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Authors: Mary Kay Andrews
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said with a sigh. “I told you the only thing I really wanted out of life was a life—a real life, spent outdoors, doing things I was passionate about. Fishing, hunting, a good dog, a good woman. Like that.”
“And I told you?”
“You told me I could have it all, if I hired you to produce my show.” Tate said. “And if I wanted it bad enough.”
“And do you?”
He reached down and ruffled the soft white fur on Moonpie’s head. “Yeah. I do.”
“Good,” she said, standing up. “Then let’s go get what we both want. Barry Adelman is down here because he’s seen all your shows. He approached us, not the other way around. He sees something he likes in you, Tate. Just like all those girls in the Bargain Mart. And those horny housewives sitting in their Barcaloungers in Birmingham. Not to mention the NASCAR guys. You let me worry about little Suzy Homemaker and her kitchen tricks. You just do what you’ve been doing. Right?”
“I guess,” Tate said. He crumpled up the empty plate and tossed it in the trash barrel by the Vagabond’s door. He coaxed the dog inside by tossing him the last bit of fried fish.
“Sorry, buddy,” Tate said, fastening the screen. “Time to get back to work.”
“Just a minute,” Val said. She leaned in close and wiped a trace of sour cream from his upper lip, then unbuttoned the top two buttons on his work shirt. “There,” she said, satisfied.
He blushed.
“One more thing,” she said, stopping him with a hand on his arm. “No more stalling. Tomorrow you go see D’John, and let him work his magic.”
Chapter 11
T ate felt himself relax as soon as he heard the Vittles theme music piped through the studio. He ignored Barry Adelman and his unnamed assistant and gazed steadily into the camera, doing the same thing he’d done that first time Valerie Foster aimed her handheld camcorder at him on that beach in Costa Rica.
He grinned easily—as easily, Val said, as if he were talking to his mama and daddy, down in Pahokee, Florida.
In fact, that’s how she’d instructed him to start the show. “Don’t think about talking to an audience,” she’d suggested. “Just think about talking to your folks.”
“Hi, Mama, hi, Daddy,” he’d always say at the start of every show, flashing his dimples, as if to say, “Look at your boy now.”
His viewers loved that kind of cornpone stuff, according to Val. And the smiling and the dimpling came easy to him, just as most things in his life did.
“Today,” he said, once the theme music faded, “I’m going to take you with me, out to a little lake just outside—”
“No,” Val called.
The cameraman glanced over at her.
“Today, Moonpie ’n’ me are gonna take y’all to a little bitty ol’ lake,” Val coached, laying on her version of a phony southern accent that set his teeth on edge.
Tate’s grin disappeared. “I’m not illiterate,” he said evenly.
“I’d never suggest you were,” Val agreed. “You’re just folksy, okay?”
He shook his head and frowned. But Val winked and gave analmost imperceptible nod in the direction of Adelman, who was seated right beside her at the editing table.
“Folksy,” Tate said finally.
“Just pick it up with the lake bit,” Val said. “And while you’re at it, go ahead and walk over to the fridge while you’re talking, and get out the dish with the fish fillets.”
“The fillets are right here on the counter,” Tate said, pointing to them.
“Well, I want them in the fridge. It’s too static and boring having you just stand there like that. Could you do that for me, please?”
“There’s a dish of fillets already in the fridge,” offered Darryl, the prep chef. “Do you want them already soaking in the buttermilk? Or, we could have him add the milk on camera?”
“Let’s have him mix up the buttermilk and…what goes in it?” she asked, looking down at her notes.
“Hot sauce,” Darryl said, holding up a bottle of Texas
“And I told you?”
“You told me I could have it all, if I hired you to produce my show.” Tate said. “And if I wanted it bad enough.”
“And do you?”
He reached down and ruffled the soft white fur on Moonpie’s head. “Yeah. I do.”
“Good,” she said, standing up. “Then let’s go get what we both want. Barry Adelman is down here because he’s seen all your shows. He approached us, not the other way around. He sees something he likes in you, Tate. Just like all those girls in the Bargain Mart. And those horny housewives sitting in their Barcaloungers in Birmingham. Not to mention the NASCAR guys. You let me worry about little Suzy Homemaker and her kitchen tricks. You just do what you’ve been doing. Right?”
“I guess,” Tate said. He crumpled up the empty plate and tossed it in the trash barrel by the Vagabond’s door. He coaxed the dog inside by tossing him the last bit of fried fish.
“Sorry, buddy,” Tate said, fastening the screen. “Time to get back to work.”
“Just a minute,” Val said. She leaned in close and wiped a trace of sour cream from his upper lip, then unbuttoned the top two buttons on his work shirt. “There,” she said, satisfied.
He blushed.
“One more thing,” she said, stopping him with a hand on his arm. “No more stalling. Tomorrow you go see D’John, and let him work his magic.”
Chapter 11
T ate felt himself relax as soon as he heard the Vittles theme music piped through the studio. He ignored Barry Adelman and his unnamed assistant and gazed steadily into the camera, doing the same thing he’d done that first time Valerie Foster aimed her handheld camcorder at him on that beach in Costa Rica.
He grinned easily—as easily, Val said, as if he were talking to his mama and daddy, down in Pahokee, Florida.
In fact, that’s how she’d instructed him to start the show. “Don’t think about talking to an audience,” she’d suggested. “Just think about talking to your folks.”
“Hi, Mama, hi, Daddy,” he’d always say at the start of every show, flashing his dimples, as if to say, “Look at your boy now.”
His viewers loved that kind of cornpone stuff, according to Val. And the smiling and the dimpling came easy to him, just as most things in his life did.
“Today,” he said, once the theme music faded, “I’m going to take you with me, out to a little lake just outside—”
“No,” Val called.
The cameraman glanced over at her.
“Today, Moonpie ’n’ me are gonna take y’all to a little bitty ol’ lake,” Val coached, laying on her version of a phony southern accent that set his teeth on edge.
Tate’s grin disappeared. “I’m not illiterate,” he said evenly.
“I’d never suggest you were,” Val agreed. “You’re just folksy, okay?”
He shook his head and frowned. But Val winked and gave analmost imperceptible nod in the direction of Adelman, who was seated right beside her at the editing table.
“Folksy,” Tate said finally.
“Just pick it up with the lake bit,” Val said. “And while you’re at it, go ahead and walk over to the fridge while you’re talking, and get out the dish with the fish fillets.”
“The fillets are right here on the counter,” Tate said, pointing to them.
“Well, I want them in the fridge. It’s too static and boring having you just stand there like that. Could you do that for me, please?”
“There’s a dish of fillets already in the fridge,” offered Darryl, the prep chef. “Do you want them already soaking in the buttermilk? Or, we could have him add the milk on camera?”
“Let’s have him mix up the buttermilk and…what goes in it?” she asked, looking down at her notes.
“Hot sauce,” Darryl said, holding up a bottle of Texas
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