Good news, good news, good news,” Val sang out, her footsteps causing the Vagabond to shake with each phrase.
Moonpie barked a greeting from inside the trailer’s screen door, but there was no sign of his owner.
“Tate?”
Now she heard water running. She stepped inside the trailer and tapped on the bathroom door. “Tate? You decent?”
“Go away,” he yelled.
“Nope,” she said genially. “I’ve got good news. Come on out, sport.”
The bathroom door opened an inch, and a cloud of steam emerged, followed by Tate’s head. His hair was dripping wet, and his face was pink from the heat. “I’m officially on vacation. Moonpie and I are taking the Vagabond and going up to Ellijay for some trout fishing. And you are not invited. Now go away, Valerie.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me what the good news is?”
“I don’t care what your good news is,” he said, closing the door in her face. “I’m gone. Call me in a week, and we’ll talk.”
She unrolled the magazine she’d brought over to the Voyager and slid it under the bathroom door. “Page twenty-eight,” she said. “Check it out.”
Silence. Five minutes later, the bathroom door opened.
Tate was dressed in clean but threadbare blue jeans. He wore a dark green T-shirt. He was barefoot. He had the People magazine open to page 28.
“Did you know Fresh Start has been canceled?”
“Not till this morning,” Val said. “The rumor going around town is—”
“Jesus!” he said, running his fingers through his damp hair. “What a business. Having your sponsor dump you for NASCAR. Has she seen this yet?”
“Who?”
“Don’t play innocent with me. Reggie. Has she seen this?”
“How should I know? Anyway, who cares?” She snatched the magazine away from him and sat down at the dinette. She read the headline aloud.
“FOOD FIGHT HEATS UP DOWN SOUTH. Will hunky outdoorsman Tate Moody be the catch of the day—or will fresh foodie fanatic Gina Foxton win this battle for a prime-time network cooking show?”
Moonpie cocked his head and thumped his tail in approval.
“Not you,” Val said, edging the dog’s butt off the top of her shoe.
She held up the double-page spread so both Tate and Moonpie could get a look. The color photo took up most of the left-hand page. It showed him face-to-face with Regina Foxton in the boxing ring, looking cocky, self-assured, confident. Gina Foxton’s face was contorted in a hideous snarl, her teeth bared, eyes narrowed, one strap of her tank top sliding halfway down her shoulder. The facing page showed a publicity photo of Tate and Moonpie, posed in front of the Vagabond.
“Hunky outdoorsman!” Val repeated. “How fabulous is that? Your sponsors have been calling me all morning. To say they are thrilled is the understatement of the day. Beau Archer started calling at six A.M. He wants to know what it would take to get you to sign with Southern Outdoors for another two years, whether or not you get the TCC spot.”
“Who’s Beau Archer?” Tate asked, pouring himself a bowl of Rice Krispies.
“Who—who’s Archer?” Val sputtered. “Pay attention here, Tate. He’s only the president of Southern Outdoors Network. The guy who signs our paychecks. Remember—he flew you out to his ranch in Montana to go grouse hunting with the sponsors last winter?”
“Oh, yeah,” Tate said. “Guy couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn with a baseball bat. He had a good-looking German shorthaired bitch though.”
“His wife?” Val asked, looking shocked. “When did you meet her?”
Tate shook his head sadly. “It’s a dog, Val. A German shorthair is a dog. How many times do I have to tell you?”
“Speaking of dogs,” Val went on, “I also had a call from a woman at ChowHound dog food. They want Moonpie to be their new spokesdog.”
“Hmmm,” Tate said, shoveling in the Rice Krispies. “What’d you tell Beau Archer?”
“No deal,” she said succinctly. “We’re signing nothing till we know whether the Food Fight is still on. They’re paying us peanuts right now. But it’s gonna cost ’em, big-time, from now on, if this TCC deal goes through.”
Val’s hip began playing the first few notes of the Vittles theme song. She rolled to the right, took the phone out of the pocket of her slacks, glanced at the phone’s readout, and grinned widely. “Yes!” she exclaimed, pumping the air with her fist. “It’s Barry Adelman. This is it, Tate. He’s calling to tell us you’ve got the show.”
Deborah Chen slid the copy of People across the desk gingerly, barely touching it with the tip of her fingernail, as though the images might burn her flesh.
“There is no such thing as bad publicity,” she told Gina, her voice brisk. “Now, you might not think so right at this moment, but—”
“Oh, no!” Gina said, flinging her reading glasses at the publicist. “This is the worst picture of me that has ever been printed.”
“It’s not that bad,” Scott started to say.
“It’s worse than my driver’s license picture, and in that one I had a bad perm and a giant fever blister on my upper lip,” Gina cried, stabbing the page with her forefinger. “Look at this thing. Tate Moody looks like a rock star. But me? I look like some blood-crazed maniac.”
“They could have chosen a more flattering picture of you,” Deborah finally conceded, “but I really think you’re overreacting. Anyway, as I was saying, this article is actually a godsend. Yes, it does mention that Tastee-Town has withdrawn sponsorship of Fresh Start. But now, that opens the way for other, bigger sponsors to step in. It’s just a matter of time until they start calling—”
As if on cue, the phone on Gina’s desk started to ring. She stared at it without picking up. It rang eight times, and then stopped. A moment later she heard the muted ring of her cell phone, from inside her bottom desk drawer. She picked it up, looked at the caller ID readout, and put it back in her pocketbook. “Mama,” she said. “Oh, crap. It’s Tuesday. She gets her hair done at the Beauty Box on Tuesdays. They subscribe to everything. Even the Star. People is the first thing she reaches for when they put her under the dryer.”
Now it was Scott’s turn. His cell phone rang urgently. He plucked his BlackBerry from the holster on his hip and pressed a button.
“Barry!” he exclaimed. “Yeah! How about that? We were just talking about it. I know! A million bucks worth of publicity for sure. What?” Scott shook his head vehemently. “No, no, Fresh Start is not off the air. I’m in negotiations with a couple of other sponsors. No, I’m not at liberty to say just yet…
“Really?” Scott’s face brightened. “That big a response, huh?”
But now he was frowning. “Utah? I don’t see the draw of Utah. I mean, it’s not even in the South….”
The smile returned as he listened. “Oh. I gotcha.” He was nodding rapidly, reaching for a pencil, making notes. “Well, that’s not much notice, but I can talk to Gina, see if she can clear her calendar. She’s got a heavy promotional schedule….”
His eyebrows shot upward. “That’s our share, guaranteed? Prime time?” He whistled. “Barry, let me just run the numbers by our people, see what we can work out. Today?” He gave a dramatic, beleaguered sigh. “Yeah. I’ll get back to you. Absolutely.”
Scott busied himself with finishing his note-taking, then looked up at Gina.
“What’d he say?” she demanded. “Did I get it? Why am I clearing my calendar?”
“Whoa!” Scott said. He put his BlackBerry back in his holster.
“Deborah was right,” he said slowly. “There is no such thing as bad publicity. As soon as the People story hit, the president of TCC was on the phone with Barry.”
“What about the show?” Gina begged. “Stop torturing me. Who got the show? Me or Tate?”
“You both got it,” Scott said. “In a manner of speaking.”