One Golden Summer(51)

“I like Charlie a great deal, but I’m saying that because I see you together, and it reminds me of what it felt like to fall in love.”

I swallow, and Nan pats my hand. “Just see where the sun takes you. And don’t forget: Good things happen at the lake.”





27


Sunday, July 20

43 Days Left at the Lake

When I park beside a black Porsche at the grocery store later that morning, what happens in my body is more than nerves and headier than excitement. I’m full of volatile energy. I’ve been operating on autopilot for months, and now I’ve been switched on. It’s pure anticipation. Something I haven’t felt in years.

And while I’m prepared to run into a preposterously handsome marble statue of a man, I don’t expect to find him staring at the baskets of pickling cucumbers again.

“What is with you and this vegetable?”

“Technically, cucumbers are a fruit.” Charlie looks down at me, his gaze fond. His hair is mussed, standing on end at the front. I almost reach out to smooth the spikes down. He hasn’t shaved in a couple of days, his eyes have dark shadows beneath them, and I’m pretty sure he was wearing the same T-shirt yesterday. He’s the hottest of trash.

“You look awful.”

“I didn’t sleep.” He gives me a meaningful look that I feel low in my belly.

“Really? I had the best sleep I’ve had in ages. Nan found me passed out on the couch this morning.”

The corner of his mouth lifts.

“So,” I say, inspecting the produce. A bucket of lacy dill stalks sits on the floor with a handwritten Local sign stuck in their midst. “Are you going to give any of these cucumbers a good home or what?”

“I haven’t decided.” He rubs the back of his neck. “My mom made the best dill pickles. I’ve been thinking about giving them a try, but I haven’t pickled anything in my life.”

He’s been dipping into Sue’s recipe box. After the chocolate cake, he brought Nan and me her morning glory muffins and then cabbage rolls. Both were excellent.

Charlie has his arms crossed over his chest, and he’s staring down the cucumbers like he’s facing an opponent in a Roman amphitheater.

I pick up two baskets and put them in my cart. “How many do we need?”

Charlie’s eyebrows creep up his forehead. “Really?”

“Yeah. How hard can it be?” I choose a stalk of dill. “I’m sure Nan would like to help. She’s good at this stuff.” I pause at the mystified expression on Charlie’s face. “Unless you want to do it alone?” Maybe the cooking thing is between him and his mom.

“No,” he says, voice rusty. “I’d love the help.”



* * *





When Nan and I arrive at Charlie’s house in the afternoon, he’s much brighter. He’s taken a nap, showered, and shaved. He’s even had his hair buzzed short. He helps Nan up the porch stairs, and the sight burrows into my heart so deeply that I avert my gaze.

“Would you like a cup of tea first?” Charlie asks Nan. The kitchen is covered in canning gear.

“After,” Nan says, rolling up her sleeves. “Let’s get these jars sterilized.”

I slice the cucumbers and peel the garlic, but otherwise Nan instructs, and Charlie follows her orders. I’ve brought my Pentax, and I shoot a roll of black and white.

I don’t realize how broadly I’m smiling until Charlie looks at me.

Click.

“Having fun?” he asks.

I am. Shooting has given me control and a sense of mastery, but it’s been a long time since it’s been fun.

There’s one picture, when Nan is watching Charlie fill Mason jars with brine and Charlie glances at her for approval, that breaks my heart as soon as I take it, because it’s late July, and summer is fleeting. I want to press pause on today, on this month, on these two people. Capture it not just on film.

Charlie puts the kettle on once they’ve finished, and we drink our tea on the deck overlooking the lake. The kids from the cottage next door swim over to dive off Charlie’s floating raft. They have an open invitation to use it.

“What a lovely place to grow up,” Nan says.

Charlie looks out at the water. “It really was.”

“Though I imagine the house and the property were a lot for your mother when she was on her own,” she says, and Charlie nods. “She must have been a tremendously hard worker.”

“She was.” He stares at the view for another moment. “I always knew that from the restaurant. But I didn’t fully appreciate all the things she did for us until I moved away for university. Cooking was a big part of that. Big breakfasts. Birthday cakes. Holiday feasts. She loved to feed people.”

“Is that why you’ve been trying her recipes?” Nan asks.

“Maybe.” He smiles. “And I love to eat. I’ve missed those pickles.”

“Not my thing,” I say, flashing him an apologetic grin.

His eyes pop. “What?”

“I don’t like them.”

“Me neither,” Nan says. “I did all my pickling for Alice’s grandfather and the church bazaar.”

“We just made a dozen jars,” Charlie says, glancing between us, mouth hanging open.