Chapter 7 #2
Oscar, The Limelight’s lead chef, a big dude with a thick beard and thinning gray hair tied back in a ponytail ambles out of the kitchen in a pair of pink crocs, royal blue chef’s pants with cheeseburgers printed on them, and a white chef’s coat.
He’s carrying a giant plastic cup full of what I hope is iced tea and settles into the booth at the end with a satisfied sigh.
Mike sits next to him and with zero idea what I’m doing, I call our little meeting to order.
An hour later, I stagger out of The Limelight with the headache I had hoped to avoid tightening like a vise around my skull.
There’s little I can do about it at this point, and though I really should stick around, there’s a good chance by the evening I’m going to be out of commission.
As I’m pulling away from the curb, my phone chimes with a call from Zach.
He might be the only person I’m willing to talk to, so I answer, and his voice fills the speakers.
“How was your first day?” he asks. His kids are chattering in the background, so he must be home. Probably in their backyard where he built a swing set. In the summer, Sofie grows the most incredible garden and is always offloading her extras on me.
“I had a productive meeting with my managers,” I reply.
“Fire anyone yet?”
I laugh. “I’m working up to it.” Though the hostess is at the top of my list. She disappeared for an hour during her shift, and she flat-out told me she couldn’t work evenings or weekends, which is actually when I need a hostess.
The lunch rush could be handled by the waitstaff, which I’m hoping they’ll agree to because it means they’ll get to keep more of their tips. “Finally met with that journalist.”
“Annaleise Bell? Watch out. She’s a bulldog.”
I laugh. “It wasn’t too bad.”
“Have you figured out why Ray was so eager to sell?”
“Full honesty? I think he’s exhausted. And he’s worried about Morgan.”
He gives a low hum of acknowledgement. “Can’t say I blame him.” After a tense pause, he adds, his tone all business, “Speaking of which, are you off again tomorrow?”
“Yeah. I’m planning on spending it on that hellhole of an office.”
Zach grunts. “Okay if I drop by in the morning? I’ve got a couple of follow-up questions.”
I wince—he’s talking about the call to Thunder Mountain. “Okay.”
“What are you up to tonight?”
“I’m headed home. Gonna take Ollie up Rumble Creek.”
“Nice. It’s so pretty up there this time of year.” From the background comes Curren’s shriek, then Sofie’s laughter and the gurgle of running water. “How’re the headaches?” Zach asks, his tone softening.
I hate lying to my brother, but the truth would only worry him. “I haven’t had one in weeks.”
“That’s good,” he says.
We say goodbye just as I reach Morning Star Road, giving me a chance to enjoy some silence before I arrive home.
Once there, I change and load up an excited Ollie, then drive to the Rumble Creek trailhead.
Walking makes me feel like an old man, but a run is a recipe for pain.
Ollie bounds up the trail, her fuzzy ears perked and her nose leading her in a zigzag through the brush as we climb.
The trail enters a grove of ancient trees.
The peppery scent of pine laced with the ponderosa’s vanilla bark is as soothing as the shade and the steady rhythm of my footsteps.
I pause to gaze up at the textured trunk of a giant hemlock, its tiny, dry cones crunching under my boots.
Ollie races over, thinking I’ve discovered something worth her attention, but darts away with a snort when it’s clear there’s no squirrel or deer poop to investigate.
When I break out of the forest, I pause to breathe the cool, fresh air, willing the fullness in my head to ease back, just a little.
I should probably slow my pace, but I’ve never been good at that.
I start walking again, but my thoughts stray to Charlotte. Am I stupid to use The Limelight as some kind of inroad? My timing certainly stinks. I was going to tell her after I’d figured some things out, see if I could entice her to help me.
But now, it’s a mess. Charlotte’s here for Morgan. So unless I can figure out a way to get her to stay, she’ll blow out of town as soon as she can. Back to her life in Seattle. How long do I have? One week? Two?
The hard reality is that Charlotte’s not here because she wants to be. Is that my fault? I made it too painful for her?
At least we have that in common—everything here reminds me of her.
I hike to a lake ringed with larch trees, their needles golden this time of year, and a steep rock wall cut from the mountain.
There’s not a soul here, and it’s so peaceful.
I strip naked and wade through the sandy shallows, then dive in, the icy cold shocking my skin.
I surface feeling rejuvenated, my headache dialed back as if by magic.
By the time I get home, it’s late. Charlotte’s car is parked in front of the detached garage.
Theo won’t be home until morning, which is one of the reasons we make such good roommates—we’re rarely home at the same time.
After letting Ollie out of the truck bed, I open the gate and she darts into the yard.
My headache is tolerable, but the best thing for me is a couple of Tylenol and a dark room.
From the side of the house comes a soft melody that strikes me so sharply in the chest my breath seizes.
I recognize the song immediately: “Blackbird” by the Beatles, Charlotte’s steady guitar chords blending with her sultry voice.
I had never paid attention to that song before Charlotte and Morgan sang it at my sixteenth birthday cookout with our families, and even now, when I hear the original, it’s not nearly as good as their version.
I fell in love with her for the first time that night.
It’s where we began.
If Charlotte’s playing, that could mean any number of things. This song has an edge of melancholy, so maybe she’s sad tonight. Or maybe she’s simply looking for a way to process what she’s going through with Morgan and being back in Finn River. Music has always been her escape.
I grip the porch stair railing, not wanting to spook her by moving any closer to the house or opening the front door. I simply close my eyes and listen while my heart fills my throat like a balloon.
After that time around the campfire, the next time I heard Charlotte sing was the night Boxcar Doves had their first official gig. Theo and I stood outside The Limelight to listen. She sounded so confident, her rich voice giving me goose bumps.
The next time was the choir concert I got dragged to that spring.
My stepsister Linnea sang a Hannah Montana song and she was so nervous her voice warbled.
Morgan sang that night too, a show-stopper swing tune that got people clapping.
Then Charlotte performed “If I Had A Million Dollars” with Crosby.
Her powerful voice made me smile, but the cutesy lyrics and the energy between her and Crosby made it obvious they were more than just duet partners.
As he confessed to doing anything to buy her love, their eyes playful, I sat there frozen, barely breathing while it all hit home.
What if she ended up choosing him over me?
Charlotte has stopped playing and I’m standing here halfway up my steps like a moron.
I whistle for Ollie, who is sniffing around the yard, and head inside.
Ollie beelines for the laundry room, so I follow and dump kibble into her bowl then refill her water from the utility sink.
When I step into the kitchen, everything is neat and put away.
Did Charlotte eat something? The fridge has plenty of food—I hope she knows she can help herself.
I settle for the Tylenol I so desperately need and a piece of toast with peanut butter, eating it standing up at the sink, looking out the window and wishing Charlotte would come out of her room.
The lyrics of the song wash over me, triggering a wave of longing so powerful I have to grip the edge of the counter and close my eyes.
Blackbird, fly.
I rub the aching knot over my heart.
How can Charlotte and I start over if she refuses to try?