Chapter 18
18
Ipaint my toenails with sparkling purple polish and bedazzle my eyelids and cheekbones with silver glitter. I don’t bother straightening my hair—it would curl in the humidity anyway. It looks like chaos, but I feel a little chaotic. I even put on the green scrap of a dress Heather packed in my suitcase. It’s short and silky with spaghetti straps and cut low in the back. I don’t have a bra that works with it, so I’m not wearing one.
I take a photo of myself in the bathroom mirror and send it to Heather.
What is happening up there??? she writes back. And: You look HOT.
I tell myself looking hot was not the goal. I’ve decided to defy expectations, too, including my own.
I feel sunnier than I did this morning. My phone has been lighting up all day with happy birthday s from friends. The twins sent me a video of an elaborate dance routine, involving high heels, cowboy hats, and a perplexing number of jumping jacks. Bennett’s message included every tangentially celebratory emoji in the Unicode library. My dad recounted the day I was born, a story I can recite word for word. I also received a text from Harrison, asking me to dinner. I haven’t responded.
I’ve just put the lasagna in the oven when Nan calls out, “He’s here.”
And sure enough, through the window, a black Porsche slithers through the bush. The rain has stopped, but fog hangs in the trees. It’s like a car commercial.
“How do I look?” Nan asks, adjusting her tiara.
“Regal.”
And she does. She’s wearing her pearls and a tweed skirt and jacket set that she’s had forever and will never go out of style. She’s sitting straight as a pin, shoulders proud. I roll my own back as soon as I note her posture.
I open the door before Charlie knocks, propping it ajar with my hip. He stands on the stone steps, and for untold seconds, all I can do is stare. Charlie is wearing a suit. It’s the color of the sky, an almost metallic gray. The top two buttons of his white shirt are undone. And he’s holding a chocolate layer cake. For a heartbeat, he looks at me, just as stunned as I am.
“I baked,” he says.
“So you did.”
“You look…” He swallows. “Like a mermaid.”
I glance down at myself. “This dress was a leap for me.”
“It was a very good leap.” His voice is rougher than usual.
I point at his car. “The five-minute walk was too much for you?”
“I didn’t want to scuff my shoes,” he says. “And I have a few more things in the car I couldn’t carry. Do you mind taking the cake in for me?”
I do as he asks, then meet him outside on the pathway in my bare feet to see if he needs help. Water drips from the branches, onto the forest floor and tin roof. A drop lands on my shoulders. I stand there quietly, listening to the earthy song.
Charlie looks into the limbs of a birch. “I like it after the rain, too.”
“It smells unreal.” The air is thick and fresh, more fragrant, almost medicinal. It reminds me of Charlie. We breathe it in together, but then I feel his focus drift to me. “What?”
“Nothing. I just figured you were more of a city girl. City person,” he amends when I arch a brow.
“Says the guy driving the Porsche.”
He shrugs. “I like nice things.”
I hum, gazing into the mist—it’s draped over the water like a vaporous blanket. “It doesn’t get much nicer than this, even for city girls.”
Charlie doesn’t reply, but when I glance at him, I catch an expression on his face that makes me pause, like he’s seeing me for the first time.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” I say, gesturing to the bags he’s holding. He’s brought wine and a gift.
“My mom would have eviscerated me if I’d shown up to someone’s house empty-handed.”
Once we’re inside, he gives my grandmother a kiss on the cheek. “Nice to see you, Nan.” He passes her a paper bag. “This one’s for you.”
“What is that?”
Charlie and Nan look over to me.
“I asked Charlie to pick me up a bottle of scotch since you wouldn’t.” Nan pats him on the hand. “You’re a good man. How much do I owe you?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Fiddlesticks.”
He gives her a look that clearly means, What are you going to do about it? and then asks, “Would you like a glass now? I can pour one.”
“Charlie,” I say, but they both ignore me.
“Oh, that would be lovely.”
I raise my voice. “Charlie.”
They both glance in my direction. Charlie looks like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“Can I talk to you in the kitchen?”
“Sure.”
Nan passes him back the bottle and says, “I take it with a splash of water. No ice.”
I shake my head as he crosses the room and follows me into the kitchen. I set the wine on the counter. It’s not a big space, and it feels even smaller with him in it.
“It’s not a good idea for her to drink,” I whisper crossly.
“It smells amazing in here. What are you making?” He crouches down to peer into the oven. “Is that lasagna?”
Charlie looks up at me from beneath his lashes, and for a moment I forget I’m angry. He’s down there and I’m up here, and…his lips curve, and I swear he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“Yes, it’s lasagna,” I hiss, my ears going hot.
He stands and inspects the ingredients on the counter. “Caesar salad? Bruschetta?” He raises an eyebrow. “That’s a lot of garlic. If this were a date, I’d be disappointed.”
“Can you be serious for one second? What’s with the scotch?”
“Your grandmother called and asked if I could bring her a bottle. She told me her doctor said it’s okay if she has a drink. She also mentioned that you’re a little overprotective.”
“I’m just trying to take care of her.”
“I get that, but she’s eighty, Alice. She’s earned the right to make her own choices about her health.”
How can I argue? I hate when people infantilize older adults. “I guess a bit of scotch won’t hurt,” I grumble.
He leans down to meet my eyes. “If she gets trashed, I’ll carry her to bed. There’ll be no drunken falls tonight.”
I huff out a short laugh. “I’m a lightweight. I make no promises.”
“Then I’ll carry you to bed, too.” He gives me a patented smirk, and I pull a face, even though I’m picturing his strong arms holding me against his chest.
“I see I’m underdressed,” he says.
“Huh?”
He taps the tiara on the top of my head. I’d forgotten it was there.
“Don’t worry,” I say, collecting myself. “I have one for you, too.”
“Do I get sparkles?”
“Do you want sparkles?”
“I want sparkles.” His dimples appear along with a grin that means trouble. “You can apply them anywhere you want, Alice Everly.”
He says my name like nobody else has. Like it tastes better than other names.
Alice Everly. Alice Everly. Alice Everly.
“Lucky me.”
Charlie passes me a gift bag. “Your birthday present.”
There’s no card. Just a book. It’s a paperback romance, the best kind, with a busty heroine on the cover. She’s in the arms of a ravenous-looking shirtless man and dressed in an emerald gown that falls off her shoulders.
“You’ve turned a very red shade of red,” Charlie says. “It’s cute.”
“Shut up.”
“Don’t worry,” he adds. “It’s a good one.”
“You’ve read it?”
“I flipped through it in the drugstore. Think of me when you get to page 179.”
I immediately turn to the page, see the words tongue and swirls , then snap the book shut.
“You’re incorrigible, you know that?”
“I do.”
I examine the cover. It’s called Ruling the Rogue . “You know,” I say, holding the book beside Charlie’s face, “there’s a bit of a resemblance between you two.”
“Oh, I know.”
I bark out a laugh.
Charlie gives me a strange look.
“What?”
“The way you laugh,” he says.
“I know, it’s horrendous. My sister calls it a witch’s cackle.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I like it.”
Charlie turns away before I can tell if he’s joking. He pours Nan’s scotch, pausing when he sees our flowery curtains. “Are those new?”
“They are. Nan seems to think John won’t mind. She sewed the old curtains. It seemed fitting we make new ones.”
Charlie tilts his head, confused. “You’re sewing new curtains?”
“Yep. We’re giving this place a facelift.”
He squints. “Did John tell you he’s been planning to sell? He won’t get to enjoy your makeover.”
“I know, but it’s something for Nan and me to do together.” I drop my voice. “She seems down lately.” Charlie stares at me, an odd, puzzled look on his face. “Anyway, John’s real estate agent will thank us.”
He assesses me for another moment before pulling down a pair of mismatched wineglasses. One is delicate and etched with thistles, and the other looks like it was purchased at a dollar store.
“White or red?” he asks. “Unless you’re a scotch drinker?”
“Not usually. I’ll have red, please.” He pours it in the prettier glass, and we bring the drinks out to the living room.
“Alice, you’re the color of a geranium,” Nan says.
I place a hand on my cheek.
“I hope you two didn’t get up to anything untoward in the kitchen.” She winks at Charlie.
“Fully PG,” he tells her.
We sit on the sofa, and Nan pales when she sees the glass in my hand. She takes a deep, wavering breath. Charlie and I share a glance.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“That was Joyce’s special glass.” Her voice catches. “Alice will take good care of it,” she says, looking at the ceiling.
I wait for Charlie to shift or look at his hands or show some other sign of being uncomfortable with Nan speaking to her dead best friend, but instead he raises his glass. “To Joyce.” And then he looks at me, green eyes holding mine. “And Alice. Happy birthday.”
We each take a sip, and then Charlie says, “John and Joyce were good to us when my dad died.”
He’s lost both his parents? I stare at Charlie’s profile—it’s all hard lines, no softness to be found. “I’m so sorry,” I say quietly.
“It was a long time ago. I was fourteen.” He says it like it’s not supposed to hurt anymore, like the fourteen-year-old Charlie who lost his father is a different person.
“I remember,” Nan says, and I tear my gaze away from him to look at her. “It was sudden, wasn’t it? He was young.”
A muscle flexes in Charlie’s jaw. “His heart gave out while he was cooking at our family’s restaurant.”
“John and Joyce were both so upset,” Nan says. “They were worried about you boys and your mom.”
Charlie leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Our mom was barely holding it together, but she had the restaurant to run, so Sam and I were alone a lot. Joyce stopped in almost every day when she was at the cottage. She’d bring us muffins and cookies and casseroles.” He seems so unlike the person I was just speaking to in the kitchen. He’s so still, so contained.
“That’s Joyce,” Nan says. “She was a wonderful person.”
“She was,” Charlie agrees. “And so is John. He’d take Sam and me fishing and talk to us about random stuff, but it helped to get out of the house, to have someone treat us normally. I probably would have partied a lot harder than I did if he hadn’t popped around every time the music got too loud. He looked out for us.”
Nan says nothing, and then Charlie straightens. “He’s still a wonderful person.”
They stare at each other.
“I’m sure that’s true,” Nan says, looking away.
“He asked me to tell you to call him. He asked me to tell you that he misses you.”
Nan’s eyes are becoming glassy, and I don’t know whether to ask what in the world Charlie is talking about or bonk him on the shoulder for upsetting my grandmother.
“We’ll see,” she says.
I clear my throat, needing to put an end to this. “Charlie, is now a good time for glitter?”
I squeeze a dab of silvery gel into my palm and examine Charlie’s face, carefully avoiding eye contact. I’m on the couch facing him, legs folded beneath me, but even with Nan across from us, it feels intimate being this close.
“Something wrong?”
I meet his gaze then. “I’m not sure it’ll suit you.”
Flecks of gilt in pools of green shimmer back at me. “Everything suits me. Quit stalling, Alice.”
I tap my index finger in the gel and raise my hand to Charlie’s face, trying to figure out which part of it is safest to touch. It’s not the hard lines of his jaw or the laser focus of his stare that has me suddenly rattled; it’s the fact that he’s here, on my birthday, with a homemade cake and a gift that’s now an inside joke.
Charlie’s brows lift, and I realize I’ve been studying him for a preposterous length of time. I hear Nan shift and turn to see her reaching for her cane.
I immediately jump to my feet. “Do you need help?”
“I’m all right. Just need the ladies’ room.”
I face Charlie, alone. The quiet is too much.
“Music?”
I crouch beside John’s very out-of-date CD collection. Yikes. I go with The Definitive Rod Stewart , and “Maggie May” begins to play.
“Rod Stewart?” he asks.
“Yup. Huge fan.”
I sit beside Charlie again and hover a finger over his cheekbone.
“You’re not afraid of me, are you?”
“I’m afraid of getting glitter on your jacket.”
Charlie laughs like he knows I’m full of crap and then shrugs off his jacket. He unbuttons his cuffs and rolls the sleeves of his shirt past his forearms.
“Better?” His gaze is a game of truth or dare.
“Uh-huh.”
I press my finger lightly to the upper edge of his right cheekbone and slide it up toward his temple. I feel his eyes on me, but I repeat the stripe on his left side without meeting them. If he sees my hand shaking, he doesn’t mention it.
“How do I look?”
I lean back to inspect my handiwork. Of course he can pull off glitter. “Pretty ridiculous.”
He smiles. “I doubt that.”
I leave Nan and Charlie to make the salad, and when I return to the living room, he’s sitting on a dining chair in front of her, painting her nails with the purple polish. He’s doing a terrible job, the tiny bottle cap ill fitted to his hands. I sneak past to get my camera. I take one shot of Charlie concentrating on Nan’s manicure, her fingers in his, and another when they both look up at me.
“Has Alice told you that this isn’t her first trip to the lake?” Nan asks when we’re all seated around the table with plates of lasagna. Charlie’s gaze shoots to me. “I brought her and her younger siblings for the entire summer when John and Joyce were traveling.”
“She didn’t mention that,” he replies, eyes on mine.
“When I was seventeen.” I give Nan a meaningful look. She hasn’t said anything, but she must have connected Charlie with the yellow boat in my photo.
“Really? I would have been nineteen. I was here that summer.”
“Then that makes three of us,” I say.
“Huh.” Charlie lifts his wine to his lips. He’s still on his first glass, whereas I’ve had…um? Several?
We’re almost done eating when I see that Charlie has painted a thumb purple. Something in my chest twinges.
“I thought I’d better stop there before I made a real mess of it,” Charlie says when he catches me staring at his hand.
I smile, but my heart is beating faster than usual. It’s probably the wine. It probably has nothing to do with the fact that despite our being an odd trio, the conversation hasn’t died all evening. Or that Charlie is unpredictable in the best way. Or that I haven’t laughed so hard in ages. Or how effusively Charlie praises my lasagna, calling it the most glorious combination of tomato sauce, noodles, and various cheeses. Or that he clears the table, three plates a time, then washes the dishes, refusing help.
He returns holding the cake, with a single candle in the center. I raise my camera, committing Charlie in a tiara and glitter, singing “Happy Birthday,” to film.
It’s a dark chocolate sour cream cake with chocolate buttercream, and sweet mother, it is good. I make an obscene sound when I take my first bite.
“You can bake ,” I say with my mouth full.
Charlie grins. It’s a boyish smile, dimpled and delighted. It’s his real smile.
“You made this?” Nan asks.
“It was my mom’s recipe.”
“It’s incredible,” I go on. “It’s moist and rich, but not too rich. Or too sweet. It’s like really, really good.”
“Excellent,” Nan agrees. “I’d love the recipe.”
Charlie beams at my grandmother. “My mom would have been thrilled to hear that.”
The twinge in my chest returns, only stronger now.
“I think she would have been thrilled you made it,” Nan says.
I’m still gushing about the cake when a horn interrupts me.
Aaaah-whoooo-gaaaaah!
“Oh shit.” Charlie looks at me, wild-eyed. “They’re here.”