Deep Dish (35 page)

S
he knew she should be nervous, but for the first time in her adult life, Gina Foxton felt totally fearless. They had two hours to go until their first taping before a live Atlanta audience, but already she felt alive with excitement and anticipation. Their show would be a hit. And the best part was—they were doing it right here, at home, in front of a hometown audience.

Val and Lisa had been disappointed at Tate’s insistence on keeping the production in Atlanta, but they’d both been somewhat mollified with the promise that at least four shows a year would be taped in the TCC studios in New York. Things were working out beautifully.

Now, if only her costar would concentrate on dressing himself instead of undressing her.

“Stop,” she said, slapping Tate’s hand away from the zipper on her bright cotton sundress. “Put your shirt on. I can’t concentrate on what I’m supposed to be doing.”

Tate nuzzled her neck. “Then concentrate on me. I’m what you’re supposed to be doing.”

“Absolutely not.” Gina giggled. But she caught his hand in hers and kissed it.

“Just get yourself dressed, and let me get dressed, and get this show done, and I’ll do whatever you want. Deal?”

“Whatever I want?” He turned her around and circled her waist with her hands. “Can I get that in writing?”

Gina fumbled around on the floor for her shoes. “Did anybody ever mention that you have a one-track mind?”

“It’s what makes me great,” Tate agreed. “Did anybody ever tell you what a great little butt you have? I’ve been admiring it since that day the UPS driver ran over your phony pumpkin, and you had to crawl under my car to get your canned goods.”

“Speaking of goods,” Gina said. “Did I ever tell
you
that Lisa and all her college girlfriends invented a drinking game they played while they watched
Vittles
? Every time the camera showed your backside, they’d chug a Natty Lite. They were all totally obsessed with your butt. And your abs. And your pecs.”

Smirking, Tate flexed his muscles and did a slow-motion pelvic grind. “And they haven’t even seen my best feature.”

Gina reached out and caught him by the belt. “And they better not. Ever.”

“Never,” Tate agreed. “I’m like Moonpie. A one-woman dog.”

“Hey,” Gina said, looking around. “Where is Moonpie?”

“D’John took him for a walk,” Tate said casually. “And then he said he’s going to give him a comb-out. Whatever that is.”

He took her by the hand and pulled her toward the Vagabond’s bunk. “So…”

“Tate Moody,” Gina said, pretending to be shocked. “You bribed D’John to take the dog so we could be alone. You conniving, calculating—”

“Horny bastard,” Tate said. “I’m the victim here. You’ve been so busy with all this tour and publicity, you’ve been neglecting your wifely duties.”

“I am not your wife. Yet,” she reminded him primly.

“Two more weeks,” he said. “As soon as we get the first six shows in the can. It’s practically a done deal.”

“Not as far as my mama’s concerned, it’s not,” she said.

He stretched out on the bunk and pulled her down beside him “Your mama’s not here. But I am. And I’m tense as all get-out. You know what would relax me?”

“A cold beer?”

“Afterward,” he agreed, working on her zipper again.

“We can’t,” she murmured, even as her lips found his. “You’ll mess up my hair.”

“And D’John will comb you out too,” Tate said. “I bribed him double.”

V
al Foster paced back and forth in the parking lot of Morningstar Studios, chewing her Nicorette at a machine-gun pace as she listened to Barry Adelman on her cell phone.

“Barry, I swear, everything is under control,” she said. “The crew is great. We’ve got the best guys from
Fresh Start
and
Vittles
, and the prep girls have worked their asses off getting everything ready. Did I tell you? They’re doing Brunswick stew—whatever that is—sounds gruesome to me, but what do I know? And Gina’s going to demonstrate her mother’s recipe for pickled squash. They both swear it’s a southern thing. The set looks terrific, better even than the plans. Gina and Tate did another round of press interviews this morning. The
TV Guide
guy was practically drooling over Gina, and the local CBS and NBC affiliates taped cooking segments with them on their morning shows.”

She nodded as Barry rattled off yet another set of unnecessary instructions.

“Got it,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Yes. I did. I wrote it all down on yellow Post-it notes. Not that Lisa needs it. The girl is a genius of organization. Better than Zeke, even, if that’s possible. I’m gonna hate to lose her when film school starts in January.”

She listened and nodded. “All right. Yes. I’ve gotta go. We’ve got the studio audience starting to trickle in, and I want to make sure the VIPs get seated up front. Yes. Absolutely. I’ll call you the minute we’re done.”

“Christ.” She clicked the cell phone’s end button, spit out the Nicorette, took the cigarette from behind her ear, and lit up, sucking her cheeks hollow with the first drag.

L
isa stood at the studio door, clipboard in hand, checking off the guests who’d been invited to be in the audience for their first taping.

“Hi!” she said warmly, recognizing the television critic from the Atlanta paper. She checked her list and told her where to sit. More guests streamed in. The bleacher seats in the audience would hold ninety people, and Lisa nervously tried to keep count as more and more people appeared.

“Everything going okay?” Zeke stood close behind her, his hand on her shoulder.

“So far, so good,” she whispered. “Have you seen Gina and Tate yet? We’ve only got thirty minutes.”

“They were out in the Vagabond last time I checked,” Zeke assured her.

“Alone?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

“Alone’s no good,” Lisa said nervously. “They can’t keep their hands off each other. They’re like a couple teenagers. I don’t like it.”

“Relax,” Zeke said, rubbing her shoulders. “They’re not going to miss their own first show.”

“I guess,” she said dubiously. “I’m just a little keyed up, what with everything going on. Tell me what time we have to leave for the airport again?”

“Not until six o’clock,” he told her, for the tenth time that day. “We’ll have plenty of time.”

“I hope traffic’s not…” She was looking out at a cluster of senior citzens who’d just arrived at the studio door. They looked somehow familiar, especially the trim redhead in the black pantsuit and pearls.

“Mama?” Lisa shrieked.

“My baby!” The redhead threw her arms around Lisa and kissed her on both cheeks.

“Look, girls,” the redhead called to the chattering women. “This is my baby girl Lisa. Isn’t she all grown up and gorgeous? And Lisa, you remember the Keen-Agers from home, don’t you?”

The Keen-Agers surrounded Lisa, patting her head, grasping her hand, pinching her cheek, cooing and billing in their sorghum-thick South Georgia accents.

“Mama,” Lisa said, pulling her mother aside. “What have you done to yourself? You look amazing.”

Her mother had been transformed. Gone was the shapeless flowered housedress, gray permed hair, and sensible shoes. Gone too, Lisa calculated, was at least thirty pounds.

Birdelle patted her hair and preened a little. “Do you really like my new look? Your daddy is a little worried about my new hair color. He says the boys down at the drugstore are calling me his trophy wife.”

Lisa leaned in to get a closer look at her mother. “Mama! Are you wearing lip liner?”

“And an underwire bra,” Birdelle whispered. “And Spanx! Why, Spanx are my new best friend. Especially the Power Panty. You should try them, Lisa.”

“I have. I know,” Lisa stuttered. “But, Mama. You must have dropped three or four dress sizes since the last time I was home. How did you do it?”

“Your daddy and I have a new business concern,” Birdelle said. “We opened a Curves gym in the old Family Dollar store out on the bypass. Which you would have known if you ever returned my phone calls, young lady.”

“I’m sorry,” Lisa moaned. “It’s just with all the wedding stuff, and my new job…”

Birdelle nodded at Zeke, who was standing by the doorway, listening amusedly to the whole conversation.

“And this must be Zeke?” she asked. “Your young man?”

“Oh, sorry,” Lisa said, drawing Zeke closer. “Zeke, this is my mama. Birdelle Foxton.”

“Your mother?” Zeke exclaimed. “Mrs. Foxton!” Zeke said, grasping both Birdelle’s hands in hers. “Now I know where Lisa and Gina get their looks. Although I have to say you look more like their sister than their mama.”

“Oh, stop,” Birdelle said. “Charmer! I guess that’s how all you Hollywood boys talk. Not that I’m complaining.”

“Not Hollywood at all,” Zeke said. “Not yet, anyway.”

“He’s just being modest,” Lisa said proudly. “I’m taking him to the airport as soon as we’re done shooting tonight. He’s flying out to
L.A. and taking a meeting with Spielberg’s people day after tomorrow. They’ve bought his screenplay.”

“Optioned,” Zeke corrected her. “It’s only an option.”

Val rushed up. “Lisa, have you seen Gina? We’ve only got twenty minutes. I need everybody seated right away so we can get started on time.”

“Yes, Lisa,” Birdelle said. “Where is your sister? I want to see her before the show.” She patted the thick pocketbook on her wrist. “I’ve got pictures of the altar flowers from the florist, and samples of the fabric for the tablecloths at the reception, and a tape of the soloist, and there’s just so much we need to get done. You just lead me right to her.”

Lisa’s face paled. “Oh, well, no, Mama, that’s not a good idea. Gina, uh, likes to, uh, meditate before the show. Has to be totally alone. Why don’t you go sit down with the Keen-Agers, and I’ll take you backstage just as soon as the show is over?”

“Well,” Birdelle said tentatively. “I guess that would be all right. As long as we don’t stay too late afterward. I promised the girls we’d stop at the Varsity on our way out of town, and then we’ve got to get the church bus back before morning.”

D
usk had fallen, and the September night air was unseasonably cool. Lisa approached the Vagabond with trepidation. It didn’t seem to be rocking, but on the other hand, all the lights were out. And Moonpie, who was now perfectly coiffed, was tethered to the awning outside, whining and pawing at the door.

She stopped a few yards away. “Hey, you two,” she called. “It’s show time. Are you decent?”

“Go away.” Tate’s voice, muffled.

“I can’t,” Lisa said plaintively. “Val sent me. And she says if you’re not on set in five minutes, you’re both fired.”

“As if,” Tate said. “Tell her we’re busy.”

Lisa looked down at her watch, and decided it was time to play her ace card.

“Mama’s here,” she said casually.

Five seconds passed. Gina’s tousled head popped out of the door. “Whose mama?”

“Your mama. As in Birdelle Foxton. Right here at the Morningstar Studios.”

“Holy crap,” Gina said. “Be out in a jiffy.”

“You better,” Lisa said. “And one more thing. Val wants to know how you want to be announced. She says you guys still haven’t settled on the billing.”

G
ina stood at the tiny mirror over the Vagabond’s sink and ran her fingers through her still-damp hair. The brassy blond highlights were but a faint memory, and D’John had cut her now honey-colored hair in a short, feathery bob that fell softly around her heart-shaped face. “No time for a comb-out now,” she said wryly, turning to Tate, who was standing right behind her, combing his own damp hair. “Thanks to you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, patting her rear. He held the Vagabond’s door open for her. “Hey, what are we going to do about the billing? Is it Tate and Gina, or Gina and Tate?”

“The show
was
my idea,” Gina pointed out, following him down the steps. She stopped to untie Moonpie. “So I think I get to be on top.”

He took his dog’s leash in one hand, and his partner’s in the other. “Seems to me you’ve already been on top tonight.”

“Don’t be crude,” Gina said. “We’ll take turns. All right?”

D’
John feathered concealer under his eyes, gave his nose and cheeks a final dusting of powder, and after a moment’s careful consideration, applied a second coat of mascara to his already luxuriant eyelashes.

He stepped back from the mirror to evaluate his handiwork. “Not bad,” he mused. As a final touch, he flicked the powder brush over his forehead. “Don’t want to blind ’em with my patina the first time out,” he reasoned.

“You look fabulous,” Lisa said, standing in the doorway to the dressing room. “Now let’s go. It’s time.”

Val was waiting for them, speaking into her headset. “Go get ’em, killer,” she said, slapping him on the butt.

D’John coughed and cleared his throat. He adjusted his shirt collar and coughed again. Then he bounded out from the wings and onto the kitchen set.

“Good evening, everybody,” he said in a cheery voice he hardly recognized. “My name is D’John, and I want to welcome you to the premiere of an exciting new Cooking Channel production.”

He pointed to the red light hanging over the set. “Now, when that light flashes green, I want you all to cheer and clap like crazy, and make our hosts feel right at home. All right?”

He looked offstage. Gina and Tate stood in the wings, toe to toe, smiling into each other’s eyes. Lisa, who was standing beside them, nodded.

“Okay!” D’John boomed. “Give it up, please, for
Eat, Drink and Be Married
—with Gina Foxton and Tate Moody!”

Preheat oven to 350°F.

Grease and flour a 9x13-inch baking pan.

In a large mixing bowl cream together butter and sugar; add eggs, beating until fluffy. In a small bowl mix together dry ingredients, including cocoa.

Mix tomato soup and water together.

Add dry and wet ingredients alternately to the butter/sugar bowl. Bake 30 minutes and let cool before frosting.