Dining with Joy Read Online Free PDF Page A

going to emcee, the event took on a whole new meaning.
    â€œCook-offs are a dime a dozen. Trust me. Anyone with a pot and a spoon can be in a cook-off.” She checked Luke with a quick glance. “No offense.”
    â€œNone taken.”
    â€œBut Dining with Joy is different.” She angled toward him, a passion infusing her voice. “We’re a different kind of show, and I don’t want our brand to be watered down with me jumping into a cook-off or chef challenge with all the other TV celebrities.” Joy passed the signed form to Helen. “Seriously, don’t you just roll your eyes when you see another celebrity chef in a cooking challenge like it’s some kind of rite of passage?”
    â€œYou’re the emcee, baby, so I think your brand is still safe. Thank you very much.” Helen snatched the form before Joy could take it back and tucked it into her case. “Iced tea is on the house, Luke?” Helen boogied toward the door. “Night, all. Thanks.” The air in the dining room swirled in her wake, floating, drifting, trying to find a place to settle.
    â€œShe’s like an emotional whiplash,” Joy said as she slipped her bag up to her shoulder. “With her ‘honey,’ ‘sugar,’ and ‘darling,’ while she presses her steely knife into your back, ‘Sign here or I’ll kill you.’”
    Luke regarded Joy. “Sure seems to be a lot of protesting for just an emcee gig.”
    â€œYeah, well, I don’t trust Helen or Wenda Divine.” Joy’s gaze mingled with his—blue touching blue. When she stepped back, the magic broke. “I need to go.”
    â€œYour pie?”
    â€œNot hungry.”
    When she exited, the dining room settled with an odd quiet. For the first time, Luke heard the rhythm of rain drumming down. Tucking the ten-dollar bill by the register, he carried her plate back to the kitchen.
    â€œI see Joy didn’t eat her pie.” Mercy Bea peered at the plate in his hand as she carried a tub of dirty dishes to the dishwasher.
    â€œSaid she wasn’t hungry.”
    â€œShe never is, shug, she never is.”
    Luke took a clean fork from the dishwasher and leaned against the prep table, digging into the pie, musing over the counter exchange with Helen and Joy, trying to suppress the smile on his lips and reckon with the sensation that somehow tonight he’d glimpsed into his future.

Four
    â€œLyric, you’ve got ten minutes. All aboard for the train to Ballard Paint & Body Shop.” Joy rapped on her niece’s bedroom door. “Granny wants to leave on time this morning. She has a customer dropping off his car at eight o’clock. Lyric? Annie-Rae’s out of the bathroom, so all your excuses are gone.”
    â€œI heard you the first eight hundred bazillion times you called me.” The hard thump of Lyric’s heels echoed against the floor.
    â€œReally, then how did I miss the eight hundred bazillion times you answered me?” Joy rapped on the door to keep Lyric stirring and moving. “Is bazillion really a number or something David Letterman made up?”
    â€œDavid Letterman?” Lyric’s door flew open. “Oh my gosh, Aunt Joy, he’s a dinosaur.” Lyric—fourteen, beautiful, and angry— marched toward the bathroom, her long, sculpted legs shooting out beyond the hem of her nightshirt. “By the way, bazillion is slang. A combination of billion and gazillion. Beaufort High just called. They want their diploma back.” She twisted on the faucet so the water blasted into the sink. Then she smeared toothpaste on her brush, and when she jammed it under the cascade, most of the toothpaste fell into the sink.
    â€œI’m sure they do. See you downstairs in five minutes.” Joy backed toward the stairs. In the year Lyric and Annie-Rae had been living with them, she learned to roll with the sarcasm instead of butt up