The Pickle Queen: A Crossroads Café Novella

by Deborah Smith

  The chopper crested the treetops in the distance. In a few more seconds the roar of its blade would drown out conversation. I yelled, “I have to go! I love you! Merry Christmas Eve!” How absurd, ending this world-shaking discussion with a cheery bromide. “You look like hell! I’m sending you another batch of pickles!Be careful! Don’t re-enlist next spring! Come home! And start a small brewery! The world needs more good beer! You’re meant to be a brewmeister, not a soldier, Big Bro! You need to come home before your luck runs—”

  “Don’t worry about me!” he yelled in return, “Watch your back around [garbled sound] . . .”

  “Who? Say that again!” The wind began to lift my hair. I had to lean close to the laptop. “Who?”

  The chopper was no further than the length of a football field from me. It began to settle toward the glen. Time was up.

  “Denoto!” Gus yelled. “She spies for E.W.!”

  Jay

  The challenge is issued again

  AFTER THE FIRST relaxing sight of Gabs—big, safe and beautiful in the snowy sunshine—practicalities set in.

  I don’t like the looks of that laptop on her lap. Who is she communicating with? What did Tim tell her?

  “Unbelievable,” Denoto said from the seat behind me, as Will lowered the copter to the glen’s floor. “She’s playing Angry Birds while everyone in this valley searches for her fat, wandering, ass.”

  “Keep that trash talk to yourself,” Will ordered.

  Stark silence carved out a space between the two of them. Then, “Will, I’m just looking out for my son’s interests.”

  “Are you?”

  Her chagrined huff echoed through my headset like a low growl. I didn’t bother defending Gabby against her snipe attacks. Her twisted mind was worse than ever. I had to get Dustin away from her and E.W.

  “I agree with you, Denoto,” I said through my mic. “I’m seriously questioning why I brought her here. She’s more trouble than she’s worth.”

  Denoto pounded the shoulder of my heavy jacket. “Exactly!”

  Will angled a cautious stink-eye at me as he maneuvered the copter onto the snowy ground.

  I watched Gabs close the laptop. She stood slowly as we climbed out of the copter. Steam rose from the giant skillet in front of her, as if she’d appeared in a cloud of Appalachian hoodoo magic. It came from the delicious-smelling concoction she’d made over the campfire. Her face was set in a curious expression—no, strike that, it was the look a cat gets when “curiosity” is about to turn into a mouse-slaughtering pounce. Fine curls filtered into the air around her face; her long red hair waved like auburn snakes in a chilled gust of wind; it was the only thing moving about her. The rest of her had a deadly, Medusa, stillness.

  Someone told her something. I kept looking from her to the laptop. If not Tim, then she was online with someone, just now.

  She burned me up with a gaze I couldn’t decipher. It worried me, but it also brought heat up my spine and through my belly. Something’s changed, and it’s in my favor. Her green stare shifted past me, not at Will, but between us, at Denoto. Her eyes narrowed. I could almost see claws emerging from her fingertips. Not a housecat’s talons. A tiger’s.

  She’s talked to Gus. Of course. She asked him for help with Tim. And in the process, he told her some things.

  This was going to be interesting.

  Gabby

  When the brine hits the fan

  “I SAID LAST night that I accept your challenge,” I called to Denoto. “As far as I’m concerned, that acceptance is still valid. The fight is still on.”

  “I revoked it,” Will said ominously.

  “I rescind your revocation,” Denoto said to him. To me she said, “Bitch.”

  I arched a brow. “I accept your rescinding of his revocation.”

  She stepped close to me on the other side of the campfire, sneering at me beneath her warrior-woman mane of black braids. “All right. Noon. The ring.”

  Jay strode around the fire and stepped right into my personal space, standing beside me shoulder to shoulder, frowning but supportive, towering over me in a way few men did, pulling the breath out of my heart and the willpower out of my mind. Little did he realize what Gus had told me about him—or how that information unleashed a dangerous mood in me. He studied me like an investment portfolio full of mystery stocks. “The fight’s not happening. No.”

  I thrust my chin up at him. “Happening. Yes. The last time I checked, you don’t own me. Yet.” As harsh as that sounded, I put enough spin on the words to hint that I wanted to be friends. He caught my drift.

  A look of such . . . oh, my god, such happiness, filled his eyes. My knees went weak. He shook his head slightly. He knew I’d keep what I knew to myself; not risk disrupting the façade he and Will had built for Denoto. I wasn’t certain about his end game, but I knew he had one. I’d help him if I could.

  Will stepped off to one side, watching us all with a shuttered expression on his scarred face. He was such a huge guy, both in emotional presence and physical hulk, tragic and angry, and yet I sensed a sweetness in him, a love for . . . what was it? Buried under layers of some unspoken secrets, such pain . . . such hope for . . . chocolate cupcakes. He was a cupcake man. I stored the memory for future foodie conjuring. “All right,” he grunted. “It’s on. Per the rules, the one being challenged gets to pick the style.”

  “Name your match!” Denoto shouted. “Karate. Tai Kwon Do, Judo, Boxing . . .”

  “Pickles.” I faced her. “Pickles.”

  She gaped at me, clenching and unclenching fists swathed in fingerless, black-leather gloves. “Cooking pickles—or whatever you do to them—is not a fight style.”

  “Not cooking them. Eating them. I had a chance to inventory the storage room in the Cavern last night. Lots o’ pickles in the pantry. So we each get a bowl, weighed out at precisely six pounds of pickles for you, and six pounds for me. One, two, three, go! Whoever eats the most in six minutes, wins. The current world record is five pounds, eleven ounces, won at the World Pickle Eating Championship in twenty-ten by MLE legend Patrick Berolletti.” I paused. “Sour pickle division. Not Vinegar Pickle. That’s a different sport.”

  Her mouth worked soundlessly. Then, “What is the MLE?”

  “Major League Eating organization. The MLE oversees all professional eating contests.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me.”

  “No, I’m fucking not.”

  “You think you can eat more pickles than I can in six minutes?”

  “Yes. Without throwing up. You throw up, you lose.”

  “That’s your idea of a challenge?”

  “Yes.”

  She slammed a fist into one palm. “I’ll own that contest. Deal. See you at noon.”

  She returned to the helicopter, a black-haired figure in black leather and fleece lining. She gave a bad name to black sheep.

  I looked at Will. “You put on a good act.”

  He tilted his head, the dark, shaggy hair and beard stubble hiding what appeared to be the slightest softening of his craggy face. Studying me with what might be affection, he said, “I see what Jay means about you. Bossy.”

  Leaving those cryptic words hanging in the winter air, he headed for the copter. I looked up at Jay, encumbered by a sudden wave of blushing. For redheads with pale skin and freckles, outbreaks of emotion are broadcast in freckles-per-inch. He lifted his bruised punching hand. He stroked a warm fingertip along my jaw. I resisted the urge to lean into the palm of his hand.

  “Hey,” Tim said, behind us. “Sorry to interrupt, but I want to rescue our Spam-apple chili before it burns.”

  Dropping to my knees, I quickly stirred the hearty mix. As any downhome cook will tell you, the cast-iron skillet is a marvel of culinary dependability. When careful
ly enameled by layers of black “seasoning,” aka baked-on grease, it becomes a workhorse of balanced heat and infused flavor. Cast-iron holds the memory of every meal ever cooked in its arms. It whispers those memories to each new generation.

  “Perfect,” I announced, lifting a wide wooden spoon to my nose, then delicately sipping some broth off. “It’s Spam-alicious.”

  As I ladled Spam-apple chili into a large plastic container he handed me, Will piloted the helicopter upwards. He and Denoto disappeared over the treetops. Silence descended on the glen again.

  “I love this glen,” Jay said quietly. “This is the best site in the valley. The slope, the view, the waterfall. I see why the Gallaghers settled in this spot two hundred years ago. I want to learn more about them. They were wiped out along with the MacBrides. None of them survived.”

  Strangely sentimental talk for a man who had no patience for nature lovers and tree huggers. My skin tingled. I stood, cradling the container of chili in my arms. I was sandwiched between him and Tim, both taller than me—an enticing combo—one dark-skinned by birth, the other tanned from climbing mountains he wanted to own. One of them was looking hungrily at my chili. The other was looking hungrily at me.

  “I’ll take that chili off your hands,” Tim said. “You’re in training. Save your strength.” He cuddled the two-gallon container of Spam-apple chili to his weathered coat and headed for a mud-streaked pickup truck. Over his shoulder he called, “I’m taking this chili to the Cavern. Maybe Worthy and I should move over there. I can cook. Soul food, just like my grandma. Hawaiian something. You think Pug would give me a trial run?”

  “I do. This valley is all about second chances. Finding new strength. Rebuilding. Absolutely.”

  He nodded. “I’ll take my chances.”

  When Vance had gone, Jay lifted his hand to my face again. Traced the ridge of my cheekbone with his thumb. “What did you do to him?”

  “I helped him remember the flavor of his heart.”

  “It’s true. The Netties are all food witches, and the MacBrides have a brand of pride that inspires people. Pride and honor.”

  “And strong stomachs.”

  “So! A pickle-eating contest against Denota? Really?”

  “Why is she spying for E.W., if she hates him?”

  “Because she can’t help wanting to please him, too. And because she’s off her meds, and her mood changes with the breeze. They’ve tried to help her, around here.”

  “What do you want her to tell him?”

  “That this place is vulnerable. That I’m trying to antagonize Will, and cause trouble for him; eventually ruin him, buy him out. E.W. wants this valley. Mainly, because I want it.”

  “Do you want it?”

  “No, although I wouldn’t mind having a house a here.” He nodded at the cove around us. “Right here. But that’s personal, not about the things that matter to E.W.”

  “So Denoto tells him you and Will are at odds, and now I’m here . . . a worrisome MacBride in the mix.”

  “And for all her claims about protecting Dustin from me, she’s going to hand him over, along with Donny and Arwen. She’s only worried that I’ll get the credit, instead of her.”

  “You don’t intend to hand those kids to your uncle in return for the mining rights to Free Wheeler.”

  “You sound so sure.”

  I raised my hands at the sky, the valley, my place there, but mostly at the scent that rose in my mind around him. Chocolate. Not sweet yet, but not bitter, like before. “I’ll take my chances.”

  “I’m going to kiss you now.”

  I took a deep breath. “I’m in training. I’ll eat that traitor-spy under the table.”

  As soon as those words left my mouth, I groaned at the connotation. Jay tried to suppress his reaction, but his gray eyes crinkled, and his mouth tightened hopelessly against a smile. He began to laugh. Such a beautiful, annoying sound, so rare, so irresistible . . .

  “You know what I mean. Agggh.” He kept laughing. I shoved him lightly. “You have a dirty mind.”

  He nodded, still chuckling. His eyes gleamed.

  “I’ll drown that spy in her own brine.”

  He laughed harder.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about her? Why didn’t you trust me? Why did I have to learn so much from my brother instead of from the man I . . .”

  Stop.

  I went silent. So did he, silent and serious. Instantly his hands rose to my shoulders. “From the man you . . .”

  “You don’t get that word from me. You don’t deserve it. You never said the word yourself. Probably never will. So don’t even ask.”

  “Then at least show me.”

  “You show me.”

  He pulled me to him. We traded the longest, deepest, wettest, most erotic-while-fully-clothed kiss, a knee-bender, a swaying, clutching, sweet-fire interlude. When we finally pulled back, drugged, sloe-eyed, and breathing heavily, Worthy broke the spell.

  “I don’t see any mistletoe!” he hollered.

  Gabby

  Into The Rock Ring of Fiery Spices

  PUG AND I STOOD on a plateau high above Tearmann, surrounded by a circle of boulders each as large as houses. A plus-sized Lady Gaga “Born This Way,” sweatshirt flounced around her rounded thighs, which were hugged by zebra-striped tights that ended in pink Ugg boots. She was the druid priestess of this Appalachian Stonehenge. Near the ring’s Stonehenge realm was parked her “Event support vehicle,” a large, snow-spattered RV outfitted with mud bogging tires, a winch and fog lights, a large kitchen, pantry, bump-out grilling berth and fully stocked bar. It was in prep mode for the big pickle-eating match. Two of her assistants were setting out a massive lunch buffet of pork and chicken barbecue and cornbread, baked beans and slaw and pie. A Rhode Island Red rooster and two hens, Pug’s mobile mascots, perched atop the roof, fluffing their large auburn wings and pecking at scratch corn the assistants tossed up to them.

  The Rock Ring could only be reached by a bumpy ride up a narrow trail that dodged and dipped along the Derry Fog’s eastern ridges like a groomer trying to shave the wrinkles on a Shar Pei. When the winter wind angled a certain way, it brought the rumble of many vehicles moving up the trail to join us.

  Word had spread. Denoto and I were the valley’s midday Christmas Eve entertainment event. The title match. The Thriller in Manila. The Rumble in the Jungle. The Dill in the Hills. The Gherkin in the . . . I was out of rhymes.

  Bets were being placed. So far, Denoto was the odds-on favorite. Everyone seemed to think that if this were a Quentin Tarantino movie then she, not I, would star in Kill Dill.

  Pug spread her short arms wide beneath the robin-egg-blue Christmas Eve sky and the snow-dusted breasts of the mountains. “What a great way to spend Christmas Eve afternoon! Under these spiritual skies, with Downton Abbey and True Blood and Justified downloaded on my computer at the Cavern, and my snotty older sister miserable with her live-in mom-in-law and a cheating husband and lousy teenagers over in the flatlands of Raleigh, still saying I’m the family’s fat disappointment—but here I am, with friends and a purpose and a life I love, just like I love this valley and our fearless leader, Will Bonavendier, and I bless the day Delta Whittlespoon steered me thisaway!”

  “So you could eventually emcee a pickle-eating contest?” I asked.

  She looked at me, her eyes glowing. “Don’t you get it? What’s going on here? Sanctuary! Just like ‘Tearmann’ means in the Irish. To die for this valley—to fight for a cause that doesn’t judge anyone except by the size of his or her heart! That’s what we’re preserving! This is heaven on earth, as close as that gets!”

  “You,” I said, “Have been smoking weed with Santa Joe?”

  She grinned. “Yes, but I stand by every stoned word I said.”

  “Do
you mean it? I need to know. If this valley were a person, I’d say it’s hungry for . . . nothing. The sun and water and air. I feel . . . an appetite for flavor, here, but above all else, peacefulness. The seasonings change, but the substance is eternal.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. She nodded ferociously. “Home. Safe. Food. Warmth. Love. Friendship. Hope. It’s all here. All we have to do is protect it. Kingdoms come and go. Heart stays.”

  She threw her arms around my waist and hugged me with her head thumping my chest. I awkwardly patted her shoulder.

  She swiveled away from me, gazing at the massive rocks. “If you believe the creationists, the Indians hitched up dinosaurs to move these big ol’ rocks up here. If you believe the UFO people, the aliens ferried ’em up here by flying saucer. If you believe the hippies, these sweet old boulders were sucked up here through an energy vortex, like kidney stones through a pecker. If you believe the scientific folks, a glacier left ’em and they just happen to look like somebody pushed ’em into a big circle. As for me? I like not knowing how this place came to be. History oughta be like love, I say. Just enough truth to keep it honest, just enough mystery to keep it exciting.”

  Which reminded me of Jay. I turned to search between two craggy behemoths for another glimpse of him, pacing, with his phone to his ear. Even dressed in his shabby mountaineer coat, corduroys and scuffed hiking boots, he looked like the captain of a corporation, the admiral of a boardroom. His long legs were graceful and confident; his shoulders, impressively capitalistic. But it was the perfectly imperfect coarseness of his profile that made me want to place kisses down the length of his crooked nose.

  You’re sinking fast. But there’s still so much you don’t know about Jay. So many questions. Can you really believe he’s not using you as a pawn in this game, too, just because he’s got Gus convinced?

  “Gallaghers and MacBrides named this place Caher,” Pug was saying. “That’s from the Irish, Anna says. It means ‘ringfort.’ Stone ringfort. She says ancient ringforts are all over Ireland, thousands of ’em. Maybe for protection, maybe to keep the cattle from roaming too far, but maybe . . .” Pug paused dramatically, hand to Lady Gaga’s face on her ample chest, “as homes for fairies and leprechauns and giants and druids and King Arthur’s Round Table. That’s what I believe!”