Charlie had spent countless childhood afternoons in his father’s office. He was good at being quiet, even as a little boy. His dad probably thought Charlie was soaking up important business facts, but mostly he’d been lying under a table, reading about reptiles.
As the years went by, it felt less like a treehouse than a submarine, outside pressure squeezing from all sides. His dad wanted him to take the helm; Charlie couldn’t wait to pop the escape hatch.
Tonight was different because Jean was there, which meant Charlie wasn’t alone. He wondered what she thought of all the Pike memorabilia, the old beer signs mixed in with black-and-white family photos, as if the people and the promotional campaigns were telling the same story.
The bouncy-haired young woman from Jean’s wagon was sitting on the loveseat under the bay window. She waved sheepishly at Jean, mouthing a “Sorry.”
Jean shook her head. “Not your fault.”
The French doors burst inward, Mugsy hurrying over to Charlie. “You should have let me handle this,” she said, scowling at Jean. “Before it blew up.”
“Jean is not the problem,” Charlie said, before Mugsy could steamroll him. It was easy to be firm when you felt strongly about something. Mugsy looked taken aback, and then thoughtful, giving Jean a second, less hostile look.
“I trust one of you is about to tell me what the problem is,”Charlie’s dad said, sinking into his leather chair as the rest of a ragtag group that included both Koenigs, Smithson, and Sergeant Cowboy filtered into the room. “How in heaven’s name did an event one hundred years in the making go kaput?”
That struck Charlie as a slight exaggeration, but his dad had always been prone to hyperbole when stressed.
The girl with the curls glided across the room, beaming at Charlie’s father.
“Hildy Johnson of Johnson Media.” She reached over the desk to shake his hand. “It is such an honor to meet you. My uncle is a big fan.”
His father’s face seemed to be at war with itself, the mouth trying to smile while the eyes stayed tight. “Your uncle?”
“Richard Johnson. Also of Johnson Media. He enjoys a pale ale after a hard day of golf.”
Mr. Pike laughed, obviously flattered—and charmed. Charlie decided to seize the moment.
“Dad, I’d also like you to meet Jean.”
“Oh Charlie,” his mother sighed. “I’ve told you and told you. Her name is Eve.”
“Never mind her name, who is she?” his father demanded, tensing up again.
“My girlfriend. I hope.” It was ridiculous how much Charlie enjoyed calling her that. “We haven’t really discussed the terminology.”
“What about Adriana?” His father rubbed his forehead with both hands. “She came here for you, Charlie.”
Smithson pushed off from the wall, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops as he flicked his unmoving hair. “Technically, that was my get.”
“Of course,” Mr. Pike agreed. “Credit where it’s due.”
Mugsy looked like she was going to explode.
“What is it?” Charlie asked.
“Remember how I needed to tell you something?” Mugsy said under her breath.
He nodded.
“This is about that.”
“Right now?” Charlie whispered. They were beginning to attract attention, specifically from Emma Koenig.
“I should have told you before.” Mugsy sounded miserable.
He knew that feeling, when not speaking felt worse than the fear of what would happen when you did. “Then go ahead, Mugsy. Let it out.”
“You remember when I went to California, to talk to Adriana?” She rubbed her throat, like there was something caught in it.
