That Summer Thing

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“Who is she, anyway?”

“I told you. Her name is Beth Pennington. She was a close friend of my sister Lucy when we were kids. She lived next door to us.”

“Was she a River Rat?”

“Sort of. Your toast is up. Butter’s in the fridge.”

Charlie was relieved that Nathan had a one-track mind, and the task of getting the toast buttered appeared to be the track it was taking. However, the subject of Beth apparently held enough fascination for him, because he quickly came back to it.

“That must have been her titty-holder in the bathroom,” he said as he put two more slices of bread in the toaster.

Charlie could hardly believe that Nathan had used such a word. “It’s called a bra,” he said in his sternest voice.

At the memory of the lacy scrap of material, Charlie’s body warmed. Then he remembered what it had been like as a teenager when he’d seen Beth naked. Heat rushed through every limb in his body, and he forced himself to push such thoughts aside.

He needed to deal with the issue of Nathan’s vocabulary, not daydream about an old lover. “I don’t think your mother would have appreciated you calling one of her undergarments by that name.”

“I wouldn’t have used it around her.”

“Do the BDs talk that way?”

“I didn’t swear. I just called it a titty-holder. I suppose you’re going to ground me for that, too.” He stalked away and threw himself down on the sofa.

“Come back over here and finish making the toast,” Charlie demanded.

“What’s the point?” Nathan said sullenly.

Charlie counted to ten, then walked over to the sofa. He stooped in front of the teenager so they were face-to-face. “Look, Nathan, it’s been a long time since I was fourteen, and until I met you and your mother, I had no idea how to be a dad, either.”

Nathan didn’t meet Charlie’s gaze. He sat with his eyes downcast, arms folded across his chest, mouth tight.

“I want this six weeks to be a good time—like we used to have. You want that, too, don’t you?” Charlie pleaded.

Nathan nodded, but continued to look down.

“Great. Now, we can do one of two things. Continue on as we have been, or forget about everything that’s gone wrong this morning and start over. Clean slate. What do you say?”

He waited while Nathan contemplated his options. Charlie wondered what the big decision was, but knew better than to voice that thought. Nathan’s grandmother had warned him that trying to be a parent to a fourteen year old was tricky. He now knew what she was talking about.

When Nathan finally raised his head, his eyes didn’t meet Charlie’s, but looked beyond him to the galley. As they widened, Charlie turned around to see why.

Beth was at the stove. “Good grief, Charlie. Only you would leave eggs frying unattended. What are you trying to do? Burn up our inheritance?”

CHAPTER FOUR

BETH GRIMACED at the mess in the pan. “I thought you would have learned to cook by now,” she said to Charlie as he came up behind her.

“I know how to cook,” he told her.

“No, he doesn’t,” Nathan piped up. “That’s why he eats breakfast at the Sunnyside every morning.”

“I don’t eat there every morning,” Charlie said.

“Lucy says you do,” Nathan shot back, then made a face as he gazed over Beth’s shoulder into the contents of the frying pan. “That stuff looks disgusting. It smells bad, too.”

“Nathan, that’s enough.” Charlie’s voice held a hint of censure.

Beth reached for the pot holder on the hook behind the stove. “This isn’t going to be easy to clean,” she said, eyeing the scorched mass of eggs, onion and cheese that coated the bottom of the pan.

“Let me do it.” Charlie tried to reach for the frying pan, but she pushed his arm away.

“No. I want it done properly.”

“Properly?” Charlie echoed. “You think I don’t know how to scour a pan?”

“I know you don’t,” she told him, relieved to see he’d slipped a T-shirt on over his bare chest. It was less intimidating staring at white cotton than sunbronzed pecs. He was still standing much too close for her comfort, though.

“He hates doing cleanup. That’s why he never cooks,” Nathan added.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t know how,” Charlie insisted.

“Throwing a pan in the garbage is not cleaning it,” Beth told him, remembering when they were newlyweds and he’d burned spaghetti sauce in an old pot. Instead of trying to clean it, he’d chucked it into their garbage container.

The look he gave her told her he was remembering the same incident. “That was then.”

“What was when?” Nathan asked.

Beth expected Charlie to avoid answering the question, but he didn’t.

“When we were kids, I once burned some spaghetti sauce in this big old black kettle that was well dented and looked like it should have been in the trash heap. So instead of wasting time trying to clean it, I threw it out.”

“It could have been scrubbed clean,” Beth said.

“Didn’t your mom get mad?” Nathan asked.

“It wasn’t my mom’s pan,” Charlie answered.

No, it had been Beth’s, and it had happened a long time ago, although standing here in the close quarters of the galley, it felt like yesterday that they’d stood side by side in the kitchen of their efficiency apartment. She’d cooked him dinner on the tiny two-burner stove with pots she’d found at a garage sale. They’d eaten by the light of candles stuck in empty bottles and made love late into the night on their pull-out sofa.

To Beth it had been like playing house, which was probably why it had been so easy to end their relationship. It hadn’t had the ingredients that made real marriages work—love and commitment. They’d been young, impatient and looking for easy answers during a difficult time. If only they’d waited, instead of rushing into marriage; so much heartache could have been avoided.

She didn’t want the memories that seemed to be worming their way into her consciousness. Nor did she want to be standing next to the man who provoked them.

“Excuse me,” she said, ducking between Charlie and Nathan. She emptied the contents of the skillet into the garbage, then put it in the sink, where she watched the water sizzle into a cloud of steam as it hit the pan. “This is going to need to soak for a while.”

“Does that mean we don’t get breakfast?” Nathan asked.

“You’ll get to eat,” Charlie assured him.

“When?”

“Nathan.” Charlie’s voice carried a warning.

“What’s wrong with asking if I get to eat?” the teen questioned. “I’m hungry.”

Aware of the tension between the two of them, Beth said, “There must be another pan we could use.”

“We?” Charlie cocked an eyebrow.

“Since it looks like I’m the only one who knows how to cook on this boat, I should be the one doing the eggs,” Beth stated pragmatically.

“You’re offering to make breakfast for us?” he asked in disbelief.

She really didn’t want to do anything for Charlie, but found herself saying, “Only because I need to protect my investment.”

“Not funny.” Charlie stepped around her and opened a cabinet. Out came a second skillet, which he set down on the stove with a clang. “Your offer is appreciated, but not necessary. I can make breakfast.”

Nathan groaned. “Oh, great. More burned eggs.”

Charlie gave the boy another glare. “Maybe you want to try cooking for us.”

“No, but if she’s willing to do it, why not let her?” Nathan answered, nodding toward Beth.

“Because it’s not her job to cook for us,” Charlie replied a bit impatiently. “And I would appreciate it if you would remember your manners.”

“What did I say now?” Nathan rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Forget I even asked. I don’t want any breakfast.” Then he stomped away, slamming the sliding screen door as he left.

When he was gone, Charlie apologized for him. “I’m sorry about that.”

She shrugged. “There’s no need to apologize.”

“He’s usually not like that.”

“Like what?”

He chuckled. “Come on. You know what I’m talking about.”

“He’s just being a kid. And an honest one at that. He said the pan smelled bad, which it did, and that he was hungry, which should come as no surprise. Teenagers are always hungry.”

“You’re defending him?”

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”

“You mean, besides the fact that he was rude?”

“He was just being a typical teenager. Besides, he’s right, you know. You are an awful cook.”

“You think so?”

She glanced at the skillet in the sink. “There’s the evidence.”

“No, it isn’t. That could have happened to anyone.”

“Fine, it could have. Since you’re such a great cook, I guess I should let you get back to it,” she said, trying to sound bored with the whole affair.

“What does that mean? That you’re taking back your offer to help?”

“You just said you don’t need it,” she reminded him.

“All right, I lied.” He sighed in resignation. “You know I’ve never been any good at this kitchen stuff.”

She did indeed. Their marriage may have been brief, but it had lasted long enough for Beth to discover that Lucy and her mother had spoiled Charlie. He could barely put together a sandwich, let alone cook something on the stove.

“Maybe it’s time you learned,” she suggested with a lift of one eyebrow.

“You’re not going to leave me to feed a starving teenager by myself, are you?” There was a hint of a familiar smile, the one that had helped him cajole others into doing what he wanted.

She would be stupid to let it affect her. “Sorry.” She gave him an apologetic look. “I’m going to retire to my half of the boat. The air’s less aromatic down there.” When she started to walk away, his hand grasped her arm to stop her.

“Beth, wait.” Dark eyes met hers with an interest that made her breath catch in her throat.

“It’s been fifteen years. Don’t you think we should talk about something other than burned eggs?” he asked.

The feel of his fingers on her skin sent a tiny tremor through her. She slid her arm out from underneath his hand. “What do you want me to say, Charlie? That it’s good to see you again?”

“Is it?” She felt as if he studied every pore on her face, so intense was that gaze.

“No.” He winced and she immediately added, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”