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braised pork chops special sounds delightful to me and so does that chowder,” Cynthia says.

      “My crab and corn chowder is one of my favorite soups,” I say. “This is the best time of year for crab meat. We get it locally and work it into a bath of bacon drippings, butter, pureed potatoes, and half and half. It’s divine, if I do say so myself.”

      “You’re making my mouth water, but, sadly, I think I’d better stick with a salad. My metabolism is not what it once was. I’d have to take three spin classes tomorrow if I went with the pork chops,” Cynthia says.

      “Just a salad for me, too,” comes from Twyla.

      I signal for Wavonne to come back to the table.

      “Twyla and Cynthia would both like the grilled chicken salad.”

      “The dressing on the side,” Twyla says.

      “And for you?” Wavonne asks me.

      “I’ll have the salad, too.”

      “The salad? For you?” she questions. “Are you feelin’ okay?”

      “Yes. I’m fine.”

      “I ain’t never seen you eat a salad in your life. You’ve been eyein’ those pork chops all evenin’.” She pauses for a moment, her eyes moving from me to my tablemates and back to me again. “Oh, I get it,” she says. “Beyoncé and Kelly are having salads, so Michelle’s gotta order one, too.”

      “Just bring the salads, Wavonne.”

      “As you wish,” she replies sarcastically. She’s being a smart-ass, but an honest one. I was planning to indulge in the evening’s special—seasoned bone-in chops, seared on both sides before taking a simmer in a bath of chicken broth, honey, and vinegar. But I think I’d feel odd eating pork chops covered in sauce while my guests nibble on salads across the table from me.

      I continue to chat with Cynthia and Twyla, and I can honestly say that the energy at the table has changed since Russell left—we are all more relaxed without him barking orders at Trudy or into his phone. When our salads arrive, we eat them with little enthusiasm while Cynthia tells us a bit more about the inn and Russell’s plans for Sunfish. We’re getting an earful about riverfront dining, arrangements Russell is making with local watermen to ensure a fresh supply of rockfish, and two restaurant designers he’s fired, when Wavonne shows up to clear our plates and take a dessert order.

      “Can I interest you ladies in any coffee or dessert? Red velvet cake? Peach pie?”

      “Would you two be up for sharing something?” Cynthia asks.

      “Sure,” Twyla says.

      “That sounds fine,” I respond when what I really want to say is, “No, I don’t want to share anything—I’m a grown-ass woman who’s practically starving from having nothing more than a salad for dinner, and I want my own freakin’ dessert.”

      “Which one do you recommend?”

      “I would probably go with the peach pie. The peaches came in fresh from Georgia this morning.”

      “Peach pie it is then,” Cynthia says.

      “With ice cream,” I add.

      “Sure thing,” Wavonne says to all of us before directing her eyes at me. “Remember, Halia. You said I could jet at ten.” She looks at Cynthia and Twyla. “It’s Reggae on the Roof night at Eden Lounge,” she adds, before directing her attention back to me. “Once I bring the pie, can you close out the check when you guys are finished?”

      “Sure. No problem.”

      As Wavonne departs to fetch one slice of pie to be shared by three adult women, Cynthia goes over a few more details about the show until she clears her throat. “So, Halia,” she says as if she’s about to broach an uncomfortable topic. “Elite Chef is not scripted or anything, but we do like our guest judges to be entertaining—you know, have some personality.”

      “Personality?”

      “Yes.” She looks at Twyla. “Like how Twyla has this whole sort of southern thing going on. She’ll play that up with lots of ‘I’m fixin’ tos’ and ‘bless her hearts’ and ‘hey y’alls.’”

      “I’m ‘fixin’ tos’?” I ask.

      “Yes. You know—‘I’m fixin’ to fry up some chicken.’ ‘I’m fixin’ to go to the movies.’”

      “Okay... ?” I say, wondering if I look as bemused as I feel. “Surely you don’t want me to act like a southern belle?”

      “No, but we thought you could be a little more... more brash... sassy... just to keep things entertaining.”

      “Um... I don’t think...”

      “Just throw in a ‘Girl!’ every now and then... or a ‘oh no he di’int.’ Maybe dress a little snappier.”

      “So, you want me to be Madea?”

      “Madea,” Cynthia says, like I’ve just given her an idea. “That’s not a bad plan. You adopt a sort of Madea-ish personality—”

      “Yeeeah.” I cut her off before her ludicrous idea goes any further. “That’s not going to happen. With me, what you see is what you get.”

      Cynthia looks disappointed until her eyes look past me and she smiles.

      I turn around to get a look at where Cynthia is staring and see Wavonne coming toward us with a slice of peach pie. She must have put the order in before doing a quick change into her club wear in the ladies’ room. Wheels seem to be turning in Cynthia’s head as Wavonne sidles toward us in steep black heels, tight jeans, and a low cut sequined top with spaghetti straps.

      “This one.” Cynthia gives Wavonne a good once-over as she sets the pie and three forks on the table. “Maybe she can be your personality.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “You’re lovely, Halia, but you’re a bit . . . um... inconspicuous.”

      “Borin’,” Wavonne says. “She thinks you’re borin’.”

      “I do not,” Cynthia counters. “She just seems very... stable... genuine. They are great qualities, but they don’t exactly bring in ratings. What’s your name again?”

      “Wavonne.”

      “Wavonne, how about we bring you on with Halia? You’re quick with a quip.” Cynthia gives Wavonne a long look. “And outfits like that would bring some flash to the show.”

      “You want me to be on TV?!”

      “Yes. We’ll just say you’re Halia’s assistant or something.” Cynthia turns to me. “How does that sound?”

      “I suppose it’s fine, especially since, apparently, I’m less interesting than watching paint dry.”

      “Don’t be silly. You two just make a good pair. Viewers will get a kick out of your banter.”

      “There’s my ride.” Wavonne looks out the front windows. “Wait until I tell Melva and Linda that not only am I gonna get to stay at Russell Mellinger’s new hotel, but I’m gonna be on TV!”

      As Wavonne hurries to tell her friends the news, Cynthia, Twyla, and I pick up our forks and begin to share the pie. While we chat a bit more about the plans for tomorrow I find myself eager for them to finish our dessert. I’m tired, and I want to start the closing process so I can get home before midnight. But mostly, I want them to leave so I can make a run to the kitchen for a helping of my pork chops, and my own damn slice of peach pie.

      RECIPE FROM HALIA’S KITCHEN

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