Thanks to Lisa’s ruthless efficiency, most of the furniture in the town house was already packed or crated. But some of the bedroom furniture was still intact: her bed, and the dresser holding her television set. Arriving home at ten o’clock, Gina flung herself facedown onto the bed.
Eventually, hunger pangs reminded her that she’d had no food for most of the day. She padded out to the kitchen and found that Lisa’s annoying efficiency extended to the refrigerator too. It was bare, except for a plastic takeout container of fried chicken wings and Lisa’s cache of Natty Lite.
She helped herself to the chicken and a can of beer and went back to bed. Eventually she would have to decide what to do about the mess she called her life. But for now, she decided, it was much easier to dwell on the recent past.
Gina popped D’John’s documentary in the DVD player. Propping herself up on her pillow, she gnawed on a drummette, then washed it down with a dainty swig of beer. She’d watched D’John’s documentary all the way through once, and was halfway through a second viewing when she heard the front door open. She heard her sister’s footsteps in the hall, and then Lisa was standing in the doorway. Gina was miserable, heartbroken, and depressed. Lisa, on the other hand, was runway-ready, with new blond highlights in her hair and full makeup. She wore a chic short black chiffon cocktail dress and stiletto-heeled bronze sandals.
Gina put down the chicken wing and wiped her fingertips on the edge of her sheet. ‘Hey,” she said dully. “Is that my dress?”
“Yeah, sorry,” Lisa said. “The girls wanted to take me clubbing one last time for old time’s sake. All my stuff’s already packed. I’ll have it cleaned when we get to New York.”
“Keep it,” Gina said. “It never looked that good on me.”
“For real? Thanks!” Lisa sat down on the bed beside her sister. “Wait.” She picked up the empty chicken container. “You ate this whole thing?”
“Yup.”
Lisa held up an empty beer can. “How many of these did you drink?”
“How many were in the fridge?”
Lisa pursed her lips in disapproval. “You drank five cans of Natty Lite? You don’t even like beer.”
“True,” Gina said. “But it’s not so bad with the fried chicken. Could you move over to the other side of the bed? You’re kinda blocking my view.”
Lisa turned to look at the television. “Oh. D’John’s masterpiece.”
She went into the other room, and when she padded barefoot back into the room, she was dressed for bed in an oversize Hi-Beams football jersey.
“Scoot over,” she told Gina, climbing into the bed. “The movers took all my stuff already, so I’m bunking in here with you tonight, if that’s okay.”
“S’okay,” Gina said with a sigh. She picked up the remote, pointed it at the television, and punched the play button. The DVD started again.
“How many times have you watched this tonight?” Lisa asked.
“This makes three,” Gina said. “Shh.” She fast-forwarded the DVD until it came to a segment showing Gina and Tate horsing around on their kitchen set, in between shoots for Food Fight.
Gina was listening to something Zeke was saying off camera, and Tate was pelting her with what looked like Ritz crackers. For a while, she ignored the rain of crackers, but then, suddenly, she turned and without warning dumped a pan of thick white stuff on his head. The goo dripped onto his face, and Gina could be heard giggling hysterically off camera.
“Oh, my God.” Lisa laughed. “What was in that pan?”
“Cold grits,” Gina said mournfully. She pointed the remote and fast-forwarded again, this time to a scene where she and Tate sat rocking and talking on the front porch of the lodge at Rebeccaville. Perched on a porch rail in the background, Scott glowered at them, unnoticed.
“This is my favorite part,” Gina said, fast-forwarding again. In this scene, Tate and Gina stood at the end of the ferry dock at sunset. Tate had a long bamboo fly-casting rod and reel in his hand, and he was patiently trying to demonstrate its use to Gina, who repeatedly ended up snagging the line on pilings, the dock, and even the ferry itself. On the film, D’John could be heard laughing, saying to Gina, “You suck!”
The sisters watched the rest of the movie in companionable silence. When it was over, Lisa gently pried the remote from her sister’s hand before she could hit the play button again.
“Can I say something here?” Lisa asked, lying back on her pillow and turning out the lamp on the bedside table.
“Only if it’s not ‘I told you so.’”
“Okay. We’ll skip that part. Even if it’s true.”
Gina sighed deeply and turned on her side, her back to her little sister. “I’m listening.”
“Geen, this is just so stupid. You’re making yourself sick over Tate Moody. You want him, but you don’t want to want him—have I got that right?”
“It’s slightly more complicated than that.”
“You only want to make it complicated,” Lisa said. “You’re furious with him because he let you win—right?”
“It’s more than that.”
“He let you win because he loves you. Is that such a crime?”
Gina sat up in bed and pounded the mattress. “I could have won without him! I know I could. But now everybody who knows will always wonder—what if? What if he hadn’t thrown that last challenge?”
“Why can’t you both win?” Lisa asked.
“Don’t be silly,” Gina said. “What—TCC is going to give us both our own shows? Two southern cooking shows? Never happen.”
“Not two shows,” Lisa said. “One show. Starring Gina Foxton and Tate Moody. Together.”
Silence. Lisa could hear her sister thinking it over.
“Keep talking.”
“You saw the DVD,” Lisa said. “The two of you are great together. Don’t get mad at me, but I think you’re better together than separate. You know—like the sum equals more than the parts? Zeke talks all the time about chemistry, about how that emotional connection can’t be faked, not even for television. You and Tate have chemistry. The way you laugh and tease and look at each other—Geen, it gives me goose bumps. It’s the real deal.”
The light snapped on again. Gina turned and put her arms around her baby sister’s neck, resting her forehead on Lisa’s. “When did you get so dadgummed smart?”