Val watched Gina Foxton and her producer/boyfriend climb into the first golf cart lined up at the end of the dock at Eutaw Island. Scott Zaleski swung himself behind the steering wheel and patted the seat beside him. But Gina shook her head, motioned to D’John, the makeup artist, to take that seat, and instead sat on the backward-facing backseat. Val chuckled at the look on Zaleski’s face. A moment later, he was flying down the dock in the direction of the island.
Tate sat back in the passenger seat of their cart and watched them go.
“Trouble in paradise?” Val asked.
“Yeah,” Tate said. “You could say that. The dickhead got her show canceled because he was screwing the sponsor’s wife.”
“Ow,” Val said. She backed the golf cart away from the pile of baggage mounded on the dock, and then steered the cart down the dock, her head bouncing as the cart sped along on the weathered board planks.
“She’s pissed that I’ve already been on the island,” Tate said, hanging on to his seat with both hands. “Seems to think it’s cheating.”
“Tough,” Val said.
The woman who opened the front door at the Eutaw Island Lodge was as tall as she was wide, with short silvery hair and bright blue eyes set into a deeply tanned and lined face. She wore khaki slacks, a pink T-shirt with “EUTAW ISLAND” embroidered in script over her left breast, and weather-beaten leather deck shoes.
“Welcome,” she said, shaking hands with D’John, Scott, and Gina as they walked into the lodge’s entry hall, Lisa trailing slowly in their wake. “I’m Alice McLemore, but everybody around here just calls me Sis.” She put a sympathetic hand on Lisa’s shoulder. “You okay, shug? Usually the boat ride over from Darien is pretty smooth.”
“It was very smooth,” Gina said. “It’s not seasickness. She’s just a little…hung over.”
Sis looked from Gina to Lisa. “You two are the sisters? I’ve got you sharing a double. It’s two beds. I hope that’s all right.”
“Fine,” Lisa mumbled.
The door opened again, and Tate and Val and the rest of both crews stepped inside the lodge’s living room.
“Welcome, everybody,” Sis said. “Lunch is in the dining room in fifteen minutes. That’ll give you time to drop your stuff in your rooms, and then meet back down here. Please don’t be late, because I promise you, you do not want to get off on the wrong foot with Iris and Inez.”
“No lunch,” Lisa said, groaning. “Bed.”
While everybody else was stepping up to the counter to check in and pick up their keys, D’John was strolling around the lodge, camcorder in hand.
“So, this is the lodge at Rebeccaville,” he said, in a golf commentator’s hushed voice.
It was a large, pleasant room, Gina thought. Low ceilings with heavy age-blackened beams, polished heart-pine floors scattered with worn Oriental rugs, and furniture that reminded her of the living room of any well-bred Atlanta matron. The overstuffed sofas and squashy armchairs were covered in a bright flowered chintz, and the tables and cabinets were good antique reproductions in the expected mahogany. Around the walls were nicely framed bird and botanical prints, with a large, well-done oil seascape hung over the mantel of the large fireplace that took up most of one wall.
D’John didn’t seem overly impressed. “Hmm,” he said, panning the camera across the room. “I’d call it very Buckhead wannabe. Not really shabby, but it’s not a Veranda magazine cover, either.”
“Shh!” Gina hushed him. “I’m going to go look in on Lisa. See you down here in ten minutes. I don’t know who Iris and Inez are, but I know I don’t want to get ’em mad at me.”
She found her room on the second floor of the lodge. Lisa was sprawled out facedown on one of the queen-size beds in the room, dressed only in her panties and bra, her clubbing ensemble left in a heap on the floor.
“Lisa?” Gina bent down to check on her younger sister. “Are you all right?”
“Hot,” Lisa said. “No air-conditioning.”
Gina stood up and looked around the room. There was a set of triple windows on the wall facing the bed. The windows were open, and the frilly lace curtains moved slightly in the breeze coming off the marsh.
“It’s not so bad,” Gina said. “We’ve got a nice sea breeze, even though it’s midday.”
“No AC,” Lisa mumbled.
“I’ll see if Sis will send up a fan,” Gina said. She stepped into the bathroom to wash her hands and face, and then hurried downstairs to the dining room.
She met Scott on the broad stair landing between floors.
“How’s your room?” he asked solicitously. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” she said. “No air-conditioning, but there’s a decent breeze coming in. Lisa’s not too happy about it, though.”
“She all right?” He didn’t even try to look concerned.
“She’ll be fine,” Gina said. “I’ll take her some ginger ale and saltine crackers after lunch. That usually perks her up.”
Barry Adelman stood outside the entrance to the dining room, beaming at them as they approached. He was dressed in what Gina guessed was a Manhattanite’s version of island-wear, a scientifically pressed Tommy Bahama shirt adorned with parrots and hibiscus blossoms, soft banana-colored silk trousers, Italian leather loafers, sans socks, and a black ball cap bearing the Adel-Weis Productions logo.
“Gina!” he exclaimed. “And Scott! How are you two?” He took Gina’s hands in his. “Isn’t this great? Are you two as excited as I am?”
“Absolutely,” she said, accepting the kisses he landed on both cheeks. “I’m thrilled to be here, Mr. Adelman.”
“It’s Barry,” he corrected. “Come on into the dining room and meet the rest of the kids. We’ll bring everybody up to speed on what we’ve got planned for this week.”
The dining room had faded chintz wallpaper, a long, polished mahogany table, and a dozen good repro Chippendale chairs arranged around it. A huge brass chandelier held candles instead of lightbulbs. Seated around the table were “the kids,” as Adelman referred to them: gaffers, cameramen, sound and light techs, and two or three other assorted crew members whose names Gina couldn’t remember and whose job description she didn’t quite understand.
Tate Moody and Val sat at the far end of the table, and Adelman pointed Scott and Gina to two chairs beside D’John, who was already seated near the door, chatting away with one of the New York crew members.
“All right, everybody,” Barry announced, standing at the head of the table like the patriarch of his newly formed clan. “Let’s get some lunch under our belts, and then we’ll have our powwow.”
He sat down, and as he did so, two scrawny, dour-faced women in their early sixties entered the room, each balancing an enormous food-laden tray on one shoulder.
The women wore black slacks and the same pink T-shirt as Sis. With their high cheekbones and gray hair pulled back into tight knoblike buns, they appeared to be identical twins.
“Miss?” one of the women said, pausing beside Gina’s chair. “You want da swimp or da chicken salad?”
“Uh…” Gina paused, trying to decipher the server’s question.
“Get the shrimp salad,” Tate called from the far end of the table. “Inez makes the best shrimp salad on the Georgia coast.”
Inez flashed a dazzling smile in Tate’s direction and giggled girlishly. “Oh, you hush up, you,” she retorted. She turned to Gina. “He’s a mess, ain’t he?”
“A big mess,” Gina agreed. “I guess I’ll try the shrimp salad.”
The thick white crockery plate held a mound of shredded iceberg lettuce and a huge scoop of pale pink shrimp salad, along with two slices of dead-ripe tomato and a handful of Town House crackers.
She loaded a cracker with a forkful of the shrimp salad, tasted, and nearly swooned. The shrimp were sweet and moist and perfectly cooked, finely diced, and mixed with mayonnaise that could only have been homemade. She could taste a hint of lemon juice, and a bite of green that she identified as chopped capers. She was superbly happy and deeply disturbed.
Tate Moody was right. Again.
Talk swirled around the table. Barry Adelman and Scott had a long discussion about wine, and college basketball, and some kind of digital technology that Gina did not understand. When Gina looked up, she saw Tate, down at the end of the table, idly chatting with his producer when he was not giving her that cocky told-you-so look of his.
Gina managed to finish her lunch and restrain herself from picking up her plate to lick clean the last remnants of the shrimp salad. Iris came back around the table, offering small dishes of dessert—some kind of cake, peach cobbler, or butterscotch pudding.
“No, thanks,” Gina said, sipping her iced tea. What she really wanted was another scoop of that shrimp salad. And the recipe. She’d kill for that recipe.
Suddenly, Barry was tapping the side of his glass with his spoon. “Everybody,” he called, getting to his feet. “I know you’ve all been on pins and needles, so let’s get down to business.”
Gina sat back in her chair, arms crossed.
“Food Fight”—Barry said, pausing to add dramatic effect—“is going to be the biggest hit of the fall season.” He looked around the room, nodding thoughtfully. “And you people are going to make that hit.”
“Yeah!” Scott said, pumping the air with his fist as the others applauded politely.
“You!” Barry said, pointing at Tate, “are going to go mano a mano against the South’s leading lady of healthy regional cuisine!
“And you,” he said, turning to Gina with a flourish, “are going to have to figure out how to catch and cook a dinner in the wilds of Eutaw Island, competing against the wiliest outdoorsman on land or sea.
“And I,” he said modestly, “am going to make that magic happen.”
He turned toward Zeke and snapped his fingers. Zeke peeled a yellow sticky from his shirtfront and handed it to his boss.
“Logistics,” Barry announced. “Tomorrow morning at oh-eight-hundred, you’ll each be assigned your kitchen space over at the old ballroom at Rebeccaville. Each refrigerator and pantry will be stocked with identical ingredients. You’ll be given staples—salt, pepper, a limited amount of seasonings, flour, sugar, cornmeal, cooking oil, eggs, butter, cream, and the most basic of vegetables: onions, carrots, celery, and potatoes. Your kitchens will have the most modern appliances available—all provided, of course, by our sponsors, Viking.”
Barry turned toward Zeke again, and was handed yet another yellow sticky note.
“Oh, yes,” he added. “Makeup and wardrobe call will be at oh-seven-hundred.”
“Makeup?” Tate started to object, but Val put her hand over his mouth.
“This isn’t regional television,” Barry said blandly. “Our audience expects our chefs to look like the entertainment stars they are.”
“Uh-huh,” D’John agreed, nodding vigorously. “I heard that.”
“Time and task,” Zeke whispered.
“Right,” Barry said. “When we start taping, you’ll be given your cooking task for the day, and the time limit. Taping will start immediately afterward.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, looking pleased with himself. “Any questions?”
“Uh, Barry,” Gina ventured. “Where, exactly, will we be getting the rest of the ingredients for this mystery meal we’ll be preparing?”
“From the bounty of the sea and the land,” Barry said, throwing his arms out in an expansive gesture.
“Catch it or kill it,” Tate said smugly.
“Fine,” Gina snapped. “Will we have fishing tackle, that kind of thing, available?”
Zeke handed Barry a yellow sticky. He read and then crumpled it and stuck it in the pocket of his slacks. “You’ll have what you need,” he said. “Obviously, we want to leave you in the dark about some elements of the competition, in order to heighten the suspense for our viewers.”
“Judges?” Tate asked. “Who decides the winner?”
Barry blinked. “The judges decide, of course.” He held up a hand.
“All right, everybody, that’s enough for now. We’ll want the crew members to stay here after the lunch dishes are cleared, for our production meeting.”
“You two,” he said, nodding toward Gina, and then Tate, “will have the afternoon to familiarize yourself with the beauty of Eutaw Island. You’ll each have a golf cart at your disposal.”
“And a two-way radio,” Zeke added. “Cell-phone reception is pretty poor over here.”
Immediately, Scott and Barry seized their BlackBerrys and started madly thumbing.
“No service,” Scott said bleakly.
“So you’ll want to make sure you have your radios with you anytime you leave the lodge, just in case something happens while you’re out in the wilds,” Zeke said.
“Don’t want to lose track of our stars,” Barry said.
“Oh,” Zeke said, standing up and gathering his clipboard and file folders. “One more thing. There are cart paths all over the island. Stay on the paths, and you shouldn’t have any problems.”
Gina stood up too and stretched. She was eager to get outside and try to start catching up to the unfair lead Tate Moody already had over her.
“And one more thing,” Zeke called. “Stay away from the alligators.”
“Alligators!” D’John shrieked. “Jesus, Lord!”