Spicy Pickle (Fake Engagement)

by J J Knight

  I give her another hug. “Me too, H. Go get some sleep.”

  After she’s disappeared down the hall, I pick up the softening ice cream and return it to the freezer.

  I’ve been optimistic with her, but to be honest, I don’t see any way we could open a new branch and support the two of us easily. We’d be leaving Mom and Dad with two positions they’d need to hire for. We’d have to buy or lease a place and fix it up. The loan payments would happen right away.

  Unless we were a success straight out of the box, both the new branch as well as the original would be at risk while we built. We don’t have the capital lying around.

  It’s been my goal for years to do this, but the Tasty Pepper has resisted growth. We never seem to do well enough to warrant a second franchise.

  I head back to the living room for my phone. There’s a voice mail notification. Probably spam.

  I read the transcription of the message, and my belly drops.

  It’s Anthony Pickle. He says Milton Creed is coming after us for our so-called prank. It’s hitting the news everywhere.

  I do a quick search. No, no, no. This could not come at a worse time. If support for our deli erodes rather than grows, then nothing will work. We wouldn’t be able to open a second branch, and we might not even be able to support Havannah and me with the current one. And the baby.

  My brain flashes to having to move back in with our parents. Moving Grandmama out of the retirement village she loves and in with the rest of us.

  Or worse. The deli failing completely. Everyone having to get jobs.

  I press my hand to my chest, my breath wheezing. Nope. I can’t go down that path. Get control, Magnolia.

  There’s a text, too.

  Mornings with Eileen contacted Anthony.

  It’s a huge show. He’s asking if I’m in.

  Was I invited, too? I quickly call into the deli’s voicemail and check the messages.

  Sure enough, there it is. The booking agent for the show has left me a message asking if I would like to tell my side of the story.

  Everything opens up.

  Maybe I screwed up when I was on America’s Spiciest Chef.

  The world has given me a second chance.

  I can get on the show, impress everyone, maybe even announce the new branch.

  It will work.

  It has to work.

  All I have to do is not blow it.

  9

  Anthony

  I get a distinct sense of déjà vu as a young woman with a headset over her pixie cut leads me through the guts of the studio to wait in a green room for my turn on stage.

  I’m wearing normal clothes this time, not a black apron and, theoretically, I’m not going to be put forth as the bad guy. But walking the halls behind the stage at Eileen’s show feels the same as Milton’s.

  I’m sure as hell just as nervous.

  The flight from Boulder to L.A. was mercifully short. At first, I wondered if this was a terrible time to leave the deli, but Marie assured me everything would be fine. Reporters still show up every once in a while, but with both me and Magnolia refusing to give them more ammunition for Milton Creed, they are hunting other stories.

  My brother Max picked me up from the airport. I’m staying with him and Camryn while I’m here. He dropped me off at the studio with stars in his eyes. I think for the first time in my life, I’ve made my hotshot brother jealous.

  “Are you nervous?” the pixie cut woman asks as we pass crew members talking in hushed voices, some leading other guests for today’s recording.

  “Not too much,” I say. “You’d tell us if Eileen had also invited Milton Creed, right? I don’t need any more surprises.”

  The young woman’s laugh is melodious and bright. “I certainly haven’t seen him around. Based on my show notes, it’s just you and Miss Boudreaux.”

  When we step into the green room, which is outfitted with a long table of snacks and several leather sofas, Magnolia is the only one there.

  She’s chosen a similar look as Milton’s show, long blond hair pulled back from her face, fringed eyelashes, and perfect pink lips. This time her dress is a deep blue, cute sparkly silver ballet slippers on her feet. Otherworldly beautiful. I have to force my gaze away.

  Magnolia didn’t answer any of my texts or calls. I didn’t know she would also be on the show until I saw her name with mine on a promo that aired a few days ago.

  In the week since Milton made his claims against us, the idea that we tricked him has taken hold in the general public.

  The original ghost pepper pickle challenge, which started this whole mess, has morphed into prank videos where you fool someone into thinking they’re eating something they like, but you give them something horrible. The hilarity is in their shock.

  Charity has advised me not to comment on the change other than a statement about how popular TikTok challenges are always evolving.

  She says it is only a matter of time before someone poisons somebody on one of those TikToks, and I don’t want to be anywhere near the headlines when that happens.

  Going viral isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be.

  The pixie cut woman is apparently assigned to us until we go on stage. She sits down next to Magnolia.

  “Is it time?” Magnolia asks.

  “About ten minutes,” the woman answers. “I’ll be with you until we walk down.”

  I head to the snack table and pick up a bottle of water. My throat feels ridiculously dry. I was nervous on America’s Spiciest Chef, but now I’m a wreck.

  Magnolia folds her hands primly in her lap. If she’s nervous, I can’t see it. “Will Eileen stick to the questions she had us prepare?” she asks the woman.

  “Not entirely,” the woman says. “She may have follow-up questions based on the energy she feels in the audience when you answer. She doesn’t want the whole interview to feel scripted.”

  Magnolia’s foot begins to wiggle. So, she is nervous.

  The woman’s phone buzzes, and she pulls it out. “Excuse me one second.”

  I sit at the far end of the sofa from Magnolia. We might as well get used to breathing the same air.

  She glances at me, so I say, “I asked her straight out if she was going to surprise us with Milton.”

  “So did I,” Magnolia says, and relief washes over me that she’s talking to me. I’m completely in the dark as to why she’s avoided me since that day I came to visit her deli.

  I turn my water bottle over in my hands. “I had hoped we could review our answers, but from the rehearsal, it sounds like we’re mostly on the same page.”

  Her face tilts to me slowly, almost menacingly. “Some of us speak from the heart, not from a professional spin doctor.”

  I meet her gaze. “Some of us are afraid of screwing everything up. Again.”

  She glances down at her hands.

  The woman returns. “They’re ready for you in sound.”

  I stand, brushing the knees of my charcoal dress pants out of habit. I’m used to being in the kitchen, not in front of cameras twice in two weeks.

  Once in the sound room, a friendly pink-cheeked technician takes my water bottle, my cell phone, and my keys. “Any change in your pockets that will jingle? We don’t want anything making noise or falling out on stage.”

  “I’m all clear,” I say.

  She also takes Magnolia’s purse. “I’ll get this back to you the moment you come off stage. No extra cell phones on you, right?” She winks.

  I manage a short grunting laugh.

  “There’s no pickle to poison,” Magnolia says dryly, and I turn to her in surprise. So, she does have a sense of humor.

  We’re led to the wings of the stage, and I sense Magnolia shifting nervously beside me in the half-dark. There’s a studio audience this time. There will be no stopping the cameras to redo anything.

  I lean closer to Magnolia and whisper, “Break a leg.” She continues to stare ahead.

  When we
’re led on stage, I kick back on the sofa, one ankle crossed over my knee. Magnolia remains primly upright and attentive. She clearly wants to get everything right.

  She plays the opening questions straight, reiterating that she was escorted by a staff member to add a single ingredient to one of the pickle jars.

  I explain that I placed the jars in the refrigerator early that morning, and that after the disaster, I tested the rest of the batch to confirm that my ghost pickle peppers had been fine when they arrived at the set.

  “This is quite the mystery,” Eileen says. “And Milton insists that his own investigation into the matter shows that no one could have possibly tampered with the pickles after they were placed on set.”

  “I don’t think he knows his crew that well,” I say, then chide myself. This was not on the list of safe responses that Charity made me memorize.

  Eileen’s eyes light up. We’ve gone off track.

  “Did you notice any animosity on the set when you were there?” she asks.

  I ponder what to do. Eileen is a warm figure in the talk show circuit. Even when she asks the hard questions, you never feel like it’s anything more than a friendly aunt trying to help. I glance at Magnolia to see if she is going to answer. She sits perfectly still, her eyes unwaveringly on Eileen.

  I guess it’s on me. I stick with the facts. “He fired someone right in front of us.”

  Eileen leans forward. “Did he, now?”

  I sense the audience is also on the edge of their seats. This is the exact moment the woman who led us here talked about. Eileen will dig because everyone’s interest has been piqued.

  I choose my words very carefully. “I’m sure he’s got employees with an ax to grind. It happens even in my deli.”

  Magnolia snaps her gaze to me. “Is that how your deli works? Because there is no infighting at my deli. We are a friendly family who lifts each other up.”

  Eileen’s eyebrows raise even more. “So there really is a rivalry between you two.”

  That took a turn. I have to get us back on track.

  “If there’s a rivalry, it was stoked by Milton himself, when he put us both on the show to pit our pickles against each other. Boulder is a restaurant-friendly city, and many of the owners of the local eateries get along beautifully.”

  My speech makes Magnolia snort. Uh-oh.

  “When have you and I ever spoken?” she asks. “Because if we had, you would learn that your arrival decimated our family’s plans.”

  Eileen is eager to hear more. “How was that, Magnolia?”

  “We were planning to expand. We’d done our research. We knew where to place a new deli to maximize business.”

  “Did Anthony take your spot?” Eileen asks.

  Magnolia’s face lights up with anger. “He did! Right from under us!”

  This is all news to me. I tug on my tie. “You were the other bidder?”

  Her face falls. “There was another one?”

  “Yes. We outbid them. It wasn’t you?”

  Her chin quivers a bit. “We weren’t quite ready to bid.”

  A rush of protectiveness like the one I felt on Milton’s show washes over me.

  Eileen plucks a tissue from a box and passes it to Magnolia. “So Anthony’s ambition ruined your family’s hopes and dreams?”

  Oh God, this is going south in a hurry.

  Magnolia squeezes the tissue to her chest. She’s either genuinely upset or a very, very good actress.

  “My grandparents, and then my parents, have run the Tasty Pepper for sixty years. My sister and I would like to ensure we will always have our deli as their legacy.”

  I expect Eileen to keep sympathizing with her, making me out to be the bad guy, but she surprises me. “Isn’t that how business works? You have to beat the competition.”

  Magnolia’s jaw drops. “He didn’t have to open precisely where we wanted to expand!” she snapped. “He was a college kid who had no idea what he was doing!”

  “And yet he’s here, beating you at your sixty-year game,” Eileen says.

  Magnolia lets out a yelp of anger. “Who do you want to support? A family institution that has kept people lovingly employed for six decades, or a tawdry upstart with an inedible pickle?”

  The crowd bursts into applause.

  Magnolia is activated now. She sits tall, talking as if Eileen and I aren’t even here. “You won’t burn your taste buds right out of your mouth at the Tasty Pepper! You’ll get homestyle bread and time-proven recipes made by a staff who doesn’t care what’s viral on TikTok. They want to make you feel like home.”

  More applause.

  Eileen nods in agreement, but it’s clear she wants her show to shift back to its original intent. “Anthony, how would you like to see this situation resolved? Should Milton Creed stand down?”

  “Absolutely,” I say, glad I can divert the attention from Magnolia’s rousing speech. “He’s damaging the reputation of our restaurants with these wild accusations.”

  Eileen tilts her head, her glossy black hair touching one shoulder.” It’s my understanding that you thought the segment would be about you, and Milton surprised you by bringing a rival on the show.”

  Where did she get that information? It was nowhere in the prepared questions, and the viral footage begins after that announcement. I choose my words carefully, “He was trying to stir up interest in the show, give it a little punch.” I hesitate. “Sort of like you’re doing right now.”

  “Hey!” Eileen says with a laugh. “I resemble that remark!” She turns to the audience. “There you have it. Anthony Pickle and Magnolia Boudreaux have knocked the ball right back into Milton’s court. Maybe the case of the poisoned pickle will remain unsolved.”

  She goes on to promo the next guest, and I feel my shoulders relax. We’re done.

  As we’re escorted off the stage, Magnolia storms ahead of me in a huff. “You played right into that,” she says over her shoulder.

  “Played into what?” I rush to catch up with her, pausing only when the sound guy angles us toward the room to remove our equipment.

  Her voice is a hiss. “Now everyone’s going to talk about our rivalry.”

  “You were the one going on about family values!”

  The man unclips the mic pack from the back of Magnolia’s dress, and she quickly expands the distance between us. “I had to make a good impression, Anthony. I have to open a second branch.”

  “So open the second branch!”

  “How can I do that when at every turn, you’re there messing things up for me?”

  I have no idea what she means. “How did I mess things up?”

  “By being you!”

  The woman with our personal items approaches and passes Magnolia’s bag to her. “Your coats are at the checkout as you leave,” she says. “I’m happy to take you there and call a car if you need one.”

  “I need to leave,” Magnolia says. She dashes down the hall. The mic man and the woman shrug at each other, then turn to me.

  “Apparently I can’t do anything right.” I accept my phone and keys and take off slowly down the hall to avoid catching up to Magnolia.

  I have a terrible suspicion that this problem just got bigger.

  10

  Magnolia

  When Dad picks me up at the airport, he’s so excited about my big triumph that he decides to host an early-morning viewing party in the private dining room of the deli.

  I’m nervous. I don’t know how I’ll end up looking on the show. I can only hope my heartfelt speech about our family business will help our cause.

  All the Tasty Pepper staff members are invited, and to avoid making anyone having to do extra work for the party, he orders a spread of pastries and breakfast fare from a bakery down the street.

  He dresses up for the occasion with a blue button-down shirt and black slacks instead of his usual jeans and Tasty Pepper polo. He greets staff members as they pass, ever the host, funneling them toward the food ta
ble festooned with green and red balloons to match our deli’s colors. He’s brought his own TV, set up on a serving table for the occasion.

  Mom arrives only a little ahead of air-time, leading Grandmama through the back door.

  Grandmama is perfectly put together as always with elegantly coiffed gray hair, regal stature, and a monochromatic pastel blue suit. When I was in elementary school, I used to think she and Queen Elizabeth were the same person.

  The two of them take seats next to me. Grandmama places her hand over mine. “I can’t believe you’re about to be on my favorite morning talk show!”

  “So exciting,” Mom says. “They flew her there and put her up in a hotel and everything.”

  The rest of the staff starts to settle in their seats. Everyone is here. Our manager Sakura beams at me from a table over. The early morning staff, the afternoon staff. All the full-timers and most of the part-timers. The room is bursting.

  “Can I get you anything, Grandmama?” I ask. “There’s lots of lovely pastries, coffee, and juice.”

  “I had breakfast, but I could use a cup of coffee.”

  Shane jumps up from nowhere, startling us. “I’ll get it for you!” His smile is large and eager. “You take it black? Cream? Sugar?”

  I work hard not to recoil. Shane is a nice enough guy. He’s just always so…near.

  “Black, thank you,” Grandmama says.

  He turns to the rest of us. “Mom?”

  I grimace. Did Shane just call my mother Mom?

  She frowns. “No, thank you, Shane.”

  “Anything for you, Magnolia?” Shane asks.

  I point to my plate and cup. “I’m covered. Thanks.”

  As Shane hurries to fetch the coffee, Grandmama bumps her shoulder against mine. “I think that young man is sweet on you.”

  I force a smile. Grandmama doesn’t always try to play matchmaker, but when she does, you have to be firm.

  “You mean Shane? He’s in college. So probably five years younger than me.”