Dream a Little Scream Read online

  “Did it remind you of something?” Sybil asked, her bangle bracelets clanging as she reached for an éclair.

  “Maybe.” Rose squinted her eyes shut, as if she was trying to recall the image of the book. “I knew it was precious to many people and probably very valuable. I had the feeling it belonged to a family, a sort of keepsake that was handed down from generation to generation.”

  “That’s amazing,” Etta Mae said softly. She was leaning forward, listening raptly. “Did it have a title?”

  Rose opened her eyes. “I can’t recall,” she said apologetically.

  “What makes you think it was a family heirloom?” I asked.

  “Just an impression I had,” Rose said, blinking. “The pages were yellowed and some of them were sticking out, as if new pages had been inserted.”

  The room was silent, and I guessed no one had a clue how to interpret Rose’s dream.

  “Anything else?” Ali asked gently. I knew she was eager to leave for the television taping.

  “The book,” Rose said, her voice suddenly stronger. “When I finished walking through the house, I went back to the kitchen and picked it up to leaf through it. There was nothing there. Just blank pages. Every single one.”

  2

  “What did you make of Rose’s dream?” I asked Ali a couple of hours later. We were settled on folding chairs at the taping of Sonia’s cooking show and the studio was buzzing with activity.

  “No idea,” she replied. “That was a tough one. Usually the House Dream ends with the dreamer coming to some resolution about a problem that’s troubling them in real life. Rose’s dream just seemed to trail off and she was left with a mysterious book and a sense of foreboding.” She craned her neck to see past the Harper sisters, who were sitting right in front of us. “Has Sonia made her appearance yet?”

  “There she is! Right in front of the guy following her with a microphone. I think he wants to do a sound check.” I watched as he finally caught up with Sonia and pinned a tiny mic to the lapel of her pink linen blazer. She pretended to shout into the mic for comic effect and some crew members laughed and put their hands over their ears. Sonia has a reputation for clowning around with the crew, but she’s all business when it comes to cooking.

  Lucinda nudged me and said, “Excuse me for a minute. I just spotted someone I haven’t seen in years.” Moments later, she returned with her arm around a thin brunette, who gave us a shy smile. “Leslie, these are my dear friends Taylor and Ali Blake. They’re new to Savannah and own the cutest little candy shop in the Historic District.” As Leslie shook hands with us, Lucinda added, “Leslie was one of my students at the Academy.”

  “I hope you enjoy Savannah,” Leslie said quietly to us. “It’s a beautiful city.”

  “Leslie’s husband works for Sonia’s company; isn’t that exciting?” Lucinda said in a bubbly voice. “And she has two beautiful little children. Do you suppose we could we meet your husband, dear?”

  Leslie hesitated. “He’s usually busy with last-minute details, but I can try to catch his eye.” She gestured to a tall, dark-haired man who was standing at the front of the room, chatting with one of the technicians. When he spotted Leslie, he frowned but made his way down the aisle toward us. By the time he reached us, he’d rearranged his features into a more pleasant expression.

  “I know you’re busy, honey,” Leslie said, “but this is Lucinda Macavy from the Academy and two of her friends.”

  “Taylor and Ali Blake,” I offered.

  “Nice to meet all of you,” he said briefly. “Jeremy Watts.” He seemed tense and preoccupied, eager to get back to the business at hand. “A good crowd,” he added vaguely.

  “Yes, everyone’s excited over Sonia’s visit,” I told him. He nodded, barely listening, and quickly excused himself when a cameraman called out to him.

  There was an awkward pause, and Leslie stared after her husband, looking embarrassed at his brusque behavior. Ali and I exchanged a look. Jeremy Watts certainly wasn’t Mr. Congeniality.

  “I can’t wait to have a good long chat with you,” Lucinda said quickly, patting Leslie on the hand. “Do you want to follow me home or shall I give you directions?”

  “Just write down your address and I’ll use my GPS,” Leslie said. “Jeremy and I came in separate cars. I need to get home to the children tonight and he’s leaving right after the taping to do some advance work in Atlanta.” Leslie smiled her thanks when Lucinda scribbled a note and passed it to her. “I’m so glad we ran into each other,” she said with a broad smile. She returned to her seat near the front of the studio, and we settled back to enjoy the show. Sonia darted around the set, arranging flowers and crockery as the crew fumbled with the equipment, her raucous laugh bouncing off the walls. She seemed completely at ease and I remembered reading that the show was unscripted. The food was prepared ahead of time, and the recipes would flash on the screen as Sonia read the ingredients. She had a keen sense of theatrics and that, along with her sometimes bawdy sense of humor, was guaranteed to keep the viewers watching. Even people who didn’t like to cook enjoyed Sonia’s show.

  Sara Rutledge walked in a side door and I waved her over. “I saved you a seat right next to me.” I picked up the newspaper I’d placed on the folding chair next to mine. “It looks like a full house tonight.”

  “Thanks,” she said, settling down next to me.

  “It’s the least I could do,” I said with a grin. “After all, you’re the one who got us the tickets.” Sara is a freelance journalist who recently moved to Savannah. We’ve been friends since college, and I was thrilled to have her living so close to us. “Are you interviewing Sonia for the paper, or did Neal grab that one?”

  “I got it,” she said triumphantly. “Neal’s taking his annual two-week vacation in Maine, so the timing couldn’t be better. For me, I mean,” she added with a giggle. “I did a quick sit-down with Sonia at Riverfront today and got some good quotes. I’ll put it together with my background material and I think I’ll get above the fold in the Sunday edition.”

  “That’s impressive.” I reached out my hand for a fist bump. “How did you manage to interview her without interruptions? Didn’t the tourists at the Riverfront pester her for autographs?”

  Sara shook her head. “No one even spotted her. She was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses and we sat at an outdoor café. She picked an umbrella table hidden behind a palm tree, which was a smart move. I think the waiter recognized her, but he never said a word.” Sara laughed. “I tipped him well, so he’s happy.”

  “That was smart,” Ali said as she waited for the taping to begin.

  The back door to the studio was open to the parking lot and a few minutes later, I spotted a man and woman step out under the awning, deep in conversation. I assumed they were part of Sonia’s entourage because the woman, a fortyish blonde, was holding a notebook with the Sonia Scott logo on it. There was something intimate about their body language, and I wondered if they were a couple. When the man lit a cigarette and offered it to her, I realized it was Jeremy Watts, Leslie’s husband. The woman smiled and shook her head, touching his lapel, letting her gaze linger on his face just a second too long. Interesting.

  The taping started then, and the next ninety minutes flew by. Sonia was at her best, talking directly to the camera, telling anecdotes about the recipes she was preparing. The menu called for grilled chicken with mango and oranges slices, scalloped cheese potatoes, and peach cobbler. These were all staples from her previous cookbooks, and she put them together effortlessly, all the while keeping up a playful banter.

  The filming stopped for a few breaks and Sonia’s bubbly persona vanished as she moved out of the bright lights, talking on her cell. I had hoped she might interact with the studio audience, but she seemed distant and preoccupied.

  Sara raised her eyebrows. “She seems to switch off when the cameras do,” sh
e said shrewdly. “Interesting.” Sara pulled out a pen and jotted a note in the steno pad she carried everywhere.

  “You’re not putting that in the article, are you?” I supposed it would be a juicy tidbit, but that kind of observation certainly wouldn’t portray Sonia in a good light. Nobody likes a celebrity who ignores her fans.

  “No, I’m just saving it, in case I write an in-depth piece about her down the road. The article I’m doing for the Sunday paper is a puff piece, all positive. But who knows? Someday I might do an unauthorized biography and this sort of detail might be important.” I know Sara plans on moving to New York or Los Angeles and hopes to snare a job as an investigative reporter with a major paper. At the moment, she’s happy to get freelance work writing arts and entertainment pieces in Savannah, but it barely pays the bills.

  We were filing out after the taping when a harried-looking young woman carrying a clipboard approached Sara. It was the attractive blonde I had seen chatting outside the studio with Jeremy Watts. “Excuse me, are you Sara Rutledge from the newspaper?” When Sara nodded, she raced on, “It seems we’re going to be in Savannah for another half day. Sonia’s flight to Richmond tonight was canceled.” She realized we were blocking traffic and motioned us over to the sidelines. “Sorry, I’m so frazzled, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Olivia Hudson, Sonia’s personal assistant.”

  “Nice to meet you. We chatted on the phone,” Sara told her.

  “Yes, I remember,” Olivia raced on, barely acknowledging the comment. “This is all very last-minute, but we’d like to get as much mileage out of the tour as possible. Is there a place Sonia could meet with some fans tomorrow morning for a quick photo op? Maybe a bookstore, or a cooking school? I know I can get a few photographers to show up and I’ve got some of her earlier titles we can use as giveaways. Nothing formal—it’s just a way for her to be seen chatting with the fans, you know. “

  “What about a candy store?” Sara interjected. She grabbed my arm. “Here’s someone you need to talk to. Taylor Blake. She and her sister Ali own a vintage candy store here in Savannah. It’s also a café. They’re both big fans of Sonia and recommend her cookbooks to all their customers.”

  “A candy store?” Olivia looked doubtful. “I suppose it’s a possibility.” She looked me up and down. “I don’t think Sonia has ever done an appearance in a candy store—”

  “It has lots of charm and it’s right off the Historic District,” Sara interrupted. “It would be perfect, and it’s a big hit with the locals. I know they can guarantee you a good turnout, even on a weekday morning.” I bit back a smile at Sara’s eagerness. If ever I could afford to hire a PR person, it would be Sara, I thought. Meanwhile, Ali had joined us, a puzzled look clouding her face.

  Sara quickly explained the situation and Ali’s face lit up. “You know what would be fun?” Ali said. “We could offer a free sampling of classic Southern desserts for her visit. And, of course, we’d include some of her recipes. It would add a little interest to the event, and I think the fans would love it.”

  And it would be great publicity for Oldies But Goodies, I thought to myself. Only our regular customers seemed to know that we’d added a café to the vintage candy store. An appearance by Sonia Scott would definitely help to get the word out.

  “Nothing with peanuts,” Olivia said crisply. “She’s really allergic to nuts and seeds.”

  “No peanuts, no nuts, no seeds,” Ali agreed. Ali was beaming, practically vibrating with happiness.

  “It’s a deal, then,” Olivia said, pocketing Ali’s business card. “We’ll be there at nine sharp. Just a quick stop en route to the airport. See you then!” she added before scurrying away. We watched as she raced back to Sonia, who had pulled off her mic and looked irritated, hands on hips.

  “Chop, chop,” I heard Sonia say in a snappish voice to one of her assistants. “Let’s get back to the hotel. I’m exhausted.” She pointed to the collection of dirty dishes and pans on the countertop. “Olivia, make sure these are cleaned and then pack everything up; you know which ones are mine. The cheap stuff belongs to the studio. And don’t forget my copper frying pan like you did the last time.” There was a sharp edge in her voice and Olivia immediately sprang into action like a well-trained greyhound. “Wake me at seven sharp with croissants and coffee. Skim milk, no sugar.” She turned a beady-eyed stare at Olivia. “Got it?”

  “I’ve got it,” Olivia said in a tired voice.

  “That limo had better be waiting at the curb, or heads are gonna roll,” Sonia said, sweeping out of the studio.

  “Wow, Sonia’s a bit of a surprise in person, isn’t she?” Ali asked as Lucinda walked up next to us.

  “They call her ‘a force of nature,’” I said, reading from a publicity handout.

  Sara laughed. “Really? I’d say ‘diva’ would be more like it. I wonder what it’s like to work for her.”

  “Well, it seems that one of my former students, Leslie, is married to an executive with Sonia’s company,” Lucinda said. “We chatted with them just before you arrived, Sara. Her husband, Jeremy, is such a fine-looking young man. I’d say they’re a very happy couple, wouldn’t you, Taylor?”

  “Oh, I’m sure they are,” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. My mind was still reeling at the image of Olivia Hudson having a tête-à-tête outside the studio with the very married Jeremy Watts. Had I imagined the obvious attraction between them? Leslie had been in the studio audience when Olivia and Jeremy were having their private moment. Didn’t she see what was so obvious to me? Or did she just turn a blind eye because of the children?

  “I’m sure I’ll hear some interesting tidbits from Leslie tonight,” Lucinda said contentedly. “I bet she’ll have a lot to tell me.”

  “I’m sure she will,” I muttered under my breath. Having tea with Leslie might prove to be more than Lucinda had bargained for.

  • • •

  “What have we gotten ourselves into?” Ali asked me in a fade-away voice the next morning. She was clearly exhausted. We’d darted back to the shop last night, tidied up the kitchen, and polished the glass display cases until they sparkled. I washed and waxed the floor while Ali defrosted some goodies she’d stored away for our Dream Club meetings. Lemon squares and tiny cherry cheesecake tarts appeared as if by magic. Ali arranged the pastries on a long pine table that we pulled into the center aisle of the shop. Ali was very fussy about “presentation” and the pine table was covered with a blue chintz tablecloth.

  Minverva and Rose Harper had offered to bring a few vases of pale pink roses and bright blue hydrangeas to add a festive air. Visitors could help themselves to the free treats and enjoy a glass of homemade lemonade or sweet tea while waiting for a quick meet and greet with Sonia.

  “How much lemonade do we really need?” I said, squeezing my twenty-third lemon. I was tired and hot and my hair was hanging limply in my eyes.

  “Do a few more,” Ali said in her most encouraging voice. “I want to fill at least five of those cut-glass pitchers. And we’ll have gallons of sweet tea, as well. Do you think we should serve lattes . . .” she began, and then broke off when she caught my expression. “Okay, we’ll just go with the lemonade and the sweet tea,” she said quickly. “It’s too hot for lattes anyway.”

  • • •

  “Howdy, y’all!” Sonia Scott swept into the shop at 9 a.m. sharp, followed by her personal assistant, Olivia Hudson, and the rest of her entourage. She turned up the volume on her smile when she spotted the table laden with homemade goodies. “Hope these are all Sonia Scott recipes,” she said, wagging her finger at us playfully.

  “Of course they are,” Ali said gamely. “We wouldn’t serve anything else.” Ali gave me a broad wink and I hoped Sonia wouldn’t inspect the dishes too closely.

  “Well, let’s get this show on the road, ladies. Time’s a-wastin’, and we need to be at the airport by no
on.”

  “Actually, by eleven thirty,” Olivia muttered under her breath.

  “Whatever,” Sonia said, waving her hand like she was swatting at a fly. “Now, where do you want me to sit? This looks good,” she said, plunking herself down on a padded armchair that Ali had arranged in front of a small table we used as a desk. Olivia immediately arranged three piles of books in front of Sonia, along with a Sharpie, and motioned for the people in the front row to come forward and have their books signed.

  “Come on up here, honey, don’t be shy,” Sonia urged an awed-looking Lucinda Macavy. Lucinda’s face was flushed with excitement; she was clearly dazzled at the idea of meeting the iconic chef. The Dream Club members—including Etta Mae Beasley and Edward Giles—had arrived early and snared seats in the very first row. “I thought I’d sign all these books and then when I run out, I can sign bookmarks and pose for pictures until we have to leave.” She paused, her eyes sweeping over the audience. The place was packed. “Sound like a plan?” she asked with a grin.

  Smiles all around and some scattered applause as Lucinda, Dorien, Sybil, and Etta Mae made their way to the front. Edward Giles stood up with some reluctance and let the other people in the row go ahead of him. I couldn’t decide whether he wasn’t interested in a free autographed cookbook, or he was just shy.

  Sonia certainly knew how to work a room. Olivia asked each guest in line how they would like the book signed, and then scribbled their name on a small card and passed it to Sonia. It was all very streamlined and professional. Sonia signed books for the next half hour, stopping to chat with individual fans, asking questions about their hometown, their children, and their families. She even asked one woman to show her a photo of her Cavalier King Charles spaniels so she could admire them. She never seemed rushed and was happy to allow people to take pictures of her.