Tate watched the judges’ faces carefully. Their dishes had been delivered to the judges for what Adelman called a blind tasting, and he fervently hoped that justice would, indeed, be blind.
Deidre Delaney lifted a tiny forkful of the tenderloin, held it in front of her nose, and sniffed delicately. She turned the fork this way and that, put the fork down, made a note on a clipboard beside her plate, picked the fork up again, and finally took a bite.
She chewed slowly, closing her eyes, nodding thoughtfully. She made another note, then took a tiny bit of the sweet potato fritter and tasted, nodding some more.
“Overcooked,” she pronounced. “Not to mention clichéd.”
At least, Tate thought, she wasn’t holding her nose or gagging.
Beau Stapleton had taken a knife and was quite deliberately separating out all the elements of his dishes before tasting, like a kid pushing the peas aside from the mashed potatoes on a school lunch plate. He’d take a bite, chew, take a healthy swig of the wine on the table by his plate, and then take another bite.
Toni Bailey, on the other hand, pulled her plate toward her and happily dug in, attacking the pork and sweet potatoes with reckless abandon, the way southern cooking was meant to be approached, he’d decided.
“Nice,” she said aloud, scribbling a note on the clipboard at her place. “The meat is tender and flavorful, and I love the fig and pepper glaze. I’m gonna have to steal that idea, for sure.”
“Looks like you’ve got at least one fan,” Gina said.
They were sitting off camera, watching the judges from a couple of folding chairs they’d dragged up to one of the monitors at the assistant producer’s table.
“Thanks, Reggie,” he said, glancing over at her.
Adelman had called for a break between shots, and she’d hurried off the set. Fifteen minutes later, she was back, showered and changed into clean clothes—a brightly flowered cotton sundress and sandals. She wore little or no makeup, and with her still-damp hair and sunburn, she looked like a teenager just back from spring break in Panama City Beach.
Zaleski was hovering around her, trying to get her to eat some of the sandwiches and fruit that Iris and Inez had sent over for the cast and crew, but she just waved him away.
“I can’t eat anything. I’m too nervous. And all your fluttering around isn’t helping. So please, just leave me be.”
When Zaleski had wandered away, Tate yawned widely. “You’re not hungry? I’m starved. I could eat that whole cobbler of yours.”
“Maybe later. Not that it matters. You’ve won this round,” she said, not taking her eyes off the judges. “But don’t count me out yet.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” he replied. “Check out Deidre’s face. She doesn’t look overly impressed. And she’s hardly touched anything.”
“Yeah, but Toni Bailey’s digging on your stuff.”
“What’s with this Stapleton dude?” Tate asked. “I can’t tell whether he likes it or hates it. Do you know anything about him? Ever eaten in one of his restaurants?”
“Just once, unfortunately,” Gina said, tucking a strand of damp hair behind one ear. “Let’s just say it was a memorable experience. For both of us.”
“Look,” Tate said. “They’re starting in on your soup.”
“It’s probably cold by now,” she fretted.
Deidre Delaney lifted a spoon to her lips and tasted. “Beautiful presentation,” she said, lifting up one of the chive blossoms Gina had floated on top of the soup bowl. “And the silkiness of the corn doesn’t overwhelm the delicacy of the crabmeat. Although I would have liked a little heat to the finish.”
“Daggumit,” Gina said. “I should have added one of Iris’s peppers. But I was worried about repeating too much of the deviled crab flavors.”
Toni Bailey wasn’t stopping to make notes. She was lapping up the soup like a contented kitten, not stopping until her bowl was empty.
“Now that’s a winner,” she declared. “The essence of southern summer flavors. It’s easy to get too precious with all this layering of flavors that’s the hot ticket right now. But this chef understands that simple, fresh ingredients don’t need any embellishments.”
Gina let out the breath she’d been holding and beamed proudly. “She really gets my food,” she said.
“You must be joking,” Beau Stapleton declared, pushing his nearly full bowl aside. “I can’t believe either of you liked the chowder. It was watery, insipid. Lacking in imagination. And,” he said, holding out his spoon with a flourish, “I found a huge chunk of crab shell in my bowl. If a line cook in one of my restaurants pulled a rookie stunt like that, I’d fire them on the spot.”
Gina clapped her hands over her mouth. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “I was in such a hurry, I must have missed it. That’s it,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “He’s right. I blew it.”
“Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself,” Tate said, patting her knee. “It’s just one dish. And the other two seemed to love the chowder.”
“No,” Gina said, shaking her head emphatically. “He knows which dishes are mine. And he won’t let me win. It’s not fair, but that’s how it is.”
“Huh?”
“I’m not saying you don’t deserve to win this round,” she said quickly. “I mean, you went out with a kid’s fishing pole and a glorified butter knife and somehow managed to come back with a pork tenderloin. It was totally MacGyver.”
“Shh,” one of the sound tech guys told them. “We’re rolling here.”
“Sorry,” they both whispered.
Beau Stapleton reached for the next plate on the table. “Crab again?” he said nastily.
Gina jumped up. “I can’t watch any more of this. I’m about to jump out of my skin.”
“Shhh!” Barry Adelman glared at her.
He found her on the front porch of the lodge, prowling back and forth.
She stopped in her tracks when she caught sight of him. “Is it over? What did they say?”
Tate had to laugh. “Would you relax? They finished deconstructing your deviled crabs, and Barry gave everybody a break before they come back to dessert.”
“What’d they say?” she asked. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to get any more depressed than I already am.”
“Toni loved ’em, Deidre would have liked ‘a little more heat.’ The woman probably puts jalapeños on her oatmeal.”
She had to ask. “And Beau?”
“Can’t understand why you used so much breading. ‘A little seasoning and a lot of crab—that’s all they need.’ That’s the gospel according to Beau.”
“I only used the barest minimum of cracker crumbs!” she wailed. “You’ve got to have something as a binder. Anyway, that’s the authentic Eutaw Island recipe for deviled crabs.”
He shrugged. “I think maybe you’re right. The dude just doesn’t like you. Or your food. But don’t let it bother you. Deidre Delaney’s not exactly president of the Tate Moody fan club.”
“Really? She knows you?”
“We’ve met,” he said succinctly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just that we’re probably in a draw. Deidre hates my guts, Stapleton’s got it in for you. That makes Toni the wild card.”
“You’re just trying to make me feel better,” Gina said, pacing again. Then she stopped and whirled around. “Hey! What’s up with that? Why are you suddenly on my side?”
“It’s not so sudden,” he said.
They heard a horn beeping then, and turned to see D’John speeding toward them on a golf cart.
He pulled alongside the porch. “All right, you two,” he drawled. “Barry wants you back at the set ASAP. The judges are ready to score the first round. But first, I have got to find a way to make both of you look presentable.”
Tate bowed in Gina’s direction. “Age before beauty,” he said with a grin.