“You can tie me up anytime,” Angela interrupts as she passes us.
“I believe the hero does the untying,” Charlie corrects her.
She keeps walking without turning around. “I said what I said.”
“Is she always like that?” Charlie asks.
“Yep.”
Charlie sniffs the air as we enter the building. “Do I smell hot dogs?”
“You do, indeed. It’s a camp staple.”
“As it should be.” He peels his T-shirt away from his chest. “I should change my damp clothes first.”
“Probably a good idea.”
“Save your hero a seat?”
“I would use the term loosely. Superman wouldn’t dream of stopping to take off his boots before entering the water.”
He holds up the loafers. “That’s because Superman doesn’t pay Gucci prices. I’ll meet you inside.” He veers off toward his cabin, and I linger outside the cafeteria to make sure he doesn’t double back toward my office. I have no idea what he thinks he might find there, but it’s the only place I can think he’d want to snoop other than my house, which would be too difficult to manage. It isn’t far, but it’s far enough that he’d have a hard time explaining his absence.
I fill my plate with a hotdog slathered in mustard, corn on the cob that will undoubtedly get caught between my teeth, and a small salad drenched in a packet of bleu cheese dressing.
“We’re living the dream,” Gloria says as she bites into her hotdog.
Charlie sets his tray down beside mine. “You saved me a seat.”
“You told me to.”
“I know, but I didn’t expect you to actually do it.” His plate has two hotdogs, two cobs of corn, and a pile of salad without dressing. “My compliments to the chef.”
I gesture toward the kitchen. “Bernie takes care of the food. She’s a treasure. She’s been working here since my grandparents owned the place.”
“How old is she?” Charlie asks.
I spear lettuce onto my fork. “Nobody knows.”
“And nobody here is gauche enough to ask a woman her age,” Angela says pointedly.
A mischievous twinkle forms in Gloria’s eye. “We are, however, gauche enough to share that Angela is on the hunt for a fourth husband.”
“Some people collect Pokémon trading cards. Angela collects husbands,” I add.
Angela guffaws. “Think of them more as replacements for ones that are broken or lost.”
“Have you identified any potential replacements?” Charlie asks.
Angela glances casually around the room. “Herb is currently at the top of my list.”
Charlie cranes his neck. “Which one is Herb?”
“The man in the Hawaiian shirt.”
Charlie pulls a face. “That guy? Seriously?”
Angela takes a dainty sip of her water. “Why not? I prefer men the way I prefer my snatch—bald and stuffed with sausage.”
