by M. J. Pullen
“Fine.” Marlowe tossed a few dollars on the table. “Keep the money. Consider it my wedding gift. I’ll make this work without your help.”
Before she could change her mind or let Tara see the tears brimming, Marlowe strode out of the restaurant without looking back, ignoring the sound of her closest friend calling her name.
2
The final episode of Takeout Takedown aired a few days before Christmas. The holiday-slash-watch party for friends and family had long been planned at Marlowe’s parents’ house; so she and Tara managed a frosty truce for the occasion. What was the point in blowing up their whole social circle, when Tara was just going to leave anyway?
In a way, it helped, being forced to make nice. Marlowe was still hurt and angry, but her feelings softened as she greeted all the people who loved them both, drinking cranberry punch and accepting well-wishes. There was something both excruciating and delightful about watching herself and Tara sweating through the last challenges of the competition on the television over her parents’ mantel.
The production cut of the show was so different from how it had felt actually being there. Tiny moments of confusion or miscommunication had been heightened by camera angles and dramatic music into crises—like when Marlowe had worried aloud whether they would have time to cook their “fried” pies in the oven since the Wisconsin twins had commandeered every vat of the deep fryer. Long stretches of rolling out pastry and chopping ingredients were condensed into fifteen-second montages. It was weird, too, watching people watching them: reacting to the show with oohs and aahs and laughs, and checking Marlowe and Tara’s faces every time there was a dramatic turn of events.
Officially, no one was supposed to know they’d won. Their contracts technically forbid talking to anyone about it. But Marlowe guessed everyone in the room either knew or suspected. As the last few moments of the dessert round played out, Tara and Marlowe stood together without talking, sipping cranberry punch while their past selves scrambled to get their homemade pickle ice cream ready in time.
When the TV showed the final announcement of their win, Tara wound her hand through Marlowe’s once again, and the party around them burst into applause. Marlowe squeezed back, and her shoulders relaxed. Things weren’t fully right between them, but they would be.
Marlowe, however, still had the problem of the food truck.
The next morning, Marlowe sat cross-legged among piles of paper amounting to her vision for the food truck: drawings, spreadsheets, sample menus, and marketing plans. As she sipped her coffee and stared at the hard work in front of her, she felt a sense of hollowed-out loneliness.
She’d run all of this past Tara as she was developing it, of course. From the time they’d won the prize, Marlowe had begun mentioning things on a shared break at the restaurant or shooting Tara texts with Pinterest links or scraps of ideas.
Looking back, it probably should have been a red flag that Tara rarely responded to these suggestions with enthusiasm, when she answered at all. But it was all so damn exciting. After years of working side by side at Murray’s, executing someone else’s vision, they were going to have their own space. Or, Marlowe was.
She just had to figure out how to trim her plans back by $25,000.
Somewhere beneath a pile of rental quotes from prep kitchens, Marlowe’s phone buzzed. She managed to dig it up just before it went to voicemail.
“Marlowe, hey, it’s Jerry Reasbeck from Takeout Takedown. How are you? Out late celebrating last night?”
Before she could answer, the producer went on, words ramming together. “Listen, I don’t want to take up too much of your time, but as you know, the airing of the final episode means we can distribute the prize money and green-light preparations for the food truck. We’ll need you guys to finalize the truck name and logo design this week, if possible.”
“Yes, I already have some sketches—”
“Great. I’ll have Ellen call you to go over them. In the meantime, I have a proposal for you and Tara to consider. The ratings for last night’s show were our highest for Takeout so far. It’s an upward trend in general, you understand, but this season has really been blowing it up. We’d been thinking it was the Anderson twins, but we talked to some focus groups and they like you and Tara, too. A lot.”
“Thanks.” Marlowe had liked her and Tara a lot, too.
“I’ll just come to it. We’d like to do a spin-off season of the show, following the winners as they get their food truck business going. Trials and tribulations of the business, customer response to your food, that kind of thing. Every episode will chronicle a new challenge and how you and Tara face it down. It will be about the food, but also your friendship. Audiences love the relationship angle.”
Marlowe’s stomach sank. “I’m sorry, Jerry. But Tara…” She paused as indignant feelings battled with loyalty to her friend. “Tara’s had a change in her family situation, and unfortunately she won’t be able to partner with me on the food truck enterprise anymore.”
“Oh,” Jerry said.
Marlowe imagined him wishing the Anderson twins had won the competition. Watching those two idiots squabble and play pranks on each other while trying (and probably failing) to run a grown-up business would’ve made excellent television. Hell, Marlowe would’ve watched that herself.
“But it’s okay,” she added quickly. An idea that had been rumbling beneath her conscious awareness for weeks bubbled to the surface before she could evaluate it. “I’m going to have a new partner soon. An…investor.”
“Hmm. That could be interesting,” Jerry said. “The challenge will be getting enough screen time for this partner. I assume they wouldn’t be helping you in the kitchen?”
Marlowe laughed. “Oh, hell no. He would not.”
“You’d have to check in with him frequently, though, to update him, right? How much is this person planning to invest?”
She pulled herself off the couch, with a rush of excitement and terror. She’d already lied to Jerry; no sense tempering her responses with reason now. “This investor is putting in twenty-five thousand dollars, to make up for Tara’s stake in the business.” He just doesn’t know it yet.
“That could work… Is this someone you have a personal connection to? Someone we could milk for personal drama?” Jerry paused. “Wait. It’s not your dad, is it? Not to be crass, hon, but a dad would only work if there’s some strain in your relationship…”
“It’s not my dad. But I think I’ve got you covered on interpersonal drama.” Marlowe opened the cabinet under her television. The wine box was exactly where it had been for the past two years. She could see the gray sleeve of Steven’s favorite Georgia Tech business school sweatshirt, Axe deodorant, a half-full can of $30 shave cream. She really should have given this stuff back to him months ago. “My investor is my ex-boyfriend. We haven’t spoken in two years, since I dumped him in front of about twenty of his closest friends.”
“Well,” Jerry said, after an uncharacteristic moment of stunned silence. “That will be interesting.”
3
Saturday morning, Marlowe stood on the familiar doorstep for a full ten minutes, pacing with the wine box, before she found the courage to ring the bell. The camera crew Jerry had insisted on sending hung out behind the tiny lawn, filming her anguish and waiting for her to give them the signal to come closer.
When Steven answered, he was barefoot, in a full-zip spandex bicycling outfit, accented with bright-green geometric patterns. He held a bowl of Fruit Loops against his chest, and stood frozen at half-chew for a moment. His eyes darted between Marlowe, the wine box, and the cameras on his sidewalk. “Marlowe. It’s…what is this?”
She tried on her sweetest smile. “Hello, Steven.”
For the first time since she’d agreed to this plan with Jerry, it occurred to Marlowe that Steven could be seeing someone. Just because she hadn’t been much for socializing since their relationship ended didn’t mean he didn’t have a woman in his life. Maybe eve
n the bright young real estate associate she’d caught him groping in a supply closet at the company Christmas party… Kendra? Keisha? Katie? She could be in his kitchen right now, in a matching spandex outfit and the same smug grin she’d worn two years ago. Whoops! Stevieeee, I told you to lock the door…
Steven looked perplexed as he chewed and waited for her to say something.
Marlowe cleared her throat. “Is this a bad time?”
He opened the door wider in response, and Marlowe followed him into the living room, where she set the box on his familiar, smudged glass-top coffee table. Against the half-wall between the living room and kitchen leaned a stack of real estate signs, with Steven’s grinning picture front and center. Sherlock Homes. Even with a name like Steven Sherlock, she still couldn’t believe he’d picked that name for his company. At least it was memorable. Steven rarely did anything that wasn’t.
He took the cereal bowl to the kitchen, which she was relieved to see was empty of Katies or Kendras. “Coffee?” he offered. “I just got back from a ninety-minute training ride.”
“I’m fine.” Marlowe was jittery enough. She knew he wanted her to ask what he was training for, but she didn’t take the bait.
“Are you going to tell me about the cameras in my front yard, or do I have to guess?” Steven smirked. “Please tell me this isn’t one of those cheating revenge shows, because two years after the breakup is a little late.”
Marlowe shook her head. “They’re from the production company for Takeout Takedown.”
“Ah. Congratulations on winning the show, by the way. I know you and Tara worked hard for that.” He poured coffee into a ceramic and gold Tech mug she’d never seen before. A gift from another woman? And why the hell should she care?
“We did,” she agreed. “That’s…actually why I’m here. Are you still investing in small businesses?”
He frowned. “Sometimes. Mostly my cash goes into purchasing new houses to flip, and of course I always put a third of the profits away in an IRA. As should you.” He gave her that fatherly look she hated. “Just because the restaurant business doesn’t provide 401(k) opportunities doesn’t mean you shouldn’t put money away for retirement.”
Marlowe gritted her teeth. “I do put some away.” An outright lie, unless you counted the jar of change she kept in her closet, to be used for gambling if she ever went to Vegas. “Look, Steven, I know we haven’t talked since—”
“I tried calling you. A thousand times.”
She waved away the past, cutting him off with the gesture. “I’m not here for that, Steven. I’m here with a business opportunity. And if you are willing, we can let the cameras in while we discuss it. You’ll have to sign a waiver to use the footage, even if you say no.”
Steven raised an eyebrow. “You have a business opportunity. For me.”
Marlowe tried to keep her tone light. “Whatever happened between us personally, I’m coming to you first because I respect your business instincts more than anyone else’s.”
He snorted.
Marlowe glared.
“Fine.” He set the mug down on the table next to the wine box full of his unreturned stuff, not even glancing at the shards of their fractured relationship. “Bring in the cameras. I’ll change and give you five minutes.”
It took four and a half—not counting the fifteen minutes it took for Steven to shower and the crew to set up the lighting. When Marlowe finished explaining the situation and the highlights of her plan—soul food fusion served in traditional handheld pies—Steven had an inscrutable smirk on his face.
“What do you think?” she asked, trying to use the charming smile she knew he liked, without looking like she was using the charming smile she knew he liked.
“I think if you think that puppy-dog expression is going to make me hand you twenty-five grand,” he glanced at the camera for effect, “you’re crazier than my friends all say you are.”
They probably did say that. She could still see the expressions on his colleagues’ shocked faces, as Marlowe had thrown a cup of mulled cider in Steven’s cheating face and stormed out of the office Christmas party.
“But you know I’m not crazy.” She kept her voice low and dangerous. “And you also know I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think it would work out.”
He raised an eyebrow, and one of the cameras made a soft whirring noise as it zoomed in closer while he stared at her. Steven loved to do this, to step back in haughty silence until she came out with what he wanted her to say—revealing her vulnerabilities and giving him the upper hand. At this moment, she had no choice. “Please. I wouldn’t come to you if I had any other option.”
“That’s more like it. Might as well be honest.” His face broke into a satisfied grin. “So…we’d have to interact on camera?”
“Not often. I’d make it as easy for you as possible.”
“That part is okay, actually. It would be good exposure for Sherlock Homes. I’ve been hoping to do a little reality television myself. House-flipping shows are huge... If I invest, would you consider putting an ad for my company on the side of the truck?”
“Absolutely not.”
“You could have your staff wear my T-shirts, like at special events.”
“My staff—once they exist—will wear shirts with my food truck logo on them.”
“You could name one of the pies after me, one of the Hot Pocket thingies.”
“They are not Hot Pockets. They’re gourmet handheld pies with homemade soul fusion fillings.”
“Right.” He grinned. “Fancy-ass Hot Pockets.”
Marlowe stood. “This was a bad idea.”
“Wait,” Steven said quickly, standing with her. “I’m just giving you crap. It’s not the worst idea I’ve ever heard, actually. But running a food truck is a slower business than flipping houses. It’s going to take longer than usual to make my money back. I’ll need some control. You handle the menu and the creative but any big business decisions get run by me.”
“Because your judgment has always been so sound? Big talk from a man who decided to bump uglies with his coworker in a supply closet while his girlfriend was twenty feet away.” Steven was totally pulling her down to his level, but she couldn’t resist sneaking in her own triumphant look at the camera. Maybe the female viewers would be rooting for her, at least.
“My professional judgment has always been sound, and I’ve apologized repeatedly for the other thing.” He stepped closer, his pale cheeks ruddy with his morning exertion, blond hair spiky with sweat and hair gel. “It is a lot of money, Mar.”
He was probably right: if she was asking him for twenty-five thousand dollars, he deserved some control over his investment. Plus, she really had no other options. Her credit was terrible. Her parents didn’t have any extra money, and they’d helped her enough already. Marlowe sighed. “Fine.”
“Great. I’ll draw something up and send it to you.” He held out his hand for her to shake, which was truly surreal. “In the meantime, I need to get going. Open house this afternoon.”
As she followed the camera crew out the door, Steven clapped her on the shoulder. “I guess I’ll be talking to you soon. Partner.”
Partner. “I’m going to regret asking you for this favor, aren’t I?”
“What favor?” He grinned. “You presented me with a business investment opportunity I couldn’t resist, remember? This is strictly business.”
As she turned to descend the stairs to her car, she knew the cameras were capturing his maddening, cocky grin behind her. “You heard it here first,” Marlowe said into one of the lenses. “This is going to be a complete disaster.”
4
The food truck leased by Takeout Takedown for the grand prize winner was brand-new, completely state of the art. Outside, it was wrapped in her Life of Pie logo, lively and cute. Inside, every stainless-steel surface gleamed like Rick Richards’s freshly bleached television teeth. Marlowe ran her fingers across the cold surface of the grill, f
eeling slightly awed. She’d never cooked on anything so nice.
“We gave you the smaller grill to accommodate more space for the pie ovens,” Jerry explained behind her. “You’ve got your stacked convection unit in the corner there, and a separate warming oven here. Did you work things out with the prep kitchen?”
“All set.” Marlowe had spent the last three months refining recipes and visiting prep kitchens, finally settling on an affordable one where she could schedule the days she would need and use a bit of storage space in the walk-in cooler and pantry. She’d continued working at Murray’s, too, so she didn’t have to eat into her startup funds for rent. “I’m starting out with four kinds of savory pies, three kinds of dessert pies, and we’ll do fried okra, fried green tomatoes, and homemade pickles on the side. What do you think?”
“Sounds great,” Jerry said. “We got you a spot at the Dogwood Festival, but we’re hoping to film at least one dry run before then. Does that work?”
“But…” Marlowe checked her phone. “The Dogwood Festival is only three weeks away. I thought I had another month until my spot opened at the Cotton Mill Food Truck Park?”
Jerry shrugged. “The Dogwood Festival is the biggest outdoor event in the city. It’s perfect for filming and we’d really like you there. You guys can handle it, right?”
“Sure.” Marlowe’s voice trembled a bit. “It’s just…I haven’t hired staff yet. I wanted to work out the recipes first, and…”
“What about your partner? He can help you, right? I thought you might bring him along today.”
“No, no, no… Steven is just an investor. He’s not going to be in the kitchen.” She looked around the beautiful but tight space and tried to imagine being stuck in here with Steven. “Absolutely not.”
Jerry gave Marlowe a long, placid look that she still hadn’t learned to read. As a distraction, she pointed to the panel windows. “How do these work?”
