Page 27

While Charlie sopped up the spill, Mr. Koenig led Jean to the sofa, still holding her hand.

They sat side by side, too close together for Charlie’s comfort.

He started to drag himself in that direction, then remembered he wasn’t built for serpentine locomotion and awkwardly swung his legs around.

Emma Koenig acknowledged his struggles with a slow blink.

Jean didn’t even glance at him. His heart plummeted.

It wasn’t because she seemed so taken by a smooth older man that she hadn’t paid the slightest attention to Charlie.

(Well, it wasn’t only that.) Charlie had just remembered a crucial piece of information.

If Jean looked in this direction, she might see Smithson through the patio doors.

She would be devastated! And then she would hate it here and want to leave! On top of which Charlie would have to call Smithson out, causing a scene that would give his dad a stroke. He forced himself to check the patio, gasping in relief when he realized the entire group had migrated out of sight.

“Close your mouth,” Mrs. Pike chided, crouching next to Charlie with a handful of paper towels. “You’re making Emma feel bad.”

How can you tell? Charlie wondered. The younger Koenig was lost in the pages of her book, like nothing else mattered. It was another trick Charlie wished he could learn, though he wasn’t looking to hide in plain sight right now. If Jean was in the world, he wanted to be there too.

“I’m going to introduce you now,” his mother whispered, “so try to be calm.”

Could she hear the frantic pounding of his heart? Calm might as well be the moon for all the hope Charlie had of getting from here to there.

“Charlie, this is Eve.”

His smile faltered. “What?”

“Eve. E-V-E. Like in the Bible. She’s Sockless Tommy’s niece.”

Charlie looked from his mother to Jean, waiting for one of them to correct the record. “I don’t understand?”

“It’s three letters, dear. You’ll get there.” Mrs. Pike patted him on the cheek. “Eve, this is Emma. She’s scientific, like our Charlie.”

“Not exactly like,” Emma replied, without looking up. “I study more complex creatures.”

“My Emma is a doctor,” Mr. Koenig informed the room.

“A doctor of psychology,” his daughter said. “I can’t remove your appendix.”

Charlie put a hand to where he thought his appendix was, relieved surgery was off the table.

“She will analyze you,” her father warned. “Hard to keep secrets around this one.”

“I told you not to try, Papa.” Emma turned a page.

“That’s a useful skill in business.” It sounded like Charlie’s dad was congratulating Mr. Koenig on his daughter’s degree, as if he’d written the dissertation himself. “Psychology, that is. Unlike snakes!”

“I don’t study consumer behavior.” Emma sounded mildly offended, as if he’d accused her of working retail.

“I was never one for the books myself,” Charlie’s father announced, in case any of them had missed his athletic physique.

“More of an outdoors type.” As if realizing he might be offending Emma, he made a quick pivot.

“We here at Pike’s are big supporters of science.

In fact, we recently funded a research expedition in Australia.

They were nice enough to let Charlie tag along.

It’s good to give the young people a chance to spread their wings before they settle into the business. ”

Charlie was afraid to look at Jean in case she thought he’d bought his way onto that trip. He was almost positive he’d earned his place.

“Isn’t this nice?” Charlie’s mother said, ignoring the strained atmosphere. “Charlie and Emma, reunited. Did you know he has a snake named Emma?”

Unlike his dad, Charlie’s mom didn’t try to sweep their son’s interest in snakes under the rug. On the other hand, she still talked about it like a childish hobby, on par with Legos or Pokémon. Not something you’d go to grad school for, much less make a career of.

“Emma means universal,” bipedal Emma pointed out. “It’s a common name.”

“My Emma isn’t common. She has magnificent ventral scales.”

“I bet he says that to all the girls,” Jean murmured, earning a bark of laughter from Mr. Koenig.

“We took him to Reptile Gardens at an impressionable age,” Mrs. Pike said, in the tone of someone confessing a childhood head injury. “Somewhere between the alligators and the chickens, he fell in love and never looked back. My Charlie is all about commitment.”

Jean made a sound that might have been a snort.

“I have antihistamines,” Emma said, sparing her a brief glance.

“How nice for you,” Jean replied.

Charlie took a tentative step toward the couch. “What—I mean. When… ah. How was your trip?”

“I don’t do small talk,” Jean said, still not looking at him.

“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 small hmm from 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 a flood 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 with The 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 see I’m so happy to see you or I missed you too or even just Hello, Charlie .

Instead of which he’d gotten I 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 swinging fringe 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 sharp thwack, 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.

“I can carry that for you.” He started to reach for the tray.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Charlie?” His mother’s worried voice stopped him in his tracks.

It seemed like a terrible idea now that she’d reminded him of his ongoing struggle with gravity. Conscious of Jean watching, Charlie made up his mind, grabbing the tray with both hands.

Was this how tightrope walkers felt? He tried to lock his arms to his sides, but the liquid still sloshed like there was a storm brewing in the glasses.

Step by step, barely breathing, he crossed the living room.

Just a few more feet to the coffee table, and yet it seemed to take an hour, possibly because he was moving in slow motion.

“Oh thank God,” his mother breathed, pressing a hand to her heart when the tray came to rest on a solid surface.

If carrying six glasses from point A to point B was more than his parents thought he could handle, how did they expect him to take over an entire company? He waited until Jean was seated to deliver her drink, hoping to finagle a spot beside her on the couch.

At the last second he lost his nerve, due to the unfortunate placement of a throw pillow and Jean’s steadfast refusal to look at him.

Charlie wound up hovering at the edge of the group, without so much as a wall to lean against. His parents were probably waiting for him to join in the conversation, but Charlie didn’t want to compete with Philip Koenig and his anecdotes about playing polo with minor royalty or sponge diving in Crete.

He wanted to talk to Jean, without anyone else listening.

That was the only way he could be himself, even if she was being someone else.

His father caught Charlie’s eye, trying to telegraph something with jerky head movements and a patently fake ahem .

Probably he meant go talk to Emma, but Charlie was pretty sure that was a doomed strategy.

Far more polished people than Charlie would perish on the frozen tundra of Emma Koenig’s reserve.

Charlie was more likely to annoy her than win her over, which was how he justified his decision to ignore his dad and sidle up to Jean instead.

“Thank you for the drink,” he said, showing Jean his empty glass like she was handing out gold stars for finishing first. “It was very refreshing.”

Although he probably shouldn’t have gulped it down that fast, judging by the beads of sweat breaking out along his hairline. He racked his brain for something to say that would remind Jean of happier times. A coded message only she would understand.

“It’s something I’ll always treasure . Like a winning poker hand. Or… a jungle hideaway.”

“Charlie,” his mother said, in a tone of gentle reproof. “Why don’t you take the tray back to the kitchen? Just the tray. Leave the glasses.”

There was no way to refuse without looking like a jerk. Charlie edged around the coffee table, hunched and shuffling as he tried to avoid sticking his rear end in anyone’s face. He was only mildly surprised when he stumbled over an unseen obstacle.

“I’m okay,” he said, managing to right himself before he hit the carpet again.

“My shoe isn’t.” Jean held up her sandal, shaking the broken laces. “You ruined it!”