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  D’John busied himself with her hair, removing the hot rollers, fluffing, teasing, spraying. They both worked hard at pretending not to listen to Tate Moody’s telephone conversation.

  “So what’s the word?” Moody demanded. “I thought you were gonna call yesterday. You said we’d hear something by five o’clock, no later.”

  He listened but didn’t like what he was hearing. He frowned and rubbed his forehead.

  “No. No! That’s impossible. I don’t have that kind of money. I thought you understood that.”

  He listened, then interrupted. “Wait, dammit! No, you listen. There is no way. Okay? That’s not even close to what I can afford. Anyway, I happen to know another parcel, just down the road, sold six weeks ago, for fifty thousand less than they’re asking. And that piece has deep-water access. Yeah. That’s right. I am watching all the local transactions. You tell them that. This ain’t some dumb hillbilly they’re dealing with.”

  He shook his head violently. “No. I’m through. I mean it. Tell them I’m walking away from the deal. Yeah. Well, you tell ’em what you want. I’m done.”

  Tate Moody snapped his phone shut. He inhaled deeply. “Shit.”

  Glancing over at D’John, his mood seemed to worsen. “Look, man, I gotta go.”

  “Wait,” the stylist said. He gave Regina’s hair a final touch. “We’re done.”

  He stepped over to Tate Moody’s chair and whisked another plastic cape out of the drawer in the makeup table.

  When Regina made no attempt to leave, D’John gave her a questioning look.

  She held up the magazine she’d been pretending to read. “Don’t worry about me. I just want to finish this article about sunscreens. Go ahead with him.” She turned and smiled sweetly at Tate Moody, who gave her a sour look. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “How long’s this gonna take?” Tate asked, turning toward the stylist.

  Instead of answering, D’John spun Tate around in the chair. He bent low at the waist and peered into his subject’s face. He lightly touched Moody’s face, lifted a lock of his hair, sighed, clucked his tongue in disapproval.

  “Hmmm,” D’John said. “Yes. Your producer is absolutely right. You do need me.”

  Tate’s face flushed. “Now, uh, listen. I don’t really want—”

  “What have you been doing to this skin of yours?” D’John asked.

  “My skin?” Tate leaned in toward the mirror. “Nothing. I mean, I wash it. And I shaved this morning—”

  “With what?” D’John asked. “A dull butter knife?”

  “A razor, of course,” Tate said. “Shaving cream. Barbasol. Like that.”

  D’John turned to Regina. “Will you listen to that? Barbasol? Who knew they still made that mess?”

  “What’s wrong with Barbasol?” Tate demanded.

  “What’s wrong with Barbasol?” D’John’s voice was mocking. “Why not just wipe a piece of sandpaper across your jaw? Why not throw rubbing alcohol on your face while you’re at it?”

  “Huh?” Tate rubbed his hand across his chin.

  Regina stifled a laugh. “I think maybe what D’John is trying to say is that he doesn’t think Barbasol is an appropriate product for you to use.”

  “Appropriate?” D’John cried. He grabbed Tate’s hand and dragged it across his own smooth brown cheek.

  “Do you feel that?” D’John asked. “That’s what a well-groomed man’s face should feel like. Moist. Firm. Healthy.”

  “Healthy?” Tate seemed unconvinced.

  “Now. Feel that skin of yours,” D’John ordered.

  Tate shrugged and did as he was told.

  “And?” D’John asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “Feels fine to me.”

  “Fine?” D’John shrieked. “You think it’s fine that your face has the same texture as some nasty old work boot that’s been left out in the sun for about ninety years? You think it’s fine that a man with your looks has never properly cared for his own skin?”

  “Hey, man,” Tate said, his face darkening. He started up from the chair. “I thought I was just coming in here to get my sideburns evened out a little. Val never said anything about—”

  “Stop!” D’John said dramatically. He pushed Tate back into the chair. “Tell me,” he said, pausing for effect. “About your skin-care regimen.”

  “Regimen?” He glanced over at Regina, who’d given up on the magazine, and was now openly laughing.

  “Your routine,” she prompted. “How do you take care of your face?”

  “Ah, hell,” Tate said. “I shower. I shave. I use soap, if that’s what you’re asking. Life Buoy. What else is there to a ‘regimen’?”

  “Life Buoy,” D’John wailed. “Kill me now.”

  Tate stood again and headed for the door. “Okay. Fun time’s over. See you folks later.”

  “Go then!” D’John replied.

  “I’m going,” Tate said. He got to the door, stopped, and turned around, then walked back to Gina.

  “Excuse me,” he said, extending his hand to her. “I don’t think I caught your name.”

  “I’m Regina,” she said, dimpling sweetly. “Regina Foxton.”

  “And what exactly do you do, Regina Foxton?” His southern drawl was suddenly pronounced.

  “Oh, I have a little show. It’s nothing much. Just regional television,” she said, being deliberately evasive.

  “But she’s probably going to be moving over to the networks,” D’John blurted out.

  “D’John, hush!” Gina said sharply. She turned back to Tate Moody with a shrug. “Wishful thinking. D’John thinks I’m cut out for Hollywood.”

  “Ya never know,” Tate said, unfastening the plastic makeup cape and dropping it on the counter. “Anything can happen in television.”

  “Exactly,” she said, giving him a little finger wave. “Bye now.”

  Chapter 8

  Jerk,” Regina said quietly, as the door closed.

  “Hmm,” D’John said. “Cute, though. If you like the rustic look.”

  “Tate Moody,” she said thoughtfully. “What do we know about him? And why are The Cooking Channel execs in town to see him? I thought you called him a fisher boy?”

  “You know as much about him as I do,” D’John said. “They usually shoot on location or over at Ajax Studios downtown, but Ajax is being torn down, so they’ve moved here temporarily. His producer, one of those ballsy New York–gal types, came by last week and said her talent needed some sharpening up because he was being considered for a network television slot. She said he spends a lot of time hunting and fishing for his show.” He opened a drawer in the counter and dug around among the hairbrushes and combs until he came up with a business card, which he handed to Regina. “Here.”

  “Valerie Foster,” she read. “Executive Producer, co-creator, Vittles, a Southern Outdoors Network production.”

  “Vittles?” they both repeated it at the same time.

  “What kind of show is named Vittles?” D”John asked.

  “Well, it must be a cooking show if The Cooking Channel is interested in him,” Gina pointed out. “According to the message Scott left on my cell, he’s the real reason this Barry Adelman is in town. I’m just an afterthought.”

  “Never,” D’John said loyally. “He doesn’t have a prayer.” D’John gave a dismissive sniff. “He’s a goober. And that skin! He has the complexion of an eighty-year-old.”

  “And the buns of an eighteen-year-old,” Gina said. “And don’t pretend you didn’t notice, D’John Maynard. I saw you watching when he walked out of here.”

  “Oh, buns,” D’John said dismissively. “We’re talking about a cooking show, right? It’s all about the food, right? And despite your problem complexion and caffeine addiction, nobody’s food is better than yours.”

  “Scott says it’s not about the food at all,” Gina said quietly. “That’s why he told you he wants to sharpen up my look. Make me blonder. Cuter. It’s wh
y I can’t wear my glasses on camera, and I had to buy a whole new wardrobe for the new season. Low-cut tops, brighter colors. And obviously, Tate Moody’s producer is just as concerned about his looks, or she wouldn’t have sent him to see you.”

  “I could help him,” D’John said, his face taking on a dreamy quality. “Give him a decent haircut, add some texture, some layers, maybe some chunky color around the face. And of course, the skin needs a lot of work. The clothes, too. I’d put him in earth tones—”

  “D’John!” Gina said, punching him in the arm. “Whose side are you on here?”

  “Beauty doesn’t take sides,” he said primly.

  “Well, you’d better,” she said. “Or don’t bother to come slinking around my set looking to be fed anymore.”

  “Bitch,” D’John said, giving her an air kiss so as not to muss her makeup.

  “Pissy old queen,” she said fondly, air-kissing him back. “What time do you want me to come over tonight?”

  “Make it eight,” he said. “You want Jade Palace or China Doll?”

  “Jade Palace,” she said quickly. “But no moo shu pork for me. And no rice. Just some egg-drop soup and some steamed ginger shrimp.”

  “B-o-r-ing,” D’John sang. “See you at eight, then.”

  Chapter 9

  Scott was standing on the Fresh Start set, deep in conversation with two black-clad men who pretty much had to be the visiting executives from The Cooking Channel.

  “Here’s my girl,” he called, catching sight of her. He trotted over to her side. “What took you so long?” he whispered, his lips brushing her cheek, a proprietary arm flung casually across her shoulder. “I’ve been calling you all morning. Didn’t you get my messages?”

  “Don’t push your luck,” she warned, wriggling out of his embrace. “I got your last messages, about the Cooking Channel people. That’s the only reason I’m here. Because I’m a pro. But I am not your girl.” She looked him straight in the eye. “Are we clear on that?”

  Stung, he took a quick step backward. “Clear,” he muttered. “As long as we’re being professionals here, remember it’s your career on the line here today, not just mine. The Cooking Channel wants a southern cooking show in their new fall lineup. They’re looking at you, and one other guy. This is our big break, Gina. For real. I know you’re pissed at me, but don’t blow this, okay?”

  “Pissed?” She gave a humorless little laugh. “Oh, Scott. You are so clueless.”

  “Barry,” Scott said, to the shorter, older of the two men. “This is—”

  “Regina Foxton. Of course,” Barry Adelman said, clasping Regina’s hand between both of his own. “Younger and much sexier even than you look on camera.” His accent was not what she’d expected. Not Brooklyn, or Queens, not even all that northern—midwestern maybe.

  He was mid-forties, she thought. Quite short, with a head that looked too big for his compact body; tiny, elfin ears pressed close to his head; and gray hair, thinning on top, but in the back sweeping to the neckline of his collarless black silk T-shirt. He was dressed entirely in black, of course. Expensive black. Soft shirt, soft black trousers, and sockless feet in complicated-looking Italian leather sandals.

  “You’re too sweet,” Regina murmured. “I’m so glad to meet you. I’m a huge TCC fan—”

  “No,” Adelman corrected her. “We’re the big fans. Of you. And Fresh Start. Those tapes Scott sent. I gotta tell you, it takes a lot to get me excited. But I am very excited about you. And your show.”

  “Barry’s wife was the one who got him to call me,” Scott started to say.

  “My wife!” Adelman exclaimed. “Christ! She watched the tapes while I was out of town, and ever since, she’s been driving me crazy, insisting that I take a look. But I gotta say, she was right.”

  “Wendy is very astute about food,” the other visitor put in. Gina decided he must be the assistant. Young, maybe twenty-four, with milky white skin, pale blue eyes, and short-cropped blond hair, he was dressed in an inexpensive version of his boss’s wardrobe, right down to the black sandals.

  “Astute!” Adelman said, with a short laugh. “You could say that. She’s got every cookbook ever published, went to cooking school in Italy…” He snapped his fingers and looked at the assistant.

  “Alicia LaRocco’s school. In Tuscany,” the assistant said.

  “And Paris…” Adelman said, turning again to the assistant.

  “Pierre Bouget,” he said. “In Provence. He only takes three students every summer. Pierre adores Wendy.”

  “Not that she ever really cooks,” Adelman said, laughing in a way that made Gina think he didn’t find that so very funny.

  “Barry and Wendy travel extensively,” the assistant explained. “And Wendy is a senior account executive at Storman-Davis. So you know how crazy her schedule can get.”

  “Oh,” Regina said, secretly wondering what Storman-Davis was.

  “Crazy,” Scott agreed, nodding agreement. “We’ll have to send your wife Gina’s cookbook.” He glanced around the set until he spied the person he was looking for.

  “Jess!” he called loudly.

  Jessica was standing at the editing table, scribbling something in her ever-present yellow legal pad. She looked up and scurried over.

  “Jessie,” Scott said, “I need you to send a copy of Regina’s latest cookbook to Mr. Adelman’s wife.”

  “I can do that,” Jess said, scribbling a note to herself.

  “Overnight,” Scott said. “Can you overnight it?”

  “Of course,” Jess said. “Address?”

  “Mr. Adelman’s assistant will give you the address,” Scott said. He looked expectantly at the assistant.

  “Hi,” the young man said, holding out his hand to Scott’s assistant. “I’m Zeke Evans.”

  “We’re about ready to start,” Jess told Scott, after she’d written down Wendy Adelman’s address.

  “Great,” Scott said. He looked at Gina. “Ready, gorgeous?”

  She felt herself flush. “Absolutely.”

  “Scott says you’re doing seafood today?” Barry said.

  She nodded. “Southerners are really fortunate that in most places, fresh fish is pretty accessible and affordable. But too many people are intimidated by cooking fish. They don’t want to fry it, the way their grandmother did, but they’re worried about a lot of fancy or expensive ingredients.”

  “Right,” Adelman said. “I like what you’re telling me.”

  “I’m doing a shrimp-stuffed flounder fillet,” Regina said. “And shrimp remoulade and a crab casserole. Of course, I’ll encourage people to look for fresh, wild shrimp, like the ones we get here in Atlanta that are trucked up from the Georgia coast. But even if they use frozen bagged shrimp from a discount grocer, they can get a really wonderful taste.”

  “Good!” Adelman said. “Accessible. Our focus groups tell us viewers like it when we show the kind of upscale recipes they get in a good restaurant, or read about in Gourmet or Bon Appetit, but they’re turned off when they see ingredient lists with herbs or flavored vinegars or crap like that they never heard of and can’t get in Mudflap, Oklahoma.”

  “Gina’s all about accessibility,” Scott volunteered. “For every recipe she does on the show, she refers to the Web site, where we tell viewers how they can source everything shown on the show.”

  “And we list prices,” Regina added.

  “Geen?” one of the cameramen called from the set. “Can we get some light levels on you before we start?”

  “Go ahead,” Barry urged. “Pretend we’re not even here.”

  As if, Regina thought, as she stood motionless in front of her stove, while Scott and the others set up lights and worked out camera angles. Today, the set looked cheesier to her than it ever had before. Small-time, it seemed to shout. Her stomach churned, and she could feel beads of sweat pooling in the small of her back as she looked over at the small knot of people staring into the computer monitors set up on Scott’s
editing table. Scott and Jess were there, of course, along with Adelman and Zeke, the assistant. But there were three or four other visitors she didn’t recognize, standing in back of the table. A woman wearing dark glasses seemed very interested in the whole process. And yes, damn it—Tate Moody stood there too, with that smug look of secret amusement on his face.

  “Can we roll?” Jess asked loudly.

  “One moment.” Suddenly D’John darted to her side with a powder puff and a comb, patting her nose dry and rearranging a strand of hair that had somehow gotten out of place. “You’re a goddess,” he whispered in her ear. “The camera loves you. I love you. Now just smile pretty and knock their fucking socks off.”

  “They’re not wearing socks,” Gina whispered back.

  “That’s fine, D’John,” Scott called.

  The makeup man gave her a barely perceptible pat on her butt and flitted off the set.

  “Ready, Gina?” Scott asked.

  She took a deep breath and nodded yes.

  “All right,” Scott called. “Let’s boogie!”

  “Hey, y’all,” she said brightly, looking directly into the camera. “I’m Regina Foxton. This is Fresh Start, and today, we’re gonna cook up seafood, so fresh and simple, so delicious, that you’ll wonder why you don’t serve seafood to your friends and family more often. I call this segment ‘Fishing for Compliments,’ and in just a moment, you all will be fishing for a pen and pencil, or clicking onto our Web site, to make sure you have every detail of these wonderful recipes written down to use at home.”

  Later on, when they broke for lunch and she sucked down two ice-cold Diet Cokes in her dressing room while D’John repaired the makeup she’d sweated off, she realized her back ached and her feet were throbbing. She’d been so nervous, stood so rigid, smiled so hard, she felt like she’d just run a marathon.

  “How do you think it’s going?” she asked, as D’John held a curling iron to her bangs.

  “Fabulous,” he said. “Like always.”