The Holiday Swap
Page 2
“Here. Help me up,” Charlie said, grabbing clumsily for her friend’s hands. This headache was like none she’d had before, and she gritted her teeth against the pain. As a relative nondrinker, she had felt pain like this only once before. Charlie and her identical twin sister, Cass (who handled alcohol much better than she did), had drunk two bottles of champagne the night before Charlie left for L.A. It had been the most miserable drive the next morning, with Charlie having to pull over multiple times on the trip from Starlight Peak to Santa Monica to be sick. She hadn’t touched champagne, or really any alcohol, since that day.
“Stay down a minute longer, Charlie,” a male voice to her right said. She turned to see the show’s medic—whose name was escaping her but who had bandaged up one of the contestants yesterday after she’d flayed her palm with a knife trying to cut a mango. He had a daughter, and a dog with a funny name . . . What is his name?
Charlie was horrified to see all the faces leaning over her. Including Austin, who—unlike the rest of the group—appeared almost pleased. “What happened?” she asked.
Standing by Charlie’s feet, Sasha frowned. She glanced at the medic, who was feeling around Charlie’s scalp. Charlie’s high ponytail had been loosened and some wavy dark blond strands were in her eyes. She tried to brush them away, but the medic told her to stay still.
“You don’t remember?” Sasha asked.
Charlie tried to recall any sort of memory about why she was on the floor in the stockroom. Then she saw Nathan sitting against the wall, a bandage on his forehead and a sling on his arm. He looked worse than she felt. “Is Nathan okay?”
“An entire shelving unit of pots fell onto your head, Charlie! You could have died!” Priya was wringing her hands, her glossy plum-colored nails going around and around. Charlie loved her friend, but she was known for her dramatic flair—both with her makeup brushes and her personality. As claustrophobia crept in, Charlie wished everyone would leave so she could pull herself together in private.
But then Austin was back in her sight line, his handsome face annoyingly smug. “Sasha, I’ve had a lot of concussions in my day playing football, and you really shouldn’t mess around. We definitely want Charlie at her best, don’t we? She should be checked out at the hospital—she took a pretty big bump to her head.”
Sasha nodded, then turned to the medic. “Sam, what do you think?” Sam! That was his name. Charlie felt momentarily energized by also remembering that Sam’s daughter’s name was Bernadette, and that she had named their dog Pancake after her favorite food.
“Sasha, I’m fine.” Charlie sat up, too quickly, and immediately wilted back against Sam as he braced her shoulders from behind.
“Doesn’t look like it,” Austin said. “Look, I can do the rest of the shots on my own. Then Charlie can go and get the care she needs.” Charlie did her best to glower at her co-host, who feigned a worried expression she didn’t buy for a second.
“Probably not a bad idea,” Sam said, peering around to look into her eyes. “What day is it, Charlie?”
“Monday.”
“What’s the name of the show?” Sam asked.
“Sweet and Salty’s Twelve Days to Christmas Countdown,” Charlie said. “I’m okay. Really. Can I get up?”
“Let me help,” Austin said, reaching out a hand just as Charlie grabbed onto Sam’s arms and hoisted herself up. Priya swatted gently at Charlie’s full skirt, trying to rid it of the pixie dust.
“Come on,” Priya said. “Let’s fix your hair and makeup.”
“I really don’t think this is a good—” Austin began, but Sasha cut him off.
“Okay, everyone, let’s get back to work.” Sasha turned to Charlie, and said more quietly, “You don’t look great.”
“Thanks a lot,” Charlie muttered.
“Listen. Here’s the deal,” Sasha said. “You can finish these last few shots, and then you’re going to the ER. Nonnegotiable. And if you need tomorrow off, well, not ideal but we’ll work the shots around it. Got it?”
“Got it,” Charlie said, still trying to quell the nausea; her head felt like it was under water. She had to hold it together until the B-roll was shot or risk Austin getting precisely what he wanted—the set, and Sasha’s full attention, to himself.
Priya fixed Charlie up, adding extra blush to her cheeks to hide how pale she was, and Sam checked on her a few more times. (Headache? Nausea? Dizziness? No, she replied, feeling guilty for lying.) Everything was going smoothly and Charlie was proud of her ability to keep her symptoms hidden despite how awful she felt, until the shot when she and Austin had to demonstrate how to caramelize the pineapple.
When Charlie was cooking, she relied on a lot of things: a childhood spent baking with her pastry-chef father at the family’s bakery, her formal schooling, her years of experience, and her senses—particularly her sense of taste and smell. Charlie had an uncanny ability to detect flavor notes others could not. It had served her well in her career so far, and she knew she was far superior to Austin in this regard.
But then came the pineapple B-roll scene.
She had it all under control, or so she thought, until her assistant, Sydney, said, “Um, Charlie? I think your pineapple is burning?” Sure enough, while Charlie had been preparing another part of the dessert her pineapples had started to char.
How had she not noticed?
Dumbstruck, Charlie looked back up at Sydney, who was waving a hand in front of her nose as she turned off the stove’s heating element. Sydney looked as shocked as Charlie felt. Plumes of smoke rose out of the cast-iron pan, the pineapples blackened around the rims. But Charlie couldn’t smell the burning.
She leaned over the pan, inhaled deeply. Nothing.
Austin was watching her, a curious look on his face. Charlie had never made an error like this on set. It was something a bumbling, beginner home chef would do, and she was mortified—and worried. Because it was then she remembered the peppermint extract that had soaked into her now discarded skirt. The smell of which she realized she hadn’t noticed once she came to.
Sydney looked at her for a beat. Then Sydney said, loudly because she knew Sasha was listening, “It was my fault. I must have put the temperature too high. You said medium-high, right?”
“Uh, no,” Charlie replied, grateful beyond belief for Sydney at that moment. “I said medium-low.”
“Oh, darn. I’m really sorry,” Sydney said.
“It’s fine,” Sasha said, with a deep sigh and a disapproving look tossed Sydney’s way. Charlie was going to have to find a way to thank Sydney for taking a hit on her behalf. “We got the shot with Austin’s pan. Good work, everyone.” There was some enthusiastic clapping—Sasha was very committed to creating what she called a “positive and supportive” set—and then they were wrapping things up for the day.
“Go get checked out,” Sasha said as she walked past Charlie.
Austin gave Charlie a smug smile, then said to Sasha, “Do you have five minutes? I’d love to get your take on an idea I have for tomorrow.”
“Come on. I’ll drive.” Priya was suddenly beside Charlie, who was still staring into the pan of blackened pineapple, wondering if it represented the beginning of the end of her television career.
* * *
• • •
The ER was busy. Charlie sat in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, the intake bracelet scratchy against her wrist. She was wearing Priya’s sunglasses, and her head was killing her, the bright lights of the waiting room making matters worse. Priya had fetched them coffees, and Charlie took a sip. She normally loved coffee, but this particular cup tasted no different than drinking warm water. “This stuff is awful,” she said to Priya. “It has no flavor.”
“Really? I’m finding it pretty strong.”
Charlie frowned into her cup. She was beginning to suspect something was very wrong.
“Just want to get this over with.” Charlie’s phone started ringing; it was Cass. Normally, Cass would be the first person she wanted to talk to during a crisis, but Charlie didn’t want to have this conversation in front of Priya. She hit decline. Talking to her sister would have to wait.
“Charlotte Goodwin?” A nurse stood by the door to the emergency room’s inner sanctum.
“Let’s go,” Priya said, taking Charlie’s elbow as they stood up. “Come on, sweets. Let’s get that gorgeous head of yours checked out.”
The nurse took Charlie’s vitals, then showed them to another room to wait. Normally a hospital would be a place where Charlie’s acute sense of smell would be overwhelmed, the astringency of the cleaning products sharp in her nostrils. Today she couldn’t smell any of it. It was terrifying, but she wasn’t ready to tell anyone about it—not even Priya, and especially not the doctor, whenever he or she finally arrived.
About twenty minutes and another gossip magazine later, there was a knock on the door and a dark-haired man wearing green scrubs, a stethoscope slung around his neck, popped his head into the room. “Charlotte Goodwin?”
Charlie sat up, and the man—whom she presumed was the doctor—stepped into the room. He looked like he belonged on a movie set, which happened so often in L.A. you’d think she’d be used to it. He smiled, revealing an endearing set of dimples.
“I’m Miguel Rodriguez. So, what brings you in to see us today, Ms. Goodwin?”
Before she even had the chance to respond, Priya jumped in. “Well, Charlie’s the host of a reality baking show, and we had a small on-set mishap today,” she said, batting her eyelashes.
Charlie thought the doctor blushed slightly when he said, “Yes, I recognized you. Caught yesterday’s episode, actually. Great to meet you, Ms. Goodwin.”
“Oh, a fan!” Priya exclaimed. “Isn’t that great, Charlie?” Charlie was in awe of Priya’s ability to flirt unabashedly, even in this sterile environment while her injured friend sat on a hospital gurney. “Anyway, a shelf of pots fell on top of poor Charlie today. She was knocked out. Like, out cold.” Priya frowned, likely remembering how awful it had been to find Charlie in that state.
“So, you lost consciousness?” Miguel asked, looking serious now as he took down a few notes on the tablet in his hands.
“Briefly, I guess,” Charlie responded.
To which Priya replied, “It was at least five minutes.”
After a few more questions, half of which were answered by Priya until Miguel told her he really needed to hear from Charlie, he took out a penlight and shone it into her eyes. Then he had her follow his finger while he asked her a few more questions about her symptoms. She hoped she was passing his tests.
“What are you thinking, Dr. Rodriguez? Is Charlie going to make it to see another day so you can go back to enjoying your favorite television show?”
“Priya, c’mon,” Charlie muttered. Miguel chuckled.
“Actually, I’m a PA—physician assistant—but I promise you, I’m as thorough as they come,” Miguel said.
“I’m sure you are, Miguel. Can I call you Miguel?” Priya asked. Charlie gave Priya as stern a look as she could muster, but Priya was oblivious.
“Well, that’s my name so I don’t see why not.” He smiled, showcasing those killer dimples. He then asked Charlie a few other questions about her symptoms, and felt around her scalp with gentle yet assured hands. She did her best not to cringe when his fingers pressed on a particularly tender spot.
“A nice bump, but no lacerations, which is good. However, it looks like you earned yourself a fairly decent concussion,” Miguel said, taking notes again. “You are lucky it wasn’t worse. Everyone’s brain responds differently to a concussion, so you have to let yours heal in its own time. Which means a lot of rest, okay?”
“I’ll make sure she rests. A lot,” Priya volunteered, eyes wide and serious. “Just tell me what to expect, Doctor. I mean, Miguel.”
“Some dizziness, nausea, and a headache are all common but should pass within a couple of weeks,” he said to both of them. “If your mental state is altered in any way, though, come back, okay? Or if there are any other symptoms outside of the ones I mentioned. And if she loses consciousness, call an ambulance.”
“This is serious,” Priya said, looking worriedly at Charlie.
“Relax, Priya. I’m fine,” Charlie said, willfully ignoring his mention of other symptoms. “I just have a bit of a headache. So, if that’s all it is and I promise to get a good night’s sleep, I’m okay to go back to work tomorrow?”
Miguel shook his head. “You need to take it easy. Rest is the most important thing you can do right now. Also, no screen time, no television, and no reading. You’ll likely feel better if you spend most of your time sleeping and in dark rooms. Light can be a trigger.”
“But . . . I have to be back on set. I can’t let . . .” Charlie swallowed hard. With Bake My Day on the line, I can’t let Austin win this round.
“I understand completely. It’s a great show. And you’re the best part of it.” Miguel cleared his throat and looked away from her, back down at his notes. Now Charlie was sure of it: he was blushing. It had been a while since she’d had this sort of attention, mostly because she was so busy working—first at Souci and then on Sweet & Salty—that she almost never went out. Her last date had been . . . she couldn’t even remember. And she had to admit that, even under the circumstances, being complimented by this cute medical professional was gratifying.
“She really is,” Priya said, looking between the clearly flustered Miguel and Charlie.
“Which means, they’re going to understand the need to alter the production schedule for a few days,” Miguel continued, the moment over. “This is your brain, Charlie.”
“But, it’s only a twelve-episode Christmas special and I can’t—” she began, but Miguel put a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“Trust me. If you can limit your activity now you’ll feel a lot better, more quickly,” Miguel said. “And if anything—anything at all—gets worse, or you have new symptoms, you need to come back. Otherwise follow up with your family physician in about two weeks.”
Priya gave Charlie a knowing look: if she couldn’t get back on set, Sasha would have no choice but to hand the reins fully to Austin. No. That couldn’t happen. Her chance to host her own show would be obliterated if she couldn’t finish the special.
“Any questions, or anything else I can help you with?” Miguel asked.
Charlie considered her more concerning symptoms, but then replied, “No thanks.”
“I’m going to write up your discharge papers and I’ll include the concussion protocol,” he said, reaching out to shake Charlie’s hand first, and then Priya’s. “Pleasure to meet both of you. And remember, the only job you have for the next week or two is to rest. Got it?”
“Got it!” Priya said. “I’ll make sure she follows doctor’s orders, Miguel.”
“You have a great friend there,” Miguel said, flashing that dazzling smile one last time. Beside her, Priya sighed. “Okay. All the best, Charlie,” Miguel continued. “Hope I don’t see you again—except on television, of course.”
“Thank you,” Charlie said. Miguel gave a wave and then was out the door.
“I wouldn’t mind if you got hit on the head every day if it meant coming back here to see Dr. Miguel on a regular basis,” Priya said, before adding, “Obviously I don’t want you to get hurt! But, wow, he made this whole experience much more fun.”
Charlie gingerly got off the gurney, gathering her things so they could leave the moment she got her discharge papers. “Priya, I need what happened here to be kept betwee
n us.”
“Okay . . . sure. But Sasha has to know, because you won’t be on set.”
“Oh, I’m going to be on set,” Charlie said, pulling out her phone.
“Dr. Miguel said no screens, Charlie.” Priya tried to pull the phone out of her hand, but Charlie hung on.
“He’s a physician assistant. And no one can know about the concussion. I’m serious. No one.”
Priya frowned, crossing her arms over her chest. “What’s going on in that beautiful and concussed head of yours, Charlie?”
A plan had formulated in Charlie’s mind the moment Miguel told her she had to rest, and she realized that even if she disobeyed those orders she was still in trouble because of her loss of smell and taste. She could never perfect the recipes, let alone properly judge the contestants’ creations in this state, which she prayed was temporary. If she tried to do her job like this, Charlie would fail—and she would lose the Bake My Day hosting job to Austin. She hadn’t worked this hard to have it all evaporate because of a bump on her head.
“I’ll explain everything, but first I need to make a phone call.”
2
Cass
Monday: 12 Days to Christmas . . .
Starlight Peak
Cass Goodwin stood at the bakery’s counter, looking at the proofing baskets lined up, trying to calm her rising anxiety—the dough needed her to relax. If she let her emotions surface, the dough, and all of today’s progress, would be ruined. She knew it sounded superstitious and maybe even silly. But Cass had been doing this her entire life; she knew what worked and what didn’t. And making sourdough while upset never worked.
Walter Demetre, the high school student who worked part time at the bakery, had set up for proofing before he left for the day. The proofing baskets were on the butcher block countertops, lined with linen. Nearby, on the flour-dusted granite counter, the dough was waiting for Cass to perform a series of stretches and pulls before gently shaping it into balls, and placing those in the baskets overnight. The dough balls would eventually be studded with rum-soaked raisins, candied citrus peel, orange zest, and sliced almonds, then baked, becoming the sourdough-based Starlight Bread her family’s bakery was known for at this time of year. But first she had work to do. She lifted the first ball of dough and tested the texture: at the first pull, it separated. She shook her head and placed it back on the counter.