sizzling pork wafted through the room and Regina’s stomach growled.
D’John whispered something to Stephen, who laughed and blushed, and the men stepped into the kitchen.
G ina’s stomach growled again, so loudly she was sure the men could hear it.
Quiet, she thought, patting her tummy. She took a long drink of wine and tried to think of something besides food.
Today, for instance. According to Scott, the taping had gone really well. He was a pig, but he did know television production. Barry Adelman had seemed interested in her concept of fresh, accessible southern food. The prep girls said he’d raved over the shrimp during lunch, and he’d even asked her to e-mail the flounder and slaw recipes to him.
But Adelman had hurried away to watch Tate Moody’s taping before she really had a chance to chat with him.
The thought of Moody made her scowl. Stupid creep. Catfish-frying, gun-toting pseudo-foodie. The idea that she would ever stoop to dirty tricks to win this slot on TCC made her blood boil. And that poor sweet dog, Moonpie, locked up in that trailer all day. She took another sip of wine and wondered, idly, if Moonpie’s invasion really had ruined the taping, as Moody claimed. She really hadn’t let the dog loose on purpose, so if things had gone badly for Tate Moody,it totally was not on her conscience. At least, that’s what she tried to tell herself.
Eventually, she put the wineglass down and felt herself relax for the first time all day. Her eyelids fluttered and then closed.
Such a pleasant dream. She was back at her grandparents’ farm in Alma, Georgia. She’d spent the morning picking strawberries from Gram’s patch. She was barefoot, and the sun-warmed soil squished between her toes as she popped the sugar-sweet berries in her mouth, eating nearly as many as she plunked into her plastic bucket. Gram had baked her a little yellow butter cake in the special tin tart pans she used only for what she called her “pattycakes” while Gina picked, and she was just taking the cakes out of the oven when Gina wandered into the kitchen, berry-stained face and fingers and all.
Gina heard the oven bell dinging as she sat down at the linoleum-topped table to help Gram trim the tops from the berries and sprinkle them with sugar. Now Gram was reaching into the Frigidaire and bringing out the blue bowl heaped full of sweetened whipped cream. She placed each pattycake on one of her treasured pink Depression glass plates, then spooned a mound of berries on top of the cake, ending with big dollops of whipped cream, and then just a few more berries, their bright red juice dribbling down the edges of the cake and pooling onto the pink plates.
Gram and Gina held hands then, and they sang the special blessing they’d learned at Sunday school before digging into their treat.
There would never be anything that tasted better, sweeter, than those cakes. And after they’d cleaned up the dishes, Gina and Gram went out to the porch to play Go Fish.
She was winning, had all the cards facedown on the green-painted porch floor, when someone touched her shoulder.
“Geen?”
Gina opened her eyes. Lisa was standing in front of her, eyes wide. Her mud mask was dried and cracked in about a zillion pieces. In her hands she held a piece of tin foil with a four-inch-long strand of Dingbat Blond hair dangling from it.
“Huh?”
Gina looked down at her lap. Half a dozen more strips of foil werescattered about the tangerine-colored cape, all of them clinging to similar-size strands of Regina Foxton’s very own hair.
Regina shrieked. Lisa shrieked. D’John came running into the dining room, and when he saw Gina, his shrieks drowned out theirs.
Only Stephen, the cute takeout boy, did not scream.
“Dude,” he whispered. “Dude, that is not cool.” He turned and ran for the door.
“OHMYGAWD!” D’John cried. He yanked the hood of the processor into the up position “What happened?” Gina asked.
D’John whipped
D’John whispered something to Stephen, who laughed and blushed, and the men stepped into the kitchen.
G ina’s stomach growled again, so loudly she was sure the men could hear it.
Quiet, she thought, patting her tummy. She took a long drink of wine and tried to think of something besides food.
Today, for instance. According to Scott, the taping had gone really well. He was a pig, but he did know television production. Barry Adelman had seemed interested in her concept of fresh, accessible southern food. The prep girls said he’d raved over the shrimp during lunch, and he’d even asked her to e-mail the flounder and slaw recipes to him.
But Adelman had hurried away to watch Tate Moody’s taping before she really had a chance to chat with him.
The thought of Moody made her scowl. Stupid creep. Catfish-frying, gun-toting pseudo-foodie. The idea that she would ever stoop to dirty tricks to win this slot on TCC made her blood boil. And that poor sweet dog, Moonpie, locked up in that trailer all day. She took another sip of wine and wondered, idly, if Moonpie’s invasion really had ruined the taping, as Moody claimed. She really hadn’t let the dog loose on purpose, so if things had gone badly for Tate Moody,it totally was not on her conscience. At least, that’s what she tried to tell herself.
Eventually, she put the wineglass down and felt herself relax for the first time all day. Her eyelids fluttered and then closed.
Such a pleasant dream. She was back at her grandparents’ farm in Alma, Georgia. She’d spent the morning picking strawberries from Gram’s patch. She was barefoot, and the sun-warmed soil squished between her toes as she popped the sugar-sweet berries in her mouth, eating nearly as many as she plunked into her plastic bucket. Gram had baked her a little yellow butter cake in the special tin tart pans she used only for what she called her “pattycakes” while Gina picked, and she was just taking the cakes out of the oven when Gina wandered into the kitchen, berry-stained face and fingers and all.
Gina heard the oven bell dinging as she sat down at the linoleum-topped table to help Gram trim the tops from the berries and sprinkle them with sugar. Now Gram was reaching into the Frigidaire and bringing out the blue bowl heaped full of sweetened whipped cream. She placed each pattycake on one of her treasured pink Depression glass plates, then spooned a mound of berries on top of the cake, ending with big dollops of whipped cream, and then just a few more berries, their bright red juice dribbling down the edges of the cake and pooling onto the pink plates.
Gram and Gina held hands then, and they sang the special blessing they’d learned at Sunday school before digging into their treat.
There would never be anything that tasted better, sweeter, than those cakes. And after they’d cleaned up the dishes, Gina and Gram went out to the porch to play Go Fish.
She was winning, had all the cards facedown on the green-painted porch floor, when someone touched her shoulder.
“Geen?”
Gina opened her eyes. Lisa was standing in front of her, eyes wide. Her mud mask was dried and cracked in about a zillion pieces. In her hands she held a piece of tin foil with a four-inch-long strand of Dingbat Blond hair dangling from it.
“Huh?”
Gina looked down at her lap. Half a dozen more strips of foil werescattered about the tangerine-colored cape, all of them clinging to similar-size strands of Regina Foxton’s very own hair.
Regina shrieked. Lisa shrieked. D’John came running into the dining room, and when he saw Gina, his shrieks drowned out theirs.
Only Stephen, the cute takeout boy, did not scream.
“Dude,” he whispered. “Dude, that is not cool.” He turned and ran for the door.
“OHMYGAWD!” D’John cried. He yanked the hood of the processor into the up position “What happened?” Gina asked.
D’John whipped
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