The unfamiliar guest’s shoulders bounced up and down. Suddenly, his eyes shot upward, and he began taking in his surroundings with seemingly newfound interest. My eyes followed his. I just couldn’t help it. The intensity with which he began looking around left me no choice. He acted as if there could be a sniper in the rafters, and as desperately as I kept hoping the network would build me a new kitchen, that really wasn’t the way I wanted to go about getting it.
“Until next time . . . I’m Hadley Beckett. Thanks for spending some of your precious time at home with me.”
Ugh. I loved my show. I was grateful that I got to do what I loved. And without a doubt, the kitchen they had designed for me in the Brooklyn studio I inhabited was more spacious than any apartment in which I had ever lived. But that didn’t change the fact that every time I had to act like I was actually at home when filming At Home with Hadley, I felt like I was selling my soul, just the tiniest bit. Each time I had to say it, I was always filled with this vision of a very Dorian Gray–esque portrait of me on the wall, which had begun as a cute and thin-despite-all-the-comfort-food Hadley of her twenties. But each time I sold my soul, the portrait began showing the years.
And certainly the pounds.
Why was it that unlike with Dorian Gray’s arrangement, the reality staring back at me in the mirror didn’t stay young and impervious to carbs?
“Hey, Hadley, there’s someone here who would like to meet you,” Stuart called out as he walked the stranger toward me.
Ah yes. The trained assassin sent to, hopefully, fire at will, not hit a single person, and completely destroy my outdated appliances.
“Hi there,” I greeted him with a smile. As much as my sniper theory intrigued me, I knew it was much more likely that he had just won a contest in some fan group on the Culinary Channel’s website or something. “I’m Hadley Beckett.”
“Oh, I am fully aware of who you are, Chef Beckett. I’m a big fan, and I’ve been following your career probably longer than you have.”
I chuckled, frighteningly aware for the first time that the line between groupie and trained assassin could be less discernible than I had ever suspected.
“Really? Well, that’s flattering! I’m so glad you’re able to be out here today. But I really must insist you call me Hadley. And what’s your name?”
He put his hand out to shake mine. “Leo. Leo Landry.”
“It’s great to meet you, Leo. I don’t think you caught the entire taping, but I hope it was worth the trip for you. I know it’s quite the trek to get all the way out here, but hopefully you’ve got some visits to other studios lined up? They call this neighborhood Foodie Row, there are so many Culinary Channel studios around here.”
“I know. I’ve spent a fair amount of time in the area. But I’m actually just here to see you.”
I try not to think the worst of people. Really, I do. I try to be welcoming and trusting, and apart from occasionally wondering if a guest in the studio is an assassin, I think I do a pretty good job at that. But that didn’t keep me from darting my eyes around to make sure I wasn’t alone with Leo Landry, the stranger who had come to Foodie Row just to see me.
Of course I should have known that Stuart would always have my back. I spotted him about twelve feet away, apparently polishing a camera—something I’d never seen him, or anyone, do before. I smiled as I realized his eyes were fixed intently on Leo.
“Well then, what can I help you with, Leo?” I asked.
“Actually, I’m hoping we can help each other.”
His hand moved slowly toward the inside pocket of his blazer, and my life flashed before my eyes. Well, not my life, actually. I’m not sure whose life it was, exactly, but it was definitely the life of someone from some movie in which Matt Damon was about to appear out of nowhere and tackle Leo, just in the nick of time.
The threat level in my mind receded as Stuart just kept on wiping down the camera, and Leo handed me a business card.
“Hadley, I’ve been watching you for a long time,” he said. Admittedly the business card I was now able to look down at made that sentence a whole lot less creepy. “I think it’s time to take your career to the next level, and I believe I’m the guy to get it there.”
Leo Landry. Landry & Associates Talent Management.
“That’s very flattering, Leo. Really. But I already have a manager.”
He nodded and chuckled. “I know. Your grandmother, right?”
I had the best business manager in Nashville. She’d managed Chet Atkins and Waylon Jennings, Patsy Cline and Kris Kristofferson. Dolly Parton had once dedicated an entire album to her. Sure, those were all musical acts, and she hadn’t worked with any of them—or anyone at all—for at least twenty years or so, but there was no denying that she was justifiably a legend. The fact that she was working with me, a moderately successful chef with an undeniably niche audience? I was blessed. Blessed enough that sometimes I knew I just needed to hold my tongue and let it slide when my manager didn’t treat me with the professional respect I might hope to receive from others in the business.
Besides, she only took 5 percent commission and still did my laundry for me when my schedule got too hectic.
But whenever anyone in the business seemed to look down on the fact that my grandmother was my manager, I always felt a strange combination of embarrassment and indignation. Most of the time, no one had any idea. Sure, I’d occasionally have to explain how my manager’s experience in the country music business in any way qualified her to be a player in the world of food, but that was always easy to defend. Apparently Dolly Parton and the career Meemaw had helped carve out for her was a universal language when it came to earning people’s respect.
I hated that I could never seem to escape any conversation in which the grandmother factor was known without being made to feel like a little girl attempting to play in the big leagues.
“Yes, my grandmother,” I said with a sneer. Well, I don’t know if I actually sneered. I’m not sure my Southern manners would allow for a sneer. But I sure wasn’t smiling, that’s for doggone sure. “Does that amuse you?”
The smile dropped from his lips. It must have been the sneer.
“Oh no. No, not at all. Sorry. I think it’s completely charming.”
Charming? Ugh. Was I going to have to sing “Hard Candy Christmas” to get this guy to stop being so patronizing?
I was pretty sure that wouldn’t actually work. Ever. In any situation.
“If you think it’s so charming, what makes you think I would want to make a change and be represented by you instead?”
“Because there’s something very strategic, very precise, that needs to be happening in your career right now. And I do mean right now. Are you aware that At Home with Hadley is the number-one noncompetitive show on the Culinary Channel?”
I nodded. I was aware, no matter how difficult it was to believe, and no matter how giddy I felt inside to hear the words spoken aloud. And no matter how much I knew the current level of success was only a result of Chef Cavanagh’s on-air tirade and subsequent suspension.
“It’s because To the Max is on hiatus—”
“I’m going to stop you right there and give you a little free advice, before I’m even representing you. There is no justification needed. You shouldn’t be minimizing the importance of that to anyone—or to yourself. At Home with Hadley is the number-one show. Period. So, let me ask you, Hadley . . . why are you in Brooklyn?”