Big pickle, p.7
Big Pickle, page 7
I guess I rebelled.
I’m still rebelling at thirty.
I realize I’ve automatically added another spoonful of flour and the dough has stopped sticking.
Nova wanders back into the kitchen. “Hey, that dough looks good!”
“Yeah, I think it’s ready.” I try not to let my voice reveal how chuffed I feel.
“Looks like it’s time to knead in the final ingredient.”
“Sure. What’s that?’
“Pickles.”
Wait, what?
“Why would you add pickles to perfectly good bread?”
“It’s a specialty bread.”
Damn. I’ve owned this deli for eight years and grew up sitting on the stool at my father’s store. But I’ve never eaten any bread with pickles in it.
“Is it new?”
“All the branches are doing it.”
This is probably my brother Anthony’s doing. He’s always the innovator.
Nova lifts the bag of flour, which holds down a printout of a recipe. “You’ll need to chop two kosher dills.”
“Dill pickles in bread?”
“That’s what it says.”
“And people eat it?”
“I think it’s going to be hugely popular. But it might be the name.”
“It has a name?”
Nova spins around to stare at me. “You never eat at any of the Pickles? Specialty breads are part of the chain’s appeal.”
I shrug. It’s true I avoid our own delis. I got sick of it growing up. “There’s lots of restaurants around town.”
She shakes her head. “I think people are going to order this one just to say the name out loud.”
Now she has me curious. “So, what’s it called?”
“It’s dill pickles and bread.” She laughs. “What do you think?”
“I think I have no idea.”
She leans in. “It’s called the Dill Dough.”
She’s so close I can smell all the unique scents of her. Fresh bread. Dijon. A hint of dill. And underneath, something gently floral, her shampoo, maybe, or a body lotion.
I force my throat to swallow.
She taps the printout with her finger. “Funny, huh? The other Pickle brother is hilarious.”
“Anthony? Definitely.”
She stops at that. “How well do you know the Pickles?”
I have to take care with this answer, but her closeness has got me off balance. “I’ve been around the family all my life.”
“Huh. Jace seemed all right when I finally talked to him.”
She means Max. This is a tangled mess. I don’t want to make her too curious about us. All she has to do is Google her boss and she’ll clearly see it’s me. I never expected to be here more than a day or two, much less a week and a half.
But I’m no closer to figuring out what’s wrong with my deli.
“The brothers are cool,” I say carefully. “I’ll go get the dills from Mr. Chill.”
When I return from the fridge, Nova has moved on.
I chop up the pickles to add to the bread, feeling uncertain about why I’m here.
I can come in and review the books any time I want. But I haven’t.
And since Nova’s been manager, there hasn’t been anything weird about the register, as far as I can tell.
Is it because she thinks I’m a spy?
Or because there was never anything wrong?
With the other manager out of the picture, we should be pulling a good profit, even with her raise.
As I chop the pickle for the Dill Dough, I realize I need to ask myself the question: Why am I still here?
But the answer comes easily.
I’m not ready to leave Nova Strong.
12
Nova
I just did something really stupid.
I guess it’s not the stupidest thing. I didn’t throw myself at a married man, for example. Or wash my whites with reds and turn everything pink.
But I did tell Jason Packwood to come early so we could do the next test run on the pickle bread before the rest of the crew arrived.
And here’s the real problem.
I didn’t even need to.
The third batch he did came out great. We sliced it up and passed it around. Everyone thought it was a great bread, something that could permanently go on the menu.
Jason did it well.
When I walk up to the back entrance of the deli at seven in the morning, Jason is already there. A fine spring mist is falling, typical for Austin in mid-March.
He’s ditched the high-end jeans. And his stiff new T-shirts have gone soft from repeated washings.
He’s starting to look more Austin. More regular guy, and not fancy pants.
Not that it matters. I’m still not interested. I can’t be. I’m his boss.
Not that I have any delusions about the importance of a deli manager. And technically, he’s an unpaid intern of sorts and can leave whenever he wants.
But I do tell him what to do, and if he’s trying to impress the Pickle family, for whatever reason, I do wield some power over him.
So he’s off-limits.
As I approach to unlock the door, he gives me a deep formal bow, hand wave and all, as he bends down. “My lord and master,” he says. “I am ready to absorb more knowledge from your wise presence.”
There he goes again. The over-the-top charm.
Although, for all the pomp and flourish, he seems oddly authentic. Like he means what he says, and he can’t help it he’s irresistible while doing it. I don’t sense any purposeful attempt to manipulate me.
I shove the key in the lock. “All right, all right. Enough already.”
“I only speak the truth.”
I push open the door, the familiar scent of bread and pickle juice as familiar as home. I tuck my keys into my hoodie pocket.
I step aside to let him in. “This morning I’m here to see what you know. You are the one who made the perfect Dill Dough yesterday.”
Jason’s face lights up with a grin that’s become unsettlingly familiar. I admit, I said the name of the bread more than necessary yesterday just to see his smile.
“We’re making naughty, naughty things in the kitchen,” he says with a wink.
I feel a bright warmth in my chest, like someone has lit a match.
I can’t fool myself this time. It’s not a hate spark.
I break out my deli manager tone. “You fetch the ingredients, and I’ll get the proofing oven prepped.”
“Your wish is my command.”
He heads off to Bertha, and I attempt to shake off the happy glow as I adjust the settings on the special cabinet that holds the dough at the right temperature and humidity to rise properly.
We’ll make another round of Dill Dough, and then I’ll start the regular bread for the day.
I wonder if Jason could be my baking partner on the days Lamonte has off.
No, no.
There’s no point in seeking more time with Jason Packwood. I’m not in his league. He’s rich, on his way up, and temporary.
And I’m his boss. How many times do I need to remind myself of that?
Jason arrives with the dry goods. I head to Mr. Chill. When I return to the kitchen, Jason has already started measuring out the ingredients.
He’s muttering to himself.
I catch a few words. “Sugar. Yeast. Check the humidity.”
I drop the milk and butter on the table. “Everything okay?”
He nods. “Trying not to screw this up.”
“What’s that about humidity?”
Grammy told me to make sure I check it, so the dough won’t be sticky,” he says, then his eyes go wide. “I mean, my grandmother.”
“I think it’s cute you still call her Grammy.” I open a block of butter to cut into pieces so it will soften faster. “Is she great at baking bread?”
He hesitates, then says, “Definitely. Some of my favorite memories from childhood are her baking.” He quickly adds, “For fun. Just for family.”
I frown at his awkward addition. Is he trying to hide the fact that his grandmother had a normal job? Maybe their family money didn’t come until the next generation. But I don’t pry. It isn’t any of my business, even though I would love to know more about him.
“Is she the reason you want to go into the restaurant business?”
“Something like that.”
I open another block of butter. “My mom can’t cook spaghetti,” I say. “I had to learn at a pretty early age, or my baby sister and I would’ve starved.”
“You have a little sister?”
“She’s only ten.”
“Do they live here in town?”
I should have known he would ask this. I’ve kept my personal life away from the deli as much as possible. I don’t like people feeling sorry for me.
I keep my answer simple. “They do. Leah’s in fourth grade.”
“Well, if she’s anything like you, I bet she’s a pistol.”
“No, she’s super sweet. She’d be the sort of girl to bring cards and cookies to someone who sliced their finger on a paper cutter, even if it was their own damn fault.”
He grins at me. “Good to know I can count on one of the Strong girls.”
“Oh, she’s not a Strong.”
Shut up, Nova. I don’t need to bring that up.
But Jason skips right through it. “No brothers?”
“No, just Leah.”
I focus on cutting the butter into neat, evenly sized bits. I desperately want to turn the conversation away from me. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
He hesitates, and I wonder if the question is too personal. “I have brothers,” he finally says. “We live all over the place.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“New York.” He focuses on sifting the flour into the bowl, his lips pursed in concentration. I take that as a cue to stop talking.
We work in companionable silence. It’s different from my early mornings with Lamonte, when we’re always full of jokes and laughter and silliness.
Jason and I both reach for the bag of flour at the same time, and our hands brush.
Another spark.
Our eyes meet, and my head swirls. There’s practically a chick-flick soundtrack in the background.
Jason withdraws his hand. “Ladies first.”
“Don’t call me a lady,” I snap.
“Sorry,” he says, although he doesn’t sound the least bit sorry. “Give me the damn flour, wench.”
I’ve just picked up the plastic tub when he also grabs for it. The container tilts, and flour spills over the edge, dropping onto the counter and billowing up.
We both let go, causing it to tumble, and a giant cloud of flour puffs into the air.
Soon we’re coughing, coated in flour, and our pale faces turn to each other through the haze.
Jason cracks up first. “You look like a ghost.”
“You look like a White Walker from Game of Thrones.”
His laughter is infectious, and when the giggles start, I can’t stop them.
Jason claps his hands together, sending another poof of flour into the air. This strikes us both as even more hysterical, and soon we’re both doubled over, every shake of our bodies causing another flurry of flour.
I suck in air, realize its full of dust, and begin coughing. Jason smacks me on the back, then he starts coughing. Then I’m coughing harder. Then we’re both laughing and coughing and coughing and laughing, until we finally stumble out the back door of the deli, gasping for fresh air.
The alley is quiet, although a few other businesses are also beginning their morning routine. A man steps out from the pizza place next door to see who is making the racket. We wave him off, trying desperately to sober up.
Finally, Jason asks, “Should we get back in there and clean up our mess?”
“Yeah. We’re going to be off schedule soon.”
“How about I continue with the pickle bread, and you start on the regular loaves?”
“That’s a plan,” I say. “Saturdays are pretty slow, at least. I don’t have to make as many loaves as a weekday.”
Jason looks thoughtful. “Should the deli close on Saturdays? Does it make financial sense to stay open if there’s not much business?”
I move the compost bin to the edge of the table and scrape the spilled flour into it. “It’s not my call to make. We do cut the crew. I feel like if we’re making a profit at all, we should be open, because from what I’ve seen, once the business starts cutting its hours, the odds that the location will completely close inside of a year go up dramatically.”
“Really?” Jason snatches up a broom to tackle the floor. “But what if they’re doing it to get more streamlined? To improve the bottom line?”
I shrug. “It has to do with customer confidence. They no longer know for sure if the business will be open when they want to visit it. They’re less likely to venture out. Anyway, didn’t your professors go over that in business school? Where did you get your business degree?”
Jason’s jaw tightens, and I wonder what that’s all about. Does he not want to admit where he went to school?
“Up north,” he says, but doesn’t elaborate.
Maybe it was some crapola college.
He sweeps the flour into a pan. “How far along are you in your classes at UT?”
“About halfway.”
“Why did you stop?”
The dreaded question has arrived. I wipe down the counter and decide to straight-up tell the truth. “I ran out of money.”
Jason pauses, dustpan in hand. “You didn’t want to take out student loans?”
I don’t know how to explain this without seeming like a hot mess. I toss the rag into the sink and draw a mixing bowl close. “I burned through all of those. I can’t take out anymore. I have to save money for tuition.”
Jason dumps the flour into the compost. “But you work full-time. How will you go to class?”
“With the raise I got, I’ll be able to save money. Hopefully, in a year or so, we can train another manager and I can go back to school.”
I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I concentrate on separating the butter into the right portions.
But Jason isn’t letting it go. “I thought you could get whatever student loans you needed. Are you worried you won’t be able to earn enough to pay them off?
“I had to use them for something else, okay? So back off.”
I don’t look at him. I didn’t mean to snap like that, but the rich boy needs to shut up. He’s probably never had to take out a loan. Or have a school question the use of funds when you’re late on tuition.
We work in silence for a while, and the camaraderie evaporates. My upset hangs between us like a cloud.
I steal a tiny glance at Jason. He seems focused on the task of sifting flour.
“So exactly how do you compensate for the humidity?” I ask. It’s the best I can do as an olive branch.
I already know how to do it. But it’s conversation.
“If it’s wet after you’ve mixed it, add a tablespoon of flour at a time. “Yesterday I had to add two tablespoons to the recipe to get the right consistency.”
His voice has a husky quality, and I wonder if he’s disgusted with me for overreacting.
“You might want to make a note on the sheet. That way the Monday crew knows what to do.”
“I’m happy to come make it Monday morning,” he says. “You want it to be perfect on the first day.”
“It’s nice of you to offer.”
We’re talking normally at last. I measure out baking powder into my bowl.
“I’m trying to absorb all I can,” he says. “Honestly, my family thinks I’ll never settle down enough to do any meaningful work.”
Interesting. Sounds like he’s aware of what Jace Pickle told me about him. Audra, too.
I lean on the counter and watch his hand knead the dough. “I don’t know which is harder,” I say. “Having your family expect great things from you and fail…” I pause for a second, brushing a smear of flour off my sleeve. “Or having the world expect nothing from you and trying to make something of yourself anyway.”
Jason turns to me. “Why would anyone expect anything less than amazing from you? You’re smart and fiery and strong. You’re a great leader. The crew here loves you. You’re probably the best thing that’s ever happened to this deli.”
I didn’t expect praise from him. “I don’t exactly come from much. My mom works at a dollar store. I’ve never in my whole life owned more than two pairs of shoes.” I glance down at my Army boots. “I buy them sturdy, so they last.”
Jason sets down his sifter. “But you got into business school. At UT. That’s hard to do. You should be proud of yourself.”
“And I had to quit because I couldn’t manage the loans. How can I manage a business if I can’t even manage my life?”
I don’t look at him, snatching up the sifter to add flour to my own bowl.
“Did you apply for scholarships? Isn’t there aid for you?”
Rich kid has no idea. I set down the sifter and look him straight in the eye. “I don’t think you understand the level of privilege you live in. Poor people don’t know how to fill out Pell Grant forms. And at the time I was doing it, I didn’t even have a permanent address. We moved from sofa to sofa, sometimes getting a ratty hotel room if no one would take us. We almost never had our own place for more than a month before Mom couldn’t pay the rent. We kept all our things in trash bags, in case we had to take off before we got evicted.”
Jason tries to hold my eyes, but they keep dipping to the table.
“It’s hard to have a high school counselor help you through this process when you change schools every few weeks. I got lucky at one, and the counselor got me a bus pass so I could stay at the same school my senior year. They helped me write some essays that got me in. But it was too late for most of the deadlines for the big grants. So I took out student loans.”
