My eyes flew open. “That’s it?” I glanced at the clock on the wall and sighed in relief. I was so tired. We had all been up late the night before, prerecording my insufferable special segment with Keith Urban and Nicole Kidman. Keith and Nicole didn’t directly cause the suffering. They were lovely. But there wasn’t enough coffee in the world to help me enjoy watching Keith Urban butcher my recipe for beef stew until nearly midnight. “Thanks, Stu. You’re the best.” I took off my apron and threw it on the countertop. “So what are you going to do during the break?”
He laughed. “After you’re done cooking—considering all the times you don’t know how the appliances work, or when you burn au gratin potatoes—”
“That only happened once!”
“—the shows don’t just magically go on the air in a way that makes you look like you actually know how to cook. You do know that, right? It’s important to me that you know that.”
I smiled. “Yes. I know that. Point taken.” I grabbed my sponge and began cleaning my station.
“How are you feeling about tonight?” he asked as he checked things off his clipboard.
“Good. Nauseous.”
“Perfect.”
“Just nerves.” I smiled. “It’s not all that often in your life that you get to achieve one of your lifelong dreams.”
“Well, I think it happens to you more than most people, so maybe don’t say that on the air. With the hot streak you’re on, it could make you look a bit lofty.”
I nodded. “Good note.”
“But I’m sure you’re going to be great. And, I mean, tonight’s not such a big deal, right? You already filmed last week.”
“Yes. Thank goodness I don’t have to meet Marshall Simons for the first time ever again. But tonight’s the first real filming for an episode. As in, tonight we start filming the episode that will air on Sunday. Sunday! This Sunday, Stu. Can you believe it?” I hardly could.
“Of course I believe it. You deserve this, Had! I’m just sorry you have to share—”
I cut him off with a groan. “Oh, let’s not do that again.”
I hadn’t updated him on any of the more friendly developments between Max and me. I knew he wouldn’t be pleased, and I just didn’t want to mess with it. The friendship, the kissing, the practice . . . Stuart wouldn’t like any of it.
Thirty minutes later, the entire crew was gone, my kitchen was ship-shape, and I was exhausted. Miraculously, I had time for a quick power nap. I hadn’t taken a nap in years, I was pretty sure. But I decided to afford myself the luxury. I wanted to appear rested and refreshed on Renowned. A girl—even this blessed-beyond-belief girl—only gets to tape the first episode of her season of the show she’s been watching since childhood every so often. She should look her best when she does.
I jumped off the couch with a start when a bell rang. I looked around in confusion, and I seriously had no idea what was happening or where I was. I certainly had no idea where I was supposed to be, and I didn’t even understand where the ringing bell was coming from. I looked around for my phone and found it on the floor beside the couch, but that wasn’t the annoying sound culprit. I hadn’t set an alarm because I was only going to rest for a few minutes, I remembered. I did note the time when I picked it up, though, and that’s when the real confusion and panic began. It was 4:45. Wasn’t a car supposed to be there about then to pick me up?
The door!
I finally understood where the ringing was coming from, and I ran to the door and threw it open.
“Ms. Beckett?” the man at the door asked as I squinted into the setting sun and tried to make sense of everything. “I’m with the car service and was sent to pick you up. Are you ready?”
Was I? I glanced down at my bare feet. “Give me five minutes!”
I slammed the door shut and realized, as I was walking away, how much nicer it would have been to invite him inside. Let him have a seat, and maybe a glass of lemonade. But I didn’t have time to rectify my rudeness just then. We were filming our first episode on location in Nashville, and I had grievously overslept.
I ran to my bedroom and made the mistake of looking in a mirror. I’d gotten a haircut over the weekend, and overall, I was enjoying my shorter hair. But it certainly didn’t leave as much room for low maintenance. I ran a brush through it in an attempt to at least tame the flyaways. While I brushed my hair with one hand, I brushed my teeth with the other. My clothes were okay, if slightly wrinkled, but the problem was I knew I shouldn’t appear on two television shows in the same outfit.
“Ms. Beckett?” I heard the driver call out. Was I hearing him through the door or out the window? “I’m afraid we really have to be going.”
I groaned and began riffling through my closet. I grabbed a red plaid flannel shirt and changed into it, as I took a quick peek down at my jeans. I was relieved to see they were just plain, boring jeans, and had no distinctive characteristics that would be detected by discerning viewers.
“On my way!” I shouted down as I took one last look in the mirror. Not good. Not good at all.
Two minutes later we were on our way, though I still had no idea exactly where we were heading. But by a couple minutes after 6:00, we had navigated our way through Friday evening Nashville rush hour, and I was being dropped off at the Bluebird Cafe.
When I arrived, Max was standing outside, talking to Chef Simons, who smiled when he saw me and rushed over to greet me.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said to Chef Simons.
“No worries, my dear. We’re all set up. We’re going to film a few minutes inside, to try to really capture a true Nashville vibe, and then we’ll move on to dinner elsewhere.”
“We’re going to dinner?” Max asked. “I thought we’d be cooking dinner ourselves. On a show that is supposed to be centered on our culinary skills—”
“Well, we’re probably going to spend some time in the city, enjoying the culture and the traditions. At least, I know that’s usually part of the first episode. Right, Chef Simons?” I chose to believe Chef Simons and I had reached a silent understanding the week prior. I would not be calling him Marshall.
“Right you are, my dear,” he said as he patted me gently on the back. “This is very much within the scope of all seasons of Renowned, and of course we’ll be going to New York next week, and experiencing the culture and traditions of your home, Chef Max. But for now . . . when in Nashville, do as the Nashvilleians do.”
He pronounced it Nashville-ians, but I was still temporarily lost in thought with the fun idea of a group of Southern bad guys called the Nashvillains, who go around wearing fringe and rhinestones, singing country music, and adding sugar to everybody’s iced tea.
“Well, aren’t you the teacher’s pet this evening?” Max muttered to me under his breath. “What happened to not letting them pit us against each other?”
“What are you talking about?”
He adopted a Southern drawl and said, “Yes, Chef Simons. Pick me, Chef Simons. I know the answer, Chef Simons.” I laughed as he continued in his normal voice. “Way to show me up, Beckett.”