by J J Knight
She squints an eye at me. “Out with it.”
I shake my head. “We can brainstorm ideas for ourselves.”
“But you said she was such a hotshot!” She snatches up my phone. It hasn’t powered off the screen, so the list is right there.
Oh, boy.
Her mouth drops open. “Is she serious?”
“Just because she suggests it doesn’t mean we have to.”
She slides the phone across the table. “She wants me to apologize to you on national TV!”
“Like I said—”
“Not in a million years.”
I hold up my hands. “I’m not asking you to.”
“Charity can stick it up her butt.”
“You’ve made your point.”
But Magnolia won’t let it go. “I can’t back down now. I’ve got an army of women in business behind me.”
“I saw that.”
“The jerks are out in force, but so is the support.”
“It’s a double-edged sword, for sure.”
She squishes her nose in a way that makes my chest tighten. “I saw what they wanted to do to your pickle.”
My neck flashes hot. “The Internet doesn’t play nice.”
My phone buzzes, but I don’t turn it over to see who it is.
Magnolia looks down at it. “You think that’s your superstar? Asking if you got me to agree to apologize?”
I shrug. “Could be anything.”
But then it buzzes again. And again.
Then Magnolia’s starts going.
“That is never a good sign,” she says.
“Agreed. On the count of three?”
She takes a deep breath. “One. Two. Three.”
We both pick up our phones.
“Oh, God,” Magnolia says.
I quickly see what she means. An entirely new set of statements have come from Milton Creed’s camp. These have footage.
“I totally forgot those things we said on his show,” Magnolia says. “Before the leaked footage.”
“Me too.”
Both of our phones auto-play similar clips, a fraction of a second apart, like an eerie echo of our checkered pasts.
In the video, Magnolia’s face is in close-up, full-res, nothing like the shaky footage. Her expression is saucy. “I stole one of the jars of Anthony’s pickles from your very own fridge.”
Milton’s hands smack on the counter. “You tampered with the set?”
Magnolia shows zero remorse. In fact, she looks proud. “I did.”
I jam my thumb on the screen to stop the video. “It’s nothing they didn’t already know. You already said you altered one of the jars.”
“But it’s right there on video. Did you see my face? I look guilty as hell!”
“It’s out of context!”
“It’s going to sink me,” Magnolia says. “I practically say I did it.” Magnolia holds her head in her hands.
“Magnolia,” I say, but she stops me.
“Milton is going to keep going and going. He’s got beautiful footage he can use any way he wants. He can cut and splice. He’ll never stop.”
“We can fight him!”
She looks up, her eyes wet. “At what cost to my family?”
I don’t know how to answer.
“I’m going to confess.” She points at my phone. “And apologize. Just like she said to do. Let’s get the biggest show they’ve got. Ask Charity which one is the best. And let’s get on it.” Her eyes lift from the phone to meet mine.
I’m struck again by how perfect she is. How exquisite. My gut tightens as our gazes remain locked.
I see everything clearly. She’s trying to do right by her family’s business, same as me. She’s made some mistakes, as public as can be.
But I can’t let her do this. “I don’t want you to take the fall. You didn’t doctor those pickles.”
“I can’t prove I didn’t. And we can’t wait any longer. The rivalry angle was all me. I did this. I started it. I made it worse on Eileen’s show. I have to end it.”
“It’s not what I want. Can’t I confess instead?”
She spins her phone around, paused on the frame of her looking smug, like she’d pulled the biggest prank in the culinary universe. “I’m the one they caught. So please, let’s get this over with.”
All I can manage to say is, “Okay.”
12
Magnolia
Charity chooses the afternoon talk show On Spec. It has a roundtable format, so we will have three people interviewing me along with Anthony. They have been promised a big reveal.
She also books us on the same flight this time.
I grip the armrests as the airplane takes off. We’re headed to New York, so the flight is longer.
When we’re safely aloft, I let out a long breath and release my grip.
“Don’t fly much?” Anthony asks.
He’s been over-the-top friendly since he picked me up at the Tasty Pepper. He constantly chats me up in the car, in the security line, while we wait to take off.
And here he goes again.
“Often enough,” I say. “Dad and I go to the big trade shows.”
“I do those sometimes.”
The conversation peters out, and I try to relax. I should save my anxiety-ridden angst for my big, televised confession.
Anthony seems to accept that I’m not going to be very talkative and leans his head back.
The quiet is blissful for all of three minutes. Then he’s at it again. “Did you review the statements Charity sent?” He’s asked me this three times already.
“I did.”
“Crazy that this show will be live.”
I wonder if he’s nervous too, and that’s why he’s so chatty. The roundtable format means that they like to keep everything spontaneous. We will do a run-through of where to sit and what to expect. But we’ve only been given two questions to prepare. All the rest will be off-the-cuff.
Including my confession and apology. Which I have to work in somewhere.
And most of all, not lose my temper.
The next morning, the green room is full of people waiting for their turn with On Spec. I hide in the corner nursing a cup of tea and watch everyone. I’m way too introverted to mix and mingle. But it’s fascinating to people-watch.
An actress holds court near the door, carefully perched on the arm of a leather sofa. Her dark skin is luminous, her expression eager and friendly. Laughter frequently erupts from her side of the room.
I can’t imagine what it is like to be comfortable with your fame. Or at least to be able to fake it so well.
Anthony seems to be in his element, speaking to a man who must be clergy as he’s wearing a flat white collar. He’s young and reasonably handsome. I wonder what he’ll be doing on the show, but whatever it is, it will be nothing compared to what I’m about to do.
Confess to a prank that I didn’t commit.
A young man dressed all in black steps in and calls for the actress. She pops off the edge of the sofa with a big smile for the room. “Good luck, everyone!”
Her eyes rest on Anthony for a split second, and a tendril of jealousy stirs in my belly.
What is that?
Anthony gives her a sheepish nod. Then for some reason, his gaze shifts to me. Like he’s concerned I might have seen it.
I turn back to the hospitality table to warm up my tea.
I begged off from dinner last night, although he asked. I needed to keep my head clear and to go to bed early. It definitely wasn’t the time for me to manage awkward exchanges with the person about to witness my downfall.
Besides, Charity warned us not to be seen together more than necessary. She has arranged for a private escort through rear entrances at both the airport and the hotel where we’re staying.
During the conference call after we reached New York, she emphasized the necessity of controlling the message from here on out. Once this blows over, she’ll restore our social m
edia accounts, request the worst of the reviews to be removed, and all will be as it was.
That’s all I’ve wanted for two weeks.
I plan to return to my corner of the room, but a voice calls from the door. “Anthony Pickle and Magnolia Boudreaux.” It sounds like a drill sergeant.
I set my cup on a tray and follow Anthony to the door. Our handler is a stern older woman who looks like a villain from a spy thriller.
Her arrow-straight eyebrows form a V on her forehead as she turns to us. “Pick up the pace.”
Anthony glances at me, his eyes wide, an expression you might make if you and a classmate were headed to the principal after shooting spit wads.
We follow her down the maze of corridors. “What did we ever do to get Cruella?” he whispers.
The woman’s head turns sharply as if she has heard him. “Remember this is a live broadcast with a studio audience.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Anthony gives her a salute. As we continue through the bowels of the studio building, Anthony starts humming the tune to “Cruella de Vil.”
He’s trying to keep me calm. I’m not sure it’s possible.
When Cruella leads us to the sound stage, we wait a moment in the wings beyond the set. Hushed crew wanders around us, tiptoeing in the red glow.
The bright jazzy theme song of the show blares through the speakers, signaling the commercial.
Cruella turns to us. “Come along. Make sure you behave. There is an audience.”
“She’s only said that three times,” Andrew whispers.
When we walk out into the lights, the audience erupts in a mix of cheers and boos.
I didn’t expect this.
I glance at Anthony, fear shooting through my gut.
“You okay?” he asks.
I’m not. Not at all. My voice feels stolen.
The three hosts swivel in their chairs as we approach.
“Welcome, welcome!” Jenae, a statuesque Jamaican woman with a beautiful accent, stands to greet us. “So glad you’re here.”
“We’re glad to be here,” Anthony says.
Cruella takes off in another direction as a man from the stage crew leads us to our seats and checks our mic packs. “Say a few words,” he says.
“Hello,” I say anxiously. Another round of boos.
Jenae lifts her arms and motions for everyone to settle down.
“Good afternoon,” Anthony says. Cheers erupt.
Of course they do. These people have taken their sides.
Angie, a friendly redhead who is considered the kindest of the three hosts, leans forward to pat my hand. “Don’t you worry a bit. Nobody goes crazy during On Spec.”
I give her a quick nod, but I don’t feel any better.
Lauren, the third host, makes Cruella look like a Disney princess. Her blond hair is sculpted with hairspray, which sets off her fire engine red pantsuit. She swivels in her chair and stares me down. “I’ve got some questions for you, honey.”
Angie shoots her co-host a look that says, “Save it,” and I feel like I’m going to throw up.
A stocky man with a headset walks across the stage. “Thirty seconds.”
The crowd goes quiet.
“You’ve got this,” Anthony says.
The thing is, I don’t got this. I’m terrified. Our memorized statements have flown from my head.
All I can think about is getting booed or yelled at. They can’t rush the stage in an angry mob, can they?
The sudden blare of the intro music startles me, and I jump in my seat.
“Steady,” Angie whispers. She’s immediately to my right, and beyond her are the other two hosts. Anthony is on my left.
Several cameras glide into place and turn to aim at us.
“Welcome back,” Angie says. “We have with us two people who have been making quite a stir in the culinary world. Anthony Pickle and Magnolia Boudreaux own competing restaurants in the mountain city of Boulder, Colorado. But when they were invited for a segment on America’s Spiciest Chef, something went terribly wrong.”
Angie turns to us. “Anthony, what can you tell us about that day?”
This is one of our prepared questions. Anthony will not accuse me. He’ll stick to the story until I make my confession. At least that’s the plan.
Anthony’s grin is charming and warm. I sense the audience sighing.
“Well, Angie, I made a perfectly amazing pickle, and Magnolia had a brilliant adjustment to my recipe. But when Milton Creed tasted mine, it was inedible.”
“Inedible how?” Janae asks.
“It burned his mouth,” Anthony says.
Lauren makes a shocked sound. “So, who did it? You say it wasn’t you. She says it wasn’t her.” She points to me and pauses as a long boo slithers through the audience.
A trickle of sweat slips down my back. This is a tough crowd. I should’ve known.
“It’s been a great mystery,” Anthony says smoothly. “Magnolia and I talked about it in the parking lot after Milton threw us out.”
Anthony’s going off-script. I feel light-headed. What is he doing?
Jenae sits up very tall. “Milton threw you out?”
Anthony nods. “Into the cold. Without our coats or cell phones or keys. Unceremoniously tossed us out like he had something to hide.”
The crowd makes an ooh sound.
He’s baiting Milton. This was not part of the plan.
Angie turns to me. “Magnolia, what was going through your head when you’re standing out in the cold after a huge talk show host has thrown you off the set?”
I’m supposed to be confessing that I wrecked the pickles and apologizing. But Anthony’s taken us off course.
“I — I”
I sound guilty, is what I sound like.
Anthony chimes in. “Magnolia wisely pointed out that staff members on the set were saying that Milton was not popular with his crew.”
What is he doing? This will make it worse! But I don’t contradict him. I can’t. My throat feels frozen.
All three hosts seem to be on board with the story, their faces brightening at the idea of the mystery unraveling on their show.
Anthony continues. “When the rogue cell phone footage released, that cinched it for us.”
Lauren is all ears. “Why?”
“Because if you are going to risk your job to humiliate your boss, you will absolutely make sure someone is there to record what you did.”
Angie turns to her cohosts. “They have a point.”
“I don’t buy it,” Lauren says, her siren red nails tapping the table in front of her. “You believe someone managed to poison the pickles, record it, and get away with the whole thing?”
“I do,” he says.
Lauren shakes her head so hard that her dangly earrings swing. “Then I have some oceanfront property in Colorado to sell you.”
The audience laughs. My anger burns hot that they’re baiting Anthony. I’m no longer frozen, and my words come out in a rush. “Do you get off by making guests look horrible?”
Lauren snaps, “If the shoe fits, honey.”
Anthony cuts in. “We had nothing to do with this.”
“Maybe you had nothing to do with it,” Lauren shoots back. “We’re not sure about her.”
The audience lets out a long boooo.
This is my chance. Lauren has thrown the gauntlet. I stand up. “The thing is—”
Anthony stands up, too. I have no idea what he’s doing. We had a plan! He’s ruining everything!
My frustration boils over as I face him “This was a trap all along, wasn’t it?”
“No!” Anthony says. “It’s not!”
“Right. That’s why you flew me here. Why you put me in the same hotel. You had to win. You and your four-year-old deli with unoriginal sandwiches and stupid pickles that are more gimmick than food.”
Lauren lets out a whoop. “Oh no she didn’t!”
The audience roars.
Angie holds ou
t her hands. “Let them talk.”
Anthony’s face has gone red. “I can’t believe after all this you still don’t trust me!”
My anger bursts so hot that I practically see stars. “How can I trust someone who would poach a longstanding deli’s territory!”
“There’s plenty of room in Boulder for both of us!”
He’s so close that every breath of his words brushes my cheeks.
“Not if everybody hates us!” My voice cracks.
“I don’t hate you!”
“Then what are you doing?”
His eyes shine as they look into mine. “Trust me.”
I want to ask him why, when suddenly, his lips are on mine, warm and gentle. His hands move to my waist.
We’re kissing.
Kissing on national television!
Live!
I vaguely register one of the hosts saying, “Well, this is unexpected.”
The intensity of the moment makes everything go quiet. I’m floating in the ocean, and Anthony is a life preserver. I cling to him like I’m drowning. Maybe I am.
But it’s quiet here in his arms. His mouth is careful, seeking, and easy. He’s like home.
But soon, sounds start to penetrate, then the blazing lights. The audience is roaring with cheers and applause.
We pull apart.
I stare into his eyes. They are the darkest blue, like smoke. Neither one of us speaks. I’m not sure we could be heard over the noise even if we did.
The blare of the music sounds. It’s a commercial. The hosts stand.
“Well, that’s going to get some press,” Janae says.
“Told you we should bring them on,” Lauren adds.
I’m afraid to turn around, to look at them, look at anyone. I let go of Anthony’s arm and smooth my dress nervously.
Cruella returns. “Come along,” she says.
And just like that, as if nothing’s happened, we’re ushered off the set.
13
Anthony
The most important thing to know about a live show is that—it’s live.
Monitors broadcasting the show hang in the corners of each hall so guests and crew can keep tabs on the progress of the live feed.
Before we make it to the sound room, two crew members rush up to us.