Deep Dish (34 page)

“That’s what you think?” Tate grabbed her by the shoulders. “That I don’t care about you? That I did this lightly? Woman, you don’t get it, do you? Damn it, Reggie, I love you. But every time I get close, you back away. You were so all-fired intent on winning this stupid Food Fight; that’s all you could talk about. Then, out there on Rattlesnake Key, in one moment of weakness, one crazy, amazing moment, you let your guard down. You actually let me in. And then a minute later, you shut me out.”

Tears stung her eyes. “I told you, that was a mistake.”

“And I told you, you’re a liar. And now I’m telling you, you’re a damned fool too. I thought I was giving you what you wanted. I gave you a gift when I threw the Food Fight. A gift of love. Okay, it was the wrong thing to do. But I did it for all the right reasons.”

She wrenched away from him. “You want to give me a gift? How about believing in me? That’s the only gift I want from you, Tate Moody. Everything else, you can keep.”

Somehow, she made it back to the Honda. She slammed the car into reverse and sped out of the meadow. In the waning light of dusk, she saw him, in her rearview mirror, turn and go back to his fire, to his dog, to his life. Without her.

T
hanks to Lisa’s ruthless efficiency, most of the furniture in the town house was already packed or crated. But some of the bedroom furniture was still intact: her bed, and the dresser holding her television set. Arriving home at ten o’clock, Gina flung herself facedown onto the bed.

Eventually, hunger pangs reminded her that she’d had no food for most of the day. She padded out to the kitchen and found that Lisa’s annoying efficiency extended to the refrigerator too. It was bare, except for a plastic takeout container of fried chicken wings and Lisa’s cache of Natty Lite.

She helped herself to the chicken and a can of beer and went back to bed. Eventually she would have to decide what to do about the mess she called her life. But for now, she decided, it was much easier to dwell on the recent past.

Gina popped D’John’s documentary in the DVD player. Propping herself up on her pillow, she gnawed on a drummette, then washed it down with a dainty swig of beer. She’d watched D’John’s documentary all the way through once, and was halfway through a second viewing when she heard the front door open. She heard her sister’s footsteps in the hall, and then Lisa was standing in the doorway. Gina was miserable, heartbroken, and depressed. Lisa, on the other hand, was runway-ready, with new blond highlights in her hair and full makeup. She wore a chic short black chiffon cocktail dress and stiletto-heeled bronze sandals.

Gina put down the chicken wing and wiped her fingertips on the edge of her sheet. ‘Hey,” she said dully. “Is that my dress?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Lisa said. “The girls wanted to take me clubbing one last time for old time’s sake. All my stuff’s already packed. I’ll have it cleaned when we get to New York.”

“Keep it,” Gina said. “It never looked that good on me.”

“For real? Thanks!” Lisa sat down on the bed beside her sister. “Wait.” She picked up the empty chicken container. “You ate this whole thing?”

“Yup.”

Lisa held up an empty beer can. “How many of these did you drink?”

“How many were in the fridge?”

Lisa pursed her lips in disapproval. “You drank five cans of Natty Lite? You don’t even like beer.”

“True,” Gina said. “But it’s not so bad with the fried chicken. Could you move over to the other side of the bed? You’re kinda blocking my view.”

Lisa turned to look at the television. “Oh. D’John’s masterpiece.”

She went into the other room, and when she padded barefoot back into the room, she was dressed for bed in an oversize Hi-Beams football jersey.

“Scoot over,” she told Gina, climbing into the bed. “The movers took all my stuff already, so I’m bunking in here with you tonight, if that’s okay.”

“S’okay,” Gina said with a sigh. She picked up the remote, pointed it at the television, and punched the play button. The DVD started again.

“How many times have you watched this tonight?” Lisa asked.

“This makes three,” Gina said. “Shh.” She fast-forwarded the DVD until it came to a segment showing Gina and Tate horsing around on their kitchen set, in between shoots for Food Fight.

Gina was listening to something Zeke was saying off camera, and Tate was pelting her with what looked like Ritz crackers. For a while, she ignored the rain of crackers, but then, suddenly, she turned and without warning dumped a pan of thick white stuff on his head. The
goo dripped onto his face, and Gina could be heard giggling hysterically off camera.

“Oh, my God.” Lisa laughed. “What was in that pan?”

“Cold grits,” Gina said mournfully. She pointed the remote and fast-forwarded again, this time to a scene where she and Tate sat rocking and talking on the front porch of the lodge at Rebeccaville. Perched on a porch rail in the background, Scott glowered at them, unnoticed.

“This is my favorite part,” Gina said, fast-forwarding again. In this scene, Tate and Gina stood at the end of the ferry dock at sunset. Tate had a long bamboo fly-casting rod and reel in his hand, and he was patiently trying to demonstrate its use to Gina, who repeatedly ended up snagging the line on pilings, the dock, and even the ferry itself. On the film, D’John could be heard laughing, saying to Gina, “You suck!”

The sisters watched the rest of the movie in companionable silence. When it was over, Lisa gently pried the remote from her sister’s hand before she could hit the play button again.

“Can I say something here?” Lisa asked, lying back on her pillow and turning out the lamp on the bedside table.

“Only if it’s not ‘I told you so.’”

“Okay. We’ll skip that part. Even if it’s true.”

Gina sighed deeply and turned on her side, her back to her little sister. “I’m listening.”

“Geen, this is just so stupid. You’re making yourself sick over Tate Moody. You want him, but you don’t want to want him—have I got that right?”

“It’s slightly more complicated than that.”

“You only want to make it complicated,” Lisa said. “You’re furious with him because he let you win—right?”

“It’s more than that.”

“He let you win because he loves you. Is that such a crime?”

Gina sat up in bed and pounded the mattress. “I could have won without him! I know I could. But now everybody who knows will always wonder—what if? What if he hadn’t thrown that last challenge?”

“Why can’t you both win?” Lisa asked.

“Don’t be silly,” Gina said. “What—TCC is going to give us both our own shows? Two southern cooking shows? Never happen.”

“Not two shows,” Lisa said. “One show. Starring Gina Foxton and Tate Moody. Together.”

Silence. Lisa could hear her sister thinking it over.

“Keep talking.”

“You saw the DVD,” Lisa said. “The two of you are great together. Don’t get mad at me, but I think you’re better together than separate. You know—like the sum equals more than the parts? Zeke talks all the time about chemistry, about how that emotional connection can’t be faked, not even for television. You and Tate have chemistry. The way you laugh and tease and look at each other—Geen, it gives me goose bumps. It’s the real deal.”

The light snapped on again. Gina turned and put her arms around her baby sister’s neck, resting her forehead on Lisa’s. “When did you get so dadgummed smart?”

G
ina kicked the Honda into a low gear and gritted her teeth at the slow, dusty ride down Twin Branch Gap. She’d gotten a late start leaving Atlanta. It was nearly ten o’clock. Would he be out on the river still? And after her performance just a day earlier, would he even be willing to listen to what she had to say?

She saw the turn-in for the meadow and pulled up, but knew immediately it was too late. The Vagabond was gone. She got out of the car and walked over to the spot where it had been less than twenty-four hours ago. The only sign that he’d even been here were the ruts in the grass and meadow flowers.

“Damn,” she cried. She ran over to the bluff and looked down. The river flowed below, but no fisherman stood on its banks, flicking a fly back and forth over the water.

She pulled into the parking lot at the Gas ’n’ Go and ran inside. Annette, her informant from the previous day, stood at the cash register, unloading bags of potato chips and clipping them to a metal rack.

“You find your friend yesterday?” the old lady asked.

“Unfortunately.” Gina winced. “I kind of made a mess of things. I came up here this morning to apologize, but his trailer’s gone. I know it’s not your job to keep track of Tate Moody, but I was wondering—”

“He’s at the Bargain Mart on 441,” Annette said promptly. “Which is where I’d be too, if I didn’t have this durned store to run. Every woman in this county is headed over there right now, to watch
him and that dog of his demonstrate some kinda mini deep-fat fryer. They’re givin’ away hot dogs and Cokes too, but I’d settle for a front row seat if I just had somebody to mind this place.”

“Maybe your boss wouldn’t mind if you took an early lunch?” Gina suggested, looking down at her watch. “It’s nearly noon.”

Annette clipped the last of the potato chip bags to the rack. She went to the door and flipped the
OPEN
sign over so that it read
CLOSED
. “Now you’re talking, sister,” she said, holding the door for Gina. “It’s my durned store, and if I want to take lunch early, it’s nobody’s business but my own.”

M
ulticolored plastic flags waved gaily in the wind, and a uniformed sheriff’s deputy stood in the middle of the highway, directing a logjam of cars and trucks into the Bargain Mart parking lot.

Gina circled the lot three times before finding a parking space, at the farthest end of the lot.

As she entered the store with a knot of women—on walkers and wheelchairs, pushing strollers or tugging on the arms of husbands—a smiling senior citizen in a blue vest offered her a bag of popcorn.

She took the bag and absentmindedly ate a handful as she followed the women toward the back of the store, where a portable stage had been set up in the housewares department.

Abandoning every vestige of good manners Birdelle had ever taught her, Gina elbowed her way through the throng until she stood at the far right edge of the stage.

A makeshift kitchen counter held a mountain of boxed mini deep-fat fryers, and standing in the middle of the counter was Tate Moody, in the flesh.

He wore a bright blue golf shirt with the Bargain Mart logo embroidered on the sleeve, and khaki cargo shorts. There was a cordless mike clipped to the collar of the shirt, and Moonpie sat quietly at the edge of the stage, looking expectantly out at the audience.

“Now, folks,” Tate was saying, holding up a big green mixing bowl. “There’s about a hundred different recipes for fish breading
and hush puppies. But as far as I’m concerned, there’s only one that’s worth making—and that’s the one my mama taught me when I was no bigger than a tadpole.”

The crowd laughed on cue. Tate held up a bag of stone-ground cornmeal and dropped two handfuls into the bowl. He poured in some buttermilk and, with a fork, quickly mixed up the batter.

“Now,” he said, looking up and flashing an intimate smile, “we’ll wait a minute for the oil to heat up in our Fry-Baby. We’re using peanut oil here today, but you could use whatever oil you happen to have on hand. While we wait, does anybody have any questions they’d like to ask?”

“What’s the biggest fish you’ve ever caught up here in the mountains, and what’d you catch him on?” a man in a green-and-yellow John Deere hat called out.

“Caught a brownie that weighed seven pounds on a woolly bugger last summer,” Tate said. “I’ve been over on the Soque for the past couple days, but didn’t do much good.”

“What’s your favorite thing to cook?” a hefty woman in a flowered blouse asked.

“Hmm,” Tate said. “I guess it’d have to be bluefish. Hard to beat fresh-caught bluefish with just a squeeze of lemon and fresh herbs cooked on a grill over a wood fire.”

Gina’s hand shot up. “Hey, Tate,” she called. “I thought you liked to bake pies. Especially pecan.”

“Who said that?” He stepped out from behind the counter and peered into the audience.

“Right here,” Gina called, stepping forward.

Moonpie gave a short, happy yip of recognition and wagged his tail wildly.

“You,” Tate said, frowning down at her. “Why aren’t you in New York?”

“Hey, Tate,” a woman to Gina’s right called. “I read in
People
magazine about that Food Fight you did this summer. How did it turn out? Who won?”

“She did.”

“He did,” Gina said loudly.

“Ignore her,” Tate said. “She’s unstable.”

“I’m not going to New York,” Gina said, looking up into his face. “Not without you, anyway.”

“Hey, Tate,” hollered a stringy old man at the back of the crowd. “Your Fry-Baby’s smokin’.”

“So’s he.” A trio of teenage girls standing beside Gina dissolved in a fit of giggles.

Tate walked right up to the edge of the stage and looked down at her. “What are you talking about?”

“Come down here, and I’ll tell you,” Gina said quietly. “I’ve got a proposition I’d like to discuss.”

“Nope. You come up here. The last time you propositioned me, you took it back. I want witnesses this time.”

Gina’s face turned bright crimson. “No. Really. Look, this can wait till your demonstration is over.”

Tate held out his hand. “Now or never.” He looked out at the audience. “Right, folks?”

“Yeah!” the crowd yelled. “Do it!”

“Booooo,” the girls called.

“I’ll take him if you don’t want him,” yelled their ringleader, a petite blonde in an orange tube top and booty shorts.

Tate’s hand stayed right where it was. “You coming or not? I need to get those hush puppies going before this bunch turns on me.”

“Do it. Do it. Do it,” the crowd chanted. Moonpie ran around the stage in circles, barking wildly.

Reluctantly, Gina took his hand and allowed him to lead her up to the stage. Her pulse was racing like a gerbil on steroids.

“Now. What was it that you wanted to ask me?” Tate said. He lowered the mesh cooking basket into the vat, took a spoonful of the cornmeal batter, and carefully dropped it into the boiling oil. He rapidly added half a dozen more blobs of batter.

“See, folks?” he said cheerfully. “The Fry-Baby has a built-in thermostat, so you don’t have to worry about making sure the oil’s hot enough.”

“I don’t want to win,” Gina said, under her breath. “Not if it means losing you.”

Tate cupped his hand to his ear. “Come again? I don’t think the folks heard that.” He tapped the microphone clipped to his shirt collar. “Speak right in here, Reggie, so everybody can hear.”

She could feel herself blushing all the way to the roots of her hair. She edged as close to him as she could get. He smelled like soap and fried foods. He pulled her closer, his hand resting lightly on the curve of her spine.

Gina took a deep breath. “I said I love you, Tate Moody. I don’t want to move to New York I don’t want to win if it means losing you I think we should do a cooking show together.” She looked up into his hazel eyes and felt herself melting, madly, deeply, crazily.

The audience erupted in a wild chorus of cheers and applause.

She took another deep breath and spoke again into the mike. “Also, you forgot to say they should definitely use stone-ground white cornmeal, not yellow, and beat the egg whites separately to make the lightest possible hush puppy.”

“Quit while you’re ahead,” he ordered, and then he kissed her quiet.