Dining with Joy (20 page)

When the meeting ended, Joy headed for her office. Luke followed, shutting the door behind him.

“Guess this means you're going to have to speak to me.”

“Guess it does. Love the way you jumped in and promised we'd work tonight.” Joy dropped her phone and notepad on her desk.

“My house? Seven o'clock?”

“Are we going to be friends through this, or are you going to have an attitude?”

“I won't have an attitude, no.”
Joy, let go. Crash and burn already
.

“See you at seven?” Luke backed toward the door. “I'll bring the recipes I'm doing this fall. Want to do, rather. Subject to Allison's—”

“And my—”

“Approval. Of course, you too.”

When he was gone, Joy collapsed into her chair, dropping her forehead to her desk. This had to end. At least with Luke. She had to tell him. Without Sharon around to cover for her, he'd confirm his solid suspicion. Sooner or later, the thing she possessed would possess her. If it didn't already.

Luke, you're right, I can't cook. Can't. But I never said I could, not really. I burn things, but cook, not so much. Good eye to pick up those nuances too
.

“Joy?” Allison entered without knocking. Joy bolted upright. “Head on the desk? Are you okay?” She set a piece of paper in front of her.

“Didn't sleep well last night.” Joy brushed her hand over the water on her cheeks. “What's this?” Smiling as much as her heart could muster, she scanned the paper Allison brought in.

“Schedule for Bette's show. I e-mailed it to you, but I like to pass out printed copies just in case e-mail goes haywire. In case you haven't noticed, I'm really excited about this show.”

“Yeah, me too.” Joy scanned the New York itinerary. “It's a great opportunity for us.” She and Allison arrived in New York on Tuesday for a dinner meeting and photo op with TruReality execs. Wednesday, she'd guest on the seven o'clock hour of
The Morning Show
. Afterward, they would have lunch with the publisher followed by an afternoon with the media. Thursday, she'd tape
The Bette Hudson Show
.

“Strap in, Joy, we're going Mach 10 Premiere Week and not landing until spring.” Allison exited Joy's office, then stepped back in, concern in her eyes. “I just happened to think. Sharon has a key to the studio, doesn't she?”

“We all do.” Joy jiggled her mouse, waking up her laptop. “But she wouldn't do anything that dastardly, Allison. She's hurt and mad, but not vengeful.” With a couple of clicks, Joy maneuvered to the server where the recipes were stored.

But the folder was gone. What? Joy leaned closer to the screen. Was she in the wrong place? With a click on the drive, she started over, working through the files.

Finally opening the DWJ Recipes folder.

Empty. A chill swept over her.
They have to be here
. She clicked on Show Files. Maybe someone moved the files. But no documents appeared.

Joy tugged open the middle desk drawer, searching for the data stick. Gone.
Don't panic yet
. Ryan kept a backup in his office.

“Joy, is everything okay?” Allison asked.

“Yeah, I think so.” In Ryan's office she shut the door. “They're gone, the recipes. I looked on the server and the folders are empty.”

“I was afraid Sharon would do something stupid.” After a few clicks Ryan confirmed it. No recipes. “Okay, then use the backups on the data stick.”

“Mine's gone. I was hoping your backup of the backup was in your desk.” Joy sighed a
thank you
to heaven when Ryan opened his middle desk drawer to reveal a silver thumb drive.

But when he checked it, the drive was blank, no backup recipes.

Well then, it'd come to this. “I'll go tell Allison.”

Ryan followed, taking the lead when they entered the boss's office.

“Sharon took the recipes, Allison. Or deleted them. But they're gone.”

“Then we start over.” So pragmatic and assured. Like it was so easy to develop years worth of recipes. “Joy, gather your recipes from home. Didn't your daddy have recipes and notes around the house?” She walked to her office door and called for Luke. When his broad form filled the doorway, she delivered the news. “Sharon took out her revenge on our recipes, Luke. We're building a cookbook from scratch.” At the sound of her words, Allison smiled. “Seems kind of fitting. We're starting a cookbook from scratch. Maybe it was meant to be. I know it means more work, but I'd like to keep our deadline. Are we all in?”

“I'm going to talk to Sharon.” Joy squeezed between Luke and Ryan.

“Joy, don't you dare. Don't call or e-mail her. If you see her on the street or in Publix, do not speak to her.” Allison held up her phone. “Let me talk to my lawyer first. See what options we have. But I don't want her to come back accusing us of defamation or harassment.”

The emotion of the week, the almost-confession with Luke, the sadness over Sharon's decision, the fruit her lie produced boiled in her chest until she thought she couldn't breathe. She had to get out of there.

Crossing the studio, Joy retrieved her handbag, her keys, and her phone from her office and headed for the stairs.

“Where're you going?” Ryan fell in step. “We have show notes to go over.”

“I'm going to the park.”

“The park? What for?”

“To run the bases.”

Thick-bottomed clouds, laden with an August rain, hovered over the Basil Green Complex as Joy launched her shoes into the cab of the truck. Twisting her hair up with the rubber band she found in the glove box, she navigated the pebbles and crushed shells along the side of the street to the thick, warm grass.

The dirt along the diamond was scattered and mussed. Fallow ground waiting for Joy's footprint. Or the slide of her thigh.

The first time she ran the bases to clear her soul was the night of her third anniversary with Tim. Instead of bending on one knee and presenting her with the diamond solitaire they'd picked out at Hudson-Poole, he expressed doubt about their future plans and hinted at loving another.

In a single moment Joy's wholehearted devotion had been revealed as wholehearted foolishness.

Seven years later it became clear she'd repeated the pattern. Only this time not with a weak-willed man but with a television show. Wholehearted devotion turned to wholehearted foolishness. Why couldn't she learn to give up, give in, quit?

It started out as a promise to Daddy. A favor for Duncan. Then for the money, the small kiss of fame. It became a part of her, the center of her dreams. The girls moved in, and Mama opened Ballard Paint & Body. There just never seemed to be a right time to end her life as an acting cook.

Tagging up her bare foot to first base, Joy sprinted to second base.
Running .
. . She rounded second for third, the stiff, unused muscles of her legs aching, the rugged wind of her breathing howling in her ears.

Her foot smacked home plate and she crashed into the chain link backstop, buckling forward, working for air. Then she ran the bases again.

Kicking high and hard, she lengthened her stride, demanding her dormant form and college strength to awaken.

It's the bottom of the seventh with two outs. The Tide was down by one
.

Joy tagged home, this time without crashing, without buckling, without the fainting spots of blue and purple.

Run it again. And again.

Sweat beaded over her skin, soaking into the thin cotton of her top and the waistband of her tiered skirt. Moisture dropped from the angles of her face and collected on the flyaway ends of her hair.

So what if Sharon quit. So what if Allison learns the truth
.
So what if Luke loses all respect for me and never speaks to me again
. The
so whats
were muted by the crash of Joy's heartbeat.

She ran the bases again, heat of the midday sun rising. Joy launched from first, kicked second, and surged toward third. When she rounded for home, she pushed, breathing, running, defeating the chasing haunts.
Liar. Phony. Cheater. Hurry, touch home . . . before they tag you out
.

The breezeless diamond seemed to indulge her, watching in wonder
. Safe
. Joy ran over home plate and crashed into the backstop, releasing the tension in her legs and crumpling to the dirt.

She wiped the stinging sweat from her eyes with the hem of her top. Losing Luke? That would be the worst . . . That would be the worst. Stupid, stupid, when did she let him into her heart? Why did she let him in? She jumped up, pacing, shaking off the memory of his voice as he tried to talk to her.

I could teach you
.

A rain-scented gust cooled her hot skin.
God, I quit, surrender, let go, whatever You want . . . If You want . . . My food is to do what You want. What else do I have? Nothing. I literally have nothing
.

“If you run, will they come?” Joy angled around to see Luke standing behind her, motioning to the empty stands.

“No, I guess not.”

“Ryan said you went to run the bases.”

“I'm out of shape.” Joy brushed her red stained feet in the grass. Tugged her saturated top from her torso.

From the other side of the fence, Luke watched, his arms propped atop the chain link. “Why are you running bases?”

“Because . . .” She peered at him, their blue gazes meeting, holding steady. “Luke,” big inhale, “I–I can't. Cook. I can't. Sharon quit because she developed most of the recipes, even Daddy's. Is that what you want to hear? Yes, ladies and gentlemen”—Joy jogged to the pitcher's mound, arms wide to her sides—“the host of
Dining with Joy
, coming to you soon on the
Tru
-Re-al-ity Network, can
not
cook.”

“How's it feel?” Luke walked through the gate. “To confess?”

“You tell me, how's it feel to hear it?” Joy ran her hands over her arms, salty with sweat. “If you wait a day or two, I'm sure Allison will hand the show over to you. Better a cardboard host who can cook than a lively one who can't.”

He shrugged. “I don't want the show without you, but I feel like I corralled a wild horse that's still itching to run free.”

Joy brushed her hand over her eyes where the sweat trickled down. “Actually, you corralled a mule parading as a wild horse, hiding among the real mares and stallions. Corralling me is merciful.”

“I guess it makes me mad, to be honest. Why'd you do it? Foodies are a close-knit, proud bunch, and they don't like being lied to. They take their culinary talent and passion seriously. And you're making fun of them. Couldn't you have been a show host with special guests?

Hired a Luke Redmond from the get-go?” He stopped at the base of the mound.

“Except it wasn't my decision.” Joy raised her eyes to meet his. “Duncan Tate called the shots like Allison Wild does now.” She gestured in the direction of downtown and the studio. “Duncan had just built the studio and was up to his receding hairline in debt but expected the season to end in the black. Then his star dropped dead of a heart attack. So he grabbed the nearest Ballard he could find and shoved her in front of the camera.”

“Like father, like daughter?”

“That's what Duncan believed.” Joy sank slowly to the pitcher's mound, her legs shaking from the earlier exertion. “I rode to the hospital in the ambulance with Daddy. He was out of it most of the time, but just as they were unloading him, he squeezed my hand.”

She moved her fingers, remembering the feel of his cold, weak grip.

“He asked me to do the show. It was as if he knew.”

“And the world loved you.”

“Well, some portions of the world. Fraternity men, career women on the go, and busy families.”

Luke paced off the mound, running his hand over his hair. She watched his back, wondering if his anger would ebb or spike. When he turned to her, she gained no read from his fixed expression. “This impacts me too, now. I either go along with your lie or tell Allison. I don't like being in this position, Joy.”

She scrambled to her feet. “I never invited you into this circle.

You prodded your way in.”

“I'm cohosting a cooking show with a woman who can't cook.

Call me crazy, but I deserved to know from day one. You should've told me.”

“I didn't even know you. I barely know you now.”

“So you were just going to hoodwink me until—when? You found a way to get me fired? You're not the only one with dreams and goals.”

“You think this was my dream, my big goal in life? ‘Hi, America. I'm not a cook, but I play one on TV.'” She tipped her head back and balled her hands into fists. “Are you so obtuse? This is not what I wanted. This is what fell at my feet, Luke. If you don't like it, leave. Quit. Sharon did.”

He narrowed his gaze. “Was that the plan? Wait for me to quit?”

“I didn't want you to quit. Because believe it or not, I saw you as my way out.”

He crossed his arms, hands hooked around his elbows. “I'm listening.”

“Forget it.” She walked off, slicing into the stiff eastern wind, hungry and thirsty. The look on his face paralyzed her.

“Joy.” Luke chased her, snatching hold of her arm. “Tell me.”

She inhaled and let the plan escape. “To give more and more of the cooking segments to you while I worked on comedy and reality bits, traveled to fairs and festivals, conveniently doing less and less cooking.”

“I see. But who would introduce deep-fried peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to the culinary world? Or the top ten new uses for garlic?”

“I see you've watched back episodes.” She drew her arm free. “I tell you my heart and you make fun. You know what, I don't care. You want to tell Allison, go ahead. You want to quit, do it.” Walking toward her truck, she pulled her keys from her pocket. “Don't let my secret trap you in my web.”