Easy as Pie Page 4
“Publicity,” Marlowe said vaguely. It had occurred to her that she’d need at least two staff people to help her with the cash register and the cooking. But publicity? Handing out samples? That stuff wasn’t even on her list yet. She had two days until her trial run. She was in way over her head.
“The plump lady across the table is Cindy,” Kieran was saying. “She owns the Bun Also Rises. Does a Cuban sandwich so good it will make you cry. And frozen key lime pie on a stick. It’s a whole Hemingway thing.”
“I get it.”
“The small woman in the glasses is Carol. She does the wine and cheese truck called Grape Expectations. Barbara isn’t here today—Bobby’s sister, who owns the Princess Fried. She’s the one…”
“She’s the one whose spot I’ve stolen.”
Kieran shrugged. “They’ll get over it. She can still do her thing at festivals, and she’s got a regular spot up in the suburbs. She’s wanted to get on board here because of her brother, I suppose, but…” He grinned. “We’re just swapping one princess for another, by the sounds of it.”
“Oh, God. They must hate me.”
“How could they hate you? Don’t know you yet, do they? Bobby likes you already, and he’s the key to the whole group.”
“So if I walk over there,” she pointed to where the four patrons were laughing raucously at something Bobby said, “and tell them who I am…”
“Don’t do that.” Kieran shook his head. “Not yet. Get started with us Thursday, and once they see the crowds a reality TV princess brings in, they’ll love you.”
“So you gave me the slot because you thought I’d bring in volume for everyone.”
He shrugged. “Why not? Good for business.”
The panic rising in her throat must have shown on her face, because Kieran rattled the ice in her empty glass, a question in his eyes. She nodded, and he appraised her for a moment before pulling down an unlabeled bottle of amber liquid from the far top shelf of the bar.
“Here. Try a sip of this. It’s mother’s milk.”
The whiskey was sharp at first after the sweet cocktail, but she let it swirl around in her mouth until she could taste its smoothness in full. Kieran watched her reaction closely, and Marlowe wasn’t sure whether his relief was because she liked the whiskey or because she didn’t come completely unhinged at his bar.
“What if I can’t handle it? What if the crowds don’t come? What if no one cares about some dumb little TV show?”
He made a dubious noise in the back of his throat she suspected was distinctly Irish. “People will come. You’re famous, and they love a spectacle.”
She tilted her glass toward him. “You didn’t even recognize me, sitting across from you, and you have a business contract with me.”
“I don’t count,” he said. “I’m not a TV person. People will find you.”
“By Thursday?”
“Maybe not. But you’re doing the Dogwood Festival, aren’t you? Loads of exposure there. They’ll be lined up around the block. You must be a good cook, since you won that television competition and everything.”
I thought so. But my partner bailed on me with half our winnings, and I had to coerce my annoying ex-boyfriend to invest in the truck. Plus I’ll have cameras on me the whole time. Marlowe’s insides twisted and she let out a nervous laugh. “I don’t know if I’m hoping for a huge crowd or a tornado.”
“Shhh…” Kieran glanced at the ceiling and kissed his thumb superstitiously. “Don’t call that down on us. I need a month of good beer sales to pay for new electrical in my house.”
“More pressure is not helping.”
He gave her a sympathetic look, his bright hazel eyes shifting. And then, God help her, he actually chucked her lightly on the chin. Like a five-year-old kid who’d fallen off his bike. “This is your dream, right? You’re a pro. You’ll be fine.”
It was her dream. Or at least, she’d always thought so… Marlowe would make it work, somehow. She always had. She just had to get through the next few days and the hassle of setting all this up by herself. On cue, her phone buzzed again. Another text from Steven.
I know you’re ignoring me. Call me back or I’ll pull the investment.
“Someone’s keen to find you,” Kieran commented.
“I’ll have to call him back.” She downed the rest of the whiskey in one gulp. She’d need more of that sometime, when she didn’t have to focus. “I guess you’d better give me the rundown first.”
A few minutes later, they stood beneath the building’s narrow awning, rain splattering their feet. As Kieran explained the procedures for food truck nights and pointed at various spray-painted markings on the parking lot pavement, Marlowe felt overwhelmed and sleepy. Maybe she should’ve passed on the second drink.
“There’s your slot, at the front by the sidewalk. It’s been Bobby and Lynette’s, but I’m bumping them back to accommodate the cameras and crowds for your truck.”
“That’s not necessary…” They already hated her for taking Barbara’s spot, and now she was going to get prime positioning? They were going to set her truck on fire.
“It’s my decision. I’ll tell him later.” He waved her off. “You need to park between those hash marks. Too far this way and you’ll block the drive, too far that way and the electrical won’t reach you. You have an L5-30R adapter, right?”
“Um…” Marlowe scanned her fuzzy brain for the information, which she was sure the truck guy had given her, but the numbers were all a jumble.
“Does your truck have a built-in generator, or an external hookup?”
Another question she should know the answer to. “It’s…built-in? I think?”
Kieran furrowed his brow. “How much do you know about food trucks?”
Marlowe lifted her chin. “I know plenty.” When he continued to stare at her, she amended, “And…I’m a fast learner.”
“Jesus.” He ran a hand through his ebony hair, which was becoming slick with humidity despite the shelter. “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”
Her phone buzzed again, insistent. Steven was calling her this time, and an old picture of the two of them in hiking gear at the top of Brasstown Bald filled the screen.
Kieran stared at it. “Does he know what he’s doing, at least?”
“He’s not relevant,” she said indignantly, sending the call to voicemail. “He’s a silent partner, and won’t be involved with the business.”
“For a silent partner, he’s been pretty loud about reaching you today.”
It might have been the rain, or the whiskey, but Marlowe felt a pleasant chill run through her. Kieran had been paying attention.
“All right, princess.” He whipped the bar towel from his shoulder and tossed it to her. “Go home, dry off, call your boyfriend. I’ll see you Thursday at three for set-up. We’ll find out then if I did the right thing agreeing to let you serve here.”
“You did, I promise. And, he’s not my boyfriend.”
“No concern of mine.”
“Right. But he’s not. He used to be, but it was a long time ago.”
Kieran shrugged. “Whatever floats your boat, princess. Just save the drama for the cameras, all right? I’d rather not deal with it.”
“Fine.” She squared her shoulders. “And while we’re at it, can you please not call me ‘princess’?”
He rubbed his chin and pretended to consider this. “Sorry, princess. Your TV network didn’t put that in your contract. Next time have your agent be more specific.”
And with that, he turned and ducked back into the pub, leaving her to the rainy day and the bright-red voicemail notification.
6
“What do you want, Steven?” Marlowe called into the phone resting on the center console. She’d dialed him back without listening to what seemed to be a lengthy voicemail and put it on speaker while she attempted to dry off with Kieran’s bar towel. It smelled lightly of beer, laundry detergent, and some kind of clean, spi
cy male scent she tried not to notice.
“Dodging my calls already?” Steven said, ignoring her hostility. “It’s like we’re dating again.”
“You’re confused,” Marlowe retorted. “I dodged your calls after Kendra and the supply closet, not before.”
“Her name was Katie. Aaaanyway,” he singsonged. “Back to the present day. I got a call from your producer, Jerry, and he says I need to be around Thursday to help you out?”
“No,” Marlowe said. “He’s mistaken. I’ve got it under control. Please don’t feel obligated to be there.”
“I don’t feel obligated. I’m coming anyway.”
“What? No. Steven…”
“I’m in for half of this train wreck, aren’t I? I need to be there to keep an eye on my investment. Besides, I want the exposure for my house-flipping business.”
“First of all, we agreed you don’t need to keep an eye on your investment except for the big decisions. And you’re not using this to advertise your stupid house-flipping business. It’s a food truck show!” Marlowe could hear her voice getting higher with each point she made.
Steven, meanwhile, stayed irritatingly calm. “I would say your first day of service is a big decision; it’s mission critical, yes?”
“Why are you talking to me like some kind of Wall Street douchebag?” When he didn’t respond, she went on, quietly. “Yes. It’s important, obviously. But I’ve got it handled.”
“And as for it being a food truck show, your buddy Jerry sounded like it’s whatever show we make it. All about the personal drama of getting the business off the ground, right?”
“It’s all about the food truck, Steven. My food. My truck. My show.”
“With my money.”
She stopped at a red light; the windshield wipers slapped out a beat against the gray rain. “I knew this was a mistake. You were never going to let me have this my way, were you?”
He chuckled. “Of course it’s your way. This can benefit both of us. Let’s have dinner and talk about it. Tonight?”
“I can’t have dinner with you. I’ve got forty-eight hours to pull the menu together for Thursday. I’ll be working.”
“Fine. I’ll come by your place.”
Hell no. Too intimate. Too much Steven. If he got her alone for any length of time, she’d be forced to discuss their past, and that would mean not only reliving the Katie in the Closet incident, but also explaining her response to the whole thing. Having to justify why she refused to call him back, why she wouldn’t even hear his explanations or give him so much as a hint of a second chance. With everything on her plate, she didn’t need the distraction of having to explain behavior she didn’t fully understand herself.
“I’m not going home.” Was it strange that Kieran’s bright eyes and scruffy face flashed in her mind when she said this? She’d met the man for…what? Half an hour? Marlowe needed some sleep; she was getting loopy. Too bad that wasn’t in the cards until at least Friday. “I’m heading to the farmer’s market to get ingredients for Thursday.”
“There’s a farmer’s market open on Monday night?”
“Dekalb’s open every day until nine,” she said. “Something you would know if you’d ever come with me when we were dating.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Steven said. “It’s not like I dragged you along to every crappy open house I had to babysit.”
“No, you just made me cater them.” Marlowe smirked. “Listen, Steven, I’ve got too much to do this week for a history lesson on our relationship. Let’s talk this weekend.”
“This weekend is too late,” he said. “Because I’ll be seeing you Thursday night.”
Marlowe groaned. Why could he not let this go? “Steven—”
“I’m on my way,” he interrupted. “I’ll find you at the market.”
Before she could object, the line went dead.
From the moment Marlowe stepped into the massive building at the Dekalb Farmer’s Market, she felt more relaxed. The familiar but ever-changing aromas of the enormous warehouse hit her all at once: produce, spices, coffee, warm cooking from the market’s restaurant buffet, fresh-baked bread; along with the more industrial scents of concrete, ice, and some kind of cleanser. The individual smells were never the same twice; yet the combined effect was familiar and soothing. As were the murmur of hundreds of voices echoing off the walls in nearly as many languages, the jingling rattle of old metal shopping carts, the calls of workers conjuring up an international street fair, rather than a warehouse in Atlanta, Georgia.
Marlowe grabbed a shopping cart and set off under the welcoming flags of nearly two hundred nations that hung between the fluorescent lights on the ceiling. Her mind began the pleasant whir of possibility she always felt when creating a menu. Here, the world was literally at her fingertips.
When Steven found her, she had already filled half the cart with vegetables—having gone back for more okra and corn twice after the inspiration to make a vegetarian Brunswick stew—and was heading to the market’s immense cheese department. She saw him as she rounded the last endcap of the produce section, and instantly cursed herself for not getting through more quickly. As soon as he spotted her, Steven made a show of picking up a nearby eggplant to examine it.
Marlowe rolled her eyes and resisted the temptation to run him over with her cart. “I can’t believe you followed me here.”
“Well, hello to you, too.” Steven gave her his brilliant real estate smile and held out the eggplant. “It’s the only way I was going to talk to you today. Besides, I thought you could use some help picking out things for Thursday’s test run. How does Baba ganoush sound? I’ve been craving yours ever since we broke up.”
“I don’t make that anymore.” She snatched the eggplant and replaced it in the bin. “And there’s nothing to talk about. I’m fine for Thursday.”
“That’s not what Jerry Reasbeck thinks. He thinks Tara was the more charming half of your team, and that we need to get as much of us together on camera as possible.”
“He said that?” Marlowe tried to hide the hurt in her voice. “About Tara?”
“I told him he was crazy, that you’re a barrel of laughs under the right circumstances.” He picked up the eggplant and put it in her cart. “And I believe I am those circumstances.”
“I should’ve borrowed the money from the bank like a sane person.” Marlowe sighed.
“Maybe. But no lender in their right mind would have given it to you. No offense.”
“Offense taken. You’re not going to let up until we talk, are you?”
“Awww… You do remember things about me! So sweet.”
“Fine. You talk, I’ll shop. But I’m picking the menu.” She lifted the eggplant and pushed it back into his chest. “It’s Southern soul food and handheld pies. No Baba ganoush.”
“What if it’s Baba ganoush with green tomatoes or something?”
“No.” Marlowe turned toward the cheese aisle. In spite of herself, she considered it for a moment. “Would they be fried first, and then…. No. Stop. Steven, you’re getting in my head. I’m creating the menu. That was our agreement.”
“You’re right.”
She pointed a hunk of fresh manchego at him menacingly. “And if I’m going to let you show up and be part of this train wreck, you have to stick to our agreement and let me keep creative control.”
“Fine. No Baba ganoush.” He had that smug grin he always wore when he outmaneuvered her. “So you’re letting me participate? Thursday night?”
He’d done it again, just like he always had when they were dating: pushed her hard on some non-issue to get her riled up, and then pretended to back down so he could get his way on what he really wanted. She didn’t know whether to be pissed off or impressed. Except, Marlowe was too exhausted to be either.
“Fine,” she said, eyeing the wall of cheese like it led to heaven. Havarti, gouda, fresh parmesan… She could just sit down here and eat her way out. “You can help. But not in the ki
tchen. The probability’s too high you’ll get stabbed. Accidentally.”
“So what can I do?”
“What you do best.” Marlowe put the hunk of cheese in her cart and reached for her favorite brand of sharp cheddar for the pimiento cheese balls. “Sell, sell, sell. I’ll make the food. You bring the people in.”
“Fine. Anything else?”
Marlowe ran down her mental list of things to do, trying to figure out where Steven could do the least damage. “You could call a restaurant staffing agency, get us a cashier and two line cooks. I’ve run out of my own contacts on such short notice, so we’ll have to wing it for Thursday until I can line up permanent staff.”
Steven looked thoughtfully in the general direction of the butcher counter, and Marlowe wondered whether he was still listening.
“Hey,” she prodded. “Can you handle that? Staffing agency?”
He turned back to her with a slow, satisfied grin. “Oh, yeah. Totally got it covered. Trust me.”
7
Thursday began at the crack of dawn, with too little sleep and a caffeine headache. Still, Marlowe felt optimistic about the day ahead. She’d finally reined in her ambitious menu to something she could manage with a small staff, even if Steven couldn’t get the most skilled cooks in the business.
She’d managed to find a friend with an industrial smoker available at the last minute and slow-cooked pork for her Southern barbecue pies, along with chopped fried chicken, black-eyed peas, and collard green kimchi. She’d stayed late at the prep kitchen, encasing them in pastry and lining them up on pans, so all they’d have to do today was bake them on the truck, along with her handheld raspberry-peach cobbler pies. There was a tureen of vegetarian Brunswick stew marinating in the walk-in cooler, ready to warm and serve in coated cardboard cups she’d begged off a local soup place, along with mini corn muffins. Her signature pimento cheese balls would have to be flash fried right before serving, but they were rolled and ready to go.