Big Pickle Page 2

  This has left me doing the manager’s job on a regular employee’s pay. Which I have tried to bring up with our dear boss Jace Pickle a hundred bazillion times. But that man is impossible to get a hold of. He clearly doesn’t give one rat’s ass about his deli.

  It’s a good thing I’ve never met him in person. Because I would probably punch him in the face.

  Lamonte arranges the pickles he’s salvaged on the cutting board. “Do you think Susan is changing our distributors from her medical leave?”

  I shrug. “I sure didn’t change it. The supplier chooses the pickles.”

  It’s details like this that make my job harder than it has to be. And without access to the ordering system, which Susan has kept to herself, I can’t even double-check anything. For all I know, this deli is one order away from bankruptcy.

  Except our lunch rush just ended, and our crew made a hell of a lot of sandwiches.

  We take in scads of money every day.

  But I still have a pickle problem.

  “So, what do we do?” Lamonte asks. “We can’t make the stuffed pickles with pickles this small. There’s not enough room for the stuffing.”

  I close my eyes a minute, trying to keep my cool. “I know.”

  “And we have an order for a hundred stuffed pickles for tomorrow. I have to deliver them at ten a.m.”

  “I know, Lamonte.”

  As I keep my vision black for a moment, I contemplate:

  A. Screaming

  B. Throwing pickles

  C. Running off to Hawaii on medical leave

  D. Shoving pickles up our dear owner’s—

  The bell jingles to signal a customer has arrived out front. Lamonte and I are the solitary crew mid-afternoon on a weekday.

  “I’ll take it,” I say. “Keep searching these pickles. If we can’t find enough to work with, do what we did last week when the new salami was too salty.”

  “Grab cash from the register and head to Costco?”

  I nod. I hate doing that, because it messes with the books. But technically, I’m not even in charge of the books. And if someone complains about the size of the pickles or the salt in the salami, it’s me they come to. Because like it or not, I’m currently the face of Austin Pickle.

  I push through the swinging door into the front of the deli.

  And almost stop in my tracks. The man who has entered looks like he came straight from a GQ photo shoot.

  I can see the headline.

  The latest fashion-forward look for the man who has it all.

  His pants are fitted like they were sewn directly on his body. I don’t know what to call the color. Camel, I guess, or something fancy like bleached tobacco.

  His shirt is a heathery sort of blue, perfectly pressed and tapered from shoulder to waist. His shoes shine so bright they actually reflect the table legs.

  He’s out of place in our casual city, but that’s not unusual. With our downtown location, we get a lot of visitors. Some of them have come from New York and want to compare our pickle deli with the original in Manhattan.

  I make it a matter of personal pride when they tell us ours is just as good, and even better seeing as they didn’t have to wait forty-five minutes in line.

  Fresh, fast, perfect. Those are the words I keep in my head when I serve something from Austin Pickle.

  “Can I help you?”

  The man appraises me as he saunters from the door to the counter. “I don’t know you,” he says.

  I plan to be friendly and say something cute like, “Tell me your favorite sandwich, and we’ll be best friends.”

  But the pickle thing has put me in a bad mood.

  So instead I say, “You’re not from around here.”

  He takes a step back, an expression I don’t expect crossing his face. Concern? Was I too harsh?

  I quickly correct myself. “Of course, nobody’s a stranger in Austin Pickle for more than a few seconds. Tell me how you take your pickle.” I slap on a smile so fake it could win a damn Oscar.

  The man relaxes, and the moment passes.

  That’s good. The last thing I need is a nasty review that gets Jace Pickle all over my case when I’m already struggling to keep his stupid deli going.

  Truthfully, I’m counting on a promotion, or at least a good reference for another job. I need to get back to college, and some of the restaurants in town give scholarships to their employees. If this one goes well, I can use it as a leg up somewhere better.

  The man leans on the counter. Every strand of his hair is in place, dark and cropped short. The stubble on his chin is perfectly clipped to the precise length to look brooding and sexy. His jaw is sharp enough to break ice.

  In fact, the frozen parts of my anatomy are already beginning to thaw.

  But he’s absolutely not my type. I like my men in jeans and flip-flops, graphic tees for local businesses, well-worn and no fuss.

  I bet this guy irons his underwear.

  “What did you say your name was?” he asks.

  “Nova.”

  “How long have you worked here?”

  Why is he asking this?

  “It’ll be a year this summer.” Last summer I’d run out of money, but stayed in my classes through the Fall semester. I’d only been working part-time, but when Susan took off and most of the employees got worried and quit, I found myself the senior member of the Pickle staff. So, I assumed her responsibilities.

  I hadn’t thought it would go on this long.

  “And your last name?” he asks.

  Why does he need my last name? My neck tingles with alarm.

  I go for the redirect. “Would you like to sample some of our pickles? We have twelve varieties. We’re not the sort of deli that slaps a random spear on the side of your plate. We take pride in the original flavors we produce.”

  “I’m actually here—” he stops talking when Lamonte emerges from the back room and opens the cash register.

  “What’s he doing?” the man asks.

  “Someone’s got to buy the pickles,” Lamonte says, lifting a stack of twenties. He fans them out in front of me. “You think this will do it?”

  I nod. “Get whatever you need.”

  Lamonte gives me his signature broad grin and claps me on the back. “I can always count on you. This will totally solve my problem.”

  He takes off out the front door.

  “Did that employee document the money he took from the register?” the man asks.

  He sure is pushy about how we run the store.

  “It’s fine. We found ourselves in a pickle shortage and he’s grabbing some more. We do love our pickles around here.” I plaster on another fake smile.

  The man takes a step back from the counter, rubbing his hand across his cheek. He seems terribly concerned with what just happened, and visions of another type of online review dance in my head.

  “You know,” I say. “You look like you could use a sandwich. How about one on the house? Can I recommend the pastrami and rye? It goes wonderfully with our bread and butter jalapeño pickle.”

  But the man doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to me. He circles the room slowly, occasionally touching a chair or gazing at a photo on the wall.

  I start to worry he’s unhinged. I inch closer to the telephone in case I need to call the police.

  “Are you okay?” I call out.

  He moves near the door, and I begin to pray he will leave. I don’t have time for well-dressed weirdos, no matter how good-looking they are.

  And with Lamonte gone, I’m alone until the cleanup crew arrives.

  He notices the “Help Wanted” sign in the front window and picks it up.

  Good Lord, please tell me he’s not here for a job.

  I put that sign up yesterday, and two people have filled out applications. Neither one seems very promising, but compared to this crazy guy circling the store, they’re starting to look good.

  The man turns around. “Who does the hiring fo
r the store?”

  Oh, no. I knew it.

  “Well, normally it would be our general manager Susan.” I hesitate, not wanting to give this lunatic her last name either.

  “But…”

  “She’s on medical leave.”

  “So who is interviewing the people who come in to apply?”

  I do not want to tell him that it’s me. Maybe I should pawn it off on the owner. Yes. That’s exactly what I’ll do. It’ll serve Jace Pickle right for never being around. He can deal with this crazy man.

  “You can contact the owner,” I suggest. “His name is Jace Pickle.”

  Shoot, he’s walking back to the counter. I lay my hand on top of the phone. One wrong move, buster, and I’m picking this sucker up.

  “You haven’t had any new hires since the manager left?”

  I falter. “Well, sure, but…”

  “That other fellow seemed to act like you were in charge.”

  “Well, I have been, since Susan’s been out.”

  He stares me down. Who is this guy? We once had a couple of men arrive who insisted on speaking to the Pickles because they wanted to buy this building. But they hadn’t been as adamant and scary as this one.

  “What position is open?” he asks.

  “Just an all-around helper. Start on chopping and work up to the sandwich line.”

  When he frowns, I think I’m scot-free. Mr. GQ isn’t going to want to slap mustard on bread. Feeling bolder, I say, “And yes, I’m able to hire for that. But it’s clearly not your type of work.”

  And just like that, something in him changes. He taps the sign against his hand. He looks around the restaurant once again. Then he comes back to me. “Do you know Jace Pickle?”

  “I know he’s the owner. I’ve never met him.”

  He sets the sign on the top of the counter. “Well, I do. And he assured me I could get a job at this deli.”

  “What? You?”

  He holds out his arms. “I can get my hands dirty like anyone else.”

  I’m flabbergasted. “Your outfit costs more than you will make in a week.”

  “I just finished my degree and want to run a restaurant chain myself,” he says smoothly. He’s completely turned his personality around, flashing me a charming smile. “Jace kindly offered me a position here so I could learn the ropes. He talks very highly about how this restaurant is managed. He may have even mentioned you by name. Nova, right?”

  I’m not moved. This man is slicker than snake oil now. Besides, I already told him my name. “I have to talk to Jace Pickle about this.”

  “Absolutely. You do that,” he says. “Just tell him Jason arrived to start the job.”

  “Do you have a last name?”

  “He’ll know who Jason is,” he says. “We’re best buds. Just call. Trust me.”

  “I never get a hold of him when I try. He’s apparently very busy.”

  This Jason person frowns at that. “I’ll mention it to him. I know he’s a hands-off guy. It’s because he trusts you so much. I’m sorry I made a bad impression. I was just so surprised to see the place empty. I got the impression this was a very successful store.”

  “It’s mid-afternoon on a Tuesday,” I say, leaving the chill in my voice. “You should’ve been here an hour ago. The line was out the door.”

  He nods. “Good, great. Sounds like you could use my help for lunches. You give him a call this afternoon and tell him I’ll be here tomorrow morning to assist with the lunch rush. Or to chop things? Isn’t that what you said the job was?”

  Who is this guy? He would probably come in here with his MBA or whatever and try to make us do whatever he learned in business class. Hire focus groups. Or something worse. Like hold meetings.

  Hopefully, I won’t be able to get a hold of Jace, and I can send this guy packing. I really will call the police.

  “Just leave your number,” I say. “If I get the go-ahead from Mr. Pickle, then I’ll let you know what time to be here.”

  He grabs a napkin and scribbles the digits. “That sounds perfect. I’m excited to be joining this team.”

  With that, he takes off out of the store and into the bright March afternoon.

  Holy crap.

  What was that?

  I’m hesitant to even call Jace Pickle about this. He’ll probably laugh at me for being so gullible as to think the owner would send some random man-model to work on the sandwich line.

  The whole thing seems off.

  But what if he is a friend? I need this job to go well. I have a whole future ahead of me, or at least I think I do.

  Probably it doesn’t matter. I’ll never talk to Jace Pickle. It hasn’t worked all the times I’ve tried since Susan left. And she mentioned back in the day that he was extremely difficult to reach. Sometimes she called Anthony, the Pickle brother who owns the Colorado branch, for clarifications. He, apparently, is great.

  Maybe I should be working for that Pickle.

  Still, I guess I have to try.

  I flip through the directory in the drawer below the counter until I find Jace Pickle’s personal number. As soon as I see the digits, I frown and turn around the napkin Jason handed me.

  They have the same area code. In the era of cell phones, this doesn’t always matter, but it did suggest Jason’s story isn’t as far-fetched as it seemed.

  Maybe they grew up together. Maybe his family put him up to it. Shoot. I have a sinking feeling this particular story might be true.

  I quickly dial Jace’s number.

  Instead of rolling to voicemail, the call connects with a female voice.

  “Office of Jace Pickle, can I help you?”

  Since when did he have a secretary on his personal line?

  “I need to speak with Mr. Pickle. I’m Nova Strong. I work at his deli.”

  “Oh, hello, Nova. Jace said to expect your call. Did Jason make it into the deli? We’re hoping you have space for him there.”

  Well, shoot. It’s true.

  This can’t be some elaborate scheme if I called him. This directory has been here since I got the job.

  “Should I talk to Mr. Pickle himself?”

  “He’s away at the moment. We don’t think Jason will bother you for very long. He’s not the sort of guy who gets his hands dirty for more than a few days.” Her laugh is like glass tinkling. “Make him do everything all the regular employees do. He’s not to get special treatment.”

  That’s promising, at least. “Do I have him fill out all the paperwork? And give him the usual starting hourly wage?”

  “You know, I’m not sure about that part. Have him fill out the forms, but before you cut any checks, I’ll get you an answer. Probably he’s going to be happy to work for free. But I’ll make sure.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  I set down the phone, feeling aghast.

  I have a new employee.

  Hot. Smart. Well-dressed.

  Able to turn on the charm when necessary.

  Stupidly good-looking.

  And he has to do what I say. Everything I say.

  No special treatment.

  He might be wealthy or well educated or well-born.

  But now, I’m his boss.

  3

  Jace

  The moment I walk out the door of Austin Pickle, I call my personal assistant, Audra, to tell her I’m forwarding my personal number to her, and to instruct Nova Strong when she calls that, yes, Jason is supposed to start working there tomorrow.

  I can give no more information than that before ending the connection and temporarily forwarding my calls to her.

  Now I have to wait to see how it goes. Audra is smart and thinks on her feet. She’ll handle everything well.

  I relax against the leather seats of the BMW I keep in Austin for my visits. I’m sitting at the far end of a parking lot with a direct view of Austin Pickle. I can’t clearly see inside the deli, but since it’s currently empty, I know any movement is almost certainly Nova.

>   Nova Strong.

  I sure didn’t expect her. Tiny as a mite. Sparkling brown eyes. More personality than a Saturday morning cartoon. And apparently, running the place.

  I hadn’t had a plan when I stormed through the door, and I know I annoyed her. And I nearly blew my stack when that employee took money out of the till. Straight out! No receipts, nothing!

  And he’s off to buy pickles? From where? Wal-mart? There’s no way they can be up to the Pickle franchise standard.

  No wonder my branch is in such a tailspin. No manager. This spitfire hiring whomever she likes. Sourcing product from who knows where.

  Thank God for the help wanted sign. It gave me this perfectly terrible but brilliant idea to get inside the operation. Figure out where everything’s gone wrong.

  Then I can fire everybody involved.

  Including Nova and her cash-pilfering employee.

  Something buzzes in my console. It can’t be my phone since my calls and texts are forwarded. God, I hope nobody sends a naughty text to me while Audra’s in control. I don’t have a current flame, but there are plenty of potentials I’ve pursued recently.

  Audra’s a professional, but she has a wicked sense of humor. She’ll kid me about it forever.

  I open the lid. I have an iPad in there, the small version. It’s the source of the buzz. The number to call it is the one I gave Nova. Has she already contacted me?

  But it’s a message from Audra.

  Call complete. Jason is a go. You can un-forward your calls. Oh, and Shania sent a lovely picture of her new nipple ring.

  What! I haven’t seen that woman in ages!

  Shit!

  Then another message.

  Just kidding. But you bought it, didn’t you?

  Oh, that Audra.

  I write her back.

  Ha, ha. And thanks.

  I remove the forward.

  Nova was fast. But I was faster.

  I sit there a little longer, watching a mother with two small children enter my deli. I hope Nova gives them better customer service than she did me. Even if I had been a bit of an ass.

  But everything is upside down in there. How long has my manager been gone?

  And who is managing the books? The orders? The deliveries?