by J J Knight
Milton whirls around to face us. It’s hard to look at him, half of his makeup rinsed off, a strange brown color leaching from the roots of his hair.
“Let’s figure this out, shall we?” He picks up the plate with Magnolia’s slice. “If it was Magnolia who tampered with Anthony’s pickle, would she also do it to her own?” His pink tongue angles toward the plate, touching only the barest edge of the pickle.
He flings the plate down, cracking the glass. “Horrible. Just horrible.” He snatches another piece of cheese. “Get both of these shysters off my set.”
I hold out my hands. “Whoa, whoa. You don’t think I would ruin my own pickle, do you? I didn’t even know Magnolia was going to be here until you surprised me with it.”
Magnolia pushes past me. “I don’t like your accusation! I improved his pickle! I can’t help that he did something so terribly wrong to his recipe that it became inedible!”
Milton looks back and forth between the two of us. “All I know is that you two have ruined my segment. I’ve got the cost of the crew, and the rental of this facility, and I will have nothing to show for it.”
Shelby pats his back. “We’ll find a way to salvage something. Talk about this rivalry gone bad. We’ll make them look like raging infighters.”
“You can’t do that!” I yell.
“I can if I want! You signed a waiver!” he shouts back. “You could have killed someone with those pickles!”
“I doubt that.” But even as I say it, I know I need to think. Whatever was in those pickle jars was not food. It was a chemical. Something no one should eat, ever.
And Milton eating my pickle was recorded. If he airs this footage, my deli could be ruined. I glance out at the crew. The red lights on all the cameras are off. But I see something that gives me pause. A telltale glow of a cellphone held aloft.
Shelby sees me staring and turns to follow my gaze. Her expression darkens as she realizes what it is. “Who is that?” she shouts.
The cell phone goes dark.
“Get that person!” she calls out. “They’ve recorded this!” There’s a shuffle of feet, then the bright white of an exterior door opening.
Several crew members take up the chase.
Shelby turns to me and Magnolia. “Do not forget you signed a non-disclosure,” she says. “One word of this, and we’ll sue you to oblivion.”
She takes off after the others.
The portly security guard in a blue uniform arrives, and Milton orders him to escort us out.
He takes both of our arms, but I shake him off and break his hold on Magnolia. “Don’t treat us like this. We’re leaving.”
He gives us a beady glare.
When we’re out the back door, there’s no sign of what might be happening on the other side of the building.
The cold wind whips my hair, and Magnolia wraps her arms around herself. “My coat and things are inside,” she says.
“Mine too,” I say.
“I can’t drive my car until someone fetches them.”
“And I don’t have my phone. We had to surrender them.” I glance back at the door.
“I guess we go back in?” she says.
“I’ll do it.” I step toward the door, but Magnolia holds out a hand. “Wait. I want to say something.”
I turn to her, my anger pounding in my temples. “What?”
“I didn’t tamper with the pickles. Well, no more than to put tomatillo in one.”
“I didn’t either.”
Her teeth chatter. “Did you make them the way you usually do?”
“Yes.”
“And nobody else had access to them?”
I stare at the ground. “A ton of people did. I pickled these a week ago.”
“Does someone have it in for you?” she asks.
I let out a long breath. “I don’t think so. My crew is loyal.”
“But you can’t be sure.”
She stands in the afternoon sun, her blond hair almost white as it blows wildly in the wind. It’s freezing out, and a shiver runs through her body. Even though she’s clearly the enemy, I have to resist the urge to draw her close to keep her warm.
“That crew member with the cheese told me they all pretty much hate him. One of his people could have done it.”
“And dragged us down in the process.” She presses her lips together, her eyes shining with emotion. “This segment was supposed to help my family’s deli, not ruin it.”
I sigh. “Nothing’s happened yet.”
“Yet.”
The curly-haired crew member appears from the back door, holding a bundle of coats.
“Oh, thank God,” Magnolia says, rushing toward her.
The woman hands off Magnolia’s purse and jacket, then brings me mine. “Figured you’d be needing these.”
I check that my keys and phone are in my pocket. “What’s going on in there?”
She shakes her head. “I shouldn’t talk to you two at all.”
“But we’re getting blamed.”
She glances back at the building, but she says quickly, “Hell has broken loose. Somebody probably recorded the chaos. If they sell it, Mr. Creed will go on the warpath.”
Magnolia and I glance at each other. “Was it someone on your crew?” she asks.
The woman starts backing away. “Nobody knows yet. They’re trying to figure out who had a cell phone. We check ours at the stage door.”
“Someone could have snuck one in,” I say. “Had a spare on them.”
“Maybe. I better get back before they think it’s me.” She turns to hurry inside.
Magnolia stuffs her arms into her puffy white coat. She looks even more like an angel than before.
“Do you think whoever videoed it also wrecked the pickles?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Sounds like it won’t be our problem.”
I nod. “I guess the best scenario is they scrap the whole thing.”
“What a waste,” she says.
“Better than them using any of it.”
Magnolia nods, her face grim. “Of course. See you around.”
“I am sorry,” I say.
“For what? That I didn’t succeed in my pickle coup?” Her blue-eyed gaze penetrates me.
“Just sorry in general.”
She shakes her head and speed walks to her car.
I stand there another moment, looking at the rear exit of the building. This was supposed to be a big triumph for the Pickle family, positive publicity to keep us going.
Clearly Magnolia hoped for the same.
And it all went south.
4
Magnolia
As I drive away from Anthony and our disaster, I don’t know where I want to go.
It’s time for the lunch run at the Tasty Pepper, so I could probably slip in the back door and hide in my office without anyone noticing me.
But given that I currently look like an Instagram influencer wannabe, maybe I should revert to normal Magnolia mode before dealing with my dad’s questions about the segment.
I head toward the apartment I share with my sister. Havannah should have left for the deli hours ago. This will give me time to think about what I’m going to say to them both about the show.
I have no idea what Milton Creed is going to do. His manager seemed to have ideas for how to salvage some of the content.
Would he throw Anthony under the bus? Me? Both of us? Milton would never air any footage with his makeup melting under the faucet. So that means the only usable footage is through the moment that he tastes the pickle.
My mind whirls as I park my car and stomp to my front door. Has my whole plan to elevate the Tasty Pepper backfired spectacularly? Are we ruined?
I imagine the worst. Mass protests in front of the deli. Foreclosure. A sheriff padlocking the front doors.
Then a man’s voice says, “Heya.”
I glance up. It’s my neighbor Hank in running gear. He’s a workout junkie who’s never deemed me wort
hy of speaking to before. He blocks my path up the sidewalk, so I step into the dead, frozen grass to avoid him.
“Hey, hey, hey!” he says, holding out an arm. “You new here?” His magazine-worthy face is full of interest.
Great.
Of course he likes me dolled up. I’ve seen a whole parade of beautiful women walk the path to his apartment in the two years I’ve lived here.
I dash aside to avoid his touch or meet his eyes, aiming for my door.
Unfortunately, this seems to be exactly the challenge he’s looking for.
He sidesteps in front of me. “I’m Hank. I would love to show you around. Give you the lay of the land.”
Oh. My. God. Is that seriously one of his lines?
I stare him down. Surely, he recognizes me now. I’m right in front of him.
But his expression holds.
Unbelievable. Did I change that much? Or did he never take a good look at mousy me?
“I’m busy,” I say.
He leaps back as if he’s been electrically shocked. “Magnolia? Is that you?”
Yeah, he knows my voice. Figures.
“Same as always.” I circle him and shove my key in the lock.
“Have you always looked like this?” he asks. Clearly, I’ve frazzled his limited brainpower.
“No time for this, Hank. Later.”
I push the door open, and only when I’m leaning against it, the steel barrier between me and Hank, do I let out a breath.
This day is a disaster. A complete catastrophe.
Maybe I won’t go to the deli at all. Maybe I can hole up here forever. Never show my face again.
At least I’m alone. I glance around at our small living room. The floral sofa, a hand-me-down from Grandmama. The TV. Oh, the TV. Maybe I’ll spend all day watching Netflix and forget what happened today.
“Magnolia? Are you back?”
Oh no.
Havannah emerges from the hallway wearing a natty pink robe. She looks like hell, much worse than when she did my makeup this morning.
“What are you doing here?” I toss my coat and bag on the sofa.
“Wasn’t up to snuff.” She clears her throat. “Thought I’d have a bit of a lie-down.”
She’s been watching reruns of the Great British Bake Off again. I always know because she starts using their expressions after a binge. We both do.
“What is it? Stomach? Head? Fever?” If she’s sick, I can claim to have caught it, too. We can hide here with pints of cherry ice cream and forget everything. Claim to be contagious. I could get a good two or three days of peace out of it.
“Breakfast didn’t agree with me. I’m fine now. About to clean up and head in.” She pushes her mat of golden hair back from her face.
Phooey.
“How’d it go?” she asks.
I guess I might as well practice the story on her first. She can help me prepare answers for Dad. “Dreadful. Let me get this makeup off and I’ll tell you.”
Havannah follows me to the bathroom. I stare at myself a moment. Nothing about my appearance is remotely how I normally look. Long lashes. Honey smooth skin. Pink lips. It’s all an illusion made by my sister. Her dress, too. I never wear them.
“You sure you want to take it off? You look so pretty.” Havannah lifts a section of my hair. “You should blow it out more often.”
“Hardly. It took forever.” I wet a washcloth and press it to my face. The icy water bites my skin.
“There’s a cream in here that will get that.” Havannah opens a drawer and sets a jar on the counter. I ignore it. I’m done with beauty products for the day.
My makeup bag is sparse. I have a maroon-tinted lip balm I bought by accident. A blue eyeliner I wore for an 80s party. And an aging mascara I sometimes use when stress causes too many eyelashes to fall out.
Which is bound to happen any moment.
After a good hard scrub, I drop the washcloth and peer into the mirror. What? I’m almost as doll-like as before. Are these products made of actual paint?
Havannah pushes the cream toward me. “It’s the setting spray,” she says. “I wanted to make sure you didn’t sweat it off in the lights.”
“Right.” I open the jar and smear the cream on my cheeks.
“Let me.” Havannah lifts the cloth and starts working on my face. “Good thing I’m here, I guess. I thought you’d head into work. Dad will want a report.”
I lean against the cabinet, closing my eyes. Havannah is two years older than me and goddess-level beautiful. Even though we have the same hair color, the comparison stops there.
Havannah is confident, stylish, and superlatively involved with clothes and makeup. She was a cheerleader, a dancer, and always had her pick of boyfriends.
We had a real fight about who would go on the show with Milton. I said she was the natural choice—perfect and beautiful and used to being looked at.
But she’d refused to do it and wouldn’t say why.
Dad made us draw straws. Obviously, I lost.
Havannah moves to my cheeks and lips, so I open my eyes to look at her. Something is wrong. She’s not made up, and her hair’s a disaster. I’m pretty sure that robe harkens back to high school.
But still, jealousy bites me at her poise, even when looking like she does right now. The comparison between us has never gotten easier, even though we’re in our mid-twenties. The more beautiful she got, the more I retreated into my work.
She got a degree in hospitality, and I went into accounting. We roomed together once we both graduated, even though it’s meant I have to endure the revolving door of her boyfriends. Neither of us thought we’d be back at the deli after college, but the economy has been crap for new grads, so here we are. Failures to launch.
“Done.” Havannah turns to the sink, and I steal a glance in the mirror. My face is blotchy but back to being mine. I release the green ribbon in my hair and hastily fasten the heavy strands into a ponytail.
“Let me change, and I’ll tell you everything,” I say, heading toward the hall. “I’m going to need a game plan for handling Dad.”
“That makes two of us,” she murmurs as I leave.
What does that mean? Who knows? Havannah has always been dramatic.
When I’ve switched into a more typical outfit for me, gray dress pants and a white button-down, Havannah has left the bathroom.
I follow the clattering sound to find her in the kitchen, peeling back the top of a yogurt container.
“I thought you said breakfast made you sick.”
“I’m better.”
Something is definitely up with her. “What’s going on?”
She shoves a scoop of yogurt in her mouth and shrugs.
When I stand in front of her, my sisterly attitude face on, she says, “Really, Mags, it’s a conversation for another time. Besides, what happened on America’s Spiciest Chef?”
I plunk down in a chair by the bright yellow breakfast table. Havannah always complains that it looks like a sun exploded in here, but it makes me feel more cheerful. Except maybe today.
“I don’t think the segment’s going to air,” I say.
Havannah’s mouth falls open, revealing a glob of watery white yogurt.
I hold up a hand to block the view. “Havannah, for real.”
She swallows the yogurt and sets the container on the cabinet. “Payback for the thousand times you did it.”
“When I was four!”
“Still. Payback. What happened?”
There’s no sense delaying any longer. “Everything was fine. Anthony came out. Milton announced that there would be a pickle challenge. I came out. I said I had improved upon the recipe.”
I hesitate, trying to determine how to explain the next part.
“And then?”
“Something was wrong with the pickles. Both jars. Milton tried to eat one and practically doused himself with water after. Anthony tasted them and said there was some chemical on them to make them burn.”
“Oh my God! Did you taste them? Are you hurt?” Havannah races to sit in a chair next to me.
“No. I didn’t get a chance. Everything happened fast. The crew came running. They accused me of tampering with the jars.”
“Seriously?”
“I accused Anthony of botching the recipe.”
“Yikes.” Havannah sits back in her chair, crossing her arms over her robe. “I bet he didn’t like that.”
“No. But then Milton kicked both of us out. And on top of that, somebody recorded the whole thing, so the footage is out there.”
“The cameras were still rolling?”
“Not the official ones. Somebody sneaked a cell phone in, then ran. Milton is in a rage. He could bury both of us if he airs any of this on his show. Or if any of this information leaks from the rogue recording. I don’t know how to respond if it does get out. I don’t know anything!”
I try to suck in a breath, but it’s like my chest is made of concrete. I press my hand to my heart. “Havannah?”
She kneels next to me. “You need to breathe. You’re going to give yourself a panic attack.”
I fight with my lungs. I can’t take a breath.
“Blow out first. All the way. Empty everything.” Havannah grips my hand.
I work on it, holding on to her and trying to exhale.
“Now take it back in slowly. Don’t suck it in.”
When I’ve managed two normal breaths, Havannah heads to the refrigerator and pulls out a carton of milk.
“I’m going to make some hot cocoa like Mom used to do. We’ll drink it slowly and think this through.” As she fills a pan and rummages in the cabinet for the cocoa, I focus on my breath to avoid another panic.
It’s hitting me all the different ways that this day could blow up in my face. In Dad’s. I’d seen what happens to small family restaurants that get caught up in a viral social media mob. They can tank your reviews everywhere. They can get you delisted from places that send business your way. They can make life hell.
I think maybe I just ruined everything.
5
Anthony
When I finally enter the back door of Boulder Pickle, the lunch run is in full swing. Kennedy, my line manager, barely spares me a glance as he rushes out of the stainless-steel walk-in fridge with refilled cheese bins, his green apron strings flying behind him.