“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.
