Valerie Foster was sitting in the Vagabond, going over production notes with her star, when her cell phone rang.
“Barry?” Her face brightened. She got up from the dinette and walked outside. Tate watched her through the window as she talked and gestured, all the time walking in a tight little circle in the parking lot.
After five minutes, she came back inside the trailer and took her seat at the dinette, frowning at the coffee that had gone cold.
“Well?” Tate said. He put his cereal bowl on the floor, and Moonpie obligingly lapped up the last half-inch of milk and soggy cereal. “Who won?”
Val blinked. “Didn’t we tape a show at a place called Eutaw Island?”
“Sure,” Tate said. “We did it our first season. Don’t you remember? You found a tick on your ankle when we got back to the lodge over there, and you screamed so long and loud, you’d have thought we’d have to amputate your leg.”
“I knew it,” she said. “Eutaw Island. At the very top of my never-again places. Along with Disney World and Gatorland. And let’s not forget the Okefenokee Swamp.” She shuddered violently.
“Val?” Tate said. “We were talking about The Cooking Channel—remember? What did Barry Adelman say just now? Who won?”
“You both won, sort of,” Scott said. “Barry says the network wants to cash in on your sudden notoriety. They’ve been looking at the popularity of all the reality shows the big networks are running, and he says he’s come up with an idea that’s a guaranteed out-of-the-park hit.”
Gina felt a chill of dread go up her spine. “Like what? No more boxing matches. I mean it, you two,” she said, glaring at Deborah. “No more weird getups. I don’t care what kind of ratings or money they’re offering. I cook. That’s it. That’s all I do from now on.”
“That’s what they want you to do,” Scott insisted. “They’re even calling it Food Fight. They want to take both of you to this barrier island, down off the coast in South Georgia.”
“I thought you said something about Utah,” Gina said.
“Not Utah as in Salt Lake City,” he said. “Eutaw Island. With an E-U. It’s some godforsaken sand spit that Barry’s research people dug up. Like a dozen people live over there. You have to get there by ferry, and there’s only one paved road on the whole island. They’ll take us over—our crew, and Moody’s. Put us all up at some lodge. Then the two of you will be given a box of groceries—just staples like salt and pepper and cooking oil—and the first challenge. You have to plan, cook, and serve a meal using only what you find on the island. There’ll be a couple of judges. Barry says they’re still working that part out—and whoever wins the Food Fight wins their own show on TCC’s fall lineup. The whole thing will be taped, and they’ll show it in three installments during the fall sweeps.”
“It’s brilliant!” Deborah gushed. “Don’t you get it, Gina? The object is to use fresh, natural, native ingredients. It plays to all your strengths.”
“She’s right,” Scott said. “Tate Moody is toast.”
Regina Foxton is dead meat,” Val declared. “There’s no way you can lose. You’re a lock.”
“Riiight,” Tate said, looking dubious.
“Look. The rule is that the meal has to be made of stuff you find on the island. That’s what you do every week on Vittles. The beauty of it is, we’ve already been there. We’ve got the place scouted already. And from what I remember of the place, there were no organic broccoli forests or herds of free-range chicken breast.”
“There’s just one hitch,” Scott warned.
“We leave Saturday,” Val said. “I gotta go shopping for snake boots.”