Deep Dish (33 page)

G
ina needed to pack. She needed to pack, she needed to look at the schematics for the kitchen set for her new show, she needed to read the TCC contracts Sharon Douglas had faxed over—two days ago—and she had a list of phone calls to return.

Instead, she lay on the floor of her living room and stared up at the ceiling fan, which whirred away effortlessly. She had the telephone on one side of her, and her list, neatly typed by Lisa, on the other. But she had neither the energy, nor the will, to do much more than wonder at that ceiling fan. She’d lived in the town house two whole years, and never even cleaned its blades, which were caked with dust. What would Birdelle say about such a state of affairs?

The curtains at her windows fluttered slightly, and she could see and hear the gray rain beating down on the balcony. Pop-up thunderstorms, the weatherman called this kind of summer rain. The front would move through soon, and more of the usual stifling humidity would blanket Atlanta. In a way, the thought comforted her. It matched her mood.

She glanced at her to-do list. It was actually a list of lists, with numbers and bullets, even an index of color-coded Post-its. When had her party-child sister suddenly become such a model of anal-retentiveness?

Gina heard the lock turn in the door, but didn’t bother to get up.

Lisa and D’John came bustling in, their arms full of boxes and bags, the rain glistening on their faces.

“Geen,” Lisa called, but she stopped short when she saw her sister, lying prone on the floor.

“What’s wrong?” Lisa asked, dropping an armful of shopping bags from Neiman-Marcus, Bloomingdale’s, and Saks, and kneeling beside her sister. “Oh, my God, tell me you didn’t fall and break something.”

“I’m fine,” Gina said, fanning her arms and legs to demonstrate how fine she was.

“Then why are you just lying there like a beached jellyfish when we have about a bajillion things to do?” Lisa demanded. She picked up the list. “Did you check anything off this while we were gone?”

“I’m feeling overwhelmed,” Gina said.

“You’re
feeling overwhelmed? I’m the one who’s been running all over town, trying to get everything ready for New York,” Lisa said. She yanked at her sister’s arm. “Come on, get up. D’John and I brought back all these yummy clothes for you to try on. That’ll cheer you up.”

“What’s wrong with her?” D’John asked, opening up a row of shoe boxes and propping a shoe on each lid. He gave Gina’s outfit—faded black yoga pants, baggy white T-shirt, and bare feet—a withering appraisal. “I mean—besides those rags she’s wearing.”

“She’s been like this since we got back from Eutaw,” Lisa said, removing the protective plastic from the thick bundle of hanging clothes. “She hardly eats, sleeps most of the day, won’t leave the house. And you can see for yourself, she’s decided to dress like a bag lady. You’d think she’d lost the damned Food Fight instead of Tate Moody.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Gina said, standing up slowly. “I’m fine. Gimme the danged clothes.” She took an armful of dresses and retreated to the bedroom.

“Come out and show us when you’ve got the first thing on,” Lisa instructed. “And for God’s sake, do something with your hair.”

“Ooh,” D’John said, reaching into the black leather Prada messenger bag hanging from his shoulder. “I’ve got a surprise for you girls. Wait till you see.”

He handed Lisa a diskette. “Here. Put that in the DVD player. It’s my masterpiece.”

“How’s this?” Gina asked, emerging from the bedroom. She wore a brilliant lime green, scoop-neck silk tank over a short pink, yellow, and lime flowered skirt. She’d combed her hair, but it still hung limp around her face.

“Stand up straight.” Lisa poked her between the shoulder blades.

“Turn around.”

Gina did a desultory twirl.

“I don’t get it.” Lisa’s face puckered in concentration. “This outfit looked adorable on the mannequin.”

“I’m not a mannequin,” Gina said.

“Right,” Lisa said. “A mannequin has a spine.”

“Girls, girls, girls,” D’John said, brandishing the remote control. “Play nice. Now let’s sit down together and watch the show.”

Lisa sat on the sofa, and Gina flopped down onto the love seat. “What’s this supposed to be?” Gina asked, fiddling with the sash of the skirt.

“It’s my documentary of the Food Fight,” D’John said. “I only just finished editing it this morning. And it’s fabulous, if I do say so myself. I call it ‘A Star Is Born.’”

“That’s original,” Gina said.

“Shhh.” D’John and Lisa both glared at her.

The television screen flickered on, and Gina and Lisa appeared on camera, standing arm in arm in front of the ferry at Darien, before their departure for Eutaw Island.

“Nooo,” Lisa wailed, covering her face with her hands. “I am soooo hungover. My face is pea green. Gina, how could you let me go out in public looking like that?”

From off camera, D’John’s voice asked, “Are you girls excited about the Food Fight?”

Gina’s face glowed. “We’re gonna kick butt! Girls rule. Boys drool.” The girls turned toward each other and slapped a giddy high five.

Now Tate Moody was strolling toward the ferry, his back to the camera, with Moonpie trotting along right beside him.

Lisa leaned toward the television to get a closer look, and sighed. “He does have the cutest ass.”

“Why do you think I shot him from this angle?” D’John giggled.

“Tate, hey, Tate,” D’John’s voice called from the television.

Tate turned and frowned briefly when he saw he was on camera.

“Oh. Hey, D’John.”

“All of America wants to know. Do you think you can outcook Gina Foxton and win this Food Fight?”

Tate stuck his hands in his pockets. “I’m gonna give it my best shot. The lady’s good, no doubt about that. I feel like I’ve gotta dig deep and stay focused. But I’m feeling great. Moonpie and I are bringing our A game. We came to play.”

“Could he stick in one more tired sports cliché?” Gina muttered.

“It’ll be a fight to the finish,” Tate concluded.

Gina settled back into the sofa cushions, her gaze riveted to the screen.

For the next hour, D’John’s documentary had the two women groaning, cheering, and catcalling as the moviemaker caught the cast and crew at work and at play on Eutaw Island.

“Booo!” Gina called, the first time Beau Stapleton strolled onto the set. “Do you believe that pompous twit with his greasy ponytail? Who does he think he is, Steven Seagal?”

“Look at Zeke,” Lisa cooed. “Y’all, I know he’s kind of a geek, but seriously, don’t you think he’s so geeky he’s adorable? And now that I’ve gotten him out of all that dreary black, and into some decent clothes and eyeglasses made in this century, doesn’t he look kind of like a young George Clooney?”

“He’s transformed,” Gina said dryly.

“By the love of a good woman,” D’John added.

They watched each of the first two challenges, and cheered and jeered at the judge’s comments, and made catty comments about everybody who appeared on screen.

“It’s a good thing you filmed all this,” Gina told D’John. “By the time we got to that third challenge, I was so tired, I could barely hold my head up. I honestly don’t know how I managed to be coherent on camera.”

The documentary showed Barry giving both Tate and Gina their
recipes, and unveiling the ingredients, and then skipped ahead to the first break in the television shoot.

“Speaking of coherency, or the lack of,” Lisa said, pointing with a can of Natty Lite to the screen, where D’John’s camera focused on Tate, taking a healthy belt from the pint bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

“I still can’t believe Tate did that,” she went on. “He didn’t even bother to try to hide the fact that he was drinking. Zeke was really upset about it. He even warned Tate during the break, but he said Tate just blew him off.”

“So, Tate, how do you think it’s going?” D’John’s disembodied voice asked.

The camera showed Tate leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping from a bottle of water. “It’s all right.” He frowned a little. “I’m a little concerned about the oven. It doesn’t seem to be hot enough. Plus, these idiots gave us butter to make a pie crust. But what do you expect? They probably think lard is something straight out of
Deliverance
.”

D’John laughed off camera, and the two men chatted for a moment more, until Zeke’s voice could be heard. “People, people?”

The camera panned over the counter, showing Tate’s mixing bowl and rolling pin, the opened sack of flour, and the Jack Daniel’s bottle.

“Hey,” Lisa said, pointing again with her beer can. “Does that bottle look pretty full to y’all?”

“Can you back this thing up?” Gina asked.

Lisa took the remote control and reversed, until she came to the still life of the counter again.

“It’s totally full,” Gina said, leaning forward to stare. “And when Tate was talking to you, D’John, did it seem like he was totally sober?”

“Sure,” D’John said.

“Hmmm.” Gina sat back against the cushions again, watching the rest of the movie with renewed interest, especially any part that showed Tate Moody.

“He’s fine when he’s not on camera, when he thinks nobody’s
watching,” she said as the movie wound down. “But as soon as that green light flashes on, he’s slurring his words and stumbling around and acting like a total butthead.”

“A total drunk butthead,” Lisa added.

“Did you take another shot of Tate’s kitchen?” Gina asked.

“Can’t remember,” D’John said. “I had hours and hours of tape. It took me all night just to boil it down to a little under two hours.”

He picked up the remote control and punched the play button again.

Gina leaned forward, all her concentration focused on the television.

“There,” she said, pointing at the screen, where Tate busily cleaned up his kitchen. His movements were quick and efficient.

“He’s not drunk at all,” Gina said, her eyes widening.

“But why would he act drunk?” Lisa asked. “That makes no sense.”

“He’s faking the whole thing,” Gina said angrily. “He deliberately threw the last challenge so that I could win.”

“But why?” D’John asked.

“Because he didn’t think I was good enough to win on my own,” she said, choking on the words. “Damn him.”

G
ina blew into the
Vittles
production office without bothering to knock. She found Val Foster hunched over her laptop, her long fingertips racing over the keyboard as a lit cigarette spiraled smoke ceilingward.

“Where is he?” Gina demanded.

“Hello, nice to see you too,” Val drawled. “I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

“He deliberately threw the Food Fight,” Gina said. “He lost on purpose.”

Val propped her chin on her fist. “Ya think?”

Without waiting for an invitation, Gina unloaded a teetering pile of mail, tapes, and scripts and collapsed into the only other chair in the room.

“You knew?”

Val took a long drag on her cigarette. “Yes.”

It was not the answer she was expecting. Gina sat back in the chair. “And that was okay with you—that he blew your chances at a network show?”

“No,” Val said. “It wasn’t okay. I wanted to wring his neck. But he didn’t ask for my permission. So, excuse me for asking, but what’s your complaint? And why are you even here? Aren’t you supposed to be in New York for production meetings?”

“We leave in the morning,” Gina said. “And my complaint is—I don’t need Tate Moody patronizing me. I’m a danged fine cook all on my own. Winning it this way—that’s not what I wanted. It changes everything. Cheapens it.”

Val stubbed out the cigarette and lit another one. “Oh, no. You’re not gonna give me a load of ethics crap, are you? This is show business, sweetie. There’s no room for ethics in our line of work. The bottom line is, you won. That’s all that counts.”

“Not with me,” Gina said, crossing her arms over her chest. “I don’t want to win this way. I won’t. So just tell me where he is.”

“He’s gone.”

“Where to?”

“Somewhere up in the mountains. He’s supposed to be scouting a location for the fall shoot. He doesn’t check in with me on a regular basis when we’re not in production. All I know is, when he came by here a couple of days ago, he had the Vagabond hooked up to his truck.”

“All right.” Gina stood, hesitated, then stuck out her hand. “Thanks, Val. I appreciate your honesty. And don’t worry. I’m going to straighten this whole thing out.”

Val ignored the peace offering. “Good luck trying. I should tell you, once he makes up his mind about something, Tate Moody gets what you southerners call downright mulish. And he’s got his mind made up about you, Regina Foxton.”

“I’m pretty mulish myself,” Gina said.

“Suit yourself.”

“I will.”

Gina was halfway down the hall, standing in front of the elevator, when Val stuck her head out the office door.

“Hey, Reggie,” she called.

Gina turned around and frowned. “Nobody calls me that.”

“Excuse the hell out of me,” Val said. “I just remembered. Tate said something about a caddis fly hatch on the Soque.”

“What’s a caddis fly? And what’s the Soque?”

“I’m not sure about the caddis fly part, but the Soque is a river. Or more like a stream, if you ask me. Up in the mountains. We did a show up there last summer. I remember we bought groceries in Clarkesville. Whole damn county is dry. I had to drive all the way to Gainesville just to buy a bottle of Dewar’s.”

“Okay. That’s a start. Thanks.”

“Just don’t tell him I told you where to look,” Val cautioned. “He made it pretty clear when he was here that he didn’t want any company.”

E
ven though it was midweek, traffic on I-85 was especially brutal. It was only when she sailed past the exit for Lake Lanier that Gina allowed herself a brief, grim smile of satisfaction. She and Scott had spent several weekends at the lake earlier in the year. He’d made noises then about the two of them moving in together, but by then her mother had already shipped Lisa to Atlanta to live with her. Thank the Lord for Lisa, Gina thought, and not for the first time that week.

Gina headed north on U.S. 441, and before long she saw the deep green of the mountains ahead. The highway dipped and rose, and she sped past signs for towns like Homer, Lula, and Cornelia, intent on trying to make it to Clarkesville before five.

She slowed as she reached the courthouse square in Clarkesville, realizing for the first time that she had no idea where to start looking for Tate Moody. The map she’d consulted before leaving Atlanta showed the Soque River as a thin blue squiggle, meandering all over Habersham County.

When she saw a gas station with a sign advertising “Soda, Cigs, Milk, Red Wigglers, Ice, Bread,” she pulled in.

Gina got a Diet Coke out of the walk-in drink cooler, and, after making sure no one else was in the store, a large bag of fried pork rinds.

The elderly woman behind the cashier’s counter added up her purchases, and Gina handed over her money.

“Excuse me,” Gina said, offering what she hoped was a winning smile. “I’m trying to track down an old friend of mine who’s up here fishing this week. And I’m wondering if you could suggest where would be a good place to start looking?”

The woman, who wore a flowered cotton scarf over a headful of pink sponge rollers, looked doubtful. “Honey, I ain’t much for fishin’. Farris, my husband, he liked to fish some, but he passed back in October.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Gina said, impulsively reaching out and clasping the old woman’s hand. “I think my friend was going to fish on the Soque. And he might have stopped in here, for groceries or something. He drives a red pickup truck, and he’s got this big silver travel trailer that looks kind of like an old toaster hooked up to it. And a dog. He’s got an adorable English setter, named Moonpie. Maybe you’ve seen them?”

“You talking about Tate Moody?”

“Yes!” Gina cried. “Do you know where he is?”

“He come in here yesterday, bought some potted meat, soda crackers, and bananas,” the old woman said. “He didn’t tell me his name, but me and Farris, we used to watch
Vittles
all the time. I knowed him right off the bat. He’s shorter in real life, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” Gina said.

“But he’s real easy to look at,” the woman went on. “I wouldn’t kick him out of my bed, if you know what I mean.”

“Did he say where he’d be staying?”

“Didn’t ask,” the old woman said. “But last summer, him and that whole gang of show folk stayed over at Glen-Ella Springs.”

“That’s a motel?”

“More like an inn. I reckon I could call Barrie, see if he’s there.”

“Oh, would you? I’d be so grateful.”

The old woman plucked a cell phone from a holder on her hip and punched in the number. “Barrie? It’s Annette from the Gas ’n’ Go. Listen, there’s a pretty young lady here huntin’ Tate Moody. He come in the store yesterday, and I thought maybe he’s stayin’ with you.”

She listened and nodded. “That so? I’ll tell her. You too.”

“Is he there?” Gina asked.

“Well, he comes in there in the morning and gets breakfast with Barrie and Bobby, and she lets him use her shower, but she says she thinks he’s got the camper set up on Don Pate’s property on Twin Branch Gap. You know where that’s at?”

“I don’t know where anything’s at up here. Could you draw me a map?”

The woman sketched a drawing on the back of a brown paper
sack and handed it over. “It ain’t easy to find,” she warned. “And once you leave the county road, it’s all gravel back up in there. Gets pretty dusty this time of year.”

“I’ll be all right,” Gina said. “Thank you again for all your help.”

The old lady studied her face for a minute. “I keep thinking you favor somebody famous. You ever been on television your ownself?”

Gina dimpled. “Well, as a matter of fact—”

“I knew it,” the old lady said, slapping her palm on the counter. “You’re Peggy Jane Shannon from QVC—right? I just love those Capodimonte statues you sell on there.” She grabbed her pen and another paper sack. “Would you autograph that for me? Wait till I tell my sister who come in here today. Peggy Jane Shannon. Lookin’ for Tate Moody. Boy howdy.”

“Boy howdy is right,” Gina said, scribbling the QVC host’s name on the sack.

An hour later, as the Honda wheezed up the steep grade of Twin Branch Gap Road in a cloud of dust, Gina was having serious doubts about the Gas ’n’ Go lady’s talents as a cartographer. Thick greenery crowded in from both sides of the narrow road, and occasionally, off to her left, she could see the glint of the sun on rocks and water, down a dramatic incline.

“He better be here,” Gina fumed, scanning the horizon for any sign of a bright red truck or a big silver canned ham on wheels. She’d crunched her way through the whole cellophane bag of pork rinds as she rehearsed her lines. Now if she could just find the rat…

It was close to seven o’clock when she spotted a flash of silver through the tree line. She turned the Honda into a short, rutted dirt path that cut through a blooming meadow of daylilies, Queen Anne’s lace, and purple clover. At the end of the path, the Vagabond was set up in the shade of a huge sycamore tree, with Tate’s truck parked beside it. A bright blue awning extended from the Vagabond’s side, and beneath it were a charcoal grill, a folding picnic table, and a beach chair.

Gina pulled the Honda alongside the truck and got out. The air was cool and sweet and smelled of honeysuckle.

“Tate?” She strode over to the Vagabond, intent on treeing her quarry.

Moonpie, who’d been sprawled on his side in the open doorway of the trailer, sprang to his feet, his bark surprisingly fierce. But when he saw who the visitor was, he leaped up, placing his front paws on her chest.

“Hey, spotty.” Gina scratched the dog’s ears. “You glad to see me?”

The dog slurped her face lovingly.

“Where’s the boss?” she asked, stepping inside the trailer.

Gone fishing was the obvious answer. The Vagabond’s interior was tidy. A coffee mug sat in the dish drainer, a faded blue work shirt hung from a hook by the bunk area, and a laptop computer was stowed on the dinette table, beside a flat plastic box that held an assortment of tiny fishing flies stuck to a strip of Styrofoam.

“Dang it,” she said, clomping back down the steps. She followed a worn path through the meadow and came to a steep bluff looking down at the rock-bound Soque River.

She cupped her hands over her mouth to make a megaphone. “Tate Moody! Where are you?”

When no answer came, she considered climbing down to the river. But her shoes, flat-soled canvas espadrilles, would be no match for the rocky incline. And anyway, she had no idea of which direction to take.

“Tate Moody,” she called again. “I want to talk to you.”

Gina stood on the bluff, staring down at the deepening shadows on the riverbank. It would be dark soon, she knew. He’d have to come back. And when he did, she would be right here, waiting to rip him a new one.

She didn’t have long to wait.

Ten minutes later, she heard footsteps in the underbrush, and Moonpie went shooting past, scrambling with ease down the slope to meet his master.

“Hey, buddy. What’s happening?”

He had a fly rod slung over one shoulder, and a canvas fishing creel slung over the other. His face was tanned even deeper than usual, and he climbed the bluff slowly in hip-high rubber waders.

“About durned time,” she called down.

“Reggie!” His face creased into a wide smile. “I knew you couldn’t stay away from me for long.”

“I need to talk to you,” she said, steely-eyed.

“So I gathered.” He walked past her, to the campsite. He put his fishing equipment on the picnic table and sat down on the bench beside it, slipping off the suspenders that held up the waders.

“I get the feeling this isn’t strictly a pleasure visit,” he said quietly, stepping out of the boots and hanging them from a clothesline he’d strung between the tree and the Vagabond. “So what’s up?”

“I know what you did,” she said, glaring at him. “It took me a while. But then I saw D’John’s movie, and it became very clear.”

“You’re not very clear,” Tate said, leaning back on his elbows. “Or else I’m pretty dense. Exactly what are we talking about here?”

“You rat! You threw the Food Fight! You weren’t drunk. It was all a big fake-out. You deliberately lost.”

He got up and opened the door to the Vagabond. “You want a beer or something? Or dinner? I’ve got a couple of steaks in the cooler.”

“Hey!” Gina yelled. “I’m talking to you. Don’t just walk away like you can’t hear me. At least give me that much respect.”

Tate ducked inside the Vagabond and emerged a minute later with two bottles of beer. “I hear you,” he said, extending a beer toward her. “Hell, the whole county probably hears you. I just thought we could discuss this quietly like a couple of mature adults, over a cold beverage and a hot steak. How do you like yours, by the way? Me and Moonpie generally go rare.”

“I…don’t…want…a…steak,” Gina said, her fists clenched. “That’s not why I came here.”

He dumped some charcoal in the grill, squeezed some lighter fluid onto it, and flipped in a match. Flames shot up, and he nodded his approval. He dropped the grate back onto the grill and took a seat at the picnic table.

“So why are you here?”

All the sentences she’d so carefully rehearsed on that dusty mountain road were gone. The logic, the chilly demeanor she’d imagined, had fled. Anger, rage, resentment—these simmered in her chest, and to her dismay, boiled over in a well of hot tears.

“How could you?” she cried. “I thought you cared about me. How could you deliberately humiliate me like that?”

“Humiliate?” He seemed dumbstruck. “What are we talking about here? I mean, yeah, I admit it, I deliberately screwed up. But it’s no big deal. You probably woulda won anyway.”

“No big deal? Are you serious? This is my career we’re talking about. My life. I had everything on the line. And you took it upon yourself to throw it all away. And by the way—just so you know? I would have won without your help.” She stuck her chin out. “I don’t need to cheat to win. And I don’t need you to cheat for me. I told you that even before we got to Eutaw. I thought you understood. I can’t stand a cheater. But then, you’re a man. That’s how you play. You make up your own rules, and the hell with everybody else.”