Dining with Joy (32 page)
Joy studied her open palms. “I remember.”
“So what are you going to do with that purchase power?” The tires scored the dirt as Miss Jeanne fired the old girl out of the parking lot into the lane.
“Believe.” Joy stretched her hand out the window as Miss Jeanne cruised down the highway, cutting through the thick air, collecting the sunbeams. She was rich. Rich.
God is good. God is love.
The last place Allison Wild thought she'd be a week after Joy Ballard blew up her career on
The Bette Hudson Show
was Dan Greene's office. But he'd called. And here she stood, about to rap on his walnut-stained office door.
“Allison, good to see you.” Dan stepped back, allowing her to enter. She'd gone shopping for today's meeting. The new slacks and jacket bolstered her with faux power in place of her frail confidence.
“Dan, thank you for calling. I've been thinking a lot.”
“Allison, please have a seat.”
When she turned toward the board table, she stopped short. Wenda Divine. “What's going on?” Allison took a single step forward, her guard rising. The last person she ever wanted to see again was Joy Ballard. The second to last? Wenda Devine.
“Now that we've all had a few days to calm down and gain some perspective . . . Allison, please have a seat. I assure you, this is going to go well.” Dan patted the suede chair next to his.
“Wenda? Go well? She ruined my career.”
“I told you Joy couldn't cook.”
“So you outed her, and me, and TruReality on
The Bette Hudson Show
?” Allison tossed her attaché to the table. “Dan, I can't believe you're entertaining any idea with this she-devil.”
“Dan Greene is a businessman.” Wenda took her seat. “And a brilliant program director.”
“Listen to her.” Allison snapped her fingers at Dan. “Wake up.
She's charming you into her she-devil den.”
“Sit down, Allison. Listen. You're going to love this idea.”
“And if I don't?” Allison pulled out her chair and sat with her eyes on Wenda.
Dan smiled. “Trust me. You will.”
A frosty, blue-gray dawn broke over Portland as Luke unlocked the kitchen door of Roth House. Flipping on the lights, he paused for a moment, still in awe of the kitchen Linus built.
If he intended to impress Luke with state-of-the-art equipment, mission accomplished. Every appliance and device was pristine, out-of-the-box, right down to the fixtures and floor mats. Linus also hired two excellent sous and line chefs from Manhattan. Longtime friends of Luke's.
In his office, Luke tugged the chain dangling from the desk lamp and powered up the computer. He planned to work on the house menu before meeting with Linus to talk about his choice for vendors and accounts.
Since Portland sat by the sea, Luke's palate tasted seafood, hearty soups, and thick, warm breads. He had an Irish stew recipe he loved. And an Amsterdam potato soup with bacon and chives recipe.
Luke launched his document, but then opened up the web and surfed over to
Dining with Joy's
website, glad to find it was still up. Her face made him smile, and twitterpation swirled in his belly.
He missed her.
But TruReality had moved on. Joy's brilliant smile no longer splashed on his screen when he navigated to their site. But they had yet to find a face to replace Joy for their Thursday night lineup. Good luck, Dan Greene.
Luke clicked off the page and went back to his menu. But writing about food, planning menus, his passion, pained him. He felt like he'd left his right arm in Miss Jeanne's third-floor apartment when he drove away. He missed Joy.
He missed the creaking eaves of the Ballard home. The crinkle of Rosie's Cheetos bag and the rhythm of her crunching. The curl of Annie-Rae in the Alabama beanbag chair reading a book and listening to music.
He missed Joy.
He missed his warm loft apartment in historic downtown Beaufort. Miss Jeanne's morning soprano song, “My Redeemer Lives.” His skin tingled for the balmy breeze off the river, his ears strained for the swish of Spanish moss dangling from the trees. He missed the Frogmore Café, big Andy, and crusty Mercy Bea. He missed Heath and Elle.
He missed Joy. So bad he ached.
Rocking back, Luke rubbed his fingers over his closed eyes and doubted his decision. He'd popped
the
question in the shadow of Joy's tragedy, then hardened over her refusal. Did he give her a moment, a chance? No. He took her at face value, packed up, and drove north. Eighteen mind-numbing hours.
By the time he'd arrived in Portland, the chill of his heart matched the temperature. He was tired, grumpy, and once again starting over. Alone. And he hated it.
God, all I need is You. And Joy. Right? Joy? And, okay, Red. I need Red too
.
For the past three nights Luke had slept about eight hours total. Maybe ten. The oceanfront Braxton Road apartment Linus rented for him would be a waste. Luke's waking hours would be at the restaurant. The apartment would be for sleeping and showers and storing leftovers from the restaurant to reheat for breakfast.
“Seafood vendor meeting in an hour.” Linus popped his head into the office. “How's the menu?”
Luke glanced toward the door. So far, he'd only managed to type one word: Menu. “A work in progress.” But in the clarity of the moment, Linus's presence was a hand up out of the swirl. Luke remembered a dessert item. He typed “Charles Ballard's Banana Bread” on the page.
Linus angled to see the screen. “Banana bread? That's dessert?”
“For starters, yes. We're going to need a good produce vendor. I'm also going to add sweet tea, with and without flavors, to the drink list.”
“I like it, Luke. You know you can do what you want with the menu.” Linus fell against the desk, arms folded. “You look like your horse and your dog died. How long are you going to pine for her, Luke? Or is this the final stage?”
“Pining? I'm exhausted, Linus. Drove eighteen hours from Beaufort, showered, napped, then for the past two days I've been in this kitchen.” Who Luke pined for was not Linus's business.
“Call her. Tell her to come on up.” Linus had all the answers, didn't he?
“I tried.” Luke shoved back from the desk. “She said no.”
“Did you try hard enough?”
“I proposed marriage. I'd say that was my best shot.”
Linus whistled and patted Luke's shoulder. “Sorry, man.” The slip of his Italian loafers echoed off the kitchen tile.
Maybe Luke should call it a day at a quarter to six in the morning and go home, crawl in bed, sleep until his head cleared. Kneel and pray. Get his heart in line with God's, with his new life.
The Italian loafers echoed again. “Here.” Linus smacked two shot glasses on the desk and splashed them with bourbon. “To Joy, the beautiful one that got away.”
“To Joy.” Luke raised his glass, then set it back on the desk without tossing down the shot, refusing to toast
the one that got away
. Besides, he'd given up medicating his emotions with a shot of alcohol, no matter how small. Feeling was healing.
“Speaking of Joy . . .” Linus downed the liquid in Luke's glass.
“Were we speaking of Joy?”
“We have a spot on
Good Morning America
next week. Be ready to answer questions about Joy.”
“I'm not going to talk about Joy on
Good Morning America
or any other show.” Luke braced for Linus's challenge, keeping his gaze steady on his friend's Old World features.
“She played with fire, Luke.” Linus dashed another shot of bourbon in his glass. “And got burned. The foodies are demanding answers. You need to ingratiate yourself back into your community.”
“Ingratiate, nothing. Don't tell me there's not a one of them who wouldn't have done the same thing. Shoot, half of them would've sold their soul to stand in Joy's shadow.”
“Oh man, you are gone. So gone.
Choo, choo
. . .” Linus tugged an imaginary whistle cord. “All aboard the love train.”
“Are you through?” Luke went back to his Menu page. “I have work to do. Isn't it a little early in the day to be doing shots?”
“Luke, go on the show.” Linus stacked the shot glasses in his hand. “Do a little yada, yada about Joy, then I'll plug the restaurant. We'll be eating breakfast at Eatery's before most of the country is awake.”
“Linus, Joy is off limits to
Good Morning America
.”
“But you'll do the show?” Linus peered down at Luke.
Luke sighed. “You're exhausting. I'll do the show. They bring up Joy, I'll walk off the set.”
Joy never thought spending time with Miss Jeanne would be a divine setup, but God knew exactly what she needed. The wisdom and spiritual insight of an eighty-something. For the third day in a row, Joy joined Miss Jeanne for lunch at Silly Dog.
What was it she said today?
“You can't get your faith from your feeling or your truth from your experience.”
The pain of losing the show still smarted when Joy drew in a quick breath, and she missed Luke. How many times a day did she reach for her phone to call him, but resisted? He was gone. Let him go.
Pulling the truck alongside the house, Joy glanced at the faded memory verse.
My food is to do the will of Him who sent Me
. God, what is Your
food
for me?
A mustard slathered hotdog in a soft bun was a good start, washed back with a sweet, tart lemonade and topped off with a chocolate dip cone. But as she moved away from the Bette Hudson disaster and losing her career, Joy began to hunger for more.
Tucking her keys into her pocket, she let the truck door shut, eyeing an abandoned pallet of flowers in the backyard, Mama's spade, and gloves scattered haphazardly on the grass as if she'd removed them on the run.
But since there was no sign of blood, Joy headed on into the house, dropping her handbag on the table. “Hey, who's home? Lyric? Annie?” School let out at noon today. The girls should be home by now.
Wandering into the kitchen, Joy halted. Bananas, flour, and sugar had exploded all over the counter. Batter dotted the granite surface in sporadic clumps until it finally spilled over the side and collected on the floor tile. A bag of semisweet chocolate chips sat open, half empty.
Joy spotted a laminated recipe card peeking out from under a dish towel.
“Annie-Rae?” Lifting the spoon from the mixing bowl, Joy stirred the thin, runny batter. “Mercy, girl, you were trying to make the banana bread.” Brown dust circled the bowl. Cinnamon and brown sugar.
Joy checked to make sure the stove was off, then walked to the stairs and leaned against the banister. “Annie-Rae, were you making banana bread?”
The silence of the house disturbed Joy's peace. She jogged halfway up the steps and peered through the banister rungs. A veil of evening light warmed the worn hallway runner and exposed the dust dancing and twirling in the air.
Mama's bedroom light was off, the door ajar. Lyric's door stood wide, as did Annie's. Joy patted her pockets for her cell, realizing she'd left it in her truck, tucked in the glove box, banned from disturbing her day.
As she reached for the house phone to give Mama a call, it rang beneath her palm.
“Where have you been? We've been calling all over for you.” J. D. Rand? Why was the Beaufort County Sheriff calling her?
“J.D., this is scaring me.”
“I'm sorry, Joy. But it's Lyric. She's been in a bad accident.”
Joy found Mama in the Beaufort Memorial waiting room. “Is she all right?”
Mama released into Joy's arms. “She's in surgery, oh Joy, shug, she's all broken and cut up.” Mama's Ballard Paint & Body shirt was splattered with paint and her brown-gray curls were wrapped in a do-rag. “If anything happened to that girl on my watch, I won't be able to live with myself.”
“Our watch, Mama, it's our watch.” Joy cradled her hand against Mama's shoulder and spied J.D. across the room with Annie. “Mama, go sit with Annie, and I'll talk to J.D.”
J.D. rose, ruffled Annie-Rae's hair, and gave his seat to Mama. Joy led him to the other side of the waiting area. “What happened?”
“She was riding in the back of a truck.” J.D.'s reflective sunglasses rode on top of his short-clipped hair. Thick biceps choked his uniform sleeves, and his cologne tinted the air around him.
“Whose truck, J.D.? Why was she in the back?”
“Promise me you won't go off half-cocked, swinging ball bats.”
“Parker Eaton. She was riding in the back of Parker's truck, wasn't she?” Joy wrapped her hand around J.D.'s wrist, squeezing out the truth.
“I guess you know it was a half day at school today. Parker and some of the boys were going down to the beach before football practice. A car pulled out in front of them and he overcorrected, hit a tree. The boys are corroborating the story.”
“The boys?”
J.D. switched the grip so he held on to Joy's wrist. “Some of the guys from the team.”
“And they were taking Lyric out to the beach?”
“Yeah . . . I don't know what that was about, Joy.” His fingers pressed into her skin. “But let's assume the best.”
“She's barely fifteen, J.D. I will not assume the best.” Joy twisted her hand free. “How bad is it?”
“Broken femur, broken arm and collar bone. From what I saw, her face was pretty cut up too. But it's hard to tell with the blood.”
“Oh my gosh.” Joy pressed her hand to her forehead. “My beautiful Lyric.”
Everything I touch falls apart
. “What about the boys? Are they all right?”
“Bruised and banged up, but home. Nothing serious.”
“And Parker?”
“His truck is totaled, and his wrist is sprained so he won't be catching footballs this weekend, but he's fine.”