The Holiday Swap(2)
“What’s up with you today, Charlie? A case of the Mondays?” He’d known they were still miked and that everyone, including Sasha, would hear. He then made a show of putting a hand on her shoulder and rubbing it, faking concern. “Don’t worry. I can pick up the slack. I have both our scripts memorized.”
Before Charlie could respond, let alone brush his hand away, the bottle of peppermint extract—which Austin was supposed to have capped after measuring out a tablespoon for the candy cane truffles they were making—tipped over, emptying quickly across the stainless-steel worktable and soaking into Charlie’s skirt.
“Oh,” Austin said as Charlie jumped back, though too late. “Thought the lid was on tight. My bad.”
Charlie smiled wanly at him, curtly said, “It’s fine,” and then asked Sasha if they could take five. None of the contestants were on set; they were filming B-roll so the timeline was more flexible—although Sasha always ran things like they were trying to beat the clock. Charlie escaped to the storeroom, where they kept the pots, pans, and baking dishes, knowing she had only a few moments to try and meditate away Austin Nash.
It wasn’t working. Instead, along with her frustration, she felt something she hadn’t in a long time: Charlie was homesick. Starlight Peak, her hometown only a few hours north of Los Angeles, was so festive this time of year, with sugary snowcapped mountains as backdrop, and every home, shop, and street corner laden with Christmas decorations. Life in quaint Starlight Peak was so much simpler than city life. And the best part about her hometown? Austin Nash wasn’t there.
Suddenly, the storage room’s overhead fluorescent bulbs lit up with a flash. Charlie quickly pushed off the wall, dropping her phone to the ground. She and Austin’s new assistant, Nathan (she made it a habit to learn everyone’s names, no matter what their role on the show), stared at each other for a moment, the melodic voice coming from the meditation app on her phone the only sound in the room. Now focus on your shoulders . . . how much tension are you holding there . . . Breathe into your belly . . . Be aware of all the sensations in your body . . .
Nathan sneezed—likely the peppermint extract—then cleared his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He was obviously nervous to have interrupted the show’s “talent,” especially when she was clearly not having the best day. “Oh, uh, sorry, Ms. Goodwin. I didn’t realize—”
“Hi, Nathan. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” Charlie picked up her phone and stopped the meditation. “And call me Charlie, okay?”
Charlie wondered about Nathan’s story, what his great L.A. dream was. This town was filled with a lot of ambition. It was rare to meet someone who wasn’t hustling a few jobs at least, hoping for their big break.
“Did Sasha ask you to come in here and get me?” Charlie asked.
“Well,” Nathan said, drawing out the word. “Kind of? But she also told me to season a few of the frying pans for the next segment.” He was shorter than Charlie, who stood about five-seven without shoes, and he had to go up on his toes as he reached past the Christmas decorations for the nonstick enamel pans on the top shelf. That was when Charlie knew that whatever Nathan’s big dream was, it had nothing to do with cooking.
“We don’t season nonstick pans,” Charlie said, tucking her phone into the pocket of her skirt and rubbing her nose against another minty tickle. “The coating can crack.” She reached for one of the cast-iron pans. “Here. Cast iron. The workhorse of the kitchen.”
Nathan took the pan from her, misjudging the weight and then cringing as he almost lost his grip.
“Nothing caramelizes like cast iron,” Charlie said, putting a hand under the pan until the assistant reset his grip. On the menu today was a cupcake variation of a pineapple upside-down cake with a spiced bourbon sauce to keep it holiday themed, and Charlie knew the cast iron would be best to coax out the fruit’s sticky dark syrup, which was necessary to showcase the dessert’s complexity.
“Thanks, Charlie. Sasha said to grab a few.” Nathan reached up again for another of the cast-iron pans, then turned back to her. “Can I just say? You’re so natural on camera. You’re really funny, too, you know? And the only one to suggest the cast iron instead—”
Charlie wasn’t sure exactly how it happened, but a second later the entire shelving unit—where dozens of pans were stored—was tipping over. There was a moment where Charlie thought she and Nathan would be able to stop the shelf’s trajectory, both of them putting their hands out to try and brace the metal unit. They might have been successful, if not for the pots and pans—unanchored on the shelves—obeying the dictates of gravity. The entire unit toppled toward them. Nathan shouted something she couldn’t hear above the calamitous noise of all that metal hitting the floor. Then Charlie felt a deep, sharp pain in her head before everything went black.
* * *
? ? ?
Charlie opened her eyes slowly. Someone was crying, but she couldn’t figure out who it was because she couldn’t make her eyes focus. She also had the worst headache of her life, and felt nauseated and fuzzy all over. She tried to lift her arm to her head, and then realized she was on the floor. Someone was holding her other hand—the same person who was crying, it seemed. There were a lot of voices adding to the confusion. Charlie let her eyes close, wishing everyone would just stop talking.