When We Fall (11 page)

“Hmm.” Allison scrunched her nose. “I don't know. I'm kind of shy about my art. I usually work with private collectors. Although I am crafting something now. It's still early days and I'm not sure where it's going, but it could be a good fit. I think.”

“Pretty please!” Charlotte clapped her hands together in a prayer position. “With a cherry on top . . . it's for a good cause.”

“I'll think about it.” Allison relented.

“So that's a yes?” Charlotte pressed.

“Maybe.” Allison laughed. “Okay, fine, yes. But the theme better not be erotica!”

“In Wincourt?” Charlotte chirped. “I don't think you have to worry about that!”

A
llison had returned from Canyon Ranch radiating a refreshed and rejuvenated glow. She'd spent the majority of the week painting prolifically while Logan was at school, completing three commissioned pieces by day and pouring her heart and soul into her new—and still persistently evolving—personal creation by night. She wasn't sure if she'd have nerve enough to donate it to the annual Wincourt Gala and Fund-raiser quite yet, but one thing was for certain: it was compelling her out of bed in the wee hours. She'd find herself wide awake at three a.m. so eager to return to it—to add even the smallest touch for fear of it fleeing her mind by morning—that falling back to sleep had become delightfully unfeasible.

Finally, Allison felt inspired. And at peace, a sensation that had been impossible to achieve while living in New York City. It was hard to believe that all you had to do was drive forty-five minutes north of Manhattan to inhale unpolluted air. Or to wander for miles devoid of the deafening
sirens of fire engines and police cars intruding on your meandering thoughts.

When she'd dropped Charlotte off at home and picked up Logan, he'd bounded into her arms and allowed her to give him a good, long squeeze in front of Charlie and Gia, which he rarely did now that he was a “big boy.” Charlie had reported that all had gone smoothly and had reminded Allison that he was planning to stop by over the weekend to attend to a few more things around her house. Charlotte, Allison noticed, had appeared somewhat apprehensive at the prospect of them being alone together, after all that she'd confided to her on their trip. So before leaving, Allison had pulled her aside and whispered, “What happens at Canyon Ranch stays at Canyon Ranch,” and then winked in an effort to comfort her. Charlotte had nodded, smiling cautiously. If she was still anxious, at least Allison had tried.

•   •   •

“I
can't believe what great bones this place has.” Charlie walked into the kitchen, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his heather gray Camp Tawana sweatshirt. “I've always wanted to say that, by the way.”

“And I can't believe you still have
that
.” She motioned to his sweatshirt and handed him a tall glass of ice water with a wedge of lemon affixed to the rim. “And so casual. Who are you?”

“I'm glad you noticed.” He grinned proudly. “I got it at one of the reunions and wore it just for you. And as a shout-out to Jack, of course.” He motioned to the ceiling. Or heaven. Either one.

“I'm sure he heard you.” She laughed, wrapping her arms
around her torso, as a shiver shimmied up her spine. “Any chance you can do something about the heat? Or lack thereof.” December had been brutally cold and January wasn't promising to thaw the arctic chill.

“Unfortunately, that's beyond my skill set.” He sat down on one of the barstools at the counter. “But I'll ask Charlotte who we use and get back to you with a name.”

“Excellent.” She opened the refrigerator. “Now, what can I offer you?”

“I'm fine.” He shook his head, taking a sip of water.

“Seriously, what have you done with Charlie Crane?” She turned to face him, holding the door open to reveal shelves swollen with bundles of vibrant fruits and vegetables, thick hunks of hard and soft cheeses, and containers filled with hearty leftovers that she knew Charlie would devour greedily but gratefully if she insisted, which she would. It was their unspoken agreement. He worked. She fed. And everyone came away satisfied.

“Really, I don't want you to feel like you have to prepare a meal for me every time I come here to help you out with something. If anything,
I
owe
you
.” He looked away momentarily.

“Why would you owe me?” She arched an eyebrow.

“It's just, you know, Jack was my friend.”

“I'm sorry, we don't accept pity for payment at Chez Parker.” Allison let the refrigerator door swing shut on its own.

“Oh no, I didn't mean it like that,” he fumbled.

“Great. Then how does turkey meatloaf sound? Side of mashed potatoes?” She spun back around before he could answer, gathering the fixings in her arms. It was nice, after so much time had elapsed, to finally be able to cook for a
man again. Sure, there was Logan's bottomless pit of a belly to satiate, but it hadn't been until recently that he'd really started appreciating her epicurean talents outside of plain pasta with butter and macaroni and cheese from the box. And still his preteen taste buds were prohibitive.

Allison would never forget the time that Logan's first-grade teacher, Ms. Kotter, had told her how he'd bragged to everyone in his class that his mother made the best cereal for breakfast. Initially she'd been mortified, swearing up and down that she'd tried to entice him with eggs, pancakes, French toast—even homemade granola—but all he'd eat was either a bagel with cream cheese or a heaping bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Ms. Kotter had giggled, informing Allison that she was probably one of the few moms at school who actually made her child breakfast and that she should take it as a compliment rather than a critique.

“You spoil me so.” Charlie washed his hands in the sink next to her and sat back down. “I keep meaning to tell you what a delight it was to have Logan last weekend. He's such an amazing kid.”

“Thanks. I try.” She smiled, knowing full well it had little to do with her. Logan had been a unique, compassionate, and easy child practically from day one.

“Seriously, most of Gia's friends are total brats. Logan was
so
polite, I think I finally had to tell him he didn't need to thank me for making him an apple. I was like, ‘Dude, I swear, all I did was take it out of the bowl and hand it to you.' And Gia was much better behaved when he was around. I think he shamed her into submission with his charming disposition. I wish Charlotte would take a page from your book.”

“I own no responsibility for Logan's fabulousness.” Allison dolloped a generous mound of mashed potatoes on top of a thick slice of meatloaf and slipped it into the microwave to heat up.

“Well, you should.”

“I'm telling you. He's always been that way.”

“Yea, but nurture definitely plays a big part.”

“Or is it nature?”

“Can we agree it's a little of both?”

“Fine, I'm mother of the year,” Allison teased and set the tantalizing plate of food in front of Charlie, who licked his lips appreciatively. “But so is Charlotte.”

“She's a total pushover.”

“Hey.” Allison waved her index finger. “Until you've walked a mile in her shoes . . .”

“You mean the five-hundred-dollar shoes I buy every other month?”

“Very funny.”

“By the way, this is ridiculously delicious.” He spoke with his mouth full, and Allison caught herself before reprimanding him. “I wish Charlotte would take a page from your cookbook too!”

“Jeez, you're tough.” Allison handed him a napkin, wondering if everything Charlotte had said about Charlie was true. She'd listened to her litany of gripes, thinking that, while she imagined Charlie wasn't perfect, he couldn't be anything but the easygoing guy she'd spent so many summers with and shared so many happy memories with, some bittersweet. Sure, people changed. But could his personality really be that different behind closed doors? Allison had
never been anything but transparent, possibly to a fault, and Charlie hadn't given her any indication that he'd transformed so drastically. Possibly until now. “I'm sure Charlotte possesses plenty of gifts that I don't. For one, she's very intuitive. Have you noticed? She understands people. You know, how and why they operate. I, on the other hand, am typically surprised as hell when someone does something out of character.”

“Interesting . . .” He didn't seem all that interested. “Well, she's also stubborn. There's more to Charlotte than meets the eye. And I'm
always
the bad guy.” Charlie was visibly agitated for the first time in Allison's presence.

“Whoa, there. No one said you were the bad guy. It's not black-and-white.” Allison took a step back, literally and figuratively. “In fact, I shouldn't have said anything.” Could Charlotte have told Charlie that she'd divulged so many personal details about their relationship to Allison? It seemed highly unlikely, but in the heat of the moment, people often said and did things they couldn't control and would later regret.

“No, no. It's just . . . I . . . we . . . there are problems.”

“I see.” She nodded, quieted by the awkward position of figuring out whether to lie—to pretend that she didn't know about their deep-seated issues—or to admit that Charlotte had opened up and then some. After all, hadn't Charlie been her friend to start? But then again, so much time had passed, and for whatever reason, Allison felt a sudden allegiance to Charlotte.

“It's a lot of fighting.” He put his fork down next to the unfinished slice of meatloaf, an immediate indication that he was off-kilter. “And the thing is, I work hard all day. Really
hard. Then it's always a battle over something or other when I come home. Like why I didn't take the trash out that morning or why I was three minutes later than I said I was going to be. I can't be held to impossible standards. It's exhausting.”

“I'm sure.” She refilled his glass with more water, reminding herself that there were always three sides to every story. His. Hers. And the truth.

“I hate to say this, but when I come here it's so . . . simple. If I asked Charlotte to heat me up some food in the microwave, like you just did, she'd do it, but not without making me feel lazy or guilty.”

“It's different.”

“How so?”

“I'm not your wife. You don't have to live with me, and I don't have any bottled-up resentment. Plus, I don't think it's fair to compare her to anyone else.”

“I'm telling you. She's not the same person when she's around other people as she is at home, with me.”

“Sorry, I didn't mean to make you feel like I was defending her. Honestly, it's probably better that I stay out of it altogether.” Allison attempted a compassionate smile but suspected it came off as awkward at best. The last thing she needed or wanted was to be caught in the middle of Charlie and Charlotte's rancorous game of he said, she said, or worse, become an unwilling pawn in their warfare.

“No, it's okay. I'm sorry. It gets me worked up. I didn't mean . . .” He smiled sheepishly. “It's nice to have someone to talk to about it is all. In case you haven't noticed, I don't have a lot of friends.”

“Well, I guess you're in luck.” She laughed. “Because neither do I!”

“It won't be long before everyone in town wants a piece of you. So I'm staking my claim now!”

“Claim staked.” The doorbell rang. “That'll be my mom.” Charlie stood up. “Don't worry. She'll let herself in.”

“Hi, sweetheart,” Allison's mother called out on cue. “I've got a car full of groceries.” Allison had urged her mother, during her short time home before heading back to California, to concentrate on her friend's recovery—the sole reason for her return—but as expected she'd already been to the supermarket twice and had taken any and every opportunity to stop in to see her grandson. Poor Loretta was probably being sidelined.

“I'll go help.” Charlie rushed toward the foyer and minutes later returned lugging four brimming brown paper bags with her mother trailing behind him, offering direction.

“Where can I find one of these?” Allison's mother pointed to Charlie. “What a gentleman.”

“Your wish is my command.” Charlie smiled beguilingly.

“Ooh, I like him even more now.”

“Mom, Charlie. Charlie, Mom.” Her mother's perma-grin wilted. As Allison had figured, her mother had thought—more like hoped—that Charlie was a love interest. Not a married man and the former best childhood friend of her dead husband. Even to Allison, who knew better, it sounded like a
Jerry Springer
segment.

“Nice to finally meet you.”

“What? You don't remember me from Camp Tawana visiting day?” he joked.

“All I remember about Camp Tawana visiting day is her father carrying twice as many grocery bags as you just did. God forbid you kids had gone eight weeks without junk food.”

“That's right!” Charlie turned to Allison. “And then, do you remember, we'd run around hiding chips and candy all evening, thinking we were smarter than the counselors?”

“How could I forget?”

“Steven Jones!” They shouted his name in unison.

Their last summer at Tawana, Steven Jones had concocted the seemingly revolutionary scheme of digging holes in the woods and burying the leftover spoils in the ground. The staff would never bother to look there, he'd maintained. And he'd been absolutely correct in that assumption. What he had not considered, however, was that the squirrels, coyotes, foxes, raccoons, and bears would. They'd had to evacuate the entire camp for twelve hours, until all of the buried food had been unearthed and the wildlife commission had declared the property kid-safe once again.

“What an idiot.” Allison started unpacking a sack of potatoes.

“That idiot is now a partner at Goldman Sachs with about a billion dollars in the bank.”

“Fine. So he's a rich idiot.”

“Fair enough.” Charlie looked at his phone. “That's weird. I have fifteen missed calls.”

“Sorry, I should have told you cell reception is terrible here.” She handed her mom can after can of crushed tomatoes and white beans to fill the pantry. “If you want to listen to your messages or make a call, you'll probably want to step
outside on the porch.” He nodded, walking in that direction, with the phone already glued to his ear.