Chapter Seven
Iseriously can’t stop eating these pickles.” Tuesday was out of frame, her phone angled to an unmade single bed and a poster for the musicalWicked. “I need an intervention.”
Pepper wrinkled her nose at her FaceTime screen. “Is that an innuendo, because TMI.”
“Nope.” Her sister angled the camera to showcase an actual large dill pickle. She took a noisy crunch. “I bought a jar at the Park Slope Farmers Market. They’re artisanalandfermented. It’s my new thing—the everything fermented diet.”
Ah, Tuesday. She’d never met a fad she didn’t love.
“Honey. They are pickles. Pickles that probably cost more than your rent.” Even as Pepper chided, her heart panged. Today, her high horse had shrunk to the size of a Shetland pony. The Georgia move had emptied her savings account. And what did she have to show for it? Nothing but a closet of discount business attire and debt.
“Remember Granny’s root cellar? All the canned beets, green beans, and tomatoes?” Tuesday’s leg shot out in a kickboxing round kick, narrowly missing a pile of scripts precariously stacked on her coffee table. She never sat still, even on FaceTime. During their marathon phone call she’d done a hundred crunches, polished off a bowl of oatmeal, painted her toenails purple, and plaited her long blond hair into a complicated fishtail braid. “She was the original hipster. I wonder if Dad still has her recipes. I could sell it to one of the big publishing houses as a retro cookbook.”
“Call me crazy, but I can’t see tuna surprise or Jell-O pie hitting theNew York Timesbest-seller list.”
“Oh, shivers. The pie was disgusting. And remember how she’d force-feed you deviled ham sandwiches?”
“Don’t make me relive dietary hell.” Pepper stuck a bag of kettle corn in the microwave. “Thanks for hanging out. I needed the distraction. All I’ve been doing is staring at my bank account, willing a nest egg into existence. That and taking long romantic walks to the fridge.”
“Why. Not. Ask. Mom. For. A. Loan?” Each word was punctuated by a Rockette-style high kick.
“Ugh. Never.” A vein throbbed in her temple at the mere idea. “I’d rather live in a van by the river, or sell Hot Pockets to truckers at the Pump-N-Munch.”
“The Pump and excuse me?”
“Don’t ask.” Pepper punched the microwave’s Start button. A few seconds of silence ticked by. They both knew without saying there was no point in suggesting Dad. He’d love to help but needed a new evaporator before the next sugaring season. The old wood-fired one barely made it through last spring. “But I’m serious. Mom will never be the option for anything. I’ve got nothing left but my pride at this point. I’m content keeping our communication limited to reading her humble-bragging holiday newsletter.”
“The worst. Remember the last one?” Tuesday affected a WASPy female accent. “This year has been a whirlwind for Clyde and me. First came the trip to Denmark in February (Brrrr!) followed by the Norwegian cruise and jaunt to Palm Springs. Finally, I threw up my hands and said, enough is enough! We need a vacation from all these vacations. But of course, how was I to know Clyde had booked us in for a French wine tour through Burgundy for our twelfth anniversary? That man! He’s a keeper.”
“Enough!” Pepper couldn’t hold back a laugh, even if it was tinged in bitterness. Lisa Knight had been right about money buying love—er, Lisa Clark. She left Dad and a simple North woods lifestyle to implement a get-rich-quick plan that culminated in a walk down the aisle with a guy fifteen years older and five hundred times more boring. Clyde Clark was human valium with a seven-car garage.
“Moving on. Want to hear the worst thing ever?” Tuesday asked.
Pepper made a face. “Worse than my first day at work coinciding with my last?”
“Terrible in a different way. Angus hit on me.”
“Angus who?” She jolted. “Wait. Not Angus—”
“Our stepbrother.” Tuesday gave a grim nod.
“But that is—”
“Gross? Nauseating? Barftastic?” Tuesday filled a small watering can at her sink. “Tell me about it. He was in the city on a business trip and Mom called and asked me to play tour guide. He insisted we go to the Empire State Building, at noon, on a Saturday.”
“No! But the crowds…”
“I know. We waited in line for three hours.” Tuesday watered the basil on her windowsill. “He talked about mutual funds and kept tacking the expression ‘if you will’ to the end of his sentences until I was stabby.”
“Ew.”
“And then he asked me out on a date.”
“Double ew. Did you alert Mom?”
“No, because which would be worse? Option A, where I tell her and it starts drama, or option B, and she gives me her blessing. He flew back to Bedford yesterday. Guess I’ll look forward to most uncomfortable family Christmas ever.”
Pepper shuddered. “Just say no to stepbrother dating.”
