“Sundae Café,” Hattie said promptly.
“What do you say we both clean this pancake makeup off our faces and head over there?”
“Okay,” she said, surprising herself. “Let me see if Cass wants to come too.”
“Swell,” he said, but his tone gave him away.
“Never mind,” Hattie said, laughing. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll be good to go.”
27
What’s for Dessert?
Trae rolled his eyes in disbelief when he saw where the restaurant was located—in a small strip shopping center, wedged between Chu’s convenience store and XYZ Liquors. “Really? Are we having barbeque, or pizza, or barbecued pizza?”
“Don’t be such a snob,” Hattie said. “The food here is as good as anything you’d find in downtown Savannah, or Charleston.”
They found a table in the small front room, ordered drinks—a dirty martini for Trae, a glass of chardonnay for Hattie—and were about to order dinner when a woman, middle-aged, sunburnt and excited, edged toward them.
“I told my friends,” she pointed at a table of five women, “I know that’s him. That’s gotta be him. You’re Trae Bartholomew, right? From Design Minds?”
Trae flashed a blinding smile. “That’s me.”
She clapped her hands. “Yay! I knew it. We all thought you should have won. That girl that did win, Jovannah? Her room was the tackiest thing I’ve ever seen. I mean, who glues aluminum foil to a wall? Ugh! Anyway, your room was the best. And we’re all big fans, we follow you on Instagram, and we’re dying to know about your new show!”
The women at the table all waved in unison and lifted their wineglasses in a toast.
“Well, thanks,” Trae said, trying and failing to appear humble. “Design Minds was a fun show, and I got a lot of business out of it, so I guess, in the end, I really did win.”
“We saw the photos of the new project you’re working on,” she said. “That kitchen is the worst!” She glanced meaningfully at Hattie. “Is the project in Savannah? Is this your, like, assistant?”
“My costar!” he said hastily. “Hattie Kavanaugh.” He lowered his voice. “We’re shooting a new show for HPTV. But keep that on the down-low, okay?”
“Really!” she shrieked. “Right here on tacky old Tybee?”
“Tybee’s not tacky,” he said. “It’s charming. Quaint. Unassuming. And wait until you see the transformation. It’ll be the most gorgeous beach cottage you’ve ever seen.”
“Where is the house? When will the show air?”
Trae held up his hands in surrender. “I can’t give you the address, but I can tell you it’s a historic waterfront house, and the show will air on Wednesday nights starting this fall.”
“I can’t wait!” the woman said. She produced a menu and a pen. “Would it be rude of me to ask for an autograph?”
“I’d consider it rude if you didn’t ask,” he said, scrawling his name across the menu. “Now, how about a photo?”
“Oh my God!” she trilled, and nodded at Hattie. “Would you?”
“Of course,” Hattie said, but when she stood up, instead of inviting her to pose, the fan handed her the phone.
Trae got up from the table and draped his arm across the woman’s shoulders. “Say ‘Homewreckers’！” he prompted, beaming down at the stranger.
Hattie clicked off three or four frames and handed the phone back.
“That was awkward,” Trae said, when the woman returned to her friends. “Sorry. Sometimes these hard-core fans can be pretty insensitive.”
He picked up the menu. “What’s good here?”
“Locally caught seafood,” Hattie said. She looked over her shoulder at the table of women, who were chattering and pointing toward them. “Does that happen to you often?”
He grimaced. “Now and again. That Design Minds show was shot three years ago, but it lives on in the world of reruns. Which means that I get to keep reliving the fact that Jovannah, a dog-groomer-slash-designer from Terra Haute, beat me out of the fifty-thousand-dollar grand prize.”
“Ouch,” Hattie said.
“It’s okay. They gave her a show and only aired six episodes before the network pulled the plug. That’s showbiz, right?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Hattie said. She leaned forward with her elbows on the table. “What do you think the chances are that our show will do okay?”