A Family Under the Stars
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Christy Jeffries
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Chapter One
Alex Russell glanced over his shoulder at the silver four-door Jeep pulling up behind him, its color matching the clouds overhead, which in turn matched his mood. The decals plastered to the side of the vehicle were a brighter version of the ones stenciled on the raft he was stocking with dry boxes, paddles and waterproof bags.
His grandfather, who everyone in western Idaho—including Alex—referred to as Commodore due to the man’s expertise in navigating the Sugar River, hopped out of the driver’s side while the female passenger remained inside talking on her cell phone. Alex rolled his eyes. Exactly the kind of city slicker he’d figured.
But when Alex’s father called him this morning, hacking up a lung and complaining about a sore throat, Alex had immediately offered to take over as the guide for today’s whitewater excursion. While his dad could probably steer through these rapids blindfolded, let alone with a fever of 103, it wouldn’t be good for business to get the paying customers sick. It was bad enough that they had to expose the public to Commodore’s ever-present crotchetiness, but they really needed someone to run the shuttle between the put-in and pickup locations.
“I thought Dad said there were supposed to be five in the group today,” Alex said when his grandfather approached.
“S’posed to be.” Commodore had never been described as a people person and always kept a toothpick clamped tightly between his teeth, probably as an excuse to avoid talking. It gave his weathered face a permanent grimace, like Popeye smoking his pipe, and it gave Alex a permanent headache trying to communicate with the seventy-five-year-old man.
“So, what happened to everyone else?”
“Don’t know.” Commodore limped over to the raft, checked the carabineers and tested out the tautness on the slings harnessed near the stern. “Some of us mind our own business.”
Alex took off his polarized sunglasses, letting them dangle from the strap around his neck, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was tempted to remind his grandfather that this was their business, their family’s bread and butter. But that would only serve as an invitation to launch into another round of the ongoing argument about why Commodore was no longer allowed to do the bookkeeping for Russell’s Sports. “You gotta give me more info than that, Com.”
Com jerked the remaining half of his right thumb at the Jeep. “Gal’s name is Charlotte Folsom. Bankroller, far as I can tell. You want more than that, you can ask her yourself when she gets off the phone.”
Bankroller was the term some people in their small town of Sugar Falls, Idaho, used to refer to the tourists who vacationed on the mountain and, in the course of a weekend, injected plenty of their big-city dollars into the local economy. It probably wasn’t the politest thing to call the patrons that kept their small family company afloat, but Commodore wasn’t exactly known for his civility or his business acumen.
Alex looked at his watch. How long was her call going to take? He was surprised the woman even had reception this far upriver. “Is she allergic to the fresh air or something?”
“Not that she mentioned when she signed the release form.” His grandfather snorted before the last part, confirming that the old man was still miffed that his son and grandson had taken over the legal side of the business.
“Then why isn’t she getting out of the car?”
Yet, as soon as Alex asked the question, the woman opened the Jeep door. He noticed her hair first because it was the exact shade of his favorite dark chocolate– covered granola bar. It was styled as plainly and conservatively as possible, stick straight and cut in a uniform line just below her shoulders, with a headband holding everything but the thick sweeping bangs away from her face.
And what a face it was. Her cheekbones were high and sharp, her nose elegant and straight, and her lips reminded him of the cotton candy his dad bought him the first time they’d attended a minor league baseball game. They were pink and full and caused a spike in his bloodstream, like an instant sugar rush.
Man, something about this lady kept making him think of food.
“Hello,” she said, reaching out her hand. “I’m Charlotte Folsom. I’m terribly sorry for being on the phone when we arrived, but my editor had an update on my crew’s flight.”
“Your crew?” Alex asked, shifting his attention to the long, pale fingers clasped inside his. The ones that looked much too delicate to handle an oar.
“Yes. The producer, her assistant and the two photographers. They were supposed to fly into Spokane, but were diverted to Seattle because of a lightning storm. I don’t think they’re going to make it.” She looked up at the gray sky. “It’s not a problem, is it?”
“The weather or the lack of people?”
“Either.”
“Nah. Weather’s fine.” Commodore shifted his toothpick to the right side of his mouth. “And Miss Folsom’s rowed before, so you should be good to go.”
Alex’s untraditional upbringing meant that he’d learned to steer a raft before he’d learned to a drive a car. So he wasn’t concerned about his own ability to handle the river singlehandedly, but he would prefer having someone aboard who knew what they were doing. Unfortunately, every visiting tourist had a different definition of what constituted experience, and paddling through Class IV rapids required a lot more skill than most novices realized.
Not that he wanted to jump to any unfair conclusions about Charlotte Folsom, but Alex had been in business with his family long enough to recognize a greenhorn trying too hard to look the part. He wouldn’t be surprised if she’d just cut the price tags off her athletic clothes this morning.
“How many times have you been whitewater rafting?” he asked, setting his sunglasses back over his eyes so he didn’t offend the woman with an inadvertent look of doubt.
“Oh, this is my first time rafting. But when I was in middle school, my bunk won the canoeing finals two years in a row at Camp Butterhorn.”
Commodore whistled around his toothpick as if this was some sort of accomplishment. Were they serious? Com knew better than anyone else that rowing a canoe at some fancy sleepaway camp in seventh grade was not the same thing as navigating a six-man raft down the roaring Sugar River. Actually, Alex was just assuming the camp had been a fancy one judging by the rock-sized diamond studs in Miss Folsom’s ears and the way she stood tall and poised in her overpriced, brand-new skin-tight paddling pants and bright pink, waterproof North Face jacket.
His eyes shot down to her left hand, noting the absence of a wedding ring on her finger. Not that he was interested in her marital status. Alex preferred his women a lot less frilly and way more down-to-earth. And the one standing before him, who’d given off that supermodel vibe even before she’d mentioned having a camera crew, looked more suitable to being on the cover of the Neiman Marcus holiday book than an REI catalog. He simply didn’t want anyone losing any valuable jewelry on his watch.
“Here’s that lip cream I was telling you about in the car, Mr.... I mean Commodore.” Her quick correction indicated that Com had already warned her that he only answered to the nickname. Then she reached into a small pack slung over her shoulder and pulled out a jar of something. “This will really help with the dryness and the cracks. I told you I never leave home without it. Just put it on like this...”
She dipped a finger inside the tiny glass container and then proceeded to spread some sort of balm all over her own lips. Alex sucked in his breath when she held out the open container to his grandfather. He waited for the old guy—who’d once walked out in the middle of a haircut when the new barber offered to apply a deep conditioning treatment—to let out a string of curses about beauty product nonsense. But Com scrunched his eyes into slits as he swiped his stubby fingers across his tightly clamped frown, reminding Alex of one of the kids he coached in Pop Warner who’d accepted his teammates’ dare to eat a spoonful of spicy red peppers at the after-game pizza party.
“Actually, maybe we should just reschedule this whole thing,” Alex offered and saw his grandfather’s squint deepen and the barely perceptible shake of the elder Russell’s silver crew-cut head. He wasn’t sure if Com’s reaction was to Alex’s suggestion or to the novelty of having a foreign—and probably highly expensive—substance applied to any part of his anatomy.
“We can’t reschedule,” she said a bit forcefully, and Alex had the sense that not many people said “no” to Charlotte Folsom. “My magazine is on a deadline. We were already rushing to get the article done last week, but then I had child care issues and one of our columnists came down with a horrendous case of food poisoning so we had to scrap his review of Indonesian food trucks. So if I can’t come up with at least a few shots and five thousand words on gourmet dining off the land, then next month’s issue will completely tank.”
Child care issues? So the woman had kids, but no wedding ring? Not that it was any of Alex’s business, he told himself as he rocked back on his heels. He didn’t mind making small talk with the customers, but he rarely found himself curious about anything beyond their skill level and whether he’d need to keep them from getting killed while participating in an extreme sport they shouldn’t be doing in the first place. It was only the unusualness of the situation that had him wondering why a lady as beautiful as Charlotte Folsom was single. In his experience, it usually meant that the woman was too much of a pain for any man to deal with.
Again, not his business. What was his business was Russell’s Sports and how to turn a better profit this year. Thanks to Commodore’s refusal to book a corporate retreat last year and some bad online reviews of his grandfather’s customer service, the company’s savings account was at an all-time low.
Last week, his father had mentioned something about a San Francisco–based magazine booking them for some sort of photo shoot. Having no interest in any publication that didn’t contain ads for Bass Pro Shops or Cabela’s, Alex had just chalked the whole thing up to some travel article that might garner them some free publicity. Suddenly, this was sounding like more than he’d bargained for.
“Wait, back up.” He ran a hand over his face, his palm scratching against the dark-brown stubble on his chin. “What’s the point of going through all the effort of staging a photo shoot if the model is the only person who showed up?”
Miss Folsom slid her oversized tortoiseshell sunglasses off and Alex found himself looking into eyes that weren’t quite purple, but weren’t quite blue. “I’m not the model. The food is the model.”
“What food?” Alex looked back at his grandfather, shrugged as if to say, not my problem, then turned and walked over to the Jeep, presumably to grab more gear out of the back.
“Mr. Russell, I work for Fine Tastes. It’s one of the top cooking and home entertainment magazines in the industry. I thought our producer had explained that we’re doing a feature article on glamping and resourcing foods indigenous to the wilderness areas in order to create gourmet al fresco meals.”
“What the hell is glamping?” Commodore called out from behind the tailgate before Alex could ask what al fresco meant.
“It’s glamorous camping,” she said, then beamed a wide smile at his grandfather. “I know it’s an oxymoron, but it’s all the rage right now with urban families.”
“Sounds moronic, all right,” Commodore said, carrying over a bright orange bag then rubbing his lips together. It was tough to tell with the bobbing toothpick, but it almost seemed as though the old guy wasn’t quite frowning. Maybe that lip balm contained some magical ingredient that cured personality disorders.
The woman laughed, a throaty sound that was both way too feminine and way more genuine than he’d expected, and Alex stared at his grandfather, trying to determine what it was this particular lady had done to make the cantankerous Commodore Russell fall so completely under her spell.
He tried to stop his judgmental thoughts, reminding himself that not every woman from an overpopulated metropolis was his mother. Nor did many women take the time to pick a few fallen pine needles off his grandfather’s flannel shirt as the man passed by.
Alex asked, “So, what exactly is the goal for this two-day excursion if you don’t have your crew to help with the article?”
Because he was only supposed to be here as a guide. He certainly wasn’t going to glamp it up with her or otherwise assist in—what did she call it? Resourcing indigenous foods? Sure, she seemed sweet enough toward Com, but Alex could already see her as the type to start ordering him around, treating him as some sort of low-level assistant who was there to do the job of her entire crew.
“Frankly,” she said, turning that wide smile on him, “since time and weather are already a potential issue, I don’t see the need to make this a two-day excursion. We can just make a few stops along the river and stage a couple of scenes for the pictures. Then, if you don’t mind me conducting an informal interview of sorts, I can pick your brain and get a good enough idea of what the experience would be like so I can convey that to our readers.”
Alex looked up at the gray sky again. “Honestly, I don’t even know if we have one day. What does your old knee say, Com?”
His grandfather reached down to pat his arthritic leg, which was usually a better weather forecaster than most barometer stations. “Should hold off until tonight.”
“You sure?” Alex asked, noticing the subtle wobble of the toothpick.
“Sure as death and taxes.”
“When was the last time you paid taxes?” Alex mumbled under his breath. It was now a running joke among family and friends that Commodore Russell wasn’t always on the most hospitable terms with his neighbors or the IRS, which was why Alex and his dad kept the old man away from the financial side of the business, as well as many of the customers. Of course, that running joke was also the reason why they really couldn’t afford to cancel this trip. The beginning of the season was right around the corner and Russell’s Sports needed all the positive publicity it could get.
“If I’m wrong, then you get a lil’ wet,” Com said, a firm challenge in the man’s clear green eyes. It was no secret that Alex inherited his tan coloring and his competitive athletic spirit from the paternal side of the family. As well as his dry lips, apparently. He pulled out his plain store-bought lip balm and swiped it on, wishing the familiar gesture would sooth his apprehension, as well.
“Please, Mr. Russell,” Miss Folsom said, her eyes taking on a darker, more serious hue. “Just for a couple of hours. I know it’ll be more of a challenge for you than for me, but I have a friend watching my daughters back in town. I had to pull them out of school and make all kinds of alternate travel arrangements so I could make this article work. Plus, I told them Mommy was going to bring them back a wilderness treasure and I would hate to disappoint them.”
He had no clue what a wilderness treasure was, but Alex was a sucker for a challenge. And for kids. It was why he volunteered as a coach for almost every recreational league in town and ran a youth day camp during the summers. He was also a team player when it came to the family business and didn’t want to let his dad down.
So, against his better judgment, he decided not to disappoint anyone. “Let’s get the rest of your gear. I’ll explain the basics to you while we load up.”
* * *
They were only two miles downriver and Charlotte wished she hadn’t convinced herself, let alone her stoic rafting guide, that this was a good idea. What Charlotte hadn’t told the Russell men was that she desperately needed this article to help launch her career to the next level by—hopefully—winning a shot as a permanent contributor for a nationally syndicated cooking show. Sure, doing freelance writing for Fine Tastes had been a blessing after Mitchell had gone to prison, leaving her to raise their two daughters alone. But after some of the webisodes on her personal blog started gaining upward of 400,000 hits per day, her editor and several local news channels back in San Francisco were now referring to her as a younger, fresher Martha Stewart, and if Charlotte could turn her home and lifestyle brand into a success, then she’d finally be able to prove to her parents and her ex-husband that she was more than something to be paraded about at cocktail parties and charity events.
“Let’s pull out here,” Alex Russell finally said from his higher perch on the raft behind her.
Thank God. Charlotte had been under the impression that she was in decent shape since she did Pilates regularly and ran for thirty minutes on her home treadmill every day. But her upper arms felt like they were on fire after only an hour of paddling.
The boat was too big for just the two of them, but they needed the extra supplies she’d already packed to make the photos look more legitimate. Initially, she’d thought it would be easier and quicker to just take off in the inflatable raft with the well-muscled outdoorsman who gave new meaning to the phrase ruggedly handsome and whose masculine appearance reminded her that when she’d divorced her husband two years ago, she hadn’t divorced her libido. But even if she put her physical reaction to Alex Russell’s looks aside—which she could easily do—there were other complications to being out in the middle of nowhere, cut off from everything she was used to.
Charlotte had never left her children alone overnight, and although her friend Kylie had offered to host the girls for their first-ever slumber party back in the town of Sugar Falls, Charlotte was relieved they’d be cutting this two-day excursion short. Not that she didn’t appreciate the natural beauty around her—or the one in the boat with her—she just didn’t feel comfortable being out of communication with her daughters in case something happened to them. Or in case they needed her.
Kylie had laughed at the fact that Charlotte arrived in town last night with eight suitcases, half of the stuff belonging to her daughters. But she didn’t want them to be without their favorite blankets, stuffed animals, markers, pajamas—long sleeved for cooler weather and shorts if it became too warm—Junie B. Jones books or unicorn puzzles.
It would’ve just been smarter to postpone the whole weekend. Or call it off. The colorful Victorian buildings in the quaint mountain town where her friend lived housed plenty of antiques shops and homey restaurants that could have filled the pages of her magazine with food and decorating ideas.
But then her article wouldn’t have been much more interesting than a destination travel piece, and the career she’d been trying to build would never gain traction.
Plus, she’d recently read an autobiography by a woman who, years ago, had left her life as a political speechwriter to travel to Idaho to commune with nature and find herself. The book opened Charlotte’s eyes to how people could learn to adapt with the barest of necessities and find beauty all around them.
But clearly, that author had lived a more unfettered life than Charlotte, who’d had to decide whether to leave behind her kids. Charlotte had debated whether or not to go during most of the ride to the site, and then again for several minutes before they’d finally launched the raft and waved goodbye to the senior Russell, an interesting character who liked putting on a show of being ornery and gruff.
Now, though, her decision had been made. She was out here on this beautiful river, which was way more choppy and rock-filled than she’d expected, and she would make the best out of the situation.
Even if her arms turned to al dente linguini from rowing so much. This was nothing like sleepaway camp, and she’d bet the river jock sitting behind her had struggled to keep a straight face when she’d stupidly boasted about her experience.
“Can I give you a hand with that?” she asked the younger Russell when he hopped out of the raft and waded through the knee-deep water to pull the raft toward the pebbly shore. She may not be much in the paddling department, but she was used to doing everything for herself and for her girls back home. Charlotte hated being taken care of, or worse—having someone think she needed to be taken care of.
“Nope. You’re the customer.” The man’s sleeves were rolled above his forearms and she tried not to stare at the defined muscles as he easily maneuvered the whole thing, including her and the heavy supplies, close to a sturdy-looking overgrown bush submerged in the water.
Besides some initial instructions and an overview of the local terrain and hidden dangers lurking beneath the river’s surface, her guide hadn’t been too talkative up until this point. And Charlotte had been concentrating so hard on her paddling—and not plowing them into a submerged boulder—that she hadn’t asked many questions. In fact, her clenched jaw was almost as sore as her arms.
“You don’t have to treat me as a customer,” she said, trying to gracefully climb out of the raft while he secured the rope tie to one of the thicker branches. “I know the circumstances are not ideal and I’d like to pull my own weight.”
“Miss Folsom,” he started, but she quickly interrupted him.
“Please, call me Charlotte. Being called Miss Folsom reminds me of when I was in boarding school and would get called to the headmistress’s office.”
He took off his sunglasses and let his smoky green eyes travel up and down the length of her body before saying, “You don’t really strike me as the type to get into trouble.”
Really? Because she sure felt like she was in trouble just by the way his tone had seemed to grow in exasperation as the afternoon wore on. Charlotte unbuckled her life vest, thinking it had suddenly grown too tight. “I’m not.”
“In my experience—” he walked to the rear of the raft and unstrapped one of the boxes of supplies his grandfather had tied down before driving off and leaving them all alone “—when people go to the principal’s office, it’s because their teachers can’t handle them.”
“Well, in my case, it was typically because my parents were too busy to handle me. No, not like that,” she said quickly when she realized that sounded even worse. “I didn’t need handling. I was usually called into the office to find out that I’d be staying on campus during holiday breaks.”
“Your parents still around?” he asked. She would’ve thought his thick baritone voice sounded a bit annoyed if he’d lifted his head out of the open supply crate long enough to look in her direction.
“Well, they’re alive, if that’s what you mean. Mother is in Paris, and the last time I spoke with her assistant, she said my father was in Dubai on business.”
Mr. Russell, who’d yet to return the courtesy of inviting her to use his first name, raised his head, and Charlotte immediately recognized the sympathetic look in his eyes. She’d seen it all her life. Poor little rich girl, abandoned and unloved. Poor little Charlotte, who had to go home with the school employees for Christmas vacation because her parents were vacationing out of the country. Poor little Charlotte, who was so desperate for love and acceptance, she married the first guy who showed a speck of interest in her and ended up betrayed, bankrupt and on the cover of every newspaper in Northern California when her ex-husband was sentenced to ninety-eight years for wire fraud, money laundering and various investment schemes.
“Actually,” she continued, before he could make one of those pitying comments or pretend to feel sorry for her, “it ended up working out to my benefit. Normally, students weren’t allowed in the dining hall after meals, but Mrs. Jackson—she was the head chef—decided I made an eager pupil. My love of cooking started there and I wouldn’t trade the knowledge or the experience for anything.”
Perhaps her smile was a bit too cheerful, because the handsome guide looked up at the clouds billowing overhead and must’ve decided she needed his sympathy anyway.
“My lunch lady was named Mrs. Snook and, trust me, nobody wanted to go into her kitchen after hours. So I hope you have something other than sloppy joes and tater tots planned for your staged photo shoot.”
“I don’t suppose you could catch us a fish real quick while I forage around for some fresh herbs and root vegetables?”
“Real quick, huh?”
“I would do it myself, but I’ve never been fishing before and I figured it would take you twice as long to have to teach me. Unless you’d rather do the foraging?”
“Nope,” he said, the smirk on his lips much more tolerable than pity. “I absolutely do not want to do any foraging. What’s wrong with just slapping a striped bass on the cast-iron skillet and calling it a day? Or, better yet, we could open one of the pouches of tuna we keep in the emergency kit.”
She couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose at the mention of canned fish. “Well, the whole point of the article is to demonstrate the ability to create a five-star dining experience in the wilderness. I know it’s not the easiest route to take, but since the purpose of the photos is to make ordinary things look more desirable, I have to put a bit more effort into the presentation.”
“Nothing wrong with ordinary things looking ordinary, either.”
She wasn’t sure she’d heard his grumbled words correctly. “What’s that?”
“Nothing,” he muttered. She’d noticed that he’d also slathered on sunscreen before they’d left and kept a green ball cap with the team name Comets pulled down low on his head. After seeing his grandfather’s hard-earned, but sun-damaged skin, it was easy to see why Alex was more careful to protect his own.
Her guide pulled out a fishing pole that had been strapped inside the raft. “I’ll catch a fish, but I’m not comfortable with you wandering far from the beach. Rule number one is stay within sight.”
“I’ll stick close by.” The promise would be an easy one to keep. Charlotte wasn’t a fan of being alone and she was even less a fan of being alone and lost in the wilds, no matter how breathtaking they were. She tilted her neck to take in the tall pines and rugged green landscape. “It’s absolutely beautiful here. I might take a few pictures of the scenery.”
“Just don’t try and make it look too desirable,” he said, as he tied a hook to the end of his line. “Last thing we need is a bunch of city folks wanting to come up and beautify the land.”
Commodore—she still smiled when she thought of the older man introducing himself by a nickname she’d only ever associated with yachting—had made virtually the same plea on the drive to the put-in location. Like grandfather, like grandson. Of course, Charlotte could understand why the locals would want to keep their pristine rivers and mountains exactly the way they were. The views were amazingly spectacular. But the remote area also lacked all the modern conveniences of San Francisco.
She pulled her waterproof pack out of the raft and looked inside at the disposable box encased in a clear plastic shell. Commodore had said, in not so many words, that it had been left behind by one of their previous guests. This wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind when she’d asked for a waterproof camera, but she couldn’t very well expect them to have professional photography equipment on hand just because her crew hadn’t showed up with theirs.
Charlotte would get better quality shots from her cell phone, which was also in its own plastic case, bought specifically for this trip. She checked the signal, hoping for a text from Kylie saying the girls were okay and doing well. But there was still no reception. She’d left a message for them before they’d launched into the river, and Commodore said he knew the Gregsons and would personally stop by Kylie’s house to make sure her friend got the message.
She took some shots of the river and the mountains in the distance, then studied the dark, damp soil for any clues as to what may be growing nearby. Good thing she’d studied up on the local plant life because the last thing she wanted to do was ask Mr. Preserve-the-Land for more help. She looked back to where he was balancing on a boulder, holding a fishing pole and far enough away that he couldn’t hear her gasp of breath at his handsome profile and masculine stance.
This wasn’t the type of scenery she’d originally envisioned when the magazine had booked her trip. And she would die of shame if he turned in that exact second and caught her snapping a photo of him. But how could she pass up the chance? The red plaid shirt couldn’t hide his athletic build any better than the thick dark stubble on his jaw could hide his handsome looks. Alex Russell looked exactly like every woman’s dream of a rugged mountain man come to life and Charlotte told herself it would’ve been sloppy journalism to not capture the alluring image.
She knew what her readers wanted, even if she was only providing the perception of an ideal setting with an ideal man. The key word was perception. Charlotte had absolutely no idea what kind of man Alex Russell was. And she knew from past experience that it would take more than a couple of hours on the Sugar River to find out that he probably wasn’t anything like he seemed. Nobody ever was. She glanced down at the clock on her phone. Good thing she had a job to do and two loving daughters to hurry back to. She didn’t have time for disillusionment today.
