Dining with Joy (10 page)

I'll do the development work with Ryan but just wanted to run these ideas past you.

Guest spots with home chefs, sticking with our brand of focusing on the viewers.

Duncan and I talked about a Letterman-like Top Ten list, for example Top Ten Things You Do with Meat After You Drop It on the Floor, Top Ten Things You Do to Your Mother-in-Law's Cooking When She's Not Looking, Top Ten Reasons to Own a Rolling Pin, Top Ten Foods You Eat When Watching Football. How about a contest for the easiest meal to clean up; stupidest ingredient; shopping on a budget for frat guys and sorority girls, or any dorm rat; recycling appetizers into dinner; Pizza Tonight, Pizza Tomorrow, “How cold pizza saved my relationship.”

Crazy, I know, but I have notes from our college fans who claim day-old pizza saved their love lives. Which leads to another idea: The Power of Italian. We focus on pasta, pizza, bread, cheese, tomato sauce, olive oil, garlic. My stomach is roaring as I type.

Let me know when you want to talk. I'll bring more details to the table when we meet.

Joy

The screen door swung open with a creak as Joy clicked Send. She glanced around to see a sullen Lyric crash into the Adirondack chair beside Joy. She flipped her hand in the direction of Mama and Miss Dolly.

“What's going on with those two?”

“Weeds and pesticides.”

Lyric sighed as if she could no longer bear the burden of being fourteen
and
the grandchild of a woman who picked a fight over bug spray.

“I should pitch a show about them to TruReality.
Lawn Wars of Silly Southern Women
.” Joy closed her laptop. “How was softball practice?”

“Boring.” Lyric hugged her legs to her chest. Her shorts were too short, her top revealed too much tender flesh. Joy guessed it to be a size too small by the strain of the Disney World logo. “Aunt Joy, how do you know if a boy likes you?”

So the truth surfaced easily today. “If he's kind, nice, carries your books for you.”

“No boy carries a girl's books, Aunt Joy. That's, like, from Granny's day.” Lyric rested her chin on top of her knees.

“You know what I mean. Pick a boy who looks out for you, talks about something other than himself.”

“What if I'm not pretty enough?”

“Is this about Parker?” Joy patted the arm of Lyric's chair to get her attention. “Want me to talk to him?”

“Don't you dare.” The girl shot up straight.

“Then listen to me, Lyric. Don't let any boy ever convince you that you're not pretty enough.”

Lyric bit her lower lip in contemplation.

Joy let her stew on the idea and then broke in with a question of her own. “Have you heard from your mama or daddy lately?”

She braved the parent-waters because Lyric's emotional dams seemed open. For the moment. But probably not for long.

“Why would I hear from them?” Lyric's hazel eyes glistened, but her tone was flat. Cold. Wavy wisps of hair escaped her ponytail and curled around her neck. “Who needs them anyway? They can stay in Vegas. Die there.”

“I'm not defending them, Lyric, but being mad at your parents won't change who they are or what they've done. It'll only plant bitter seeds in your heart. After a while you won't even recognize yourself because you're wrapped in anger and bitterness.”

“Please don't lecture me on my parents.” Lyric lowered her forehead onto her knees and hid her face with her arms. “You have no idea what it's like.”

“You don't know everything, Lyric. My daddy and I didn't always get along. We had lots of fights.”

“At least you had a daddy to fight with.” Lyric's watery words exposed her heart.

“You're right, baby.” Joy leaned to brush Lyric's flyaways from her cheek. “Never looked at it like that before.”

“Can I go to Siri's?” Lyric stretched as she rose from the chair.

So, the heart-to-heart ended. The dam's gates closed. “You can go until dinner.”

“I'm eating at her place. Her mother cooks real food.”

“What? We cook real food here.”

“I mean roast beef or meat loaf. Not Campbell's soup and grilled cheese.” Lyric slid open the glass door. “I'll be home for bed.”

“Change out of those shorts and shirt. They don't fit—” The door cut Joy off with a soft clap.

Joy sighed, reclining against her chair. What was it Lryic said? At least she had a father to fight with? Where was that great thought when Joy was sixteen? When she thought the man ensconced in the kitchen night after night was an evil overlord, she'd have welcomed his absence. Thrown a party.

Instead, Charles Ballard was home every night, developing recipes and filling the house with the aroma of meats and sauces, sweets and bread.

Every once in a while, when the house slept, Joy imagined she heard the clatter of Daddy's pans. And if she drew a deep breath, expanding her lungs to their limit, the phantom aromas of baking bananas and cinnamon swept past her nose.

Joy wandered off the porch in search of Mama, thinking of Daddy's banana bread recipe. Sharon might be able to recreate it. She'd worked with Daddy long enough before he died.

Around the side of the house, Joy met up with Mama.

“Where's Lyric going?” Mama motioned toward the driveway with a spray can. “She took off on my old bicycle.”

“Siri's. What are you doing with that spray can? Where's Miss Dolly?”

“She's gone.” Mama patted the side of her can. “I'm going to spray pesticide on her lawn.”

“Mama—” Joy snatched at the can's handle, but Mama was too fast. “You can't go spraying her yard with pesticides.”

“And why not? How does her organic method trump mine? Hmm?” Mama pushed around Joy, aiming for her shed, “The Lab,” as Joy and Sawyer used to call it. “Dolly's treatment—or should I say lack of treatment— is turning her lawn into a bug maternity ward. The little varmints are getting fat on my shrubs. The leaves look like Swiss cheese.”

Swinging open the shed door, Mama disappeared inside. Joy hung around by the opening, listening to the melody of clanking bottles and gurgling liquid. The last time she ventured in, she broke out in hives.

Mama emerged, testing the sprayer on the ground around Joy's feet. She scurried out of the way. “Careful, Mama.”

“I'm going in.” Mama hunched down and inched toward Miss Dolly's twin magnolia sentries. She peered back at Joy through the branches. “If I'm not back in twenty, send in the search party.”

“If she calls the sheriff, I'm not bailing you out.”

“Fine with me. The sheriff 's antique Corvette is in my garage.”

Joy laughed. Mama was loony but savvy. Making her way back to the porch, Joy gathered her laptop and phone to head inside. With a single glance, she noticed a phone message from Allison.

Joy, I have the most incredible news. I just got off the phone with
The Bette Hudson Show
. You, my dear star, are going to be on this September
. A chill of dread shimmied through her.
More deteets later, but congratulations
.

The Bette Hudson Show
? The most popular syndicated talk-show host since Oprah wanted Joy? Sliding open the glass door, Joy took a deep gulp of cool, air-conditioned air. It was too soon to panic. Too soon to panic. Actually, being on with Bette could be fun. All Joy had to do was make sure Allison submitted her “no cook-off ” rider, and she'd be golden.

Joy paused beside the kitchen.
The Bette Hudson Show
. A blip of excitement journeyed through her. Then she thought of Luke with his stubborn cowboy chin and watchful expression. He'd look fine on Bette's yellow leather couch, appealing to the women in the studio gallery.

Hello, my way out, where you been?

Ten

When he downshifted to turn into the Ballard driveway, the gears of Luke's duct-taped Spit Fire complained and the engine backfired, blowing his planned stealth approach.

In the city, Luke didn't own a car. Didn't need one. But when Heath urged him to the lowcountry, he purchased the old Spit Fire, a rattletrap rust bucket, from his former sous chef.

Cutting the engine, Luke checked the time. Eight o'clock. Was it too late to stop by unannounced? In the city friends would just now be calling to see if he had plans for the evening.

Sitting in his lonely loft at Miss Jeanne's—the eighty-year-old had more of a social life than he did—with the heat rising, seeping through the cracks in his floorboards, Luke came to a conclusion. He wanted to be with Joy. Not as a cohost or colleague, but as a friend.

As a . . . boyfriend. He'd prayed while he showered, heart wide-open to God talking him out of driving to see her, but here he sat.

He should've called on his way over. But forewarning a woman clearly communicated preparedness, I-was-thinking-of-you. Showing up out of the blue, however, said spontaneity, I-wasn't-thinking-of-you-at-all-but-here-I-am. For his ease of mind, the latter worked better.

Popping open his door, he took a quick peek in the rearview, finger-combed his hair, and brushed the stubble on his chin. Rough beard indicated I'm-not-planning-to-kiss-you.

He inhaled courage and slammed the car door shut. The car horn blasted. Luke jumped, wincing and shushing. The horn blast happened every time the door shut too hard. If Joy didn't know he was here before, she did now. Tomorrow, he'd get the dang horn fixed.

The front door swung open, revealing Joy. His heart beat a little faster. She regarded him as she stepped onto the porch. Luke stared up at her from the bottom of the steps.

“What brings you around?” she asked, her hand resting on the doorjamb, confident and casual. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders. Her baggy pants rode low on her hips, and her bare toes peeked out from under the hems.

Did it just go up ten degrees out here? What happened to the breeze?
Tingles raced through Luke as he strained to focus on Joy's face, fighting to keep his gaze above her chin. Every molecule in his body ached for a slow visual scan down the curves of her frame to the tips of her toes, then up again, absorbing every nuance, right down to the golden highlights in her hair. While the kiss had been weeks ago, the fullness of her lips and the soft swell of her hips beneath his hand remained very vivid.

Alluring without seducing, Joy's beauty deserved to be admired.

“Thought we could grab a coffee or late supper?” Luke waited at the bottom of the steps, eyes locked on her face.
Steady, man
.

“With who?” She moved onto the porch and leaned against a porch post.

“The president. I heard he's in town.”

“Oh, the president. Yeah, he called but I forgot to call him back.” She snapped her fingers and smiled, crinkling her eyes.

“You're free then, to grab a bite with me.” Luke motioned to his car, which in nanosecond hindsight was not a bright idea. Get her to say yes before pointing out the junkmobile.

“We just ate barbecue.”

“Coffee then? Or a big Diet Coke?” He braved one step up, but he already knew he couldn't trust himself to be within arm's reach.

“Do we have company, Joy?” An older woman appeared in the door. “Are you going to leave him outside? Hey there, I'm guessing you're Luke. I'm Rosie Ballard, Joy's mama. Come on in, please, take a load off.” She approached with her hand extended, but stopped, gazing toward the yard. “My, my, is that your car? I'll be, an '80 Spit Fire.”

Luke laughed. “Very good. How'd you know?”

“Cars are my business. I can't tell nothing about iPhones or BlackBerrys or computers, but I can name a car's make and model, get it right ninety percent of the time.”

“Mama runs Ballard Paint & Body here on Lady's Island.”

“You ought to bring that thing around. I could fix her up for you.”

“I'll do that when I wrangle up some spare change. In the meantime, can you help me talk your daughter into going out for a cup of coffee?”

“Absolutely.” Rosie held open the screen door. “Twenty-nine years old and she's in her sleeping pants before eight o'clock. At this rate, I'll never get the house to myself.”

“Mama!”

“Oh hush, he knows what time it is. Luke, come on in.” Rosie waved him inside and patted the arm of an overstuffed chair with one hand while pressing Joy in the back with the other. “Joy will be right down.”

He bet she would. Luke sank into the soft chair as the women jostled and struggled up the stairs amid their bass whispers.

Warm with lamplight and the lingering glow of the fading day, the room embraced him because
home
knew no strangers. The limp bag of Cheetos leaning against the sofa said the room tolerated everyone.

The air was scented with lavender and vanilla.

“Oh,
nooo
.”

Luke rose to his feet at the small voice cry. He angled to see around the half wall.

“Stupid, stupid can. Aunt Joy?”

Making his way toward the plea, Luke peered into the kitchen. A stout, curly-haired little girl—maybe eight, nine years old—smashed the can opener against the granite counter.

“Bad can opener.” Luke approached with caution but smiling.

The child whirled around, studying him with sparkling hazel eyes. “Can you open this?” She offered up a can of Chef Boyardee. “I try and try, but I can't get it. Stupid thing.”

“Yes, they are stupid. But necessary.” Luke smiled down at her as he reached for the can and opener, twisting until the top popped free.

The girl watched with her hand against her cheek. “I like you.”

Luke dropped the lid in the sink. “And you must like SpaghettiOs?”

“If I didn't, I'd starve.” She dumped the can contents into a microwaveable bowl.

“I'm Luke.”

“I'm Annie-Rae.” She stretched to punch open the microwave and shove the bowl inside.