One Golden Summer(29)

Charlie steps beside me. “All you have to do is jump. I’ll go first. I’ll be down there if anything happens.”

My head snaps in his direction. “I thought you said this was safe.”

“It is safe. But I’ll still be there.”

Staring back at the water, I take a deep breath, in and out. “I’m turning thirty-three tomorrow. You’d think I’d be a little braver.”

“I think the older we get, the scarier shit becomes.”

It’s kind of profound. I narrow my eyes. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-five.” Charlie’s voice is so grim I laugh, but it dies in my throat at his expression.

“Is it really so bad?”

“Nah.” He sounds light, but there’s a trace of something like sorrow in his eyes. “Every year we get is precious.”

There’s more to the story—I feel it in my gut.

I don’t know Charlie well enough to pry, but every bone in my body softens with the need to place a grin back upon his lips. I take a few large steps back from the edge.

“What are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Charlie’s mouth opens, but he doesn’t try to stop me. I stare down the granite ledge, fill my lungs, and then I run, launching myself off the cliff with as much force as I can. I hurtle through the air, arms circling.

It’s over quickly. My smile breaks through the surface, and I plunge into the cool depths of the lake. When the downward pull eases, I flutter my legs, returning to daylight and oxygen. I spin in the water just in time to see Charlie jump. I’m laughing, pushing my hair out of my eyes, when he bobs up beside me. His grin shines like morning sun over the bay. The dimples. The creases hugging the corners of his eyes. The water running down his nose.

Click.

Charlie sends a gentle flick of water into my face. “So much for being afraid.”

I splash back, exhilarated. “Race you to shore.”

We jump twice more, the last time in tandem. Then we climb on the Jet Ski, and as my hair whips behind me, I try not to examine why I feel looser than I have in months, or the reason my cheeks hurt from smiling, or why my skin heats whenever my knee bumps Charlie’s thigh.

When we get to the big end of Kamaniskeg, Charlie points out where, on still days, you can see the wreckage of the Mayflower, a paddle steamer that sank in a winter storm more than a century ago. He tells me how three passengers survived by hanging on to a casket.

“When it’s windy, the whitecaps in this part of the lake can be dangerous,” he says. Even now, when there’s not much more than a breeze, waves disrupt the surface. Charlie turns to make sure I’m listening.

“Got it.”

“It could be unsafe in John’s little boat.” He stares at me, unblinking.

“Okay.”

He nods, satisfied, and then we’re bombing across miles and miles of open blue. It’s rough here, and Charlie goes fast. Once we make it to the mouth of a river, he drops the speed, and I breathe a bit easier.

“Sorry about that. But you would have felt the waves even more if I went slow.”

“I’m all right,” I tell him. And I am. If there’s one thing I’ve learned today, historic paddle steamer wreckages aside, it’s that Charlie knows what he’s doing on the water.

We travel down the river, past a rope swing, to a bridge where a string of kids wait to jump into the water below. On the other side is a restaurant. A row of Muskoka chairs is lined up along the beach, where children are playing, and behind them are patio tables with red umbrellas. A band is setting up outside.

“That looks like a fun spot.”

“It’s called the Bent Anchor,” Charlie says. He glances at me, and his eyes catch on my hair.

I reach up; the curls are a knotted nest. “How bad is it?”

He shifts to face me, and I ignore the brush of his leg against mine. “You look like you should be standing in an oversized shell.”

“You’re comparing me to Venus?”

“You have great hair.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t take compliments well.”

“Not really.”

“It looks like it can’t easily be controlled,” Charlie says. “It suits you.”

I pull a face. “I usually wear it straight and pulled back,” I say. “I prefer controlled.”

“Controlled isn’t you,” he says. “You’re unpredictable.”

“I’m very predictable.”

“I don’t think so,” Charlie says. “I think you’re a wild card.”

Just then, a strong breeze travels over the river, sending my hair across my face and into Charlie’s eyes. We both reach to hold it out of my face at the same time, his fingers settling on mine. For a moment that seems to stretch for hours, he looks at me in that disconcerting way, like he can see not only into my soul but to a deeper place. A corner that’s full of secrets I haven’t learned yet. It makes me feel stripped to my essential parts.

“Told you,” he says. “Wild card.”

“You don’t know me very well.”

“Not yet.” His eyes flicker down to my mouth, and then, catching himself, Charlie springs his gaze back to mine. He turns away, gesturing toward the restaurant, his voice a little ragged. “It’s good. I can tell Harry to take you.”