Easy as Pie Page 3

  As he showed her how to configure the food truck’s service windows in various ways depending on the weather, and how staff could interact with customers, Marlowe racked her brain to think who she could recruit to help her. Maybe one of the waitresses from Murray’s would want some extra money? Possibly for a weeknight, but on the Dogwood Festival weekend, Murray would need all hands on deck. She didn’t think he would appreciate Marlowe poaching his staff.

  “Also, there’s an opportunity for a dry run at Cotton Mill Thursday,” Jerry was saying. “If you think you can pull an offering together by then. One of the regular trucks—‘A Mid-Summer Ice Cream,’ I think—has a catering gig elsewhere, so the spot will be open. The Cotton Mill folks would appreciate having someone fill the spot without having to recruit, and it’s a good opportunity for you to get to know the venue.”

  “Thursday.” Marlowe stared at him. “You mean this Thursday? As in, three days from now?”

  Jerry nodded. “We’d like to film a bit then, too—maybe not a full episode, just some B-roll and short fill-in clips.”

  “But three days…”

  “If you can make it work. I will say, if there’s any way you can pull it off, I think it would go a long way to smoothing things over with the Cotton Mill community.”

  “Smoothing things over?”

  Jerry shrugged. “The head guy over there, Kieran, owns the truck park space and the Irish pub next door. He may have mentioned that some of the truck owners were annoyed that our winner was getting the spot he has opening up. Apparently, there’s a lady they’re all friends with who’s been waiting for this slot to open up for a while. Some of them got their feathers ruffled when Kieran opted to give us the spot instead.”

  “So we jumped the line?”

  “Well, it makes sense, right? The network is paying him a premium, plus the show will bring the whole place a ton of publicity. He would’ve been stupid to turn it down.”

  “Yes, Jerry,” Marlowe said slowly. “But you’re basically sending me in last minute, with no staff and only a handful of recipes, to fill in at a place where all my neighbors are going to hate me from the start.”

  Jerry looked genuinely surprised. “I guess I hadn’t thought about it that way.” He rubbed his chin. “We’ll have to try to get some footage of the other food truck owners, in case there’s drama.”

  “But they’re going to hate me!”

  “So? Tons of people hate me. I’m surviving.”

  Marlowe stared at him. Jerry was in his late fifties, around her father’s age and build, and it sometimes caught Marlowe off guard how unlike her father he was. “But I don’t want them to hate me. We’re going to be working side by side for a year.”

  “I thought you wanted a successful business.” Jerry patted her shoulder. “I didn’t realize you were in this to make friends.” He pulled a business card out of his shirt pocket. “Here’s how to reach Kieran. He can help you with anything you need at the facility. If you don’t get an answer when you call, I’d suggest just dropping by the bar.”

  Just drop by the bar? What had Marlowe gotten herself into?

  She followed Jerry down from the food truck and out of the warehouse-size garage where they’d been customizing it.

  “You can pick up the truck any time after eight tomorrow morning,” he said. “Make sure you take it for a practice spin before you get it on the highway.”

  Test drive the truck. Marlowe added it to the running mental list of things she needed to do in the next three days. Right after reserve prep kitchen, buy food, perfect recipes, buy equipment and utensils, and hire staff. And uniforms. Shit. She’d been holding off ordering the cute custom polos she liked for her staff, in case they went on sale. They would never arrive in time now.

  “I’ll text to let you know what time we want to start filming,” Jerry said. “No pressure, okay? Don’t worry about the cameras. All you have to do is relax and do what you do best.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  Jerry laughed and headed for his shiny black Lexus. “Oh, Marlowe?” he called back to her. “Make sure Steven is there on Thursday, okay?”

  Before she could re-argue, re-explain, re-anything…Jerry was pulling out of the parking space, leaving her alone with a far bigger bite than she could chew.

  The Tipsy Trucker was an Irish pub in Atlanta’s Cabbagetown neighborhood, supposedly named after a cabbage truck that had overturned in the neighborhood’s main intersection back in the 1920s. The pub itself had once been a gas station and general store, serving the factory employees and families of an enormous brick cotton mill. Now converted into trendy lofts for young professionals, the brick structure of the mill stood prominently down the block. And the general store was now what appeared—based on Marlowe’s internet research—to be a rather dingy little public house.

  On Thursday evenings and Sunday afternoons April through October, however, the Tipsy Trucker’s large parking lot was repurposed (and consistently packed) as the Cotton Mill Food Truck Park. The young local population turned out in droves after work and at the end of their weekends to feast on meals from A Wok to Remember and Crepes of Wrath, along with drinks from the pub. Marlowe had been to the event a handful of times with Tara, sampling the requisite gyros, burgers, and gourmet grilled cheese. They’d had a beer or two from the kiosk bar the Trucker put out on food truck nights and watched from the picnic tables as people played bocce ball behind the building. But so far Marlowe had never made it inside the pub itself.

  She’d been up half the night scouting it out, hoping to assuage some of her nervousness about meeting Jerry’s friend Kieran, whom she could only assume must be the friendly-looking older gentleman in a green apron who appeared in several of the pictures: behind the bar, posing with customers. Her conversation with Jerry the day before rang fresh in her ears, and Marlowe had lain awake wondering how the hell she was going to navigate the sticky social situation Jerry and this Kieran guy had put her in. If the other food truck owners thought she was getting special treatment because she’d won a reality game show, they weren’t likely to be very friendly, much less help her out during her first foray into food truck ownership. She’d have to hope she could lean on the generosity of the veteran pub owner to show her the ropes.

  Marlowe pulled into the parking lot at two thirty, surprised to find several cars there at mid-afternoon on a weekday. The morning had been gray and rainy, and Marlowe’s nerves were frazzled from learning to drive and park the food truck. She had always thought of herself as an accomplished driver, but it turned out that zipping around in her Honda Civic was not at all comparable to stopping, merging, and backing up in a two-thousand-pound kitchen on wheels. She’d spent half the morning white-knuckling the truck’s steering wheel and cursing Tara for abandoning her, and the other half making frantic phone calls to staffing agencies and local food markets to find out what options she had for Thursday. And then more cursing Tara for abandoning her.

  She’d also spent the morning trying to ignore a stream of texts and calls from Steven. He wanted to know where she was and what she was doing, and even mentioned in one text that Jerry had reached out to him about being there Thursday. The last thing she needed was her cocky ex-boyfriend sticking his nose into an already stressful situation. Marlowe knew she could only avoid him for so long. But first, she had to drag her overtired, overcaffeinated self into a bar, track down this Kieran guy, and—now that she thought about it—get herself a stiff drink.

  Compared to her impressions from the online pictures, the reality of the pub was a pleasant surprise. It was dim inside, especially without the benefit of sunshine, but cleaner than she’d anticipated. The walls were original red brick, the ceiling exposed beams against a muted, mossy green. There were no booths or small tables, just several long skinny tables where a dozen or more could crowd around with their pints. And the bar itself: polished mahogany backed by a cozy display of liquor bottles and the flags of various soccer teams. It was comf
ortable, if not exactly innovative. Exactly what Marlowe would expect from the ruddy-faced proprietor in the pictures.

  Two women in professional dress at one of the long tables, a discarded cake plate and water glasses between them, were engaged in intense conversation. At another, a cluster of men had pints of beer and were turned toward a soccer game on one of the mounted televisions. Marlowe opted for a seat at the bar, where a broad-shouldered guy in a black T-shirt was drying glasses, facing away. A familiar ring vibrated in the air: an honest-to-God corded landline phone, mounted on the back wall next to an ancient-looking Guinness bar mirror.

  “With you in a sec,” came the Irish lilt as the bartender acknowledged her before picking up the handset. “The Tipsy,” he said, and Marlowe thought how cute it was for such a strong-looking guy to have to say “the Tipsy” when he answered the phone.

  With the phone cradled under his scruffy chin, he slid a menu in front of her: a list of gastropub-style food offerings and an extensive beer list, along with some house made Irish-themed cocktails. She was contemplating the ingredient list of the “Emerald Isle” when the bartender’s raised voice got her attention. “What do you mean we have to re-do the electrical? You mean actually rip out all the wires and put in new wires?” He ran his free hand through a mop of shaggy black hair in resignation. “How much?”

  There was a pause, and Marlowe found herself leaning forward to listen.

  “Jesus. That much?” He glanced at Marlowe and she fumbled the menu, trying to look as though she’d been perusing the cocktail options the whole time. Totally not eavesdropping. “All right, fine. Come out Friday morning, can you?”

  He hung up and leaned on the bar directly in front of Marlowe, arms folded beneath him. They had definition, those arms. Not in an over-the-top, spending-every-spare-moment-at-the-gym sort of way, but in an unassuming, I-look-great-in-this-vintage-Pogues-T-shirt-but-would-still-consider-a-long-hike-along-the-greenbelt-decent-exercise sort of way.

  “You a fan?” he said lightly, and only then did Marlowe realize she was staring at his pecs.

  “Absolutely. I love the Pogues,” she said. Then, thinking quickly: “Can I get an Emerald Isle, please?”

  “Nope.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “I said, no. You cannot get an Emerald Isle.”

  Marlowe sized him up, his position on the bar unchanged, his eyes looking at her with smug matter-of-factness.

  “Oh, God. You’re not one of those British people who runs around correcting American grammar, are you? I’m supposed to say, ‘May I have’ instead of ‘Can I get,’ right?” She flushed. “Okay, fine. I’m usually one of those people, too. I hate improper grammar. It’s just…” She was almost pleading with him now. “It’s been a really long day already, and I’m just not in the mood to be teased, okay?”

  “Incorrect on all counts.” He straightened, leaning back on his heels and slinging the bar towel over his shoulder and crossing his arms. “First of all, I’m not teasing you. But I am sorry about your bad day. Second, I’m not British. I’m Irish. We won’t even get into that one. And third, I was not correcting your grammar. But no, you cannot have an Emerald Isle.”

  She sat with her mouth open, no idea what to say next. She couldn’t walk out; she had to find Kieran and get instructions for the food truck park Thursday night. Maybe this arrogant—but attractive—man was Kieran’s son or nephew? And he could afford to be rude because he couldn’t be fired?

  “It’s too sweet.” He smirked. “The Emerald Isle is almost half Midori watermelon liqueur. That’s why it’s hideously green, and why the twenty-something girls like it, the ones who haven’t graduated to Bailey’s Irish Crème and have no idea what’s good for them.

  “But you don’t strike me as that kind of girl, so I’m trying to save you the trouble and ten bucks.”

  Marlowe laughed. “Fine, then. What do I want?”

  He eyed her up and down, and Marlowe felt self-conscious under the scrutiny. “Normally,” he said thoughtfully, “you’d want white wine, but we don’t have much of a selection here. And you’re discerning enough that you’d rather drink something else than drink bad wine. This is a pub, so…”

  “What are you, the Alcohol Whisperer?”

  “Something like that.” He put a hand on his chin. “Past wine, I’d say you’re a light beer girl. Nothing cheap. Probably go in for all those trendy local IPAs. Or something pretending to be beer with a fruit garnish.”

  Marlowe shook her head. “Don’t quit your day job. I like red wine, not white. And never fruity beer. That’s blasphemy.” Admittedly, Marlowe did enjoy IPAs, but saw no reason to let him know he’d been half-right.

  Her phone buzzed on the bar beside her. Without looking, Marlowe knew it was Steven, still trying to reach her. She ignored it.

  The bartender watched the phone flail pointlessly on the counter and cocked an eyebrow. “Fair enough. But I still say you’re needing something stronger today. Whiskey?”

  Marlowe shook her head. “I’m not a whiskey girl, unless it’s Jack and Coke.”

  “Speaking of blasphemy!” He shook his head. “If you like bourbon, let me mix you something that will end your relationship with Jack and Coke forever.”

  Was he flirting with her? Marlowe thought he might be but it had been awhile, to be honest. As he pulled down a couple of small bottles and began mixing, she decided to be brave and roll with it. “If you’re talking about ending my relationships, this is pretty serious. Maybe I should know your name.”

  “Dunne.” He shook the cocktail mixer and affected a James Bond accent. “Kieran Dunne.”

  5

  Marlowe’s father had always been kind enough to tell her that she was at her least attractive when her mouth hung open, “like a wide-mouthed bass in a pond full of crankbait.” Maybe it was a good thing, then, that Kieran seemed not to notice her gaping as she shook his hand and gave her first name.

  “Well, Marlowe, what brings you to the neighborhood?” He strained a reddish-brown liquid over ice into a glass. “Business trip?”

  “Yes. I mean…” She shook her head in confusion. “No. I live here.”

  His brow crinkled. “I thought I knew pretty much everyone in Cabbagetown,” he said. “Especially the under seventy crowd.”

  “I meant, I live in Decatur. I’m here because—”

  She was about to explain about the food truck and the TV show, when a rotund, pot-bellied man sidled up next to her. One of the soccer fans she’d seen when she walked into the pub, he wore a faded Atlanta Hawks T-shirt covered in grease spots and slip-on athletic sandals. “Dunny!” the man cried bombastically, piling three empty pint glasses on the bar. “Another round for the team. We’ve got a seat saved for you at our table whenever you’re ready to join us.”

  “In a minute, Bob.” Kieran jerked a head toward Marlowe—a gesture that made his sexy black hair tousle alluringly. “Can’t you see I’m with a customer?”

  The man seemed to notice Marlowe’s existence for the first time. He turned toward her in astonishment (as though she’d materialized there in a ball of flames), then took in her figure with unmasked appreciation. “Well, hello, sweetheart. You ain’t lettin’ this smooth-talking Irishman charm you, are you?” He leaned in, boozy breath clouding her vision, and stage-whispered in a Georgia redneck drawl, “Because I am here to tell you from experience, he don’t so much as call the next day.”

  Laughing at his own joke, the man made an elaborate curtsey and fanned his fingers under his chin with exaggerated femininity. Everything about this guy was offensive, but Marlowe found herself smiling at him anyway.

  “If I don’t call, it’s because I can never get you to leave, you old bastard.” Kieran smirked and pushed three fresh pints across the bar. “Quit scaring my customers. I’ll be over in a minute.”

  “Do you see how he pushes me away?” the man asked Marlowe, affecting outrage. “Don’t fall for it, honey. You want a nice guy, you co
me on over and see Bobby.”

  “I sure will.” Marlowe played along.

  Bobby winked at her and started to turn away with his beers, then turned back to Kieran. “Come over when you can. We’ve got a bone to pick with you about this reality TV princess you’re letting steal Barbara’s spot.”

  “Right. Really looking forward to that, Bob. But I think I’ll be busy here for a while.” Kieran nodded toward the drink in front of Marlowe. “Maybe I’ll try to talk this lass out of making the biggest mistake of her life with you.”

  They both seemed to expect Marlowe to interject in this witty banter, but she’d frozen solid at the words, “reality TV princess.” She took a long sip of the cocktail, and tried on a smile that felt more like a grimace. All she managed to say was something along the lines of “yep, lassie, that’s me.”

  “What’s that?” Kieran asked, as Bobby gave her a watery smile and tottered away with his beers. The cocktail—some bourbon-berry combo—was delicious, and Marlowe downed it faster than she meant to.

  “You all right?” Kieran Dunne asked as the ice clinked against the bottom of the glass.

  “I’m fine,” Marlowe said. “For a reality show princess.”

  His handsome brow furrowed, and then eyes went wide.

  She extended her hand. “I’m Marlowe, from Life of Pie. And I guess we’re going to be working together.”

  “Oh piss,” he said, with a glance at Bobby, who was settling himself at the table with the beers, which he distributed to two of his three companions. “Sorry about that. They’ll come around.”

  She’d known Kieran for less than ten minutes, but Marlowe could already see by his expression that he was less than convinced of this.

  “So, they’re all…they all have food trucks, too?”

  He nodded. “Bobby runs Crepes of Wrath.” Catching her glance, he added, “I know. He doesn’t look like an expert in French cuisine. His mother was Creole, I think. They do Low Country boils when they’re not running the truck. That’s his wife, Lynette, next to him. She runs the till for Bobby and helps with publicity for the whole group. Flyers, coupons, walking around with samples. That kind of thing.”