Naturally, Charlie Page 6

  “If you prefer Charlie, then Charlie it is.” She turns and smiles, though it holds no warmth, as she scans the room. “The Nelsons just arrived. I should greet them.” She focuses back on him. “I hope you’ll be civil today, Charles,” she says with obvious intention to control her son then walks away before he can react.

  His discomfort with the situation is apparent—his body was rigid the entire interaction. He sighs, and I can feel the tension trail behind her.

  I lean over and whisper, “Your mother’s great.”

  He bursts out laughing, and the surrounding people look at us. “You think?” The sarcasm isn’t lost on him, and I like that he can find humor in the moment. “Do you want to sit back here? I think the service is going to start.”

  “I can stay back here, but you can sit with your family up front if you like. I’ll be fine.”

  “No. I’d rather sit with you. Aunt Grace will understand. If she were alive, she’d be back here, too. We were sort of the black sheep of the family.”

  “Your strength in the situation would make her proud.”

  He rubs my hand that is still holding his elbow like it’s meant to be there. I leave it, though, knowing he needs it, that he needs me. He needs someone on his side right now.

  We stay in the back, sitting through poignant recollections and speeches describing Grace’s vibrancy. Charlie stands and says, “Excuse me. I’m going to say a few words.” I nod and scoot back to let him pass.

  As he starts talking into the microphone, the large audience doesn’t seem to faze him—he’s a natural speaker. He talks about the special relationship they had and what he’ll miss the most. He speaks of her as more of a mother figure than a great-aunt. His words are touching and bring my emotions to the surface, making me realize that today is going to be harder than I originally thought.

  I glance to his mother several times. Her face doesn’t show any emotion, but I can’t tell if it’s because of the plastic surgery or the lack of love she seems to bear for her son.

  After Charlie finishes, he walks back to me, reaching for my hand. As I take his, he pulls me to my feet and escorts me out. He never looks back, but I do. His mother watches him, disapproving, but turns back to face the minister with her head held high.

  When we reach the steps outside the beautiful, ornate wooden doors, I break the silence. “Are you sure you’re ready to leave?”

  “I’m ready. I said my good-bye to Grace a long time ago. We had a get-together, just the two of us, and she said her good-bye to me, as well. She was ready and didn’t want her loved ones worrying over her. She wouldn’t let me see her, embarrassed by her deteriorating condition.” We reach the corner, and he stops. “I made peace with her loss already. Today was for everyone else.” A sudden smile appears, breaking the somber moment, when he asks, “Should we catch a cab?”

  I nod and watch as he hails one down. We’ll be late, Jim’s premonition coming true. We climb in, and I ask the driver to take us to Saint Thomas Church. The ride is spent in silence, my hand missing his elbow already. I roll my eyes at my silliness.

  The cab pulls up to the curb, and we both look at each other. “So, we’re here,” I say, remaining tucked in the back of the cab. He waits for me to take the lead on this one, willing to do whatever I need, be what I need in the moment. While staring out at the gathered crowd hovering in the doorway of the church, I slide my hand across the seat, palm up, and wait.

  Chapter 6

  A waiting hand—an invitation I can’t resist. That’s what she’s offering me. I don’t care if it’s just as friends. I won’t miss out on this opportunity. I press my hand on top of hers, palm against palm, and my fingers entwine with hers. Intimate, but what she needs. She needs comfort. She needs a friend. She needs me and I’ll be her support, just as she was for me.

  I watch as she sits there, stalling, so I take the lead. “Do you want to go in?”

  I pay the driver to make it easier. Charlie looks at me, and I see fear overriding the liveliness of her eyes. I scoot closer, leaning over her to open the door. She slides against the vinyl seat and steps out, but her motions are stale, unnatural for how I’ve seen her so far.

  As I exit the cab behind her, I say, “We don’t have to go in if you don’t want. I know a good Italian restaurant close to here—”

  “No.” With unsteady words, she’s quick to interrupt. “I should do this.”

  There’s only one thing I can think of doing to help. I reach into my pocket and pull out the rabbit’s foot keychain. “Charlie,” I say, not knowing how she’ll take this. I’m hoping how it’s intended. “Here, I think you could use this right now.”

  She reaches for the luck idol, unsure of what it is at first, but I see the moment she realizes. A small laugh leaves her mouth, and she takes it from my hand. Holding it by the chain, she asks, “Is this a real rabbit’s foot? Like the lucky ones from when we were little?”

  “Yep, it’s real. Well, I once read that it’s not a real rabbit’s foot, because that’d just be gross, but a manmade one with real rabbit’s fur.”

  “It’s orange. Bunnies don’t come in bright orange in nature?” She’s smiling. The charm has worked.

  “They also don’t come with a hole and chain.”

  “Fascinating.” She holds it in front of her face and giggles. “I don’t think I’ve seen one of these since I was eight or so.”

  “That’s what I said.” She tilts her head in curiosity, so I explain, “My friend gave it to me last week. He thought I needed a little luck in my life.”

  “Luck with what?”

  Damn. I should have thought this through before mentioning it. “Um, it’s kind of embarrassing, but he thinks I need luck in the lady department.”

  Wrapping her fingers around the keychain, she holds it to her side. “I can’t imagine you have problems meeting women.”

  I chuckle. This conversation will not make me look good no matter how I explain it. I go with the truth and hope she doesn’t leave me right here on the street. “Meeting them, no.” I shake my head. “But having real chemistry with them? I’ve struggled some.”

  Charlie’s smile fades as she listens. Her eyes tell me she believes me, show me she trusts me. I like that I’m able to read her clearly so soon. She hides a lot of secrets in her deep blues, and I intend to find out what they are.

  As if to shake off the moment we were sharing, she looks down. “Do you mind if I hold onto it during the funeral? I’ll give it right back afterward.”

  I take her hand that’s holding the charm and wrap my own hand around hers. “You hold onto it as long as you need to. Okay?”

  She turns toward the church and takes a deep breath. “It’s really creepy, you know?”

  I hear the teasing tone in her voice, so I ask, “The rabbit’s foot or the funeral?”

  She smiles then nods her head in the direction of the church. “I guess both.”

  I follow her through the crowd at the entrance and start to hear the grumblings of gossip and shock mingling among the guests.

  “Is that . . .”

  “Did Cherry invite her?”

  I now understand the deep breath and hesitation when we arrived. Charlie turns back to look for me. Her eyes brighten as she takes my coat by the sleeve, pulling me a little closer to her.

  I watch her with new eyes now. She’s graceful in her movements, but purposeful. Her chin is raised a tiny bit higher than it was before, but not in a snobbish way, more so in a self-preservation way.

  She instantly drops the fabric of my jacket when a girl comes bounding toward her and smiles with tears in her eyes.

  “Charlie!” They embrace each other tightly. The girl looks a few years younger, maybe college age. She tucks her face into Charlie’s hair and says, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “So am I, Kelsey.” Charlie’s voice breaks, and she drops her head onto the girl’s shoulder for comfort.

  The girl pops her head up, waving her
hand like a fan in front of her eyes, and exclaims, “I don’t want to do this anymore! I’m so tired of crying! I can’t wait to hear what’s going on with you.” She stops, turns, and listens to a woman calling her from the front row.

  Kelsey looks at Charlie, pleading with her eyes. “Will you sit with me?”

  Charlie glances at me, and I nod, but she turns back to Kelsey, calm and confident. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. We’ll talk soon. I promise.”

  The girl looks disappointed, but hurries back to her saved seat with the family. Charlie turns to me, her expression eased. “Let’s sit back here.”

  I’m not sure what to think. I haven’t quite figured out the relationship of the deceased and Charlie’s scandalous part in this funeral that has everyone buzzing. And I don’t want to ask such sensitive questions right now.

  “Are you all right?” I ask in a whisper, hoping she knows I’m on her side, even if no one else is.

  “I am. Are you?”

  She’s interesting in her thinking. It’s obvious she’s in more pain than she lets on, but she still feels the need to check on me. Caring. I sit back in the pew and listen as guests are invited to speak about the deceased. I hear a few James stories, some frat Jimmy recollections, and one Jim memory. I wonder in my mind what she called him.

  “Do you want to say any words?” I ask her.

  “No. I don’t have anything to say about Jim, not here in front of these people anyway.”

  The way she says his name strikes me to my core. It isn’t warm, but the sadness, the hurt over his loss, is showing in her eyes. It makes me wonder if we’re mourning his death or something more.

  I know he was young and start to fill in the pieces of the puzzle surrounding their relationship. As my mind slips into deeper curiosity, Charlie gently leans on my shoulder and cries. I hold her head, my fingers weaving into her hair to comfort her. She doesn’t seem offended or surprised, which is nice, so I slide my hand down her arm, landing on top of her hand and give a gentle squeeze. Her hand is rolled beneath mine and our fingers curl together. It’s a gesture that feels different than it would in any other setting, because it feels natural. No hidden messages behind it, not sexual, just comfort.

  As the minister opens the church for the viewing, the crowd falls into place, forming a line out the door. We remain seated among the continued whispers of scandal until Charlie abruptly stands. Our hands are still locked together as she starts to move toward the opposite side of the pew. When she stops to look back, our eyes meet. “Let’s go.”

  We walk out side by side, hand in hand. She’s determined to leave, and I’m determined to protect her from the gossip.

  I’m familiar with these people. I grew up among the same types of people who judge so freely and give outsiders the cold shoulder. Charlie’s put on a brave face, but it will stay intact for only so long before they get to her. I want to get her out of here as much as she wants to leave.

  Just as we walk down the stairs, a lady calls out from behind us. “Charlotte! Oh, Charlotte!”

  We stop, and Charlie looks over her shoulder, recognition then dread covering her expression. My hand is dropped before she leans forward and gives the woman an impersonal hug. They’re not friends. That much is obvious.

  The lady backs up—her mask and false smile in place for the rest of the world “You were late, but I know Jim would be glad you squeezed this in. He would want you here.”

  Charlie looks at her, waiting for her to continue, immune to her jabs.

  “So, you brought a friend,” she signals to me, “a friend so important in your life that you would bring him to my son’s funeral?” There’s no sincerity in her words, and her eyes are narrowed. She’s challenging Charlie, trying to prove a point of some sort.

  The tension mounts as Charlie glances to me then back to the shrewd, older woman.

  I’ve already learned a few things about Charlie that make me want to know her better, and the list grows as she holds herself together, ignoring the woman’s sharp comments.

  “This is Charlie . . .” She stops, searching in her head for answers that aren’t there before turning to me in horror. “Charlie . . .”

  I step forward, not letting it linger any longer and not disappointing her. “Hi, I’m Charlie Adams. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Oh!” She clears her throat. “It’s nice to meet you. Adams? I know a few Adams. Is your family from the city?” she asks. I can tell she’s trying to categorize me.

  I want to lie, but realize she might know my family. “Yes,” I reply. I don’t want to get into all of this right now.

  Charlie’s eyes find me, but I can tell my answer doesn’t throw her. She has other stuff on her mind and looks like she is ready to escape this situation.

  “What is your mother’s name? Maybe I know her.”

  “Emeline Adams—”

  “Oh yes!” She’s pleased. “Emeline is such a doll. We sit on several committees together. Please send my love to her.” Her being friendly with my mother tells me all I need to know about her. I chose to leave the confines of this super wealthy Manhattan circle, but being in the midst of it again makes me wonder how Charlie is involved with them.

  It’s as if it just occurs to this woman that I’m with Charlie. She’s obviously questioning our relationship in her expression—what we are to each other—as she looks between us. The contempt she holds in her eyes reminds me way too much of my mother. A real emotion takes over, and tears fill her eyes. “I must get back. Very nice to meet you, Mr. Adams.” She turns, and reenters the church without a second thought of the pretty girl standing quietly next to me.

  Charlie seems so small, so fragile in this moment, not like the woman I’ve spent the last few hours with at all. These aren’t friends of hers. That much is clear. She’s the black sheep among them, a lot like me. I wrap my arm around her shoulders, giving her the physical support she needs to make it around the corner and away from the prying eyes of the other mourners and gossipmongers.

  “I think we need a coffee. What do you say?” I want to see her smile again. I want to see that moxie return to her eyes.

  She doesn’t look up, staying securely tucked into my side. We’re two strangers finding comfort in each other in a time of need. “I would like something stronger.” Just a whisper, but I hear her.

  “Okay, espresso it is, then,” I say with enthusiasm, hoping that lifts her mood.

  We stop, and she finds the strength to release me, standing strong once again on her own two feet. “No coffee. I need a drink. One with alcohol.”

  Oh, something stronger. I get it now. “Sure, there’s this bar called the Subway Inn just a few blocks from here. It’s dark and offers a lot of privacy.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  I take her hand for several reasons. First, because I’m selfish and want to hold her hand, knowing full well I’m taking advantage of the situation. Second, because I also think she needs that touch, that connection with someone outside the people we left at the church.

  It’s been an exhausting day mentally and physically, so I hail a cab.

  “Charlie?” she asks.

  “Yeah?” I look down at her, her bright blue eyes shining again.

  “Thank you.”

  I squeeze her shoulders playfully. “Eh, that’s what friends are for.”

  Seeing her smile makes me smile, one that comes from the heart.

  Chapter 7

  The bar is a real locals’ type place. There’s no jukebox or sound system so it can turn into a club in the late hours. There isn’t a dance floor or modern furnishings. It’s dark with old, wobbly, wooden tables and chairs and a long, worn-looking bar that runs the length of the right side of the room.

  He offers to let me go first, but I pause and let him lead me.

  “Come on, let’s sit back here,” he says, tugging the fabric at my wrist.

  Following Charlie into the small, dark bar, I notice he walks
with authority. I like his confidence and slight swagger. He’s comfortable with who he is. I wish I were more like that. I live in the middle these days, caught between my old life and a new one I’m trying to forge.

  He walks to a small table in the corner like it’s reserved for him. He seems relaxed, more in his element here. Pulling the chair out for me, I sit, but he remains standing, and asks, “What would you like?”

  “Whatever you’re having will work.” I honestly don’t care what I’m drinking. I just know that I need a drink . . . or five.

  I’m not on a mission to get drunk, but by the time we both finish our second Old Fashioned, it’s starting to feel inevitable. The whiskey and bitters don’t taste as strong as they did at first. That’s always a sign I’m starting to be affected, and yet, I don’t care. The creeping numbness is a nice change from the intense emotions of the day.

  Every second spent together isn’t filled with meaningless words, but I enjoy the lightness of the words we do share.

  “I’m ready for another.” I’m relaxed, too relaxed, maybe tipsy, definitely buzzed.

  “How about we switch to beer?” He leans forward, resting his arms on the table.

  “I’m not drunk,” I reply, feeling defensive.

  He smiles, laughing under his breath. “I didn’t say you were. I just think we should slow down a bit.”

  “Fine.” I know I’ll feel bad in the morning if I don’t pace myself better. “Beer it is, then. A lager, please.”

  “Why do I find it so attractive that you know about beer?”

  “Are you saying you find me or my knowledge of beer attractive?” I rest my chin on my hand, with my elbow planted on the table and a flirty smirk in place.

  “Ha! I think I’ll add two waters to that order.”

  Even with a fuzzy mind, I know he’s insinuating that I’m drunk. He calls over his shoulder to the bartender as I continue looking at him, really looking at him.