Spicy Pickle (Fake Engagement)

by J J Knight

  I push hard with my feet and sail across the room in the rolling chair.

  He opens his eyes and realizes I’ve avoided him. His eyes darken.

  “Are you sweet on Anthony Pickle now?”

  “No!” I sure as hell wouldn’t tell Shane first. Anthony and I haven’t decided how to approach our families with the news. They still think it’s all fake.

  “Are you sure? There was a lot of kissing on those shows.”

  “Those are scripted! Practiced! It’s what we have to do to sell sandwiches!”

  Shane relaxes. “Good. I wouldn’t want to think you were falling for him.”

  I press my hand to my heart and draw in a deep breath, so I won’t overreact. “No, of course not.”

  “Then I still have a chance.” He shoves his hand in his pockets and heads for the door.

  I want to nip this immediately. “No, Shane, you don’t,” I say. “I’m too old for you. You work for my dad. It’s not going to work.”

  He doesn’t turn around, staring into the hall. “You sure about that?”

  “I am.”

  Shane walks the rest of the way out of my office. I jump to my door, closing and locking it. I had no idea his crush on me was so intense. I should have set some boundaries sooner.

  It’s a full five minutes at my desk before I’m calm enough to pull up sales figures. Things are looking good. We’re almost doubling our gross sales, and the cookies are leading the rise in revenue. I wonder if they can be packaged for the online shop.

  Things are good.

  A text comes through from my sister.

  Found him.

  I respond immediately. Really! Who is he?

  H: Part of some crappy band that plays the hole-in-the-wall bar circuit.

  Me: Still, that’s fun. Where is he now?

  H: Hold on, I found something else.

  There’s a big delay. What did she find?

  Me: Havannah? Are you okay?

  After what feels like an eternity, she finally responds.

  No.

  She sends a link, and when I pull it up, my stomach revolts. I can barely contain my shock and disgust. I’m sure she’s probably throwing up.

  I immediately gather my things. I have to go home to her. I’ll take Dad’s car. Call an Uber. Whatever I have to do.

  As I click off my phone, the headline of the story sears my brain.

  Local band member Jesse Smith arrested for beating wife after she accuses him of dating app cheating spree.

  25

  Anthony

  Magnolia calls in tears. She won’t say exactly what’s wrong, only that her sister is devastated, and everything is falling apart.

  I try to comfort her, but she doesn’t stay on long. She thought her sister had fallen asleep but realized she wasn’t. She had to go.

  I sit with my sales figures at home, but I worry about Magnolia and her family. At least money is less of an issue. The burst of sales has kept the staff busy, and it’s been an incredible boost to both of our bottom lines.

  Magnolia finally texts me an hour later.

  She’s sleeping again. Can’t talk but I wanted to say goodnight.

  You sure you’re okay?

  I am. Not sure about her. I’ll tell you about it soon. Just not yet.

  Okay. Good night.

  I lift my arms and stretch in the desk chair. I should go to bed. I don’t know how much I can see Magnolia now that we’re back. We’re supposed to leave next week for the New York leg of publicity. But if Magnolia is having a family crisis, maybe we should cancel.

  I head to bed thinking of her. Maybe someday soon I can bring her here, sneak her inside for at least a while, if not the night. I hold on to those thoughts, since I’m not sure when she’ll be part of my reality again.

  By Wednesday, our trip is a go. Magnolia says her sister is better and has a lineup of girlfriends to hang out with her while we’re gone. She’s still not ready to explain.

  This trip butts against Thanksgiving. Our original flights had Magnolia flying back on Wednesday to be with her family while I stay north to celebrate with mine.

  But I hope we can take the opportunity to tell my family about us, then come back to Boulder to announce it to hers.

  She listens to my plan as we settle into our seats on the flight out. “Can Charity change my flight?”

  “Charity can make planes stop mid-air.”

  She smiles. “The only trouble is that if I skip my family Thanksgiving, they’ll want to know why.”

  “Your sister knows, right?”

  Magnolia shakes her head. “Not yet. She’s going through some stuff, and I’m not bringing up my crazy life.”

  “How about this. I’ll talk to Grammy Alma about an early dinner. You see if you can push yours until evening. We can make both.”

  “It’s a three-and-a-half-hour flight, plus security and all that.”

  I hold up a finger. “If Grammy serves at noon Eastern, that’s 9 a.m. Boulder time. We’ll gain all those hours back on the flight.”

  Understanding registers on her face. “Right. So, we fly out at, say four o’clock in New York, then get back hours and touch down at four-thirty in Boulder, we can easily make a six o’clock dinner here.”

  “See?”

  “I’m in.”

  I lean over to plant a kiss on her mouth. “This is going to be the best holiday of my life.”

  Even without Mom, I think, but the sadness at another holiday without her is softened by the idea of having Magnolia there.

  We only have one official talk show in New York, but a news crew will be filming us at the Manhattan Pickle for a segment as well. When we arrive at my deli, Dad and Grammy Alma are already there, guiding the stagehands who are shifting tables and shining up the line.

  Dad is dressed up today in a blazer. He stands at least a foot taller than Grammy in her floral dress and gray curls.

  “Anthony! There you are!” Grammy draws me into a hug. I breathe in the familiar scent of her, rose powder and bread dough. It’s the best smell in the world.

  Dad pounds me on the back. “You going to introduce me to Magnolia?”

  She extends a hand. “We met once before. At the Albuquerque restaurant convention six years ago.”

  He peers at her. “You’ve grown up a mite since then.”

  “And you’ve opened a deli in my town.” Her gaze bores straight into his.

  “I hear yours is doing well, and you might open a second.”

  “We might.” Magnolia stands tall. She isn’t the least bit intimidated by Dad. Good for her.

  I glance at Grammy, who gives me a wink. She likes Magnolia already. I can tell.

  Dad holds out an arm. “Shall I show you around? No trade secrets between deli owners.”

  My chest squeezes when Magnolia slides her arm through his. This is working out even better than I had hoped.

  The segment is easy compared to our usual filming gigs. Magnolia and I serve customers side by side, making our new sandwich and ladling soup. We each take a bite of the same cookie, like Lady and the Tramp. It’s all silly and fun.

  When we’ve returned the deli to its normal state, Dad suggests we all go to dinner. Magnolia is game, and in the car on the way I whisper to her, “Should we tell them?”

  But nothing gets past Grammy Alma. Her hearing is so fine that she can pick out a line of gossip about her family in Grand Central Station. She turns around in the front seat. “Tell us what?”

  Dad catches my gaze in the rearview mirror. “Is something wrong?”

  “There’s been a new development,” I say, and Magnolia starts to giggle. “What?” I ask her.

  “You’re calling it a development?”

  Grammy wags her finger at us. “If you’re here to admit that you’re actually a couple, I could have told you that three weeks ago.”

  “Three weeks ago?” I glance at Magnolia. “That was before Los Angeles.”

  Grammy turns back ar
ound, all smug. “Then I knew before you.”

  Dad pulls up to a red light and turns back to us. “So, are you confirming or denying that you two are the real deal?”

  Before I can answer, Charity texts in all caps. WE HAVE A PROBLEM. PLEASE CALL.

  Charity never uses caps.

  I show the text to Magnolia. She nods.

  “Hold on to that thought, Dad.”

  I put the phone on speaker and dial.

  Charity answers instantly. “First, how did the filming go at the deli?”

  “Smashing,” Dad says.

  “Hello, Mr. Pickle,” she says. “You’re all together.”

  “Grammy too,” I say.

  “How delightful. Unfortunately, we have a situation. Is Magnolia with you?”

  “I’m here,” she chimes in.

  “Does this sound familiar to you?” Charity asks. “It’s a recording.”

  A scratchy sound comes over the phone. Then, a male voice, hollow, like he’s in a small room.

  “Are you sweet on Anthony Pickle now?”

  Then Magnolia. “No!”

  Then the male. “Are you sure? There was a lot of kissing on those shows.”

  Magnolia sounds agitated as she says, “Those are scripted! Practiced! It’s what we have to do to sell sandwiches!”

  “Good. I wouldn’t want to think you were falling for him.”

  “No, of course not.”

  Magnolia’s face is ashen as she listens.

  Charity speaks. “Is that a recording of you? Or is it fake?”

  Magnolia’s voice shakes as she asks, “How did you get that?”

  Charity says, “So it’s real. That’s fine. I just have to spin it.”

  “How are you going to spin that?” I ask. “It blows the lid on the whole thing!”

  Magnolia meets my gaze with wet eyes. “I’m sorry. He had me in a bad place. I wanted him to go away.”

  I squeeze her hand. “Did he upset you?”

  “He hoped we could be a couple.”

  “I get it.” I squeeze her fingers on the seat. “We’ll get through this.”

  The car goes quiet.

  Grammy Alma breaks the silence. “So, I have an idea.”

  “We’re all ears,” Charity says.

  “A proposal,” Grammy says. “If they get engaged, no one will believe the lie.”

  “But it’s another lie,” Magnolia says.

  “People believe what they want to believe,” Charity says. “And they love this love story.”

  Dad pulls the car into a loading zone. “We were about to go to dinner. Should we go ring shopping instead?” His eyes meet mine. “Or should we go somewhere else?”

  I know what he’s asking. I hesitate. I shake my head no. “A jeweler is fine,” I say.

  “You have a place?” Charity asks.

  “Of course I have a place.” Dad glances at us. “Is this an acceptable solution?”

  “What do you think, Magnolia?” I ask.

  She meets my gaze. “Well, I got us in this mess in the first place. And the second place. Now a third. I think I have to agree with whatever you all decide to do to get us out.”

  “Ring shopping it is,” Dad says, pulling the car back into the flow of traffic. “Charity, should we have a crew?”

  “No. Let’s make it a surprise for viewers on the show tomorrow. Anthony can tip off the host.”

  Grammy claps. “Diamonds are a grammy’s best friend.”

  We laugh, although when I look over at Magnolia, she’s staring out the window. We never truly confirmed with my family that we were together, and I sense that right now is not the time.

  Instead, we’re apparently getting engaged.

  26

  Magnolia

  I sit in front of the mirror in the dressing room of the Kitchen Time with Dawn set, practicing my surprised look. “Oh, Anthony! Yes! I will marry you.”

  Gross. I look like a low-budget jewelry commercial.

  I try again. “Yes, Anthony. I would be honored to marry you.”

  Yeeech.

  The shave-and-a-haircut knock on the door can only be Anthony.

  “Come in!”

  He opens the door a crack and peeps through. “Are you indecent?”

  “I might like to be.”

  He steps inside. We’ve broken the cranberry color palette finally, and he wears a navy shirt and khakis. “Fancy digs on this show, right? Dressing rooms?”

  “It is.” The nook is small but private. Dawn has been doing cooking shows for a decade and has been able to customize her studio.

  “I’ve been practicing my big speech,” he says. “Want to hear it?”

  “Should I? Every time I go over my acceptance, I sound like a soap opera diva.”

  “Maybe we should keep it spontaneous.” He leans down to kiss my head. “I like the headband.”

  I turn to the mirror. I’m wearing a sapphire dress with a gold stripe along the neckline and sleeve hems. It seems too much for a cooking show, but Charity was adamant. “It’s a proposal. It will be shared relentlessly.”

  To give me a touch of royal feel, who knows why, she sent a stylist with a metal headband decorated with gold flowers. My hair is curled for the first time in an appearance, long loose ringlets cascading over my shoulders. “I’m a Cinderella wannabe.”

  “You look like a princess, for sure.”

  I lean back against his belly. “Why the hell did Shane record me?”

  “Spurned men can be just as vindictive as women scorned.”

  “Dad fired him. He texted me this morning.”

  “Good.”

  “He could do more damage.”

  Anthony squeezes my shoulders. “We’re going to make this right. And then, maybe, retire from public scrutiny.”

  “I hear that.”

  “You’ve practiced answers in case Dawn asks about the recording?”

  “I don’t think she will. It’s not her style. But I have my answer ready. It was me, but from weeks ago, before we fell in love. I have no idea why he released it now.”

  “Good.”

  A young woman steps up to the doorway. “Ready?”

  I stand. Here we go again.

  We meet Dawn, a mid-sixties woman with a pouf of gray hair and merry blue eyes. “So glad to have the cooking love birds on my show!” She grasps my hand warmly. “You ready for Christmas cookies with a kick?”

  Anthony says, “I’ve got my Cayenne shaker ready! You’ve never made Christmas cookies like this!”

  Spicy cookies. I would never have thought our pickle rivalry would lead to this. The show will air next week, after Thanksgiving, as everyone gears up for the holidays.

  The cameras move into position. There’s no audience for this show. Final cookies have already been made. In fact, every stage is prepared ahead of time. We’re mostly ornamental, chatting with Dawn and prepping a batch that is destined for the trash.

  We mix the dough and roll them out. Anthony dusts my nose with flour and kisses it. I act the part like I always have, but inside my stomach quakes.

  The pear-shaped diamond Anthony paid for last night cost two years of rent for me. I had such a wonderful time with him in L.A., but the experience of buying the ring with his family was a struggle. As much as I’d dreamed of a day like this, it is hollow to do it for a fake proposal. It’s like having your first kiss be someone who only did it after losing a bet.

  We cut out a dozen cookies before the first break. As planned, Anthony takes Dawn aside and tells her his surprise —he is going to propose to me on her show and I have no idea.

  Dawn lights up, glancing over at me, her hands on her cheeks.

  The set crew cleans up our mess and brings out trays of unbaked cookies artfully arranged on the cooking sheets. Baked cookies already wait for us inside the oven.

  “You want me to clean your apron?” a young woman asks. I glance down. I have a line of flour from where I pressed against the counter.
<
br />   “I’ve got it. Thanks.” I brush the flour off. My ringlets keep falling over my shoulder. It feels wrong. If I were cooking for real, I’d want to pull my hair back. And who bakes cookies in a dress?

  Everything about me is fake. From the makeup to the hair to the clothes to the big moment about to unfold. I want to run.

  But this is bigger than me. I want that second branch. For me. For Dad. And for Havannah. I’ve almost made it to the end. With the holidays approaching, we can take a step back. Sales are up at our delis and preorders are excellent for our online store.

  We’ve already succeeded.

  We just have to fix this one stupid problem Shane caused.

  Anthony returns, all smiles. “Ready to decorate?”

  I nod. Two crew members arrange pre-filled squeeze bags of royal icing. I practiced my technique, ensuring I could reasonably pipe “M” and “A” inside a heart. If I screw up, they’ll cut to the final, already prepared by Dawn’s staff.

  That’s right. I’m also a fake chef.

  The cameras move into position. Dawn shifts next to us. “Show us that beautiful pan of cookies,” she says.

  We lift the sheet to the cameras, then pause so Anthony and I can share a sweet couple look. We’re the ideal, happiness and joy, cooking together.

  Fake, fake, fake.

  We move down to the frosting counter and the cameras reset.

  I pipe my heart. Anthony expertly decorates an elaborate Christmas tree with tiny candles on each bough.

  Dawn passes a cookie to me. “Try one, Magnolia. I added a special ingredient to yours to rival Anthony’s Cayenne.”

  I accept the red stocking with trepidation. At least if I choke on the spice, they can cut it out of the show. I take a bite.

  Heat sears my taste buds, but I manage to keep the shock off my face. “Wow! It’s hot! It’s not Cayenne?”

  “No, it’s red curry!” Dawn beams. “Isn’t that clever?”

  Anthony lunges for the cookie and knocks it from my hand. “Spit it out!”

  I freeze, then remember he thinks I’m allergic. More fraud. “It’s okay, Anthony,” I say.