Deep Dish (18 page)

V
al watched Gina Foxton and her producer/boyfriend climb into the first golf cart lined up at the end of the dock at Eutaw Island. Scott Zaleski swung himself behind the steering wheel and patted the seat beside him. But Gina shook her head, motioned to D’John, the makeup artist, to take that seat, and instead sat on the backward-facing backseat. Val chuckled at the look on Zaleski’s face. A moment later, he was flying down the dock in the direction of the island.

Tate sat back in the passenger seat of their cart and watched them go.

“Trouble in paradise?” Val asked.

“Yeah,” Tate said. “You could say that. The dickhead got her show canceled because he was screwing the sponsor’s wife.”

“Ow,” Val said. She backed the golf cart away from the pile of baggage mounded on the dock, and then steered the cart down the dock, her head bouncing as the cart sped along on the weathered board planks.

“She’s pissed that I’ve already been on the island,” Tate said, hanging on to his seat with both hands. “Seems to think it’s cheating.”

“Tough,” Val said.

T
he woman who opened the front door at the Eutaw Island Lodge was as tall as she was wide, with short silvery hair and bright blue eyes set into a deeply tanned and lined face. She wore khaki slacks, a pink T-shirt with “
EUTAW ISLAND
” embroi
dered in script over her left breast, and weather-beaten leather deck shoes.

“Welcome,” she said, shaking hands with D’John, Scott, and Gina as they walked into the lodge’s entry hall, Lisa trailing slowly in their wake. “I’m Alice McLemore, but everybody around here just calls me Sis.” She put a sympathetic hand on Lisa’s shoulder. “You okay, shug? Usually the boat ride over from Darien is pretty smooth.”

“It was very smooth,” Gina said. “It’s not seasickness. She’s just a little…hung over.”

Sis looked from Gina to Lisa. “You two are the sisters? I’ve got you sharing a double. It’s two beds. I hope that’s all right.”

“Fine,” Lisa mumbled.

The door opened again, and Tate and Val and the rest of both crews stepped inside the lodge’s living room.

“Welcome, everybody,” Sis said. “Lunch is in the dining room in fifteen minutes. That’ll give you time to drop your stuff in your rooms, and then meet back down here. Please don’t be late, because I promise you, you do not want to get off on the wrong foot with Iris and Inez.”

“No lunch,” Lisa said, groaning. “Bed.”

While everybody else was stepping up to the counter to check in and pick up their keys, D’John was strolling around the lodge, camcorder in hand.

“So, this is the lodge at Rebeccaville,” he said, in a golf commentator’s hushed voice.

It was a large, pleasant room, Gina thought. Low ceilings with heavy age-blackened beams, polished heart-pine floors scattered with worn Oriental rugs, and furniture that reminded her of the living room of any well-bred Atlanta matron. The overstuffed sofas and squashy armchairs were covered in a bright flowered chintz, and the tables and cabinets were good antique reproductions in the expected mahogany. Around the walls were nicely framed bird and botanical prints, with a large, well-done oil seascape hung over the mantel of the large fireplace that took up most of one wall.

D’John didn’t seem overly impressed. “Hmm,” he said, panning
the camera across the room. “I’d call it very Buckhead wannabe. Not really shabby, but it’s not a
Veranda
magazine cover, either.”

“Shh!” Gina hushed him. “I’m going to go look in on Lisa. See you down here in ten minutes. I don’t know who Iris and Inez are, but I know I don’t want to get ’em mad at me.”

She found her room on the second floor of the lodge. Lisa was sprawled out facedown on one of the queen-size beds in the room, dressed only in her panties and bra, her clubbing ensemble left in a heap on the floor.

“Lisa?” Gina bent down to check on her younger sister. “Are you all right?”

“Hot,” Lisa said. “No air-conditioning.”

Gina stood up and looked around the room. There was a set of triple windows on the wall facing the bed. The windows were open, and the frilly lace curtains moved slightly in the breeze coming off the marsh.

“It’s not so bad,” Gina said. “We’ve got a nice sea breeze, even though it’s midday.”

“No AC,” Lisa mumbled.

“I’ll see if Sis will send up a fan,” Gina said. She stepped into the bathroom to wash her hands and face, and then hurried downstairs to the dining room.

She met Scott on the broad stair landing between floors.

“How’s your room?” he asked solicitously. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” she said. “No air-conditioning, but there’s a decent breeze coming in. Lisa’s not too happy about it, though.”

“She all right?” He didn’t even try to look concerned.

“She’ll be fine,” Gina said. “I’ll take her some ginger ale and saltine crackers after lunch. That usually perks her up.”

Barry Adelman stood outside the entrance to the dining room, beaming at them as they approached. He was dressed in what Gina guessed was a Manhattanite’s version of island-wear, a scientifically pressed Tommy Bahama shirt adorned with parrots and hibiscus blossoms, soft banana-colored silk trousers, Italian leather loafers, sans socks, and a black ball cap bearing the Adel-Weis Productions logo.

“Gina!” he exclaimed. “And Scott! How are you two?” He took Gina’s hands in his. “Isn’t this great? Are you two as excited as I am?”

“Absolutely,” she said, accepting the kisses he landed on both cheeks. “I’m thrilled to be here, Mr. Adelman.”

“It’s Barry,” he corrected. “Come on into the dining room and meet the rest of the kids. We’ll bring everybody up to speed on what we’ve got planned for this week.”

The dining room had faded chintz wallpaper, a long, polished mahogany table, and a dozen good repro Chippendale chairs arranged around it. A huge brass chandelier held candles instead of lightbulbs. Seated around the table were “the kids,” as Adelman referred to them: gaffers, cameramen, sound and light techs, and two or three other assorted crew members whose names Gina couldn’t remember and whose job description she didn’t quite understand.

Tate Moody and Val sat at the far end of the table, and Adelman pointed Scott and Gina to two chairs beside D’John, who was already seated near the door, chatting away with one of the New York crew members.

“All right, everybody,” Barry announced, standing at the head of the table like the patriarch of his newly formed clan. “Let’s get some lunch under our belts, and then we’ll have our powwow.”

He sat down, and as he did so, two scrawny, dour-faced women in their early sixties entered the room, each balancing an enormous food-laden tray on one shoulder.

The women wore black slacks and the same pink T-shirt as Sis. With their high cheekbones and gray hair pulled back into tight knoblike buns, they appeared to be identical twins.

“Miss?” one of the women said, pausing beside Gina’s chair. “You want da swimp or da chicken salad?”

“Uh…” Gina paused, trying to decipher the server’s question.

“Get the shrimp salad,” Tate called from the far end of the table. “Inez makes the best shrimp salad on the Georgia coast.”

Inez flashed a dazzling smile in Tate’s direction and giggled girlishly. “Oh, you hush up, you,” she retorted. She turned to Gina. “He’s a mess, ain’t he?”

“A big mess,” Gina agreed. “I guess I’ll try the shrimp salad.”

The thick white crockery plate held a mound of shredded iceberg lettuce and a huge scoop of pale pink shrimp salad, along with two slices of dead-ripe tomato and a handful of Town House crackers.

She loaded a cracker with a forkful of the shrimp salad, tasted, and nearly swooned. The shrimp were sweet and moist and perfectly cooked, finely diced, and mixed with mayonnaise that could only have been homemade. She could taste a hint of lemon juice, and a bite of green that she identified as chopped capers. She was superbly happy and deeply disturbed.

Tate Moody was right. Again.

Talk swirled around the table. Barry Adelman and Scott had a long discussion about wine, and college basketball, and some kind of digital technology that Gina did not understand. When Gina looked up, she saw Tate, down at the end of the table, idly chatting with his producer when he was not giving her that cocky told-you-so look of his.

Gina managed to finish her lunch and restrain herself from picking up her plate to lick clean the last remnants of the shrimp salad. Iris came back around the table, offering small dishes of dessert—some kind of cake, peach cobbler, or butterscotch pudding.

“No, thanks,” Gina said, sipping her iced tea. What she really wanted was another scoop of that shrimp salad. And the recipe. She’d kill for that recipe.

Suddenly, Barry was tapping the side of his glass with his spoon. “Everybody,” he called, getting to his feet. “I know you’ve all been on pins and needles, so let’s get down to business.”

Gina sat back in her chair, arms crossed.

“
Food Fight
”—Barry said, pausing to add dramatic effect—“is going to be the biggest hit of the fall season.” He looked around the room, nodding thoughtfully. “And you people are going to make that hit.”

“Yeah!” Scott said, pumping the air with his fist as the others applauded politely.

“You!” Barry said, pointing at Tate, “are going to go mano a mano against the South’s leading lady of healthy regional cuisine!

“And you,” he said, turning to Gina with a flourish, “are going
to have to figure out how to catch and cook a dinner in the wilds of Eutaw Island, competing against the wiliest outdoorsman on land or sea.

“And I,” he said modestly, “am going to make that magic happen.”

He turned toward Zeke and snapped his fingers. Zeke peeled a yellow sticky from his shirtfront and handed it to his boss.

“Logistics,” Barry announced. “Tomorrow morning at oh-eight-hundred, you’ll each be assigned your kitchen space over at the old ballroom at Rebeccaville. Each refrigerator and pantry will be stocked with identical ingredients. You’ll be given staples—salt, pepper, a limited amount of seasonings, flour, sugar, cornmeal, cooking oil, eggs, butter, cream, and the most basic of vegetables: onions, carrots, celery, and potatoes. Your kitchens will have the most modern appliances available—all provided, of course, by our sponsors, Viking.”

Barry turned toward Zeke again, and was handed yet another yellow sticky note.

“Oh, yes,” he added. “Makeup and wardrobe call will be at oh-seven-hundred.”

“Makeup?” Tate started to object, but Val put her hand over his mouth.

“This isn’t regional television,” Barry said blandly. “Our audience expects our chefs to look like the entertainment stars they are.”

“Uh-huh,” D’John agreed, nodding vigorously. “I heard that.”

“Time and task,” Zeke whispered.

“Right,” Barry said. “When we start taping, you’ll be given your cooking task for the day, and the time limit. Taping will start immediately afterward.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, looking pleased with himself. “Any questions?”

“Uh, Barry,” Gina ventured. “Where, exactly, will we be getting the rest of the ingredients for this mystery meal we’ll be preparing?”

“From the bounty of the sea and the land,” Barry said, throwing his arms out in an expansive gesture.

“Catch it or kill it,” Tate said smugly.

“Fine,” Gina snapped. “Will we have fishing tackle, that kind of thing, available?”

Zeke handed Barry a yellow sticky. He read and then crumpled it and stuck it in the pocket of his slacks. “You’ll have what you need,” he said. “Obviously, we want to leave you in the dark about some elements of the competition, in order to heighten the suspense for our viewers.”

“Judges?” Tate asked. “Who decides the winner?”

Barry blinked. “The judges decide, of course.” He held up a hand.

“All right, everybody, that’s enough for now. We’ll want the crew members to stay here after the lunch dishes are cleared, for our production meeting.”

“You two,” he said, nodding toward Gina, and then Tate, “will have the afternoon to familiarize yourself with the beauty of Eutaw Island. You’ll each have a golf cart at your disposal.”

“And a two-way radio,” Zeke added. “Cell-phone reception is pretty poor over here.”

Immediately, Scott and Barry seized their BlackBerrys and started madly thumbing.

“No service,” Scott said bleakly.

“So you’ll want to make sure you have your radios with you anytime you leave the lodge, just in case something happens while you’re out in the wilds,” Zeke said.

“Don’t want to lose track of our stars,” Barry said.

“Oh,” Zeke said, standing up and gathering his clipboard and file folders. “One more thing. There are cart paths all over the island. Stay on the paths, and you shouldn’t have any problems.”

Gina stood up too and stretched. She was eager to get outside and try to start catching up to the unfair lead Tate Moody already had over her.

“And one more thing,” Zeke called. “Stay away from the alligators.”

“Alligators!” D’John shrieked. “Jesus, Lord!”

T
ate bolted from the dining room, but Val managed to grab his arm before he broke into a run.

“Hey, hang on a minute,” she said. “What’s the hurry?”

“You heard what Barry said,” Tate said. “I want to get out and ride around the island, scope out the possibilities for tomorrow. It’s been almost two years since I was here last, you know.”

“It’s an island,” Val said. “What could have changed? It’s not like they’ve opened a new supermarket or restaurant.”

“You’re kidding, right? You haven’t really spent two years on this show without figuring out that everything takes advance planning.”

Val shrugged and gestured toward the door. “Be my guest.”

“You’re not coming with me?”

“Hmm. Let me think. It’s summer, we’re on an island, and it’s Africa hot. There are bugs, snakes, and yes, alligators. No. Thanks for the invite, but I think I’d rather have a root canal. You go do your homework. I’m gonna go sneak a smoke, and then I’m headed for the beach to work on my tan.”

G
ina opened the door to her room and tiptoed inside. “Lisa?” she whispered. The room was in half darkness and was now, officially, stifling. Her sister was still facedown on the bed, fast asleep, a tiny trickle of drool pooling on her pillowcase.

Gina set the plate of saltines and the can of ginger ale on the bedside table. She went out into the hallway and brought in the portable
fan Sis had loaned her. She set it up on the dresser, pointed it toward her sister’s bed, and turned it on.

The fan hummed quietly, and the fringed edge of the chenille bedspread ruffled in its breeze.

From outside the bedroom window, Gina could hear the raucous calls of a blue jay sitting on the branch of a sweet gum tree, and the thrum of cicadas. A faint floral scent wafted through the room. She was operating on only a few hours’ sleep, and the adrenaline of the food fight was fast running out. She was sorely tempted to join her sister in an impromptu nap.

She stood and stretched. A movement outside the window caught her eye. She went over and peered out, just in time to see Tate Moody careening away on a golf cart.

“Crap!” She jammed her cap on her head, grabbed a bottle of water from the dresser, and was out the door before she did an about-face. “Bug spray,” she chided herself. “Don’t want to go on camera with bug bites.”

She found her golf cart parked outside the front porch, with the promised two-way radio stashed in a cup holder that also held a map of the island. She slathered the insect repellent on her arms, legs, neck, and face while studying the map.

Eutaw Island, she discovered, was shaped roughly like a large thumb with a wart extending on each side. On the inland side of the island, facing Eutaw Sound and, across the sound, the mainland and Darien, the wart held the ferry dock where they’d landed earlier in the day.

According to the map, on the ocean side of the island, the wart was the site of the Eutaw Lighthouse. The cart paths seemed to form a network throughout every part of the island. All she needed to do was figure out where she wanted to go first. Tate Moody had headed east. Gina decided she would go north.

The day was already a scorcher, with the sun blazing down white-hot on the top of her ball cap. She was glad of the insect repellent as a cloud of gnats rose up from the tall grass on the roadside.

The branches of huge old live oaks lined the crushed oyster
shell cart path on either side, their low-lying branches extending to form a canopy dripping with Spanish moss. Riding down the path, Gina suddenly felt herself in a cool, green tunnel. Squirrels scampered up and down the trees, and twice she saw armadillos scuffling through the fallen leaves and palmettos. She was maybe a quarter of a mile away from the lodge when she spied a woman walking along the path up ahead. She wore a pink T-shirt and black slacks, and a pair of sturdy black shoes were slung by their knotted laces over her shoulder.

“Inez?” she called, coming up alongside the woman.

“I’m Iris,” the older woman said.

“Sorry,” Gina said quickly. “Can I give you a ride somewhere?”

Iris hesitated only a moment. “Guess that’d be awright,” she said, climbing in beside Gina.

“Where to?”

“Up yonder,” Iris said, pointing forward. “They’s a fork in the road. When you get to that, go on to the right.”

“I’m Gina Foxton,” Gina said, groping for a thread of conversation.

“TV lady,” Iris said, nodding in recognition. “You right cute, ain’t you?”

Gina laughed. “Well, my mama and daddy seem to think so.”

Iris studied her for a moment. “Mr. Tate Moody thinks so too.”

“Oh, no,” Gina said quickly. “I’m sure you’re mistaken about that.”

“I know what I seen,” Iris said. “He cut his eyes away when he see you lookin’, but he like what he sees.”

“He’s just watching me because we’re in competition for this network show,” Gina explained.

“You say so,” Iris said, unconvinced. She took a handkerchief from the pocket of her slacks and mopped her sweat-dampened face with it.

Anxious to change the subject, Gina pointed at the older woman’s bare feet. “Don’t your feet get cut up walking on these oyster shells?”

Iris’s laugh sounded like a honk. She wriggled her toes. “Me ’n’
Inez, we been goin’ barefeets on this island our whole life. Shoes is what hurts my feets. But Sis, she want us to wear ’em at work.”

“You and Inez are twins?” Gina asked.

“Yes’m. She’s the older one,” Iris said. “Think she knows it all too. Like I can’t make swimps as good as her!”

“About that shrimp salad today,” Gina said, seizing the moment. “That really was the best shrimp salad I have ever tasted in my life.”

Iris nodded. “You seen Inez actin’ like she made that up her ownself? That swimps was our mama’s recipe. Inez, she take the credit, but Mama the one made that up.”

“The chicken salad looked delicious too,” Gina said.

“It ain’ too bad,” Iris conceded. “Me and Inez, we come up with that. Just use the same dressin’ we put on the swimps, but with some pecans and a little bit of honey and some chopped-up celery.”

“Homemade mayonnaise?” Gina asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Iris said. “Mama didn’t have hardly no money for store-bought.”

They were at the fork in the road. “Right here you turn,” Iris directed. “You could let me off here, if you want.”

“Oh, no,” Gina said. “I’ll take you all the way. Now. About that shrimp salad. Do you catch the shrimp over here?”

“Yes’m,” Iris said. “Up in the creek. My daddy, he used to knit nets, sell ’em over there in Darien. We got a good net he made us.”

Gina handed her the map of Eutaw Island. “Could you show me a good place to catch shrimp in the creek?”

Iris gave her a quizzical look. “You studyin’ gettin’ you some swimps? City gal like you?”

It was Gina’s turn to laugh. “I grew up in Odum. You know where that is?”

“Over there ’round by Waycross?” Iris said.

“That’s right,” Gina said. “My daddy taught me to shrimp too. He didn’t knit nets, but he taught me how to throw a cast net as good as a boy. I didn’t have any brothers,” she added. “Just a younger sister.”

“Yeah, sisters is a trial and a tribulation,” Iris said with a dramatic sigh. She picked up the map and squinted down at it. With a long
bony finger she stabbed at a squiggly line. “That right there is Fiddlercrab Creek. That’s da place me ’n’ Inez goes for swimps.”

Gina studied the map. “Is it hard to get to? I don’t see a cart path marked near it.”

“You got a boat?” Iris asked.

“I don’t know,” Gina admitted. “They haven’t told us too much yet. All we know is that tomorrow, they’ll tell us our challenge, and then we have to go out and gather food for a meal and cook it.”

“Hmm,” Iris said. She leaned over the edge of the cart and spit a stream of brown chewing tobacco into the soft sand.

“We never had us no boat neither,” she said.

Suddenly, the golf cart hit an exposed root in the road and nearly bumped then both off their seats.

“Whoa, Nelly!” Iris hollered.

“Sorry,” Gina said.

“Right up here,” Iris said, grabbing Gina’s arm. “Stop the car.”

Gina did as she was instructed and stopped the cart at the edge of a clearing among the oaks and palmettos.

Sitting behind a bleached-out cedar post fence, Iris’s house was a tidy wooden cottage with a tin roof and a tiny covered porch crammed with potted plants. A large tree shaded one corner of the house, and a row of hydrangeas with huge blue mopheads extended across the concrete block foundation. The yard was neatly swept sand, edged with rows of sun-whitened conch shells. A satellite dish poking up from the roof of the house was the only reminder that this was the twenty-first century.

“How pretty,” Gina exclaimed. “Have you lived here long?”

“Me ’n’ Inez lived here our whole life,” Iris said, beaming with pride. “Our granddaddy built this house. We grow’d up here, went to school here. The other chirren went off to the mainland, got jobs and families, but when Mama got sick, me and Inez moved in here and took care of her and Daddy till they died.”

“You never married?” Gina asked gently.

“No’m,” Iris said, climbing out of the cart. “Had me some boyfriends, but wadn’t none of ’em as good a man as my daddy, so I just never did jump the broom. Now, Inez, she was boy-crazy for sure.
Had her two different sorry husbands, and buried ’em both a long time ago.”

“That’s too bad,” Gina said.

“Too bad for them.” Iris cackled. “Folks said my sister wore them mens slap out!” She looked over her shoulder at her house. “You like to come in, have a glass of buttermilk?”

“I’d love some. I don’t know when I’ve had a glass of fresh buttermilk,” Gina said. “Don’t tell me you keep a cow here on the island.”

“Not no more we don’t,” Iris said sadly. “We got store-bought.”

Gina edged the cart into the sandy edge of the yard and followed her hostess inside a rusty iron gate. As soon as she set foot in the yard, she was assailed with a cacophony of clucks and cries and flapping wings. Half a dozen large brown-and-white chickens rushed toward her.

“Guinea hens!” Gina cried. “My grandmother always had guinea hens on her farm.”

“Yes’m,” Iris said proudly. “We’ve always had ’em too. Seem like the only old-timey thing left on this island.”

Iris pushed the door to the cottage open. “Well, this is it,” she said, hanging back shyly. “It ain’t nothin’ much, but it’s ours, free and clear.”

It was cool and dim inside. The cottage’s main room was a combination living room, dining room, and kitchen. An ancient brown sofa and a black vinyl recliner with duct-taped arms were positioned in front of a modern-looking television in one corner of the room. The wall above the television held rows of framed family pictures.

The other half of the room was a throwback to the old-timey times Iris had spoken of. An ancient cast-iron cookstove had pride of place in the kitchen. A collection of battered tin pots and pans and cast-iron skillets hung from nails pounded into the bare wooden walls, and a box fan held the only window propped open.

“Sit down right here,” Iris said, pointing to a wooden kitchen table with two chrome and vinyl dinette chairs.

She went over to a rusted refrigerator and brought out a carton of buttermilk, poured a glass for her guest, and sat down beside Gina.

“Now,” Iris said, sighing contentedly. “Lemme tell you ’bout catchin’ you a nice mess of swimps.”