“I have an app on my phone,” Linda said. “It lets you identify plants. I wish I had it right now. I’d love to know what type of trees these are. I’ve never seen anything like them.”
“Me neither,” Charity said. She smoothed a hand through her hair, and the gesture made Linda’s stomach jump. “Though I’ll be honest—my garden at home is all like herbs and vegetables and stuff. Inedible plants? Not so much my bag.”
“Oh?” Linda said. “You do a lot of gardening?”
“I do a lot of cooking,” Charity said. “Gardening is a support hobby.”
Linda laughed, and her stomach flip-flopped again. This was the most Charity had talked to her since they met on the first day of filming.
• • •
The show’s first day had been at the mansion cocktail party, where every woman arrived for the first time in a white Cinderella-style horse-drawn carriage. It was their first meeting, and the producers placed Linda and Sabrina into the same carriage and sent them on their brief journey from the staging area to the front of the mansion. Linda watched first as Sabrina performed her shtick, stepping from the carriage in her emerald-green silk gown and making her effortless way to Tristan, who stood in a suit in the mansion’s front courtyard. Sabrina pulled out a pair of syringes filled with clear liquid and handed one to Tristan.
“Oh, shit,” he said, smiling wide. “Did I forget a check-up?”
“I’m a nurse,” she said. “And I plan on nursing your heart, so I wanted to introduce myself with a toast.”
“I don’t drink bodily fluids, I’m afraid.” Tristan laughed his easy laugh, and Sabrina matched his good humor.
“It’s champagne,” she said.
“Oh, I drink champagne.” He bumped his syringe into hers. “What do you want to toast to?”
“To new love!” she said, and together, they squeezed the syringes into their mouths.
Linda had prepared no such theatrics. When Sabrina disappeared inside, and it was her turn, Linda stepped from the carriage, navigating her heels on the cobblestone path. Her sparkling purple dress dragged behind her, and when she reached Tristan, she stood before him with her arms flat at her sides.
“Hi,” she said.
“Well, don’t you look gorgeous,” Tristan said, and for the first time in a long time, Linda felt like a new person.
“What’s your name?” he said.
“Linda Wall—” She laughed. “Sorry, my name is Linda. Linda Meadows.”
“If that isn’t the sweetest name I’ve ever heard,” Tristan said, and he grabbed her hand and kissed the back of it. “I look forward to talking with you, Linda Meadows.”
She bowed a little, a strange urge, then wobbled inside the mansion to the room full of women. All of them were decked out in elaborate ball gowns, teetering on tall heels. Linda scanned her surroundings; she could beat most of them in the game of wits and beauty. Then her gaze landed on a woman leaning alone in a corner. She was the only woman wearing a suit, and the crimson jacket and pants hugged her every curve.
Excitement flooded Linda. Now this was a woman she wasn’t sure she could beat.
• • •
Back in the woods, Linda smiled at Charity in the soft green light.
“Wait, you said that gardening is a support hobby? What’s a support hobby?” Linda said.
Charity laughed, too. Her laugh was warm. “I just meant—fresh veggies make for better cooking. I wouldn’t garden, I don’t think, if I didn’t love to cook.”
“I have a huge garden,” Linda admitted. “What do you cook?” Linda took a step deeper into the woods.
Charity pointed out a patch of purple weeds as she followed. “Don’t cook with that,” she said. “Poisonous as fuck.”
“Oh, I know. That, too.” Linda pointed to a red berry.
“I would cook with that, though.” Charity bent and pulled a wild onion from the ground, then stood and kept walking. As she spoke, her face lit up as Linda had never seen it. “To answer your question, I cook all kinds of things. My mom taught me a lot. I make my own kimchi with cabbage that I grow myself. It lasts me the whole winter. I make stews when it’s cold.”
“It doesn’t get cold in Texas often,” Linda said, “but you better believe that when it does, the chili pot comes out.”
“It doesn’t get cold in LA either,” Charity said. “But isn’t it all relative?” She motioned to Linda, who shivered in the breeze. “I’ve never made chili,” Charity said. The leaves crunched beneath their feet. “Growing up, on the first frigid day of the season, my mom always made us Hobakjuk.”
“Were both your parents Korean?” Linda asked.
“My mom. My dad was white as Tristan.”
Linda bent to pick up an acorn the size of a golf ball; it was a pale-peach color, and it felt to the touch like rubber.
“This is cool,” Linda said, studying the weird texture. She pocketed it. “What’s Hobakjuk?”
“Pumpkin porridge? We ate it as a snack. It’s not filling.” Charity stopped. “Hey, watch out.” She pointed at a cluster of green plants spread on the ground before them.
Linda stepped back, stunned by the presence of the patch. She stuttered as she spoke. “I’m allergic to poison ivy.”
Charity frowned. “We better get you inside,” she said.
“Almost time, anyway. Got to get all dolled up for our date!”
Linda jumped as the cameraman moved to allow them to pass him. She’d forgotten that he was there. His presence was cursory; the two women getting along offered little for the show to work with. As the rivals re-traced their steps backward, he followed close behind. The sun set, and with its bowing, shadows danced with their shadows—three became four became a mess of moving darkness on the forest floor. It smelled like old leaves and something more pungent, not altogether pleasing. The scent reminded Linda of when she found a dead possum in the woods. Like decay. Maybe it was the leaves rotting where moisture caught underneath them. She shrugged it off and focused on the calm she felt beneath the unease, a peace that came from the company of the woman beside her. Charity was different than Linda had thought she might be, and Linda felt lucky that she might emerge from the competition with not one friend but two.
