This is the fanciest care facility on the mainland, so I’m not surprised to find it smells like vanilla and has the aura of a spa instead of a rehabilitation facility. The woman at the front smiles kindly at us and gives us nametags before pointing us back toward Ms. Marcia’s room. My palms are sweaty the closer we get because I know I’m about to see Charles.
But I am not prepared for what I find.
Charles is in a cozy chair pulled up right beside Ms. Marcia’s bed, and he’s got extra-large sunshine-yellow yarn to the left of him in a bag and a half-finished-looking blanket in his lap. They’re doing hand knitting together, something Ms. Marcia has done for decades. My favorite blanket was made by her with more love than I ever thought possible.
“I just thinkSurvivorshould end by now, you know? They’re doing the same things over and over. Maybe it would be interesting if they send them to Antarctica instead of atropical island,” Ms. Marcia says in a no-nonsense sort of tone that I’ve grown quite fond of over the years. “They need to get a little more diabolical about location.”
“But then they couldn’t be half naked without getting frostbite,” Charles points out without missing a beat.
Ms. Marcia looks thoughtful for a moment before nodding in agreement. “You’re right. We’d give up the nudity for frostbite.”
“Are we interrupting?” River asks with laughter in his voice.
Charles turns around in shock, his gaze softening ever so slightly when he spots me, before going bashful because of the yarn wrapped around his big hands. I grin at him and his smile turns warmer, less shy.
“No. No, dear, not at all. We were having our weekly knitting session.”
“Sounded more like a complaining-about-Survivorsession to me,” River snarks as he makes his way over to her bed and plants a kiss on her cheek. “How are you doing?”
Ms. Marcia gently pats River’s cheek. “I’m just fine, River. I hear you’re handling the lantern festival with grace and flair.”
River stands up straighter with a disbelieving face. “Oh, do you?”
“Yes. Gilbert said so.”
“Did he?” River asks, tone three octaves higher.
Ms. Marcia nods approvingly. “Yes. He says you’ll sell out the festival easily this year. I’m sure he’s right. You’ve always been successful at everything you set your mind to. Right, Tucker?”
“Right,” I say before River can even attempt to argue.
River’s shoulders lower from around his ears. “If I sell it out, do you think I can do it on a more permanent basis?”
“I don’t see why not. After all, I’ll die one day.”
“Marcia!” all three of us shout at the same time.
Ms. Marcia just shrugs, but it’s not apologetic at all. “The grim reaper comes for all of us. Now, I hope at leastoneof you brought me some contraband or there will be hell to pay.”
River rolls his eyes fondly and hands over the thermos filled with pumpkin spice coffee and the bag with the heavily glazed cinnamon roll. She beams at the three of us, then we all devolve into chatting for a little while. Charles packs up the yarn and kisses Ms. Marcia’s cheek, and we all walk out together. Something about Charles having a weekly knitting session with Ms. Marcia makes me want to tug him into my arms and sway back and forth while kissing all over his cheeks. It’s disgusting and domestic all at once. He’s kind of perfect.
“Listen,” River says gravely once we’ve stepped outside. “I need to run an errand on the mainland that could take a while. Charles, could you give Tucker a ride back home?”
“River—” I start to reprimand him but Charles interrupts quickly with an, “I’d be happy to.”
I snap my mouth shut. River grins so widely you’d think he won the lottery. I watch him skip off toward his SUV while Charles and I stand silently under the bright sunshine.
With a sigh, I follow Charles toward his truck and swallow a million different emotions when he opens the passenger door for me. He looks good today in tight blue jeans, beat-up athletic shoes, and a San Diego shirt that’s seen much better days. I wonder how long he’s going to let his hair grow before he trims it, especially since it’s long enough for him to tuck behind his ears now.
Charles points the truck back toward the island as Nolan Hastings plays on the radio. It’s his most recent album, so it’smore hopeful than depressing, which makes me smile for some unknown reason.
“How’s Cupcake?”
Charles grins without taking his gaze off the road. “She’s back to her normal self.”
“Bossing you around and begging for treats?” I ask with one eyebrow raised.
He chuckles in agreement. “Yes, she’s got me wrapped around her… paw?”
