Page 31

“That’s why I’ll always be a deep-sea guy,” Smithson was saying as they approached.

“When you bring in a giant swordfish, it’s a fight to the death.

” He did some flexing and bending to illustrate.

“But no shade to fly-fishing. I’m sure standing in a creek is nice too.

Especially with a cold beer.” He raised his bottle to a brewer from Montana.

“Patronizing, party of one,” Jean muttered as she stepped into his line of sight.

Smithson flashed her what he probably thought was an irresistible grin. “Hello, hello. Smithson Oliver Barrett.” He held out a hand, which Jean pointedly ignored. “Who’s your daddy?”

Two hay bales to Charlie’s right, Emma Koenig jotted a few lines in a pocket-size notebook.

“Seriously?” Jean said to Smithson.

“Go on. What’s your poison? Tequila? Rum? Something a little spicier?”

The hot-cocktail guy yodeled an ear-piercing, “Yeehaw!”

“In case we end up doing business together.” Smithson did some twitchy things with his face, like the “business” in question might not actually be business related.

There was no indication that he recognized Jean from their high school days, which was even more incomprehensible to Charlie than the catchphrase Get Piked .

Should anyone be that excited about getting stabbed?

“That’s not going to happen.”

Smithson kept talking as if Jean hadn’t spoken. “You’re with the Finns, aren’t you?” He flicked a finger under his nose, implying that their Finnish guests were either snobs or recreational drug users. “Tell your dad I have some ideas he’ll want to hear.”

“Oh, right. Because I couldn’t possibly be running my own business. I must be here with a man.”

“My bad.” Smithson pretended to slap himself on the cheek, unfortunately stopping short of actual contact. “Feminism, wut wut. For real, though. Who are you with?”

Jean’s smile was dangerous. Charlie had never seen this side of her, but like most parts of Jean, he found it more than a little exciting. “You don’t recognize me?”

“Mmm, nope. You have an OnlyFans?” Smithson sucked on his beer in a way that made Charlie want to yank it out of his hand and dump it over his head.

His father joined them too late to hear that charming remark. Smithson’s posture changed as he greeted Mr. Pike.

“If it isn’t the man of the hour. You having a good time, sir?”

“Couldn’t be better. It’s the perfect mix of paying tribute to the past and celebrating the future.” Charlie’s dad spread his hands to indicate the young people gathered around Smithson.

“Everything old is new again.” Smithson delivered this bit of wisdom as if he’d come up with it himself. “I’m helping them recontextualize to reach a younger demographic,” he told Jean.

“We’re telling a story about legacy,” Mr. Pike chimed in. “Family. Honoring our roots. It’s not every business that can say it’s been around for a hundred years.”

“And we want to keep it around for a hundred more.” Smithson leaned forward to fist-bump Charlie’s father. “Leave it to me, C-Money. Where I lead, people follow.”

Charlie had never found occasion to fist-bump his dad. The few times it felt like they were seeing eye to eye, it turned out to be more like when a bird thinks, hey, a friend right before crashing into a reflective pane of glass.

“Cards, anyone?” No one was more surprised than Charlie to hear the words fly out of his mouth. He just wanted Jean to be happy, and ideally also to change the subject so Smithson would stop monologuing about his personal awesomeness.

“What are we playing?” Emma asked, setting down the notebook in which Charlie imagined she’d been writing SMITHSON SUCKS over and over.

“Um, poker?”

“That’s for tomorrow, sweetheart.” Mrs. Pike handed him a basket of cheese straws, tipping her head to indicate he should pass them around. “We’re taking everyone up to Deadwood to see a real saloon. But good for you, being sociable,” she added, patting him on the arm.

“How about horseshoes? Would you like to play with me, Eve?” He felt the color creeping into his cheeks when he heard how it sounded, but hopefully no one else could tell by firelight. At least it wasn’t cornhole, a name Charlie could never say without cringing.

“I had you down as more of a library warrior, Two Buck.” Smithson laughed, but Charlie had seen the mean look in his eye, and knew it wasn’t a friendly nickname. “Two Buck Chuck. Get it?”

Before Charlie could answer, Smithson turned to Mr. Pike. “About time for the announcement, don’t you think, big guy?”

Charlie’s dad had always been sensitive about his height.

Mugsy’s theory was that many of the problems in their relationship stemmed from the fact that Charlie was several inches taller than Mr. Pike.

Whether or not that was true, Smithson had cracked the code for sweet-talking Charlie’s father, who rubbed his hands together in delight.

Uh-oh. Charlie had a bad feeling. Mugsy joined them, frowning at the geometry of the scene: Smithson and Mr. Pike over there, Charlie standing apart.

“They’re about fifteen minutes out,” she informed Charlie’s dad.

Jean glanced sharply at Mugsy, then at Charlie, before lowering her head so her hair fanned in front of her face.

Smithson handed his beer to a guy in a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off. “Listen up, y’all. Everybody getting their cowboy on tonight? I feel like Kevin Costner!”

“Hear, hear!” said Mr. Pike.

“Give it up for the Pike family, for putting on this spread. Charles and Sandy, and of course my boy Chuck.” He hit Charlie with double finger guns. “Let’s show them some love.” There was a smattering of applause.

Jean shot Charlie a furious look.

“I’m not his boy,” he whispered. “He’s just saying that.”

“Now, we promised you entertainment,” Smithson went on, like this was his show. “Some of you had your suspicions about our special guest.”

“Reba,” Haggard of the red-hot cocktails bellowed.

Smithson frowned. “It’s not Reba.”

“Crystal Gayle?” one of the Canadians asked.

“Never heard of her.” Smithson circled a finger in the air. “Come on, people. It’s obvious. Huge star. Totally on brand with the fam.”

“You have Dolly?”

Charlie thought that might have been the whiskey guy, but it was hard to tell once everyone started buzzing about Dolly Parton. A tuneless rendition of “Jolene” was floating through the crowd when Smithson clanged a cowbell he must have pried out of the hands of one of the musicians.

“It’s not Dolly. Or The Chicks. Or Beyoncé,” he added when the pear brandy guy from Oregon raised a hand. “Hit it,” he yelled at the band.

Mugsy rubbed her mouth. Charlie wasn’t aware she felt that way about bluegrass, but maybe mandolin music was like cilantro: either you liked it, or it made you physically ill.

Between the warbling and the jangling and the whine of the harmonica, it took a few minutes for his brain to travel from “that sounds familiar” to “oh no.”

He watched awareness spread through the group, more and more of them turning to stare at him.

Charlie’s dad was clapping along, encouraging everyone to join in, like this wasn’t a song about his son’s alleged sex life.

Overshadowing the embarrassment was a sharp prick of fear: Did Jean know?

He tried to catch her eye, but she was staring at the ground, spine rigid.

So that was a yes.

“That’s right,” Smithson yelled, “Adriana Asebedo is playing a private concert, right here, Sunday night!”

While everyone celebrated around them, Charlie turned to Mugsy. “Did you know about this?”

Her wince said it all.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You had a lot on your plate. I didn’t want you to panic.”

Jean dumped the contents of her tin cup on the grass.

“You’re leaving?” Charlie asked when she stood.

“Why, is there another big announcement? New single dropping? An engagement?” Her eyes flashed as she glared up at him.

“No!” It was hard to concentrate when she was standing this close. “It’s nothing like that.”

“Do I know you?” Mugsy interrupted.

“I’m Eve. Sockless Tommy’s niece.” Jean twisted a strand of hair around her finger, pulling it in front of her face.

Mugsy looked like she had more questions until her phone buzzed, distracting her.

“Is she here?” Smithson demanded, shoving a path through the crowd. “I should go welcome her. Help her get settled in.”

“It’s a tour bus,” Mugsy said.

“That’s basically a house on wheels,” Jean added. “All you have to do is park.”

She and Mugsy exchanged a look of reluctant allyship, as though surprised to find themselves on the same side of the argument.

“I need you here.” Mr. Pike clapped Smithson on the back. “The party’s still going strong. Why don’t we let Charlie handle this? I’m sure he and Adriana have catching up to do.” The part he didn’t say, but Charlie heard loud and clear, was that no one really needed him to stick around.

Smithson’s smile was forced, but he followed Mr. Pike back to the buffet, where the other guests were filling plates with grilled wild game sausages and beans.

“You should eat something,” Charlie said, in a desperate bid to keep Jean from disappearing. “Or we could take a walk? To look at the stars.”

“Those stars?” She jabbed a finger skyward, where pinpricks of light were scattered like glitter. “Sounds like you have your hands full anyway.”

Emma Koenig came to stand beside Mugsy. “I’ve never been a fan of sausage.”

“Are you a vegetarian?” Charlie asked.

“That too,” Emma said, with another glance at Mugsy.

Charlie had the distinct impression there was a second conversation happening under the surface, but he didn’t have time to figure it out because Jean was walking away.

“Wait,” he called after her.

“No,” she answered.

Mugsy grabbed his arm when he made to follow. “You heard her, Charlie.”

“I know, but I really need to talk to her. She thinks… something that isn’t true.” He tried to say the rest with his eyes. It was tricky in the dark, especially with Emma standing right there, ready to write a diagnosis in her notebook.

Lovesick fool. Symptoms: repetitive thought patterns. Difficulty regulating body temperature. Mood swings.

“Whatever it is, you can sort it out tomorrow,” Mugsy said. “First things first.”

The dismissiveness hurt, until Charlie remembered that Mugsy didn’t know the girl in the blue dress was Jean— his Jean—not the random relative of a booze tycoon. Maybe not the best moment to open that can of worms.

His father flicked two fingers in a run along gesture. He was probably banking on a romantic reunion between his son and a chart-topping pop star, perfectly timed to coincide with the company’s centennial. The weight of his father’s expectations pressed down on Charlie, driving out a sigh.

“Fine,” Mugsy said, misreading his reluctance. “I’ll go with you.”

She said good night to Emma before leading Charlie away from the campfire.

“The wagons are over there,” Charlie pointed out. “Also, I should probably go alone. Since the two of you just met—”

“We’re going back to the house.”

“What? Why?”

“Because then your dad will think you did what he wanted.”

“Mugsy, I don’t have anything to say to Adriana.”

“I know, Charlie. That’s why I’m going to talk to her for you.”

“And I can sneak back to the wagons?” He glanced behind them, calculating the stealthiest route.

“Absolutely not. You’re going to hide in your room, so no one sees you not hanging out with Adri.” Mugsy shoved him in the arm. “And you can get your alone time. You’re welcome.”

She picked up the pace, putting a conversation-ending gap between them.