When We Fall (6 page)

“Yeah, right.” Allison sat down next to Charlotte on her tan Ultrasuede sofa, draping her gauzy orange-and-white-patterned maxidress over her tanned legs. “I swear I look better with a little makeup!”

“I was serious.” Sabrina nodded, visibly captivated by Allison's presence. “If this is you without makeup, we better watch our husbands, ladies.” Charlotte widened her eyes at Sabrina. “What?”

“I love your dress!” Missy smiled.

“Thanks.” Allison sliced a sliver of smoked Gouda and reached for a cracker.

“Richards?” Missy watched Allison covetously as she took a bite.

“Excuse me?”

“It's a clothing store in Greenwich,” Charlotte explained. She felt inexplicably protective of Allison.

“The
best
clothing store,” Missy elaborated.

“Definitely not Richards, then.” Allison laughed breezily. “More like Gap.”

“Oh, you shop there for yourself?” Sabrina asked interestedly. “I've never even looked in the adult section. I can barely get Gabriella to wear their pajamas anymore. Such a spoiled little thing. I'll have to check it out.”

“It was cheap and it's easy to throw on. Can't go wrong with that combo, right?”

Charlotte hid a smile. Most people were intimidated by Sabrina's imposing personality, but not Allison.

“I suppose not.” Sabrina turned to Missy and Charlotte. “So, as you guys know, Craig is out of town. Thank God.”

“Jealous!” Missy affirmed. “Isn't it the best when they go away?” Her eyes locked with Charlotte's and she looked down shamefully.

“The best,” Sabrina acknowledged. “Right, Charlotte?”

“I guess.” She fidgeted with the stiletto charm dangling from the stem of her wineglass. Why was it such a challenge for these two to spare a little sensitivity?

“Oh, please, just last week you were telling us how blissful it was without Charlie around. You said, and I quote, ‘Is it terrible that I want him to stay in Chicago for another week?'”

“You did say that.” Missy nodded.

“Does anyone want more wine?” Charlotte shot up from the couch.

“Might as well.” Missy's wineglass tottered between her fingers.

“I'll take a refill too,” Sabrina offered, clearly reluctant to relinquish control of the conversation.

“Allison, are you sure I can't get you anything other than water?”

“I'm fine with this for now, thanks.”

“Anyone home?”
Charlie's voice reverberated from the entryway, followed by the thud of the front door and Lolly's paws clambering down the marble staircase.

“What's he doing here?” Sabrina's face warped into a guise of disbelief.

“He said he'd be early, but . . .” Charlotte shrugged. Over the years, she'd become accustomed to tacking on two hours to whatever time Charlie had sworn he'd be home. In the
beginning, he'd been effusively apologetic, often presenting her with a bouquet of white calla lilies, her favorite, as a peace offering. Though, as time had passed, her unadulterated desire to be with him as many hours and minutes of the day as humanly possible had been crushed by her drive to hold him accountable for every second he was delayed.

“Hey, ladies.” Charlie strode into the room.

“Hi, honey.” Charlotte pecked him on the cheek, and his eyes scanned the room, landing on Allison.

“Ali!” He walked toward her determinedly, lifting her into a bear hug. “I still can't believe this.” He shook his head. “How are things? Are you settled in? Remind me where you guys are exactly.”

“We're on Rover Lane. Number fifteen.”

“I know it well. I used to shoot hoops with some of my buddies at the park on Weaver.”

“Yup, Turtle Park. Logan's already been there a handful of times with my dad.”

“That's right; I forgot you grew up around here. Well, that makes more sense. How are your parents?”

“Great. Thrilled. It's their dream come true to have their grandson within walking distance.”

“I'm sure.” He took his jacket off, tossed it onto a vacant chair, and sat down on the couch next to Allison, oblivious to anyone else in the room.

For the next fifteen minutes, Sabrina, Missy, and Charlotte were a captive audience as Allison and Charlie chatted animatedly, the conversation spanning from “that summer at Camp Tawana” to “when I heard about Jack” and finally landing on
the long fix-it list thumbtacked to a corkboard in Allison's art studio. A broken knob here. A leaky faucet there. The nagging nuisances that came with owning a house.

“I can help you take care of that stuff.” He patted her arm. “Don't let it stress you.”

“You don't even own a tool set.” This was Charlotte's opportunity to cut in. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen him so much as hammer a nail.

“I do so.” Normally he would've shot her a dirty look, but tonight he was on his best behavior. Charlotte could tell that Charlie cared what Allison thought and that they shared a common connection, even if that connection was a ghost.

It was easy to see why Charlie liked her. In many ways, Allison was the friend Charlotte had originally envisioned before moving from Manhattan to the suburbs. Instead, she'd fallen in with the “rich bitches,” as she'd heard some of the other moms refer to Sabrina and Missy. And probably to her too when she wasn't around. But Allison was different. She was the type of person you wanted to confide in, drop your defenses with, and open up to without reservation. The type of person who you hoped would be the keeper of your secrets, because you knew she wouldn't let them go or, worse, promulgate them.

“That would be great, Charlie. Thank you.” Allison smiled easily.

“My pleasure.” He smiled back, checking his watch. “Ugh. I've got to run upstairs to my office for a conference call with China. But I'll see you on Saturday?”

“You got it!”

“Excellent.” Charlie stood up, waving his hand cursorily behind him as he walked out. “Good seeing you, ladies.”

“I'll let you know when dinner is ready,” Charlotte called after him, but he was already gone.

“I
am man. Hear me roar!” Charlie poked his head into Allison's art studio, where she was sitting in front of a large canvas, wholly absorbed in the new piece she was creating. Typically, she had a plan, a clear vision for the final outcome of her design, but this time she was pleasantly unsure of where the journey would take her. Somehow, this endeavor felt different. She felt different.

“Huh?” Allison looked up, wearing a distracted expression on her face, which was full of paint smudges.

“Everything on your list is done.” He walked toward her, flexing his muscles good-humoredly and grinning all the while. He handed Allison the crumpled sheet of yellow legal paper she'd jotted her multiplying to-dos on.

“You are a god.” Allison laughed as he continued to grunt and pose like the bodybuilder he was not. She'd advised him to dress down for the occasion, promising dirt and dust mites in nooks and crannies she'd yet to have an opportunity to scour. Unfortunately for Charlie, his idea of casual was a
pair of expertly pressed chinos and a pinstriped button-down shirt, both of which were now smeared with grease. “Look at you. You're a mess!”

“I could say the same for you!” He motioned to one of the half dozen splattered old white T-shirts that had become her work uniform. “It's really no big deal.”

“Come on. That shirt looks nice.” Allison swept her hair into a loose bun.

“This old thing?” Charlie pointed to himself. “Had it since last I saw you.”

“Yeah, right.” Allison tilted her head and made a face. “At least let me take it to the dry cleaner.” She got up, dunked her paintbrushes in a cup of water, and led him into the kitchen.

“You know they have someone for that these days. It's called a—”

“Assistant?” Allison finished his sentence.

“I was going to say wife, but okay.” Charlie smirked.

“Chauvinist pig.” She wagged her finger in his direction. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“I am.” He hung his head in mock disgrace. “Seriously, though, don't worry about it. I've got about a dozen identical shirts in my closet.” He sat down on one of the barstools surrounding the center island and washed his hands in the copper farmhouse sink.

“I bet you do.” Allison snapped a dish towel in his direction and stood on her tippy-toes in a futile attempt to pull a platter from the top cabinet.

“Can I help you?” He watched her, visibly amused by the effort.

“Nope. You've exerted yourself enough already today.” She hoisted herself onto the counter for better leverage. “All those years of gymnastics classes are finally paying off.”

“Are you crazy? You're going to kill yourself.” Charlie rushed around the island to spot her. “Get down from there.”

“Okay, Dad.” Allison sat back down and hopped off herself, even though he insisted on supporting her to be safe.

“I hope you don't do that kind of thing all the time. You could fall and break your neck.” His expression was stern.

“Only out of necessity,” she replied breezily, gripping the oversized white Wedgwood platter in her hand and then placing it on top of an antique wooden cutting board she and Jack had received as a wedding gift from his now late aunt Sylvia. “By the way, how'd you manage to fix the drawer in Logan's room? I struggled with it for hours.” Allison was no Bob Vila, but she did know her way around a hammer and a power drill. Being handy was a skill she'd involuntarily developed over time, given the absence of a man around the house. Still, her capabilities were limited.

“Sheer talent.” He parked himself back on the barstool. “Do you have any water?”

“Oh my God! How rude am I? I've just put you to work for hours without so much as a cold beverage.” She opened the refrigerator. “We've got Evian, Pellegrino, apple juice, OJ, and . . .” She shuffled a few things around. “Corona.”

“That sounds great.” He wiped his sweaty brow with his already soiled shirt.

“Lime?”

“Even better.”

Allison knelt to open the crisper. “I think I'll join you.”
She grabbed two beers and set them down on the counter, fishing through a few different drawers for a bottle opener and the right knife. Her mom had unpacked most of the kitchen accessories. “Coming right up.” She popped off the tops and pushed a lime wedge into each. Adeptly, she covered the mouths of the bottles with her thumbs and flipped them upside down in either hand.

“What are you doing?” Charlie narrowed his grassy green eyes.

“You've never seen this trick?”

“Can't say that I have. What's the trick?”

“Good question.” She tried to keep a straight face. “I can't divulge all of my secrets, but it's definitely something to do with the lime getting all in there.”

“Ah, I see.” He laughed. “Very technical.”

“The technical-est.” She turned the beers over and passed one to him. “Let me at least give you some lunch.”

“I could be convinced to eat.”

“Excellent!” Allison rubbed her hands together. “We've got turkey, bologna, salami, roast beef, and various kinds of cheeses and breads. My mom's a little neurotic about keeping us well fed.” She went back to the refrigerator, calling over her shoulder, “If you're really adventurous, I've got leftover beef chili and chicken wings from last night.”

“From Anthony's?” His stomach growled on cue.

“Nope, Allison's.” She'd made a big batch of each the day before, putting both her new crockpot and the oven to use for the first time since moving in. There'd been no need to cook until all her mom's prepared meals had been devoured by one very hungry ten-year-old boy.

“You cook?” He looked dubious, and something told her that the kitchen was not Charlotte's realm.

“Only when my personal chef is off.”

“Very funny.” Charlie raked his fingers through his strawberry blond hair. “Forgive my incredulity, but finding a woman who cooks around here is like expecting it to snow in June. Improbable at best.”

“Well, ordering in every night in Manhattan wasn't an option. So I guess I learned somewhere along the way. I'm not half bad. I swear!”

“I'll take your word for it, but only if you join me.”

Ten minutes later, Allison and Charlie were sitting opposite each other on the couch with vat-sized bowls of chili and two plates of crispy chicken wings on the coffee table. She'd offered to set places for them along the breakfast bar if he preferred, but he'd said the sofa was fine. He'd even kicked off his brown leather Sperry boat shoes.

“Does this please your gourmet palate?”

“It's amazing.” He spoke with his mouth full. “Can't you tell? I'm practically shoveling it in.” Allison guessed that comfort food was not a staple in the Crane household, given that Charlie was slim and fit and Charlotte had mentioned something in passing about always having to watch her weight and Gia's.

“Good. They're Logan's favorites.”

“Well, don't let me near the rest of it, then, or there'll be none left.”

“I can always make more.” Like her mother, Allison took great pleasure in feeding people. Nourishing others nourished her in a way she couldn't explain.

“So how is it being back in Wincourt?” Charlie ladled a hearty bite of chili into his mouth. “Are you missing the city?”

“Strangely, not that much. In a way it's like that was a separate life.” She'd written practically the same thing in her journal the previous evening. “I know that sounds ridiculous, since we've only been here for a week and a half.”

“No, I get it.” He thought for a second. “It must have been hard for you.”

“What?”

“Being a single mom. Doing everything yourself.” Charlie set his bowl on the coffee table and wiped his mouth with the blue linen napkin in his lap.

“It wasn't always a picnic,” she admitted. “Thankfully, Logan was an easy baby.”

“Lucky you. Gia was a terror.” He grimaced. “She still is.”

“Girls are typically more difficult.”

“Have you met Gia?”

“Only briefly at school and then at your house.”

“Let's just say ‘difficult' is a walk in the park compared to how I'd describe my daughter.”

“I'm sure it'll get better.”

“From your mouth to God's ears.” He shook his head. “Either that or I might die of a heart attack at forty.” His face flushed. “Shit, sorry.”

“Okay, you seriously need to get over this or we can't be friends.”

“Over what?” Charlie feigned ignorance.

“The fact that every time you mention death, you're worried I'm going to be offended or injured, whatever it is.
People die, Charlie. It's okay.” She nodded. “It's actually really nice to have someone close by—other than my parents—who knew Jack.”

“He was one of the good ones.”

“Yes, he was.” Allison curled her legs under her. “And, like most men, he was also a pain in the ass sometimes. So let's not get too sappy here.” She smiled warmly, well aware that in some strange way, she was more comfortable talking about Jack than other people were.

“Do you remember that time at camp when he sprayed shaving cream under the covers of every bed in bunk nine?”

“How could I forget!” She giggled. “Whose shaving cream do you think that was?!”

“No wonder it smelled so pretty.” He laughed with her. “Man, I thought he was going to get kicked out for that. The look on Brenda's face . . .”

“You're telling me.”

Brenda and Arnie had been the owners of Camp Tawana back in the day. They'd sold it about a decade after Allison, Charlie, and Jack had gone there, by which time they must have been well into their sixties. The camp had been in Arnie's family for ages, and since neither Arnie nor his only sibling, Steve—also one of the owners and the tennis director—had any kids of his own, there'd been no reason to hold on to it. Everyone there, from the juniors to the seniors to the counselors, had been terrified of Brenda. Allison had never given it much thought at the time but years later had wondered if Brenda had been bitter about being tethered to Camp Tawana. When she'd first married Arnie, apparently he'd been an investment banker, and his father and mother
had been the ones spending their summers in Maine gathered around the flagpole each morning and falling asleep to “Taps” as early as nine o'clock every night. Wrangling seven hundred boisterous kids day in and day out for two straight months had to be exhausting.

The only person, to Allison's knowledge, who had not quaked in their Nike high-tops at the mere thought of having to answer to Brenda was Jack, even on the heels of “the Shaving Cream Incident,” as it had come to be known by generations of campers to follow. Allison and Charlie, on the other hand, had feared for Jack's life when Brenda had summoned him to her office. Now, of course, it seemed preposterous. What really could she have done, short of sending him home? It wasn't like she could have raised a hand to him. Or crossed the line past gently reprimanding him. Maybe she'd docked him a week of candy from the canteen—who could remember? But when Jack had resurfaced, after what had felt like hours, all his friends—and he'd had many—had been collectively relieved. Allison, for her part, had been so relieved she'd gone to second base with Jack an hour later on a musty green wool sofa in the counselors' lounge, which they'd snuck into, despite her attempt at convincing Jack that breaking yet another rule might not be in his best interest.

“I wonder where Brenda is today,” Charlie mused, dunking a chicken wing in blue cheese dressing.

“Divorced from Arnie.”

“Really?” Charlie seemed surprised.

“Are you kidding? They despised each other.”

“You think?” Men could be so clueless.

“I know.” Allison took a swig of beer. “She clenched her fists and gritted her teeth every time he spoke at the morning meeting. And the only time Arnie looked relaxed was when Brenda went home for a weekend to see their cats.”

“People with more than two cats can't be trusted,” Charlie declared.

“We agree on that.” The phone rang and Allison grabbed the cordless receiver off the side table next to her. She checked the number before answering. “Hi, Mom. . . . Yup. . . . Logan would love that. . . . Lasagna is perfect. . . . Six thirty is great. . . . Okay, sounds good . . . Love you too.” She hung up. “Family dinner tonight.”

“You mentioned they're really happy to have you here.” Charlie gestured toward the phone with his chin, as both hands were occupied—one with beer, one with chicken.

“You have no idea.”

“Makes me miss my folks.”

“They don't live around here?”

“They passed away.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“Yeah. My dad three years ago. And my mom about six months after that. I think losing him was too much for her.”

“I can understand that.”

“We were really close. Like you and your parents.”

“What about Charlotte? Does she have family nearby?”

“Just her sister, Elizabeth.” He rolled his eyes. “Don't get me started on her. And their parents live in Florida, which is just as well.”

“Got it.” Allison stood to take their plates to the sink. “I hate to rush you, but I promised I'd meet my dad and Logan
at Turtle Park in twenty minutes. You and Charlotte and Gia are welcome to join us.”

“Thanks, but they went shopping today.” He sighed. “Because neither of them has enough clothing.”

“Will I see you at the next Wine and Whine?” Allison raised an eyebrow.

“I try to stay away. Sabrina and Missy aren't exactly my favorite people.” He stood up and gathered the rest of the plates and utensils. “It'll be nice for Charlotte to have someone like you around.”