“Just like you.” Bette squeezed Joy's arm. “I love this path you're paving for cooking shows. You're real and accessible. Like we're neighbors, running across the yard to each other's kitchens. Being innovative is how I got to where I am. You're going to be a star, Joy. I can tell these things.”
Okay, from your lips to God's ears. All obstacles aside
.
“Now listen, I have to ask you this.” Bette read her teleprompter. “Is this true? Did you say everything should taste like Froot Loops?”
“What?” Joy squinted at the teleprompter. “Bette, please. I never said everything should taste like Froot Loops. I hate Froot Loops. I said everything should taste like Cocoa Pebbles. Or Honeycomb. Cap'n Crunch, if you're out of the other two.”
Joy settled back, arms stretched along the sides of the chair, her torso filled with the joy of laughter.
“A star, I tell you. Don't y'all agree? Let's take a look at Joy in action. Here we go. A preview of
Dining with Joy
.” Bette introduced the clip as the house lights dimmed. Joy watched the floor monitor, wincing, smiling as she deep-fried a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, then the flip-flop. The beginning of the zaniness. The image morphed to a Stupid Cooking Trick, to a guest appearance by an Atlanta Falcons football player, to the kiss with Luke. Joy tensed and tingled.
The audience, mostly women, sighed and moaned.
She'd avoided the YouTube version of the kiss, only viewing the fading image in her mind from time to time. The kiss that started it all. One impulsive, surreal moment. But seeing it now, vivid with all the colors restored, Joy's heart knocked on its own door.
Hey, crazy girl, let him in
.
Sinking, sinking, she'd blissfully submerged into his kiss and embrace, the muffled din of the audience, the paling lights, the swelling aroma of sweet and savory peach sauced pork were merely ambrosia.
Joy dug her fingers into the arms of the chair. This wasn't Allison's moment to broadcast to the world. It was Joy's. Luke's. A yearning for him twisted around her heart.
Then the monitor faded to black and the lights burned bright, exposing the mesmerized audience.
“Joy, look what you've done.” Bette fanned herself, then the audience. “You've stunned us. I'm on fire here. Who cares about food when you have Luke Redmond in the house?”
The audience stirred with a spattering of applause.
“Joy, the show looks fantastic. And that kiss?”
“Well, there's more than one way to beat Wenda Divine.” Uncomfortable laugh. Shifting in her seat, exposed by the audience peeking into her heart.
“So that was the kiss that defeated Wenda? Goodness. I'm about to puddle on the floor. Aren't you all?” Bette arched her brow with wonder. “So, you and Luke areâ” She crossed her fingers. “Like this?”
“I'm not sure what that means.” Joy motioned to Bette's fingers. “But we're just friends.”
“Oh, I see.” Bette tapped Joy's leg and winked. “We'll talk later.”
“We can talk now. There's nothing between Luke and me. Friends. Cohosts.” Joy resituated in her chair, her emotions awakening from the swoon of reliving the kiss with Luke, and flirted with the audience. “He has bigger things ahead of him than me.”
“Not if he's in his right mind. Sheesh, you're gorgeous. Now you used to play softball in college. I can see you're still in great shape.”
“Well, as you can see from the clip, cooking is aerobic for me.”
Nice applause. Nice laughter.
“Joy, you should know I love surprises. And by that kiss you gave Luke, I can tell you love surprises too.” The sound of Bette's voice cast a gray shadow over Joy's blue peace. “A friend of yours came by my office and wanted to come out and say hi.”
Friend? In this building? Joy didn't have a friend in this building. The studio lights changed to a rolling, flashing blue, yellow, green, and red.
Dining with Joy
theme music played as the dais rolled backward.
A kitchen set appeared. Joy rose slowly, her legs nearly betraying her. Her lungs scrambled for air. Wenda.
“Ladies and gents, please welcome Wenda Divine from
Cook-Off!
” Bette linked her arm with Joy's and walked across the stage to Wenda and a waiting
Cook-Off!
setup. “It's all about food today on
The Bette Hudson Show
.”
The show faded to commercial. Bette walked off with the floor manager. Wenda snarled. Joy dashed behind the kitchen set, fell against the wall, and fumbled for her phone. Why she carried it on stage was beyond her, but now she praised heaven.
“Allison . . . get out here and save me.”
“Joy, now calm down.”
“Calm down? Did you know about this?”
“Just do the segment, Joy. Our premiere ratings will be through the roof, it'll give Bette a good show, andâ”
“Get out here now. Stop this.”
“I can't. I'm down at the local Starbucks.”
“Oh my gosh, Allison, and I thought
I
was a coward.” Joy ended the call. No wonder the woman acted so strange in the Green Room. She knew about this. Luke . . . must call Luke. The phone slipped from Joy's icy fingers. She snatched it from the floor. Got to call . . . Luke . . . phone . . . number. She couldn't get a decent breath.
Dropping her mocha suede jacket to the floor, Joy billowed her blouse. Perspiration trickled across her brow and down her neck, seeping through the silk arms of her top.
Luke, pick up. Up.
Why was it so cold in here? Her thoughts were like mini icebergs.
“Hi, you're done already? How'd itâ”
“
Weeeendddaaaaa
. . .” Joy's teeth clattered the moment her lips moved. “Here. On the show. Cook-off! Sixty seconds . . .” She crouched forward with a hiss.
“Sixty seconds!
”
“Wenda? What are you talking about? Sixty seconds?”
“Luke! W
eennnn
daaa!” A TNT-proportion panic attack, no, a nuclear panic attack exploded in her chest. Joy gulped air.
“Wenda's there? On
The Bette Hudson Show
?”
“No, I'm at Coney Island and she just stole my hot dog.
Yessssss
, she's on the show.”
“Easy, girl. Calm down. You can do this. Easy-peasy.”
“Easy-peasy. Luke, it's me, Joy. You know that, right? I tell you, she's out to get me. Oh, I should've seen this coming.” Joy gritted her teeth. Balled her hand into a fist. “I let my guard down and
bam!
Right between the eyes. Happens every time.”
“Joy, steady. Breathe. Listen to me. You. Can. Do. This. Tell me the setup.”
“The setup?
I'm
the setup. Luke, get on an airplane and fly here, right now. I'll stall. I once juggled five hours straight for charity. I can do it again.”
“Joy, I'm in Oklahoma, not Kansas or Oz. And unless there's a magical pair of ruby red shoes in size twelve men's, I'm not going to make it to
The Bette Hudson Show
today. And you juggled for five hours?”
“Focus, Luke. What am I going to
doooo
? Help. Me.”
“Where's Allison? Isn't this outside your rider? Refuse.”
“She's down at the corner Starbucks, hiding. She set me up, then hightailed it out of here.” Joy paced, chewing the tip of her thumbnail. “To think, I almost told her, Luke, before I came out here. That I can't cook. But she looked so desperate for me to do well. I chickened out.
Bak-bak-bak
.”
“Did you bring any flip-flops to fry?”
“Lukeâ”
“What kind of shoes are you wearing now?”
“No, no way, these are brand-new Christian Louboutins.” Purchased on a Manhattan shopping spree with that Benedict Arnold, Allison. “This may be my last chance to own a pair of Louboutins.” Joy conked her fist to her forehead. “Why didn't I pay attention all the nights you cooked at the house?”
“Or the years you've been cooking on a show?”
“Sure, bring that up. Okay, Jesus, right now, I just repent of all my sins. Please, forgive me. I know I haven't been spending much time with You lately, kind of doing my own thing, but I'm sorry about that and can you please, please, deliver me from this evil.”
“Joy?”
“Yes, Jesus? You're taking me home to heaven?”
“Joy, focus. He's not coming for you this minute, but I'm pretty sure He'd tell you to go out there and cook up a storm. Have fun. Be confident. He's with you.”
“Luke, please . . .”
“I know, babe.”
The tender, mellow resonance of his voice sank through her. “I wish you were here.”
“Me too.”
“But you're not, and I have a job to do.” Joy snapped to attention, surging with confidence. “I'm an award-winning athlete. SEC and NCAA Player of the Year. I can do this. Just go out there and cook. Win this thing. I'm a champion.”
“There's the spirit.”
“Okay, it's the top of the seventh inning and the team is up by one. I just have to strike out the next three hitters.”
“Joy, listen to me. Just fry everything. Don't overheat the pans, but make sure the oil is at the right temperature before cooking. Pick a meat, batter and fry it. Batter is eggs, milk, flour, salt. If it's a vegetable, batter and fry it, add a spice of some kind. Garlic. Take your time. Think. You know more than you realize. Make the caramel and chocolate for apples as a dessert. Easy. You're there.”
“Miss Ballard, Miss Ballard, twenty seconds.” The floor manager careened around the side of the set. “There you are. Twenty seconds, Miss Ballard.”
“Luke, it was nice knowing you. And I just want to say I really wish you had kissed me at the Mars versus Venus party. And the night in the meadow. And then when you burned your hand. There, I've said it.”
“Yeah, I guess you did.” His tenor anchored her and flooded her heart with confidence. “Maybe I'll kiss you when I see you again.”
“If I survive.” Stage lights flooded the kitchen set. Bette's intro music played. “I feel like a gladiator. The coliseum awaits.”
“Die with dignity.”
“Not screaming and wailing obscenities at Wenda? Shoot, you're no fun.”
“Hey, Joy, seriously, I'm praying for you.”
“Please welcome Joy Ballard and Wenda Divine
.”
The cook-off wasn't centered on a secret ingredient but a recipe. A Joy Ballard recipe dug from show archives.
How did they get a show archive?
Joy fussed with pots, clamoring about her kitchen station. The recipe they were making was her own chili. This was beyond horrible. Horrible would be a summer prairie right now.
Think, think, think, remember the Tailgate Chili.
But all Joy remembered was it tasted really good.
She eyed the exit. What if she just walked? Laid claim to her rider and exited stage left? Next segment, she'd quit. Leave. And then what? How would she recover, explain it to Allison and TruReality? The notions nailed her feet to the stage floor.
“Our staff made the chili from Joy's show archives.” Bette stomped her foot playfully at Joy. “You've got to get recipes up on your site, girl. What are y'all thinking?” Her faux accent was getting annoying. “I guess you will with your new cookbook. We're going to tell you all about that later in the show. Anyway, Wenda tasted the recipe and will attempt, in a daring feat, to duplicate Joy's recipe, including a secret ingredient.”
“Oooo,”
said the crowd. Joy went numb.
“Are we good to go?” Bette rested one hand on Joy's back. The other on Wenda's. “This should be a breeze for you, Joy.”
Like a solar gust from hell, sure.
Seriously, Jesus, how do I get out of this?
Joy shot Wenda a dagger-glance. She caught it with a glance of glee and mouthed,
You're going down
.
“You have twenty minutes to make the chili and the corresponding dessert with the Ballard Tailgate package. Peanut Butter Football Pie or Overtime Chocolate Cookies.” Bette laughed. “Don't you just love these names? Then our judges, Gina Laredo, Vic Dean, and Nancy Partridge from the Food Channel, will judge our winner. Ready, ladies?” Bette dashed off the set. “And we're cooking off!”
Luke flipped through channels from the chaise-like chair next to Red's bed. It'd been six hours since Joy called. What was she doing?
Red slept with steady, even breathing. The surgery to unclog two arteries had gone well. Dr. Hester was pleased.
Luke pulled his phone out of his pocket, flipped it open, then set it aside. In a moment of panic, she confessed some stupid desire to be kissed.
Don't go thinking she's in love with you, man
.
Luke surfed through the channels, looking but not seeing.
She's probably out on the town, down in Tribeca, celebrating her success with Allison and Bette, maybe Dan and some handsome producer with Hugh Jackman eyes.
Out Red's hospital window, the plains of Oklahoma stretched toward an end-of-day horizon, east meeting west, a pinkish-gold sky touching the dark arc of earth.
In Beaufort, he missed the prairie, the stretch of treeless land to nowhere. But now he missed the steam of the lowcountry and the scent of pine and palmetto.
He missed Joy.
He should stop whining about bankruptcy, third-floor lofts, and lack of a future. He should seize the day. Tell her they belonged together. Lyric and Annie-Rae needed a man to look after them. He could do it, step up to the plate, lose himself in the tight and turbulent cocoon of their home.
Luke exhaled in time with Red. When he glanced back, it blessed him to see his father sleeping peacefully. He was glad he came. Red needed him. The door shoved open and two nurses entered, chatting, then flirting with Luke when they caught him looking.
“. . . I've watched it on YouTube a dozen times already, but it never gets better. I mean, how embarrassing.” Stephanie, the petite one with cat eyes, checked Red's vitals.