Spicy Pickle (Fake Engagement)

by J J Knight

  I have a fleet of dresses, pants and jeans, skirts and tops. The show outfits are well planned for being wired for sound. Two of the dresses swirl like the one I bought in New York, so we can occasionally re-create the moment.

  Before leaving for L.A., we go on a local Boulder morning show to reveal the new menu items. We bring the new Boudrickle sandwich and the soup, titled “Hot and Sweet.”

  We don’t mention the new relish, love pickle, or dessert, because Charity has promised exclusive reveals to three hosts in Los Angeles.

  The Boulder show is easy. Anthony and I serve the soup and sandwich to the hosts, who fawn over it. We hold hands and smile at each other, blissfully telling the audience that despite the initial hardship, we are grateful that Milton Creed brought us together.

  We’ll be in L.A. for a full week. As I requested, Charity has booked us for three shows, one every other day.

  In between, we have appearances at a local restaurant and a gourmet food store. Two of the shows plus the food store are cooking demonstrations. Dad carefully plans what I will prepare, and I practice each step. We make sure there are no feats of culinary skill that would reveal I haven’t had any training. Or that I can’t cook much at all.

  I figure if I can fake an entire relationship, surely, I can muddle through a recipe. Havannah helps me practice giggles to make my mistakes cute and prompts me on how to flirt my way into convincing Anthony to help if I get in a bind.

  It’s a lot.

  Charity makes sure we get first-class tickets, since she’s able to pool the resources of the appearances, and our entire hotel stay plus expenses are covered. It’s a big win.

  As long as I don’t blow it.

  Anthony and I aren’t recognizable out of context, so we’re able to maneuver through the airport and hotel lobbies with minimum fuss. Charity has warned us that our relative obscurity might change by the end of this publicity run.

  “Our goal is to get you everywhere,” she tells us during a phone call once we settle into an office space that links our two hotel suites in L.A. “Remember, it’s critical you look happy and in love when you’re out in public. Milton Creed will look for an opportunity to expose you if he gets even a whiff of insincerity.”

  “Thanks, Charity,” Anthony says.

  “Have fun. Give me a debriefing after each show. Ta-ta!”

  I let out a sigh and sink down in the armchair. Now we can chill for a bit. “We’re free today, right?” I ask.

  Anthony kicks out his legs and rests his head on the back of the leather seat. “Absolutely. The first show isn’t until tomorrow afternoon. We don’t have to deal with the stylists until noon.”

  I stand up. “I’ve got two L.A. bucket list items I didn’t get to do last time.”

  “What are those?”

  “A stroll on the Hollywood Walk of Fame and a tour of the Queen Mary.”

  “Those are great stops,” he says. “You want company?”

  I hesitate. I don’t want to go alone, but he’ll have to pretend to be my boyfriend even in our off-hours. “Sure, if you’re game for the charade.”

  “Totally game.” His expression is eager.

  I head for my door. “I’ll change into the most casual thing they have allowed me to wear.”

  “Me too. I think I got my jeans approved.”

  I have to laugh. “This is the craziest situation, right?”

  “It is.” He looks like he wants to say something else, but then opens his door. “See you in half an hour?”

  “Definitely.”

  I step into my room and close the door. It’s weird, but I find I dislike Anthony a little less every day. He’s risen to the occasion on these menus. I think we have something incredibly powerful happening for our delis.

  I switch into a pair of cream-colored jeans and a cranberry sweater. The weather here is nothing like Boulder, mid 70s and perfect for walking.

  My wardrobe includes a pair of cute cream sneakers with dark pink trim, so I slide them on, marveling at the memory foam inside. This only took five minutes, so I take a moment to text my sister. Made it to L.A. Anthony is charming. He plays the role well.

  She writes back. I’m telling you, it’s not a role to him.

  I shake my head. Havannah is ever the romantic. I don’t see it.

  Open your eyes!

  There’s no good response to that, so I send a quick note to Dad. Made it to L.A. Hotel is nice.

  He writes back.

  Good. We had a line waiting for us to open today.

  Really?

  It’s the show you did yesterday. Everybody wants to eat the new sandwich and soup combo.

  Yay!

  You two have fun. Try not to fight.

  Dad imagines Anthony is like Sherman Pickle, Anthony’s father. There is no love lost between my dad and Sherman. They once got into a booming argument at a restaurant convention.

  It’s probably a good thing we’re not actually dating. That would be one awkward family dinner.

  I pack my phone and a few essentials in the tiny messenger-style purse that matches my shoes. I peek in the mirror. Havannah prepped my look for the day before we got on the flight in case we were seen. I need to refresh my lipstick.

  I have to get used to a full face of makeup. A stylist will arrive every day in L.A. to put me together. I’m trying to learn how to do it myself, so that I don’t have to go through these grueling appointments forever.

  Maybe by the end of the week, I’ll have it down well enough to only need one for the shows.

  I recolor my lips and pop a kiss at my reflection. In some ways, I’ve reversed roles with my sister. She’s the one at home most of the time, doing the deli social media from our sofa. She rarely gets out of her sweats, her hair in a messy ponytail.

  And here I am, with designer clothes and a stylist.

  This is the craziest life.

  “I’m doing this for you, little baby on the way,” I whisper. I wonder if I’m going to get a niece or a nephew. A thrill zips through me. Havannah’s appointment with the doctor is next week. Then we will start project find-the-baby-daddy.

  A door in the office space opens and closes. Anthony must be ready. I grab a tissue to blot my lips. But then I picture placing a big colored kiss on his cheek. It would be fun if there are cameras around. So I leave it and stick the lipstick into the tiny purse for a refresher should the moment arise.

  Without cameras, I know he won’t kiss me today.

  But maybe, if we’re lucky, paparazzi will find us.

  I pause at the door, my hand on the knob.

  Whoa, everybody. Did you catch that?

  What’s happening to me?

  Am I looking for an excuse to kiss Anthony Pickle?

  When we arrive at the Hollywood Walk of Fame, security guards oversee the process of a crew taking down a canopy for guests.

  “What happened here?” I ask.

  Anthony cranes his neck. “Looks like somebody got their star today.”

  “Good thing we missed it. It was probably a madhouse.”

  A woman in a giant straw hat passes by. “Mmm hmm. Totally crazy.” She pauses to take a picture of the star at her feet.

  We push through the crowd milling around. The sidewalk is partially taken up by a stage covered in red velvet. I notice an inordinate number of people holding fancy cameras. “I guess photographers are still hanging around,” I tell Anthony.

  A man with a neck weighed down with equipment overhears me. “They’re saying Jennifer Aniston is in the juice joint.” He tilts his head at the pressed juice store across the street.

  “Really?”

  His dark eyes fix on me as he slowly lifts one of the cameras. “Hey, aren’t you those two who got in the fight on Mornings with Eileen?”

  I turn to Anthony. He grimaces.

  “Let’s go!” I say and push Anthony up the street.

  But they’re on to us. We slip through the crowd for several blocks, but as soon as we
’re free of the bulk of the bystanders, we’re easy pickings. When the first flash goes off, more photographers arrive. Some have long lenses, others get close.

  “Look here, Magnolia!” they call. “Over here.”

  They are definitely not chill like the ones Charity hired in New York.

  I lean close to Anthony. “What do we do?”

  He shrugs. “I guess we give the people what they want.”

  He drags me close and bends me over his arm. “No red curry this time,” he whispers. Then his lips are on mine. A cheer goes up. Flashes pop.

  I’m self-conscious at first, the position, the people, being outdoors. I think about my purse dangling and my sweater riding up my belly.

  But Anthony’s lips soften, and the world goes still. He holds me steady and close, his body over mine, arms bracing my back. His breath is warm. He smells of woodsy cologne and toothpaste.

  His neck is hot under my hand, the muscles corded as they hold me in place. His tongue greets mine, and I fall into him a little more. I’m cocooned by him, held tight.

  Maybe I don’t want this to end.

  But my body begins to lift, and Anthony sets me upright. Whistles and cheers start to penetrate the perfect silence. I look up at him, then laugh. His lips are as cranberry as mine. I never blotted my lipstick.

  I use my thumb to erase the color. His cheeks pink up. He’s adorable.

  “Cute,” I say.

  He points at himself as if to say who me? And grins. Flashes pop pop pop.

  I point down. We’re standing on Fred Astaire’s star. He takes my hand and twirls me in circles around it. I wish I was wearing a swirly skirt, but my cream-colored jeans have to do.

  When he pulls me close, I say, “Charity is going to love this.”

  He grins. “I know. We’re her prodigal clients.”

  “How are we going to escape?”

  He spins me again, then we continue walking. “I don’t know.”

  The cameras continue to follow us.

  We spot someone exiting a taxi a block ahead. Our gazes meet.

  “Yes?” he asks.

  “Totally.”

  We make a run for it.

  Right as the woman is about to close the door, Anthony grabs it and we duck inside.

  “Step on it!” he says.

  The taxi driver, a forty-something woman with a helmet of black hair, turns to prop her elbow on the seat and stare us down. “This ain’t a movie set, mister.”

  “Can you take us to the Queen Mary,” I ask.

  “That’s forty minutes, you know,” she says.

  “That’s all right,” I say.

  She gives a nod and heads down the street. The photographers have started to fade into the tourists. Show’s over.

  “That was fun,” I say to Anthony.

  He snakes his hand over and squeezes mine. “It was.”

  My heart hammers.

  He’s holding my hand and nobody’s even looking.

  19

  Anthony

  I don’t know what came over me, taking Magnolia’s hand. I think I ought to pull away, but Magnolia’s looking at me with something I can only describe as contentment.

  What’s happening here?

  We drive along Hollywood Boulevard, the sidewalks filled with tourists. Magnolia takes it all in, bending down to get a look at the shops and people. I hope she saw enough of the stars to make her happy.

  I clear my throat. “So, how many times have you been to L.A?”

  “Just when we were here for Mornings with Eileen.” The car turns away from the interesting sights and she settles back in her seat.

  “So why the Queen Mary?”

  “My parents stayed there on their honeymoon and had a swoony meal at Sir Winston’s on board. We heard about it a million times growing up.”

  “Really?” My mind is already buzzing with how I can make a dinner there happen.

  We enter the freeway and the skyscrapers of downtown Los Angeles begin to appear. Magnolia lets go of my hand and turns back to the window. “That’s a lot of tall buildings.”

  “You really get a sense of it from the freeway.”

  “Sure isn’t downtown Boulder.”

  While she gazes out, I quickly tap a message to Charity and Max.

  How can I get into Sir Winston’s on the Queen Mary in the next hour?

  Charity responds quickly. Looks available. Want me to make reservations?

  But Max pops on. I got your back, bro. Check your inbox.

  By the time we leave the cab, the reservation confirmation has chimed from my inbox. While Magnolia stands on the sidewalk admiring the giant ship, I pull up the email.

  “Want dinner?” I ask.

  “Can we go in the ship first? I think you can walk up and do a tour.”

  “Absolutely,” I say. “And we have a reservation for Sir Winston’s.”

  Her face lights up. “Really?”

  I extend my arm. “Let’s take a look around. Then we’ll see what the chefs here can do.”

  Magnolia squeals as we walk into the entry pavilion.

  When we cross the bridge into the ship, Magnolia is enchanted, exclaiming at the lamps, the wood, the floors. Replicas of the ship and several others line a long hallway. We cross to a promenade full of shops.

  “Don’t you love how it smells!” she says. “It’s like ocean water and history!”

  I have to laugh. Our hands brush, and she takes mine. It’s not a bad idea. We could be seen here.

  She stands beneath the big bell that reads Queen Mary. “Let’s go on the sun deck!”

  We head outside and walk along the wood planks. The breeze picks up, adding curl to her hair. She’s completely happy, almost giddy. Just watching her awe makes me smile.

  “We can go on the bridge!” she says. She cranes her head sideways to look at the words painted onto the steering mechanism. “Slack away! Let go! Hold on! Heave in!” She laughs. “What silly options!”

  We pass curtained windows with diners inside a fancy room. “Is that where we’re eating?” she asks.

  “I think so.”

  “I can’t wait to picture a young version of Mom and Dad in there. We’ll have to take pictures!”

  “Anything the lady desires.”

  “Is it time?”

  “We have about five minutes.”

  We lean on the rail a while, letting the sea air wash over us. Then Magnolia takes my arm. “Take me to dinner!”

  We’re seated in wide leather chairs near a window with an ocean view. A server instantly brings us glasses of water and a basket of bread.

  “I’m starving,” she says, gulping water and choosing a soft warm roll.

  “I hear the Beef Wellington is the famous offering here,” I say.

  “My dad got that. He never misses a good slab of meat wrapped in pastry.”

  “And your mom?”

  “She ordered the stuffed salmon.” Magnolia sits back, taking the room in. “Did you know you could do dining with the spirits on Friday nights?”

  “Is that what you wanted?”

  “No! I have enough skeletons in my closet without worrying about ghosts.”

  “I can’t imagine you have a single thing to hide.”

  She sips her water and shrugs. “Maybe they’re not terribly sordid by modern standards.” Her eyes meet mine. “I haven’t killed a man. Yet.”

  I laugh so loudly I startle a few guests at other tables.

  She tosses her napkin at me. “Hush up! I can’t take you anywhere!”

  I catch it and toss it back. “I’m probably better stuck back in the kitchen.”

  She spreads the linen across her lap. “Do you eat at a lot of fancy places to learn new tricks?”

  “Not as much as I’d like, but I’ve been to every place in Boulder.”

  “Do you eat at La Fontaine D’or?”

  I hesitate. I hate that place. “I’ve been there.”

  She leans forward. “Is
n’t it awful?”

  Thank God. “Yes! I was worried you loved it.”

  “No way. Dad calls it Twenty Ways to Ruin a Steak.”

  I clap my hand over my mouth to avoid startling our neighbors again. Usually this isn’t a problem for me. But with Magnolia, it’s different. I laugh too loudly, too much.

  The waiter arrives with menus. “Can I interest you in a bottle of wine?”

  “Do you have a nice Pinot Noir for the Beef Wellington?” I ask.

  “I have several.” He lists them off.

  I turn to Magnolia. “Are you going to do the Beef Wellington or the salmon, or should we try both?”

  “Both, for sure,” she says.

  I order a Pinot Noir for the beef and a Chardonnay for the salmon, as well as order the food, since we already know what we want. When the man is gone, I say, “We can try both wines, too. I think the germs have already been shared. On camera, no less.”

  She smiles down at her bread. “That they have.”

  I want to ask her what’s happening. What’s real. What’s fake. But instead, I stare out the window at the blue water where it meets the darkening sky.

  The view is spectacular. Lights have begun to twinkle along the coast.

  Magnolia surveys the room. “I’m trying to picture my parents here, right after their wedding. They would have been younger than I am.”

  “I guess they’re very happy?”

  “I think so. They have squabbles. But they’ve been married for thirty years.” She takes a sip of her water. “What about yours?”

  Thinking about Mom always robs me of my voice for a moment. I pick up my water glass and sip until I feel in control again.

  “They were the happiest people I know. Our deli legacy didn’t come from nothing. It was built from how much they loved each other and wanted to create something lasting for their family.”

  Her eyes search mine. “Why does this make you sad?”

  I realize that she doesn’t know. It’s funny, most women I date Google me immediately. The whole story is there.

  “My mother died twelve years ago. I was fifteen and didn’t think I would ever be happy again after I lost her.”

  Magnolia sucks in a breath. Her hand slips across the table to clasp mine. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”