Spicy Pickle (Fake Engagement)

by J J Knight

  “That’s not so bad,” Grandmama says. “I sure don’t understand why young ladies these days don’t want to settle down.”

  My thoughts immediately swivel to my sister. She’s settling down, in a way. I wonder what Grandmama is going to think of that. “We have our careers to think of.”

  “Well, in my day,” Grandmama begins, but I’m saved when Shane returns with the coffee. She smiles up at him. “Thank you, young man. You should sit with us.”

  Seriously?

  Shane eagerly drops into the chair beside me.

  Mom looks around. “Where’s Havannah? I thought she was coming.”

  “She is,” I say quickly. Havannah was puking her guts when I left this morning. I told her I would cover for her. “She’s probably in the back somewhere. She’ll be here before it starts.”

  If she’s not, I’m hoping everyone will be caught up in the show and won’t notice.

  Mercifully, the theme music begins. Everyone quiets.

  Eileen stands in front of her set. “Welcome to today’s edition of Mornings with Eileen. Today we have an amazing lineup of interesting people to start your day.”

  She mentions an actor first, which makes sense as his movie is coming out this weekend. Then the image of me sitting next to Anthony fills the screen. Everyone in the party room cheers.

  Dad reaches over and squeezes my shoulder. “You look beautiful, sweetheart.”

  Quite a few people shift their gazes between the screen and me as if to compare how I look on television to my current state. Grandmama says what everyone is probably thinking. “Oh my, Magnolia! Why don’t you wear makeup all the time?”

  I plaster on a smile. I am acutely aware of how different I appear on the show. To be honest, I have left my hair down today. It makes the difference a little less, and there’s no sense sticking it in a ponytail until I start working.

  Havannah wasn’t able to go with me to L.A., of course, but Eileen’s staff used the footage from Milton’s show to recreate the look.

  Eileen starts every episode with a featured charity. In our room, staffers whisper amongst themselves. I suspect my altered appearance is still the subject.

  During the commercial, Mom stands up to look around. “Magnolia, can you text your sister? She should be here.”

  “Sure thing, Mom!” I jerk my phone out.

  Mom’s asking about you.

  Havannah writes back quickly. I’m in the back parking lot. Hopefully just puked my last puke. Eating a cracker.

  I look up. “She’s here. She’s in the back.” All true.

  Mom nods and sits down. The show returns with the actor’s interview. I grip my coffee cup with both hands, trying to calm my nerves. I know the show won’t go completely as we recorded it. They will cut it to fit their time allotment. Our answers could be shortened, and some questions might be skipped.

  I wonder what Anthony and his crew are doing this morning, if they are having a watch party, too.

  As the actor’s segment ends, Mom pushes back her chair as though she might go look for Havannah. Thankfully, Eileen says, “Next up, two young deli entrepreneurs address the charges by a prominent cooking show host when we come back to Mornings with Eileen.”

  “The commercials aren’t very long, Mom,” I say. “You don’t want to miss it.”

  Mom frowns but she doesn’t get up.

  Dad rubs his hands together. “This is going to be amazing.” His eyes shine with happiness. I can only hope I live up to whatever he’s hoping for.

  Havannah slips into the back of the room and stands against the wall.

  “Oh, there she is,” Mom says. “Havannah, over here!”

  “Too crowded,” Havannah calls. “Back here is fine!” She does look green around the gills. I’m sure she wants to stay near the door in case she needs to race to the bathroom.

  The music returns, and the studio audience claps. That must be added after the fact, because we sat there for ages as they rearranged the lights. The screen shows all three of us, and a great cheer goes up in our room.

  Then the focus is on Eileen. “A few days ago, popular talk show host Milton Creed of America’s Spiciest Chef levied accusations at two Colorado delicatessen owners, claiming they had set out to humiliate him by doctoring pickles on his show.”

  The camera shifts, and Eileen adjusts effortlessly. “This brought up a lot of questions. Why would two business owners, with everything to lose, pull a prank on such a prominent show? What did they stand to gain? After reading the statements made by Milton Creed and his staff, I decided to get to the bottom of this mystery. I present to you the deli owners themselves, Anthony Pickle and Magnolia Boudreaux.”

  The view switches to the two of us on the sofa. The angle makes us appear to be sitting closer together than we were in real life.

  “Don’t they look cozy?” Shane says.

  No one responds. I don’t even look his way.

  This is nothing like the shaky footage that went out from the cell phone. This is high definition on a big screen. I quickly scan my dress, my hair, my face. My feet look awkward. I shouldn’t have worn sparkly shoes.

  Anthony looks perfect in charcoal pants and a sports jacket. He’s calm, cool, and collected, handsome and friendly. They’re going to love him. My palms start to sweat.

  The first questions are exactly as we recorded them. Both of us reiterate that we didn’t do anything nefarious to the pickles. Anthony makes the point that it’s ridiculous that we would attempt this, since Milton wouldn’t air anything that embarrassed him. There was no point in trying.

  But then we get to the argument where I accuse Anthony of stealing our new location.

  Dad glances over at me. Heat rises to my face. I appear way more hostile than I thought. I’m practically in Anthony’s face due to how the angle shrinks the distance between us.

  At least I still have my speech about our family business. It’s heartfelt and I know it will take the edge off this confrontation. It’ll be a great triumph and the staff will be so pleased with my performance.

  But the speech doesn’t start. The footage cuts to a close-up of Eileen!

  I sit forward as she says words I don’t recognize. She must have recorded them later. “The rivalry between Anthony and Magnolia has taken a turn. There’s no wonder why Milton Creed believes them guilty of trying to use his show to ruin each other.” She pauses, letting that ominous conclusion sink in. “Stay tuned for our next guest, singer Emilio Cruz.”

  It cuts to commercial.

  What? It’s over?

  It can’t be!

  Eileen just said we hated each other! That our rivalry would ruin us!

  That can’t be it!

  But Shane lifts the remote and clicks off the television. Silence blankets the room.

  I open my mouth, but I don’t know what to say.

  My mother speaks first. “Magnolia?”

  “They edited it a lot,” I spit out. “They made us look terrible!”

  “Anthony sure sat close to you,” Shane says.

  I resist the urge to tell him to shut up. But there’s no need to say anything else, because everyone starts shuffling around, picking up plates and heading for the door.

  Dad squeezes my wrist. “It’s okay, Magnolia. These talk shows are only after the ratings.”

  Mom shreds a paper napkin into bits. “I bet Eileen’s in cahoots with that terrible Milton Creed.”

  Grandmama hasn’t said a thing. The staff clears the pastries and drinks and moves to the kitchen. Then the four of us are the only ones in the room. Even Havannah has made herself scarce. Hopefully, I haven’t made her puke more.

  “Where do we go from here?” Mom asks. “Will people stop coming to our restaurant?”

  Dad shakes his head. “Our customers are loyal. The whole thing will die out in a day.”

  Grandmama taps her coffee cup on the table. “We got a lot of publicity today,” she says. “Who’s in charge of our social media p
resence?”

  My eyebrows hit my hairline. I didn’t know Grandmama knew what “social media presence” meant.

  “I am,” Mom says.

  “You’ll want to stay on it today. There’s going to be talk. We’ll want to answer it with a steady hand. Who’s manning the phones? People will be calling.”

  “I can do that,” Dad says. “I’ll handle any fallout.”

  “I think I’d like to do it today,” Grandmama says. “I’ll take over your office. Route all calls to me. If there’s more than one at a time, you can take the overflow.”

  “All right, Mom,” Dad says.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Grandmama take charge of the deli that she and my grandfather founded. I realize what this means.

  The new generation has threatened what she built.

  She’s going to have to do something to protect it.

  It’s all my fault.

  11

  Anthony

  I don’t get a chance to watch Eileen’s show until after the workday.

  We had several emergencies at the deli, and I had to field quite a few phone calls from reporters and other talk show hosts wanting us to appear. I forwarded the messages to Charity.

  When I finally get settled at home that night, I unwrap the sub sandwich Marie packed for me and locate the recording of the show.

  And damn. They emphasized the animosity between me and Magnolia. I run it back and listen again. Eileen’s practically saying we’re guilty of Milton’s accusations.

  This is bad. I scroll through the web hits on my name. Most seem primarily amused that Magnolia went off on me. A few accuse me of being heartless for taking away her opportunities.

  I rub my eyes. I’m tired. I want to sleep.

  But a text message pops up from my dad. You were great. That Boudreaux girl has made a mess of things.

  I pause, unsure what to say. But then I type. She was upset.

  Dad answers. She’s taking a beating online.

  Is she? I switch my search to Magnolia’s name to see what is being said about her.

  My eyes nearly bug out of my head. The negative mentions tagged with my name are small compared to what’s being said directly to her.

  Back off, you jealous bitch.

  Goes to show women shouldn’t be running restaurants.

  Someone needs to knock some sense into that ‘ho.

  Everybody knows she did it.

  A few of them shouldn’t be mentioned. They’re terrible. They’re words people should never think in their heads, much less type into a comment box.

  A protective urge flares hot. I’ve got to do something to help her.

  I send her a text. Just now watching the segment and reading the comments. I’m sorry people are so terrible.

  And I wait.

  Nothing.

  Maybe she’s busy.

  I send a message to Charity. Just saw everything. Talk?

  Within thirty seconds, my phone rings.

  “I’ve already put together a tentative plan,” Charity says.

  “Good evening to you, too.”

  “Sorry, but the situation has been on my mind all day.”

  “Did you see some of those threats?”

  Charity sighs. “I did. I don’t like this situation for either of you. Right now, the sentiment is overwhelmingly against her. But what will happen next is you will see women rise to defend her, and it is going to turn against you.”

  “But I didn’t do anything.”

  “You were called out by a woman who feels she has been wronged. We probably have twenty-four hours to get control of this before it starts to backfire.”

  This is not what I want to hear. “I was hoping to work directly with her so we could fight this together.”

  “That is absolutely the best scenario. Have you contacted her?”

  “I sent her a text, but she doesn’t tend to respond to me.”

  “You want me to reach out?”

  “She didn’t seem to like the idea of you. She calls you ‘Spin Doctor.’ No offense.”

  “Nope. I get it. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t team up.”

  “Should we do another show?”

  “Not without a coordinated plan. She’s obviously got some feelings, and she doesn’t have enough control to avoid saying them on television.”

  “What do we do?”

  “I’ve taken control of all the official Pickle deli accounts. My assistant and I will be doing the responses. Let us do our job.”

  Now that is what I want to hear. “How long do these things normally take to play out?”

  “If no one else fuels the fire, it should die down within three to four days. We’ll handle your side. But if Milton or Magnolia decides to provide new content, it could flare back up.”

  “I wish everybody had someone like you.”

  “Oh, trust me, Milton does. What he’s doing is calculated and planned. He’s using you for publicity, and it’s paying off. The segments that he’s been airing have an incredibly high market share compared to the ones before all this happened. Everyone wants to see what he’s up to.”

  “What will his next move be?”

  She hesitates, then says. “He’s ruthless. And ambitious. It’s a difficult combination to predict.”

  “Great.”

  “Get some sleep. You sound exhausted. Call me if you hear from Magnolia.”

  “Will do.”

  I drop the phone on the sofa. We have to do something. But all I can do is wait.

  I must’ve fallen asleep, because I wake to a buzzing near my ear. It’s my phone.

  I squint at the screen. Five a.m. I have about three hours until I need to get to the deli.

  The buzz is a text from Charity.

  Sorry for the early hour. We’ve been monitoring your media accounts all night. I need approval to take control of several more websites because your reviews are starting to tank.

  Our reviews?

  I head over to some of the prominent sites. And I see it.

  One star. Boulder Pickle serves its sandwiches with a side of misogyny.

  One star. The only thing worth ordering here is Anthony’s pickle, chopped into pieces.

  Ouch.

  One star. Just what we need, a mansplainer telling a woman how to run her business.

  And so many more.

  We’ve racked up fifty one-star reviews on this site alone, all since I fell asleep.

  This isn’t good.

  I text Charity.

  Sending you some logins. Can we do anything about this?

  She responds right away.

  I’m deactivating your business profiles until this blows over. It’s the best choice for the moment.

  Well this sucks.

  I’m about to shower when I decide to check the reviews for Magnolia and the Tasty Pepper.

  Same story as mine, but on steroids.

  One star. Who does this bitch think she is?

  One star. The real reason this bullshit deli hasn’t expanded is because everything there sucks. I wouldn’t swallow anything there any more than that chick would…on a date.

  And more of that ilk.

  I have to get through to her.

  I send her another text. I hope it doesn’t wake her up, but it can’t wait. I know you don’t want to talk to me. But I have a strategy. Let’s work together so we can beat this thing.

  This time I get an answer. It’s not much. But it’s something.

  Okay.

  We decide to meet before the workday gets heavy. I imagine that Magnolia is a lot like me, overseeing the morning preparations. Since her family sent her to do the cooking show originally, she’s probably their top chef.

  I chat strategy with Charity on the drive to the hole-in-the-wall coffee shop Magnolia suggested. Charity says she’ll send me a list of ideas to review to get this resolved the fastest.

  When I arrive, Magnolia’s already sitting in the back corner n
ursing a coffee. Her hair is up today, swinging in a long ponytail. She hasn’t taken off her puffy white coat, but I can see that today she’s wearing leggings and cute boots with sheepskin inside.

  I place a quick order and slide into the chair opposite her. “How are you holding up?”

  She lifts her coffee cup and swirls it in circles. “I would like a time machine so that I can go back and never call Milton Creed.”

  I grunt my agreement. “Was the segment your idea from the start?”

  “Dad and I came up with it. I’d been trying to think of ways to get more business to warrant a second branch. I thought beating you at your own TikTok game would get our deli some credibility with a younger age bracket.”

  She stares past me, lost in thought. Those long eyelashes about kill me. She isn’t made up like the show, but her eyes are a vivid blue and her lips are soft pink.

  It’s hard to focus.

  The barista calls my name, and I pick up my latte, glad for a breather to get my thoughts straight. When I return, she seems to have pulled herself together.

  “So, what’s your expert’s big plan?” she asks.

  Talking business is way easier than fighting the urge to sit closer. “Charity took my business profiles down to stop the flood of one-star reviews. She can do that for you as well, if you want to try to work together on this.”

  Magnolia idly rubs her thumb along the edge of her cup. “And what would we do together?”

  A thousand answers flash through my mind, mostly involving extremely compromising positions. I squeeze my coffee cup so hard the plastic lid pops off. The liquid that leaks out the sides thankfully misses my fingers.

  Her gaze flicks to my face. God. She probably has me all figured out.

  I carefully press the lid back on and wipe up the spill with a napkin. “Maybe a joint promotion? That way people know we don’t hate each other.”

  “I guess.” She doesn’t seem very enthusiastic.

  “Charity had some suggestions. Let me pull them up.” I open the document Charity sent and scan the options. My jaw drops.

  “What?” Magnolia asks. “What’s the big solution?”

  I turn the screen face down on the table. There’s no way I’m going to suggest it.