Smithson released Charlie’s hand so fast it was all he could do not to stumble after him as he spun around. “Where?”
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
“Too late.” Smithson took off without another word, pulling his shoulders back to make his chest stick out.
“I should rescue her,” Mugsy said, as they watched Smithson saunter up to Emma Koenig’s side. “Unless you want to?”
“I’m good,” Charlie said.
She frowned at him. “You sure? It’s not too much?”
“Nope,” he said, a little too quickly. “I’ll be fine over here,” he added, toning it down so Mugsy wouldn’t get suspicious. “The smoke bothers my contacts.”
That had been one of his father’s first requests.Lose the specs, son. At least it gave him an excuse to sit over here, where he had a decent sight line to Jean’s wagon. Charlie wanted to be sure he spotted her first. That way he could warn her about Smithson, apologize for costing her a job, keep Mr. Koenig from monopolizing her attention, and make sure she didn’t feel lonely. All very important and worthy tasks.
You just want to see her again,he admitted to himself. It was hard to think about anything beyond that. Distantly, Charlie understood that he should be wary of her motives, but all those things Mugsy said about Jean were like dusty mismatched socks tossed into the deepest darkness under the bed. Charlie knew he should get down on the floor and try to fish them out, but it just didn’t feel like a priority. There were other socks. Better socks. His favorite pair.
Because Jeanmustlike him at least a little if she’d come all thisway. That was Charlie’s working hypothesis: she was giving him a second chance. Everything else was a ball of dust in comparison.
“Where is the lovely Eve?” Mr. Koenig propped his boot on the hay bale Charlie was using as a lookout.
How was it fair that Mr. Koenig’s all-black western gear looked sleek and lived-in, like he was about to hold up a train, when according to Charlie’s father, the Koenigs were from Copenhagen?
“I’m sure she’ll be here.”
“Who could resist?” On that ambiguous note, the older man departed. He was immediately swallowed by the crowd of multinational grown-ups dressed in some approximation of frontier wear, including the first suede pantsuit Charlie had ever seen. Spicy-cocktail man was wearing two-tone denim, studded with metal rivets. It looked like one of the machines had gone haywire in the jeans factory.
There was only one Jean who mattered to Charlie, and there she was, stepping out of her wagon. He watched her glide across the grass, still wearing the sparkly shoes he’d picked out for her. As she moved into the light from the campfire, his throat went dry.
That was some dress.
Two perfect semicircles had been cut from the fabric between her hip and rib cage, like the designer knew exactly where a person would put his hands if he wanted to pick her up and set her on a piece of furniture. Or when he needed her to hold still for a few seconds because the sensations were too much, and he had to slow down to feel them all.
Her skin was bright as snow against the dark fabric, glowing in the flickering firelight. Charlie pressed the back of his fingers to his forehead. His face felt flushed despite the cool evening.
The musicians his parents had hired struck up an unfamiliar tune full of twanging banjos. They could have been playing “Happy Birthday” and he wouldn’t have recognized the melody.
“Jea—” he started to say, swallowing the rest of her name when she glared a warning. “I mean,gee,it’s nice to see you again,Eve.”
“I know.” She started to move past him.
“Could I talk to you about something?”
There was a pause before she answered. “I don’t know. Can you?”
Definitely a trick question. His eyes caught on Jean’s painted toenails, peeking out from under the thin strap of her fancy shoes. “It’s about the guest list.”Not this other thing you’re doing,he tried to telepathically convey. Or what happened before… between us.
He took a few steps away from the campfire and the dangling string lights, glancing back to see if she would follow. With a sigh, she joined him in the shadows, one dainty foot tapping with impatience.
“My parents hired a consultant. To help with the centennial and, um, branding.”
She waited for him to go on, the furrow of her brow saying,And?
“His name is Smithson. Smithson Oliver Barrett. His family is… also in the beer business.”
Jean spun around before he could gauge her reaction. She stomped a few paces, keeping her back to the rest of the gathering. It was hard to give her space when she looked so alone and small standing there. What Charlie really wanted was to tiptoe over and give her a hug, but he knew how it felt to need time to put yourself back together. Also a hug wasn’t something you should spring on a person stealthily, in the dark—unless you were playing naked hide-and-seek, which as far as Charlie knew was something Jean had invented. And that was more of an indoor game.
“A branding consultant,” she repeated, whipping around. “This was his idea? The cowboy schtick?” Jean looked Charlie upand down, as if noticing his outfit for the first time. Her mouth opened and then closed again, but at least she didn’t laugh.
