“Sorry.” Charlie wiped his hands on his shirt, trying to think of something big to talk about. Death? Religion? Titanoboa, the extinct giant snake?
“You’re behaving very strangely,” his mother said. “What will Emma and Eve think of us?”
“Eve,” he echoed, as if it was a foreign word.
There was a smallhmmfrom Emma’s direction, like she’d just added a note to his file.
“Shall I show you around, Eve?” Mrs. Pike offered. “There are refreshments on the patio—”
“No!” Charlie yelped.
Even Emma set down her book, as if he’d finally done something interesting.
Charlie swallowed. “I was going to offer her a drink.” He took another step toward Jean, stooping to bring himself closer to her level. “Would you like one? A drink?”
“Get her a Pike’s Pale,” Charlie’s dad said, before Jean could express a preference.
“I’m on it,” Charlie yelped, hurrying to the bar. He slipped behind the wooden counter, nearly knocking over a stack of pint glasses before managing to pry one loose.
“Everything okay over there?” his mother asked in concern.
“Yes. Very fine.” He set the glass under the spigot, taking a quick look at the couch to make sure Jean was still there. Their eyes met, jolting Charlie so hard he yanked on the tap, sending aflood of foamy beer down his other arm. At least some of it made it into the glass.
“Your boy’s trigger-happy.” It was the spicy-cocktail guy again, mustache quivering as he threw his head back and laughed. Hazard? Hubbard? Horrid? Something like that. Charlie frowned at him before remembering he was pouring a beer.
“Oops,” he muttered, trying to wipe off the overflow with his hands.
“Somebody gives a lot of head.” Jean’s voice arrowed straight to Charlie’s ears. He had no idea if she wanted him to hear, or if he was just so attuned to her that everything else was background noise, including the snicker from his mustachioed nemesis.
It was also true that he’d mostly filled her glass with foam.
“Get her a bottle,” his dad ordered. “That one’s a goner.”
Jean stood, sauntering over to the bar with her eyes locked on Charlie.
Although he didn’t hold withThe Jungle Book’s depiction of Kaa (the myth that snakes hypnotized their prey had no scientific basis), Charlie couldn’t have moved to save his life. Her silky dark hair swished, teasing his nostrils with a hint of perfume.
Every cell in his body chanted the same refrain:Jean.
Not that he could call her that. Somehow, he knew that was part of the game. Charlie couldn’t have said what they were playing for or guessed at the rules beyond that one: pretending she was someone else. The message had been right there in her eyes, where he’d hoped to seeI’m so happy to see youorI missed you tooor even justHello, Charlie. Instead of which he’d gottenI dare you. It wasn’t a soft look, but at least it felt like they had a private understanding—their little secret no one else needed to know.
“Eve,” he whispered as she slipped behind him. It was only one syllable, but his voice shook.
She didn’t touch him. At least not directly, though the swingingfringe of her vest brushed against his legs. Even through a layer of denim it was enough to make his legs tremble.
“What are you—” he started to ask as she pulled out a cutting board, but she held a finger to her lips. Plucking a lemon from the wire basket under the bar, she sliced it into narrow wedges.
Charlie thought of nights in the cottage, watching her shuffle cards or sketch a cartoon in the margins of his field notebook. Plus the other things she’d done with those slender, sensitive, artist’s hands.
The dangly bits on Jean’s vest swayed as she shifted. Charlie watched his arm move as if it had a mind of its own, the tip of one finger barely skimming the fringe. He wanted to run his hands through it the way she used to let him do to her hair. And then tighten his grip and pull her closer—
The knife hit the cutting board with a sharpthwack,making him jump. Jean shot him a look over her shoulder, like she could smell the yearning wafting off him and was warning him to stay back.
“What are you making?” His voice sounded like the croak of a bullfrog.
“Shandies.”
That was it, no teasing or long funny explanation. Charlie felt left in the dark, in more ways than one. The next thing he knew, she’d placed six full glasses on a tray, adding a lemon wedge to each.
