Easy as Pie

by M. J. Pullen

  “Goober,” she said as they made the trade, glad Calvin was falling back into his role as her surrogate brother, rather than Mr. Going Places Attorney sweeping her best friend away. The box was hand-addressed to her on a label with the production company’s logo. “Ah. It must be from Jerry.”

  Inside was a DVD case with a sticky note attached in neat, block handwriting. “VERY rough cut of the first two episodes. Ignore sound mixing and transitions for now. –J.”

  “That’s odd. I wasn’t expecting to see anything until they’d filmed the whole season.” She handed the disc to Tara. “Put this in, would you? I’m going to open a bottle of wine.”

  Reading the sticky note, Tara grinned. “And popcorn, please. This should be fun.”

  “Fun for you, maybe. I seem to recall you watching all of Takeout Takedown with your hands over your eyes.”

  “Right. But this is your potential humiliation we’re talking about, not mine. Therefore, entertaining.”

  The three of them settled on the overstuffed couch together with dinner, wine, and popcorn Tara had sprinkled with some kind of amazing jerk seasoning and a light coating of olive oil. Marlowe was so glad she’d have Tara’s creativity back soon. The windows were open to the cool evening air, and Marlowe pulled a throw over her shoulders—as much for protection from whatever was on the disc as the chill.

  Jerry had been right that the scenes were still very rough. The sound was all over the place as Marlowe watched herself navigating the food truck world. They showed her with the guys at the custom truck garage, discussing equipment options; after the initial shock of seeing her own face in profile—always discomfiting—Marlowe decided she didn’t look terrible. In the next scene, she was leaning over a laptop looking at options for the Life of Pie logo design. “I would’ve chosen the exact same one,” Tara assured her, and Marlowe squeezed her hand across Calvin’s lap.

  There was footage of the day she learned to drive the truck, including a specific scene where the tech showed her how to plug and unplug the power, and explicitly suggested she keep several extension cords on hand. Great. “There’s the setup for humiliation, T, and only three minutes in.”

  “Nah, you’re fine,” Tara said, but her suppressed laughter was a dead giveaway.

  The next few scenes showed the Tipsy Trucker and the soft launch, with an emphasis on the models Steven had hired brazenly luring customers out of other food truck lines with the promise of free pie. “No wonder those guys hate me.”

  “I see no reason for hate.” Calvin leaned forward to get a closer look at Chantelle’s “marketing assets.” Tara smacked him in the back of the head without comment.

  The time-lapse photography showed the lines outside her truck filling up as people came to cash in those horrible coupons, and only stopped at the point when Marlowe had become overwhelmed, zooming in on her face when she was at her most exhausted and discouraged. And then Kieran, coming from the pub and taking in the lines, with his brow furrowed in worry. The camera had captured them working together to catch up, moving back and forth around the truck. Kieran’s quirked-up smile as he said something to her. Marlowe throwing her head back laughing, some joke she didn’t remember.

  She felt Tara’s eyes on her but kept her gaze trained on the television. As the scenes played out, Marlowe noticed themes emerging as she relived all the challenges and triumphs in the last few weeks. First, that she appeared far, far calmer on camera than she felt inside when things were in crisis. Maybe she was better and handling things than she realized.

  Steven came off like a bumbling ass most of the time, but even she had to admit there was something obsessively watchable about him. He was charming—if you didn’t have to put up with his bullshit in real life—and the camera loved him. Steven made all his own stupid mistakes look like well-intended messes, and that bright smile told anyone watching that he’d surely get through it, and you should tune in to find out how. He might be right that he should have his own show, even if Marlowe was surer than ever that she wanted no part in it.

  If Jerry or Kieran or anyone else thought her constant bickering with Steven reflected some kind of suppressed passion that would play well for audiences, they were going to have to find themselves another Ginger Rogers. Marlowe just wanted to create food that people liked, and maybe not live in a tiny apartment for the rest of her life.

  The main thing she noticed, as the footage for the second episode began to roll, was how often the camera trained in on Kieran. “He is easy on the eyes, though,” Tara remarked without looking at Marlowe.

  The second episode was focused on the Dogwood Festival preparations, when Kieran had come by to help them out. More than once when the three of them were together, and usually when Steven and Marlowe were arguing about something, the camera would drift to Kieran, capturing a pained expression as he watched them. No…she realized, paying more attention, as he watched her.

  The crew had discreetly captured footage of Marlowe and Kieran working side by side at the sink in the prep kitchen, talking and laughing with a sense of comfortable intimacy that made Marlowe’s breath halt. It was a good thing they hadn’t filmed what came after. Wait… As the day’s footage wound down, there was a brief cut. Then the angle of the camera and quality of the footage changed, so the video was looking down on Marlowe and Kieran at the sink, while on the far left of the frame Steven and the camera crews exited for the night. Someone—Joanna was Marlowe’s guess, damn her—had placed a small wireless camera on the supply shelf behind the sink and left it running when the two of them had been alone.

  Realizing what was coming next, Marlowe shot forward and grabbed for the remote, but Tara was too quick for her.

  “Oh hell no.” She handed the remote to her fiancé so he could get it out of Marlowe’s reach. “We are going to watch this and then you are going to explain why you didn’t spill your guts about whatever’s about to happen.”

  After a couple of vain attempts to climb up Calvin’s six-four, college-football body, Marlowe relented and plopped down on the floor to watch, with her heart in her throat. The audio wasn’t great on the little camera, but the situation was clear as Kieran confronted her about Steven, and she winced when she said that stupid thing about kissing Kieran instead. What had she even meant by that?

  And then he was grabbing Marlowe’s hip and pulling her close. Watching his mouth attack hers was…the most erotic thing she’d ever seen. Kieran kissed her frantically, moving his hands up and down her body as if he were trying to take in all of her at once, as though his survival depended on it. Watching it now was almost as good as the real thing—almost—and she was too enraptured to feel embarrassed that Calvin and Tara were watching too.

  And then, as suddenly as it had started, Kieran backed away. Putting distance between them as she reeled with embarrassment, and he led her out the door.

  “What happened?” Calvin joined her on the floor, sitting cross-legged. “Did you bite him or something? Not every dude is into that, you know.”

  Marlowe elbowed him. “I’m not sure...”

  “You two are idiots,” Tara said from the couch. “He clearly said he has feelings for Marlowe but doesn’t want to get hurt and still thinks she’s hung up on Steven.”

  “He did? But I’m not,” Marlowe whined. “I told him so many times.”

  “You better start paying attention.” Tara gestured her still-full glass of wine toward the television. “I can’t always be here to interpret your own damn life for you.”

  There was a short series of clips of Marlowe and Steven and the staff getting ready for the festival, during which Marlowe learned that she spent most of her time sweating over a prep table while the people hired to help her often looked around for things to do. Note to self: learn to delegate. Steven, not surprisingly, spent most of his time talking on the phone and to the camera. He explained the ins and outs of the restaurant business with an offhand casualness that made him appear to be an expert. Most of the time,
though, he was either repeating something Marlowe had just explained to him, or—she cringed every time—just making things up out of thin air.

  It was tempting to hide under the blanket when they got to the part with the missing extension cord, but Marlowe made herself watch, even the bit where she threw herself into an unsuspecting Kieran’s arms. The surprised look on his face was mortifying, and Tara made an “mmm-hmmm…” noise behind her that made it So. Much. Worse.

  “You are not going to believe this crap,” Marlowe warned them when the festival had ended and Steven began setting up his little “romantic bistro” scene outside the truck. They cut back and forth between Marlowe scrubbing things down inside the truck and Steven spreading out the white tablecloth outside. When the young production assistant showed up with the champagne bucket and single rose, Marlowe growled in annoyance.

  “What the hell is he doing?” Tara said, even though she knew the story. “I lived with you the whole time you were dating and I can tell you right now he should have known you better than this.”

  “Truth.” Marlowe raised her empty wine glass ceremonially.

  The whole scene was cringe-worthy: from Steven luring her out and making what was more a business proposal than a relationship one, to the horrifying spectacle of herself on screen with her head down, trying to quietly push him away.

  “What are you saying there?” Tara asked.

  “I’m begging him not to make an ass of himself on national television, more or less. And trying not to make things worse for him.”

  “That’s not what it looks like from where I’m sitting.”

  Objectively, Marlowe realized, it looked like a shy and intimate conversation if you couldn’t hear what she was saying. Which you mostly couldn’t, with the distance of the cameras and her own attempt to be discreet. “I’ll try to get them to cut it. They might listen…” She looked back at her friend for support. “In a minute, they’ll show me get up and walk off. No one’s going to think—”

  “Oh, shit,” Calvin said.

  Marlowe turned back to the screen, where Kieran Dunne was walking down the hill toward the cameras with the setting sun behind him. Like bloody Matthew Mcfadyen crossing a meadow at dawn. For the end of a long, warm festival day, he looked absolutely perfect: with his shaggy dark hair mostly tucked behind his ears and just the right bit of scruffy beard, wearing his standard jeans and the Pogues shirt he’d had on when they met. She loved that he never wore a Tipsy Trucker T-shirt, even though he owned the place. It gave him a kind of understated confidence, which reflected in his smile as he approached the scene.

  The camera zoomed in on his face, and he acknowledged it with a slight nod. Then the loose, confident smile faded as he stared at Marlowe and Steven. The scene cut back and forth between Marlowe—with her head down, leaning toward Steven—and Kieran, face tightening. “Right,” he said, and gave the camera pained smile before turning to walk away. After a few steps, Marlowe heard her own voice calling his name, but he didn’t turn around.

  “Damn,” Calvin said, capturing what all three of them were thinking.

  Before Marlowe could move to turn the television off, the screen changed to a close-up of Joanna’s face, Red Sox cap and all, with a background of what looked like the women’s restroom. “Hey, Marlowe,” she said softly. “I hope you’re watching this tonight, before we start filming again in the morning. I just…” She paused at the sound of a door squeaking open, and the video jolted before cutting to her in what looked like a supply closet. How fitting, Marlowe thought.

  “So, listen,” she started again. “I don’t have long, and Jerry would have my ass fired and blackballed if he knew I was leaking this disc to you. But I thought you deserved to see it before we start filming again Tuesday morning. I figured you’d want to… Well. It’s none of my business, but maybe some moments weren’t meant to be captured on film.”

  She reached up to turn off the video, then paused again. “And I’m really sorry for hiding that camera in the prep kitchen. Jerry made us do it. He said you’d agreed to that with the waivers for the show, but…it didn’t feel right. Anyway, good luck. And please destroy this when you’re done!”

  The screen went black and Marlowe stared at it for what felt like half an hour, before Tara stood and grabbed her purse.

  “Well, come on, then.” She waved her car keys at Marlowe. “I’ll drive.”

  18

  This time, Marlowe marched into the bar without worrying about what anyone thought of her. The Tipsy Trucker was less busy than the night before, but the after-work crowd still lingered, and she saw most of the Food Truck Mafia gathered around their usual table near the back. But she wasn’t going to let anyone get to her tonight. She wasn’t going to be manipulated by her competitors or Steven or the stupid cameras that had been guiding far too much of her life lately.

  Plus, she didn’t smell like barbecue and pie crust today, so that was a plus.

  Marlowe marched up to the bar, where the redhead took a literal step back when she saw her coming. “Hi. I need to talk to Kieran. Would you ask him to come down?”

  The woman’s gaze flicked to Tara, as though to check whether Marlowe was in her right mind. “He’s…uh. He’s not here.”

  “Seriously?” Marlowe said. “Where the hell else would he be?”

  “It’s Monday,” the woman said, loud and firm. “He doesn’t work on Mondays.”

  Shit. She was right. “Do you know where he is? Can you give me his home address? I’m—we really are friends. I think I’m in love with him, actually, and I just figured that out and I need to tell him.”

  The bartender’s eyes widened and Marlowe realized the stupidity of her request. Here you go, crazy lady Kieran had no interest in speaking to last night. Here’s his home address and a schedule of his movements. Happy stalking!

  “Sorry, I’m afraid you’ll have to ask him that. If you’re friends, you should have his personal number.”

  “Right, but he’s not answering my texts.” Marlowe deflated as she said this, knowing how it sounded. A super-hot guy with an Irish accent and a business that made him friendly to everyone probably drew in a lot of crazies. This might not even be the first time someone had stormed in demanding his information.

  “Jeez.” She turned to Tara in despair. “Maybe I am one of the crazies. If he wanted to talk to me, he’d answer my texts, right?”

  “Unless he was hurt because something happened yesterday to make him think you still have feelings for Steven,” Tara said evenly. “Let’s go home and eat ice cream. You can come back tomorrow.”

  “I’ll have the cameras tailing me tomorrow. I can’t—I can’t do this on television. It’s mortifying enough.”

  “Maybe I can help.” A woman’s voice piped up behind Tara.

  “Barbara,” Marlowe breathed. “Um. Hi.”

  “I would say I couldn’t help but overhear.” Barbara Payne smiled. “But that would be a lie, because we’ve all been eavesdropping since you walked in.” Behind her, the entire Food Truck Mafia craned their necks to listen in from their seats. “Is it true what you said? You’re really in love with Kieran? This isn’t some stunt for your little show, is it?”

  Marlowe could hardly speak over the lump in her throat, with the whole group eyeing her. “It’s true.” She shook her head and blinked back tears. “Not a stunt. No cameras.”

  Barbara looked back at the group, and they glanced at one another in turn, before Bobby gave the verdict with a terse nod. “We can tell you where he lives,” Barbara said. “If you promise you’re not just pulling some crap like your other fellow would.”

  “Kieran likes you,” Bobby said from his chair. “We haven’t seen him like that in a long time. He don’t deserve to get hurt just ’cause it makes for good television.”

  “Is this why you guys have been so cold to me? Because you thought I was using Kieran for the sake of a reality show?”

  “That was part of it.” Lynette pulled up
into her offended hen pose. “I still think you’ve crossed some other lines too.”

  “But all that can be worked out later.” Barbara threw Lynette a look. “If you really do care about him like you say, I’ll tell you how to find him.”

  “And if you break his heart, we’ll serve you up in one of Lu’s rice dishes,” Bobby threw in. “Might even make it taste better.”

  “Hey!” The Wok to Remember restaurateur threw a balled-up napkin at Bobby, laughing. “My food is better than yours, you redneck Frenchman.”

  Before Bobby could retort, Barbara drew Marlowe back to the bar and scribbled an address from her phone on a cocktail napkin. “It’s a couple of blocks from here. He had us all over for Thanksgiving last year.” She smiled at Marlowe. “He’s a good guy, Marlowe.”

  “I know.” Marlowe nodded, as Tara pulled her toward the exit. “Thanks, guys!”

  “You weren’t kidding,” Tara muttered as they crossed the parking lot. “They really are like a mafia.”

  “Yeah,” Marlowe said, unable to stop smiling. “Or like a family.”

  “Should I wait here?” Tara asked, as they pulled into the driveway.

  “I think he’s home…” Marlowe said. Kieran’s house was an adorable 1920s bungalow, with white-washed brick walls and a brand-new Craftsman-style porch made from rough-hewn wood. The lights were on in several rooms, and she thought she heard music. “Oh, God. What if he’s not alone?”

  “Then pretend you’re here for some other reason,” Tara suggested. She pulled the DVD out of her purse. “Say you’re here to deliver this.”

  “Why do you have this? I’m supposed to destroy it!”

  “I thought we might need it,” Tara said. “I believe in being prepared.”

  “I can’t do this.” Marlowe’s stomach roiled with terror.