Dining with Joy (26 page)

Same as Lyric. The beginning of the turbulence. The emergence of me as a smart-mouthed teen. He was still writing a food column for the paper and doing morning talk shows.”

Luke turned to the next marked page. “July sixteenth. ‘Perfected my banana bread recipe by adjusting the flour and baking soda measurements. Made it for Joy. She loves banana bread. Rosie called from the field saying Joy pitched a no-hitter. Guess I forgot her game again.'”

Silence. Then, “He missed my game to adjust flour and baking soda measurements. See what I was up against?”

Luke closed the book, marking his place with his thumb. “Don't you see, Joy? Your dad wasn't measuring just flour and baking soda. He was crafting a gift for you. I see my mom on these pages. Myself too, I guess.”

“If he wanted to do something for me, why didn't he come to my games?”

“Why'd you join the show? Come on, years of turbulence with Chick, and you come home from a year in London and suddenly join the show?”

“Because.” Joy balled up, knees to her chest. She stared at the flames. “When I lived in London, I was waiting tables, trying to write freelance, and getting no work. What started out as adventure quickly turned to drudgery. Then Daddy had his first heart episode and I realized how fragile life could be. What if he'd died? What if my last words to my father were, ‘Whatever, Daddy . . .' as I walked out of the house? I can't even remember the argument. I quit my fine job sloshing warm beer to Englishmen with accents I couldn't understand, told my roommate good-bye, and flew home. Somehow I knew my season of getting to know him had arrived.” She regarded him. “Why are you doing this, Luke?”

If Jesus can't resist loving you, how can I?
“Because,” he raised the book, “I'm trying to get to know my own father too. Helping you helps me. But instead of a book of his private thoughts to read, I have a living, breathing, stubborn man to dig into.”
Call Red tomorrow after church
. “You don't have Chick, but you have his private thoughts.” Luke opened the book again, smoothing his hands over the pages. “‘Sawyer dating a nice girl in college. Mindy. Coming this weekend. Making his favorite, pecan sweet potatoes. Note: Joy's grown an inch or two. She's very pretty. Reminds me of my first mama.'”

“He wrote I was very pretty?” Joy pushed against Luke's arm to see the words.

“Well, I didn't make it up.” He showed her the words. “What does he mean by ‘first mama'?”

“Daddy was adopted. His biological mother wanted to be an actress, so she left him at a bus station with a note and a sack lunch, and boarded a bus for New York. He was four years old.”

“And he spent his life trying to nurture your family.”

“I see what you're doing. Trying to get me to understand that Daddy's love affair with food came from his deep love to nurture us.”

“Got any better ideas?”

Luke left Joy alone with her thoughts for a few moments. Then turned to his next marked page. “Here's another entry. Chick wrote, ‘Joy barred in her room. Feel I'm failing her. She's so impatient with me. Thinks I spend too much time in the kitchen. But I do it for her, Sawyer, and Rosie. Note: I'm quite satisfied with banana bread recipe.'”

Joy wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “The banana bread love letter . . .”

“Now there's a book title for you.” Luke read the next entry. “‘Joy turns sixteen. Fear my inadequacies hinder her.'” Luke tapped her foot with his. “He fears his inadequacies a lot. ‘I say a word and she flies at me. So much potential in that girl lest anger gets her. Rosie suggests I change. The notion overwhelms. Success with gumbo and biscuits on Charleston morning show. Recipe note: reduce béchamel extra minute.'” Luke flipped through the pages to another entry he'd marked. “‘August. Went to Joy's game. Stayed in car so not to cause a stir and break her concentration. Her team won. Banana bread is in order! And pizza. Joy likes my pizza. Thin crust. Calling it Pitcher's Choice Pizza. I suppose it was worth losing all the bark on Rosie's prized palmetto for Joy to learn to pitch so well.'”

Joy laughed. “Poor tree never saw me coming.”

Luke placed the book on the blanket beside him. “When I first started going through the book looking for recipes, his notes on the side were annoying. Then I realized Chick was working out his own thoughts and emotions through food, through his recipes. Whenever things heated up with you, instead of changing himself, it seems he'd adjust a recipe. My guess is the attic has more of these books.”

Joy reached for the book and examined the pages. “I never knew any of this.”

“Let's add your memories to the book we're putting together, Joy. Of Ballard family picnics. Of working with your dad on the show. Coming home from London. Allison will love it.”

“Luke, who's going to make Daddy's barbecue ribs recipe if I write, ‘I hated my daddy when he spent eight hours in the kitchen working on his barbecue sauces. But here it is for y'all. Hope your family loves it.'”

“No, Joy, write how it makes you feel
now
. Write how it made you feel when you ate the ribs. Pleasant memories are buried in your heart, Joy. I know it. Like the apples with chocolate and caramel. Sweet and tart. You remembered Halloween, dunking apples, a yard full of friends.” He brushed her jaw with his fingertips.

“Luke?” Joy angled toward him.

He jumped up so fast Joy tumbled forward. No kissing. Not on a sultry August night, alone with Joy on the meadow. “Let's give this horse some exercise while there's the last bit of light.” Luke grabbed her hand, jerked her to her feet, and led her to the old mare. “Ever ridden?” Luke mounted the mare, then leaned down, offering Joy his hand.

“Does a Shetland pony at the fair count?”

She landed in the saddle behind him with a yelp, then a laugh, slipping her arms about his waist. The mare stirred, ready to gallop. Joy nestled her face against Luke's back. His heart beat in a staccato rhythm.

“Joy, you know, back there—” Luke urged the horse forward, holding her to a slow gait.

“You wanted to kiss me?”

He felt the breath of her smile. “More than you know.” Luke chirruped the mare, loosened the reins, and let her run.

Twenty-three

Hooked it. Again. Luke watched his golf ball honing for the trees like a round, featherless pigeon.

“It's the heat. Too darn hot to play decent golf.”

“I hate to see a man play bad golf.” Heath shielded his eyes as the ball crashed through limbs and leaves.

“I hate to hear a man make sad excuses for his bad golf.” On Luke's right, Mitch leaned on his club. “The heat? You mean your hot picnic with Joy?”

“Looking for song material, O'Neal? Don't come knockin' here, the kitchen is closed.” Luke started for the tree line. What was wrong with his swing?

“That's not what I heard.” Mitch teased him from the green.

“A horse ride?” Heath added his two cents. “Picnic with bread and cheese? Apples and dipping sauce? You're a chef, man.”

Yeah, yeah, whatever . . . He beat the scrub brush with his club.

Nothing could rain on his memory of Joy. And bread, cheese, apples, and sweet tea. The combo breathed romance. “You're just jealous you didn't think of it.”

Finding the ball on the edge of the trees, Luke waited, watching Mitch's nearly perfect swing send his ball on an under-par trajectory. It landed on the green with a thump, kept rolling, and slipped off the green into the rough.

“Tough break, O'Neal,” Luke shouted through the trees. Served him right.

Heath's ball landed safely on the green because Heath always landed safely. Luke lined up for an easy chip shot. The ball plopped onto the green three feet from the cup.

Luke and Mitch applauded and bowed irreverently.

“Thank you for your support.”

Mitch's turn. He was determined to make a stellar shot. He walked the green, crouching to check the cut and curve of the grass, running his palm over the blades, checking the wind.

“Just shoot already, O'Neal. I'm aging while we wait.”

“He gets lost in all the faux adoration, aiming for perfection. Until Caroline gets ahold of him.” Heath knocked a bit of mud from his shoe. “So, you and Joy . . .”

“Friends, Heath.”

“A starlight picnic with a horseback ride and you're ‘just friends'?” Heath air quoted
just friends
.

Heath's challenge made Luke wonder if he wasn't completely upside down, turned around, and inside out. “We are friends, Heath. But every once in a while we get caught in this weird vortex and next thing I know, we're lip-locked, sinking into this great, heartnumbing kiss.” The memory stirred eager feelings. “I've been in a lot of relationships, but Joy is special, and I want to do things differently. This is my first attempt to walk with God in a relationship. Suddenly all the red-blooded American boy urges are more annoying than exciting. To top it off, she's my boss.” He leaned on his club. “O'Neal, shoot. I can feel my beard growing.”

She was his boss. His friend. His student. The first face he saw in the morning when he woke up and the last name on his mind as he drifted to sleep. Joy made Luke feel at home. As if he could exhale and tip face-first into a mountain of sun-dried pillows and linens.

In the reflection of her friendship, Luke could see how selfish he'd been since leaving home for New York. It saddened him. What was it . . . the other day . . . he woke up and had a sentimental feeling for those Christmas dinners he'd eaten with Red at the VFW, watching a bunch of old men gum their turkey.

“What's up with the restaurant job in Portland?”

“Linus still wants me to come up. His lawyer thinks I can get out of my contract with Wild Woman, but if the show goes well, he thinks he can work a deal with Allison for me to still be on the show. That is if I can become less boring on camera.”

“And what do you want?”

Joy. “I'd like to run my own kitchen without the headache of running a business. But the show is fun and—”

“You work with a gorgeous show host.” Heath cupped his hand beside his mouth. “Mitch, you're not out here with Phil Mickelson.”

As Heath's words caught on the wind, the country crooner tapped his ball.

“Right on track for a hole in one. Can you believe it?” Luke tipped his head to one side, squinting at the green. Unbelievable.

“We'll never be able to hurry Mitch again.” Luke's cell buzzed from his pocket. “Hey, Red, what's up?”

“Not much, not much. How're things your way?”

“Busy, but good. Playing a bit of golf today.” What was it Luke heard in his dad's voice? “You all right, Red?”

“Well.” Red cleared his throat. “If it ain't no bother, I was wondering if you could come home for a bit. The doc wants to cut me open and clean out my heart wires. I told him I'd have to check with you. Can you come sit with me? If I die, I'd like not to be alone.”

At her computer, Joy typed in the final Snow on the Mountain recipe she and Luke duplicated from Daddy's book. The aroma of succulent chicken hung in the air, drawing out all the delicious aromas of the past and thickening the warmth of the kitchen.

Joy exhaled, propping her cheek against her hand, and stared out the porch door. The slant of the late August sun glinted off the glass. She'd lost track of the evening and weekend hours she'd worked with Luke cooking, testing, and writing.

She still couldn't cook, but she no longer hated the kitchen. Especially when Luke worked at the stove. Confident and decisive, he added new life to Daddy's old recipes.

Through cryptic conversation, they'd hinted about their working friendship and how good it was to be “just friends,” but later that night, when Luke burned his hand, Joy smoothed ointment on the red-hot spot and nearly ignited her own passion's fire.

His warm breath had brushed her face in quick succession. The pulse in his wrist throbbed. When she released him with a weak, “All better,” his gaze stayed on her lips until she nearly swooned against the counter. But he didn't sweep her in his arms to taste her kiss. He merely tapped his finger on the burn and whispered, “It's not cooling off yet.”

Well, enough daydreaming. Back to the recipe. Luke would be here soon to go over the final pages. Allison would be pleased they were on track for the October deadline.

The house was so quiet Joy could hardly concentrate. Lyric holed away in her room, working on homework. School started last week and the grounded Lyric was liberated. After the incident with Parker on the porch, an icy, silent tension moved into the Ballard house, sat at the table for dinner, curled on the couch to watch TV, even picked out a towel and took a nightly shower.

Joy pushed away from her computer, stretching, rubbing the tension out of her neck. In the past few days, Lyric had returned to her normal teenager self. Her room was still empty of anything but clothes and bedding, but she'd kept a lamp Mama had snuck in to help with her studies. And now, her schoolbooks were piled in a corner. Joy called Sawyer with an update to his voice mail about his blossoming daughter, but he'd yet to return her call.

Annie-Rae, on last look, read a book and listened to music, propped against her bed pillows. Mama was . . . Where was Mama? Rising, Joy walked to the sliding doors and stepped onto the porch. Wasn't she planning on working in the yard?

The warm evening air swirled around her, peaceful, quiet.

“Get back here, Rosie!”

Mama broke into Joy's plane of sight with Miss Dolly puffing and huffing after her. Mama ran toward her work shed, a brownhaired streak of heels and elbows, her moppy hair bouncing.

“What now, Mama?” Joy stepped off the back porch and squinted toward the action, curling her toes around the thick blades of grass.