrowed, hands on his belt.
She could almost hear his thoughts cranking. “Luke, what's going on? You're making me nervous.”
He grabbed her hand and led her off the dance floor to a secluded area behind the trees. “Can you cook, Joy? It's the only thing I can think of that makes sense. Even when Andy asked meâ”
“Andy? Wâwhat did he say?” After her first season, Joy worked her off-season at the Frogmore, and Andy took his turn at teaching her to cook.
“He asked me if âI knew.' Then he and Russell had a good laugh about something.”
“Câcan I cook? What kind of question is that?”
Stop, just surrender. He's opening the door for you
.
He's asking
. But she'd protected the truth for so long she found it excruciating to confess. “You had me lip to lip, Luke.” Her words trembled. “You could've kissed me and you asked me about cooking?”
“Am I right, Joy?” He regarded her, intense, demanding.
“The boys would banish you from Mars if they knew you asked me about cooking when you could've been kissing.” Joy cut around him and maneuvered through the trees toward Venus. Toward safety.
“Answer the question, and I'll kiss the breath right out of you.”
Luke's voice lassoed her and she whirled around to face him. “I'll keep the air I breathe, thank you very much.” But she found it difficult to inhale deep and fill her lungs.
“Your cooking segments are always out of time.” He walked slowly toward her, speaking as if more and more clues dawned. “Sharon does, or did, all of your cooking but only preps for me. I cook on set. You assemble, then she appears with the finished product. She went ballistic when Allison brought up the cookbook. Your pantry is full of microwavable food and Chef Boyardee.”
She shivered as he neared, stopping in front of her to peer into her eyes. Confess, Joy. Be set free.
Yes, yes, it's true
.
I can't cook. I can't
. But the words crumbled back down to her soul once they reached the dry edge of her throat. It was as if her tongue didn't know how.
And oh, what would he think of her? How could she bear to see the reflection of her shame in his eyes?
“I don't need this.” She spun around, but he moved in front of her and blocked her way.
“I can teach you.” Calm. Undaunted. Sincere.
“Teach me what?” She faced him, arms crossed, shoulders squared. “You said yourself that cooking professionally kills the joy of cooking at homeâthus my microwavable pantry.”
“Okay, then do you cook professionally? On the set? At fairs and festivals? Did you fall off the Omaha stage to get away from Wenda?”
She laughed, bending back, patting her belly. Didn't know what else to do. “Oh, this is rich. Fall off a stage to get away from Wenda? Do you think I'm crazy too?”
“No, I don't. I think . . .” He sighed. “I can teach you.” He spoke like a game show contestant, giving her clues, offering hints, waiting for her to spit out the answer.
But he didn't understand the real issue. No one could teach her. Not Daddy the summer of '96, not Sharon the fall of '07 or the winter of '08. Not Andy and Russell. “Thanks for the dance, Luke.” She turned toward Venus with a long, leaving stride.
“We can start with the recipes for the cookbook. I bet you know more than you thinkâ”
“Luke, stop. Just stop.” She nosed herself under his expression.
“You don't know what you're talking about.”
“What are you afraid of, Joy?”
“What am I afraid of?” She angled away from him. “At the moment, you.”
Sunday afternoon Joy drifted along the creek behind her house with her best friends since ninth grade, Elle and Caroline. The sun drifted westward leaving behind a burnished wake.
Anchored near the shady side of cypress and pine, Joy released the remnant of her argument last night with Luke with the gentle swell of the boat under the Atlantic's distant tide.
In the aft, Elle was pillowed against the extra life jackets and sketched, her pencil making a staccato scraping sound on the paper. Her golden hair was thick around her face, infused with the heat in the air and the moisture off the water.
Caroline lay in the middle, on the boat's bottom, with an etched smile on her face, her hands cradled around her belly like she'd just eaten the biggest steak at Outback.
“Joy, you've sighed three times. What's up?” Elle continued sketching, adjusting her sunglasses to keep her hair from her eyes.
“Just letting go of all the little nasties.” She pinched the air over her body like M did that day by the dock.
“It's going to be all right, Joy. I feel it.” Elle's sense could be trusted. She'd spent the last two years honing her spiritual ear in a seven a.m. prayer meeting, six days a week. Touching heaven gifted Elle to bring a bit of its pure light to earth's dark souls.
“Luke knows.”
Caroline lifted her head. Elle set aside her sketch pad. “What? How?”
“How? He's with me on the set, Elle. He's helped Annie-Rae nuke her SpaghettiOs. Peeked into my pantry. He's astute and clever. He asked me straight-out.”
“Well, finally, you can confess. It's hard keeping this secret, Joy. The more famous you get, the harder it will be.”
“I wanted to tell him, I opened my mouth, but the words never came.” Joy propped her chin in her hands. Elle shared a stove with Joy in their tenth-grade cooking class. She'd been the first to witness her utter lack of skill and prowess in the kitchen. She'd been the first to see the smoke rising from the oven door.
“Joy, you've always said you'd confess if someone asked you straight-out. Why didn't you just admit it?”
“Becauseâ” Joy stood so the boat dipped deep from starboard to port side. “Then what? I keep thinking if I have a little bit more time, I can execute my plan to gradually move the cooking to Luke. The truth won't need to come out.”
“You should tell him.” Elle, plain, simple. Right. “You said he asked outright.”
Joy squinted at her. “He'll hate me.” The boat had drifted to the edge of the shade and into the four o'clock sunlight.
“Why would Luke hate you, Joy?” Caroline spoke in a slow drawl, her eyes still closed, her words airy and soft.
“Gee, I don't know, Caroline. Because I've been faking a career as a foodie. Elle, how would you feel if a new artist getting a lot of press didn't do her own painting? Caroline, what if the latest country star was pulling a Milli Vanilli and outselling Mitch?”
“Angry.”
“Cheated.”
“Exactly.” Joy sat back down and curled against the bow. “Look, we came out here to relax. Talking about this stirs me up. Caroline, are you looking forward to the fall tour with Mitch?”
“Hold on, Joy.” Elle cut the air with her hand. “I just want to say you can trust Luke. He's not going to hate you or steal the show.”
“He's not good enough on camera to
steal
the show.” Joy pictured him on set, so tall and formal, but so smooth and proficient when preparing a dish. “Which makes the truth all the more ugly. He's trying to rebuild his career, get his life back on track, and who is he working with? A poser.”
“Seems to me you need each other.” Caroline smoothed her hand over Joy's foot. “If he knows, or thinks he knows, you're not going to be able to hide it much longer. He'll be watching you.”
“So . . . I should just . . . tell him.” It sounded so simple. Joy scooped her fingers through her hair and wished God would give her a do-over. A rewind back to the day Duncan told her the news. Besides, if Sharon decided this week the whole cookbook deal was indeed unfair and quit, the entire game changed.
“Give him a chance, Joy. Pray, ask the Lord to show you clearly what you need to do and say.”
“Is it really that easy, Elle?” Joy absorbed her friend's wisdom, her heart reaching through the textured, warm day toward Jesus. “All right, enough about me. Someone else please share.”
The breeze rippled the creek's surface and the boat slipped from sun back to shade.
“I'm pregnant,” Caroline announced sweet and soft, her tenor colored with pastel emotions.
“Oh my gosh.” Joy rose up. “Caroline.”
“When? . . . How long? . . . I can't believe it.” Elle lunged over the bench seat, her bracelets clattering, and collapsed on her friend. “You're going to be a mom.”
“I'm know.” Caroline's voice warbled. “And I'm terrified.” She lay still, as if any movement might frighten her child.
Caroline sputtered, laughing, finally opening her eyes. “I want a girl.” She gripped Elle's hand. “Like you.” Then Joy's. “And you.”
Joy rolled forward to brush Caroline's wind-tossed hair from her eyes. “No, sweetie, like you.”
For a while they talked babies. Elle whispered she and Heath were prepared for Tracey-Love to be their only child.
“I want a baby, but not so bad that I force it, you know? That's me.”
“What about you, Joy?” Caroline asked. “Marriage, babies? Are you over Tim?”
“Tim? Tim who? It's been seven years. Give me some credit.” Joy smiled and squeezed Caroline's hand before letting go. “I want to get married, but how can I when I'm living this lie?”
“Trust Luke.”
Joy laughed. “You make it sound like I want to marry him.”
“Come on, Joy, don't tell me your heart doesn't go pitter-patter every time Luke walks on the set.” Elle gently shoved Joy's shoulder.
Maybe, a little
. “You're the reduction sauce of romance, Elle. Just put it out there.”
“Reduction sauce? Do you even know what a reduction sauce is?”
“Please, I may be clumsy in the kitchen, perhaps started a few fires, but I can remember technical details.” Joy dotted the air with her finger. “A reduction sauce is when you
reduce
.”
Elle laughed. “I think six-year-old Tracey-Love could've figured out that one.”
“It's when you boil all the . . . you know, stuff . . . down to a thick . . .” She twirled her hand in the air. “Sauce.”
“Boil what stuff?” Elle, little rat, just had to push.
“The ingredients.”
“What ingredients?”
“Your smart-aleck questions, that's what ingredients.”
“You know nothing about reduction sauces.” Elle settled back in her seat, snickering. “
Nothing
.”
“Sounds like it's time for five things,” Caroline said, raising her hand, halting the banter.
She was right. It
was
time for five things. Caroline was pregnant. Elle was coming to terms with infertility, and Joy might be free from the lie. Maybe even open to love.
“Caroline, you go first. What five things are you thankful for today?” Joy gathered her soul and opened her heart to listen.
“The miracle of life.” She patted her belly. “Mitch, his love and music. The feathery breeze. You two. This old Bluecloud skiff.” She knocked the floor of the boat.
“Oh, me too,” Elle said. “I love this old boat. Smells and all.”
“I told you not to sit on those life jackets.”
“I'm grateful for Caroline, who points out all my flaws,” Elle said.
“What are friends for?”
“And for my Heath, who brought me the daughter of my heart, Tracey-Love. For this old sketch pad I found yesterday. For the gift of painting, and for Joy, the bravest person I know.”
Brave? Oh, she was the opposite of brave. She personified coward.
“Joy, what are your five things?” Caroline said.
She shifted her position, reclining, propping her arms on the side of the skiff, watching the dolphin's fin break the surface of the water.
“My friends, Elle and Caroline, but that's a given. My job and what it's given to my family.” She brushed away the broken bit of twig that landed on her leg. “I'm grateful for Mama, and the girls. Even in the busyness, they make the house a home. And I'm grateful for second chances. May there always be one waiting in the wings.”
“That's only four.” Elle motioned to Joy by waving her hand. “Come on. One more.”
“Luke. I'm grateful for Luke.”
During the Monday morning production meeting, Joy's gaze wandered between Luke and Sharon's empty chair. Where was she? Never late, she always sat at the head of the table with her tall latte and coffee cake.
“First order of the day.” Allison set her laptop at the head of the table. “Sharon's resignation. She called me last night.”
Joy rose to her feet. “What? Why? She was happy last week. Didn't you promise her a spring cookbook, Allison? Or more money?”
“I'm not going to play her game, Joy. Frankly, if she feels that strongly, then I need to let her go. Is that okay with you?”
Joy settled down under Allison's laser stare. “She deserved more consideration is all.” She let the truth beneath her chest simmer toward a boil. Ryan shifted and cleared his throat, and when Joy peered at him, he cut her a sharp glance.
I know, I know. I have to do something
.
“Have you started on the cookbook?” Allison checked with Joy, then Luke. “The publisher set the deadline for October fifteenth.
But they'd like a look-see as soon as possible so they can start conceptualizing cover and design. How's it going?”
“Slow.”
“We're getting together tonight,” Luke said as if it were true.
“We'll be ready.”
“Good, good. Also, I'm searching for a new food prep and recipe developer to replace Sharon. But, Luke, you're fine to take up some of the slack, right?”
“Fine with me.”
“Excellent, I love a team player. Joy, why don't you write out a schedule for the cookbook so we can know what to expect. Shouldn't be too hard to collect the recipes since we already have them on the server.” She paused. “And I checked last Friday after Sharon left. Still there. So I suppose you two just need to make sure all the ingredients and instructions are correct. Don't be shy about bringing any botched recipes into the studio. I make a good guinea pig.”