The Proof is in the Pudding Read Free

what criteria you’re supposed to use for judging, and how many points you can give any particular dish. When you show up Wednesday night you’ll each be given your judging cards and a clipboard. Hey, this’ll be the easiest gig in the world. All you’ll have to do is walk around in an evening gown and watch other people cook.”
    Perhaps remembering my notorious lack of interest in fashion, his eyes narrowed and he frowned at me. “Do you have an evening gown?”
    “I used to . . . but it’s been years since—”
    “Never mind. I know some designers—I’ll get you a loaner. Try not to spill anything on it.”
    Phil started to leave, but stopped after taking a single step. When he turned back to me I saw an expression on his face that I’d never seen before: embarrassment.
    “Look,” he said, glancing down at the ground, “you know by now that I don’t get involved in other people’s sex lives, but I think in this case a kind of warning is necessary.”
    Instantly on the alert against criticism of my relationship with Nicholas D’Martino, I bristled. “Hold it. We’re not going to discuss my personal life—”
    His head came up and he met my eyes. “Not you —it’s your friend I’m worried about.”
    Nicholas? “Oh, Phil, what in the world do you think I could do to a grown man?”
    That produced a sly little smile. “I’ll bet you could do plenty, and I’m sure ol’ Nick wouldn’t mind a bit, but that’s not what I mean.”
    “Then what are you talking about? Do I need a translator?”
    I saw comprehension dawn in Phil’s eyes. “You don’t know, do you?”
    “Apparently not.”
    “It’s your fudge partner, Eileen O’Hara. I know she’s kind of your unofficial daughter, but do you know who she’s been having a thing with?”
    “No.”
    “It’s one of your fellow Celebrity Cook-Off judges, Keith Ingram. Della, when it comes to women—especially the kind that are young and haven’t been around much like your Eileen—this is a bad dude.”
    I’d met Keith Ingram once, four months ago, when he interviewed Eileen and me in order to do a story in his syndicated food column about our just-launched mail-order sweets business. “I think you’re mistaken, about her being involved with him,” I said. “Since the day the article about us came out she’s never mentioned him to me.”
    “Do you think she tells you everything?”
    She used to, when I wasn’t so busy . . .
    “The piece he wrote was so over-the-top favorable, especially to Eileen—‘the beautiful UCLA business major with a great idea’—I suspected he had the hots for her,” Phil said, “but then I forgot about it.”
    “How do you know they’re seeing each other?”
    “I hear things . . . which leads me to the reason I brought this up. I know you’re a mother figure to her. She’s going to need you to be there for her when he dumps her.”
    “But if he and Eileen actually are involved, what makes you think—”
    “When I was at the charity’s PR office signing you up for the Cook-Off gig, I found out Ingram’s getting it on with that flaky heiress who’s the tabloids’ flavor-of-the-month.”
    “Tina Long?”
    “That’s the one. A few years ago she couldn’t make the grades to graduate from a fancy private high school, so her father bought it. Suddenly Tina’s the co-valedictorian. Poppa Long hired a novelist to write her speech for her, but the guy forgot to tell her how to pronounce some of the words.”
    Photographs that I’d seen of Tina Long on gossip magazine covers flashed into my mind. She was a generically pretty girl with blonde hair arranged in a dizzying number of styles, but beneath each new coif there was always the same vapid expression on her face.
    Phil’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “Ingram’s making money with his column and his TV guest shots, but he likes to live big. You know how I got him to do the column on your business?”
    In a tone full of irony, I said,