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host of Vittles , an outdoor cooking/lifestyles show on the Southern Outdoors Network, was ignoring her, as usual.
    He stood a few yards away, tossing a bright yellow disc up into the air, again and again, as he did every morning. And this morning, like every other morning, Tate’s English setter tore off after the disc, feathery tail flying, nimbly catching the Frisbee in midair.
    “Good boy!” Tate called encouragingly. The dog dashed to thefar edge of the parking lot with the Frisbee, then circled back briskly, coming to stand six feet from Tate.
    “Good, Moonpie,” Tate said. Then, sharply, “Bring!”
    The dog crouched down, the Frisbee clamped between his teeth, and looked at Tate, his head cocked sideways, as though taunting his owner, Valerie thought. She could almost see one of those little cartoon bubbles above the dog’s grinning face.
    “As if,” the bubble would say.
    “Moonpie! Bring!” Tate called.
    “Tate, come,” Valerie said.
    The dog inched closer, but Tate ignored her.
    “Goood,” Tate said cautiously, holding out his hand for the Frisbee.
    The dog wagged its tail furiously, stood up, and trotted away toward the line of scrubby pines that grew up at the edge of the parking lot. Once there, the dog plunked himself down and began happily gnawing the edge of the Frisbee.
    “Tate,” Val pleaded. “Enough with the dog. He’s too stupid to fetch. He’s like a dog version of a bimbo. Gorgeous, but dumb as a damn rock. Come on now. Let’s get to work. The crew will be here any minute, and you know Barry Adelman is coming today.”
    Tate Moody crossed his arms over his chest, ignoring his producer’s entreaties.
    “Moonpie is not dumb. His daddy was a two-time grand master at the national field trials. He’s hardheaded, yeah, but he’s only ten months old. He’s still just a puppy. That’s why I’ve gotta work with him every day. So he’ll be ready for the quail-hunting show we’re gonna shoot down in Tallahassee come fall.”
    “That’s months away,” Val pointed out. “Right now we’ve got today’s show to worry about. Adelman and his guys are supposed to get in sometime this afternoon. They’ll want to see the footage we shot out at the lake yesterday, and then watch you as we shoot. Luckily, the film from the lake is spectacular.”
    Tate’s deeply tanned face broke into a wide smile. “Wasn’t that the prettiest mess of shellcrackers you ever saw?”
    “Terrific. But you know all those fish look the same to me. I can’t tell a shellcracker from a salmon.”
    Tate laughed. “Remind me again why I hired you to produce this show?”
    She took a deep drag from her ultra-slim filtered cigarette. “Because I’m the best in the business, and you know it.”
    “And?”
    She narrowed her eyes as the smoke plumed upward. “And because I’m the one who’s going to get you off this piece-of-crap Southern Outdoors Network and into the big time. The Cooking Channel, Tate, that’s where we’re headed. New York, baby.”
    “You can go to New York,” Tate said affably. “I’m staying put.”
    Val shook her head. Tate had seemed excited when she’d given him the news that The Cooking Channel was interested in Vittles , but he had been quite clear that he had no intention of ever living anywhere outside the South.
    He reached into the pocket of his baggy green cargo shorts and pulled out one of the liver treats the trainer had suggested he use when working with the dog.
    He turned away from Val and held the treat out so the dog could see and smell it.
    “C’mere, Moonpie,” he called. “Come, boy.”
    At the sight of the delicacy, Moonpie dropped the Frisbee, pricked up his ears, and came trotting obligingly over to his putative master.
    “Sit,” Tate commanded, holding the treat just above the dog’s head.
    Moonpie sat, his tail thumping the ground in anticipation.
    “Sit pretty,” Tate said.
    The English setter sat regally erect, head up, brown eyes shining,