Captain Dreamboat

by Tawna Fenske

  “It’s free,” I interrupt, pretty sure that’s true. Jon didn’t specify, but isn’t that what it means when someone invites you to dinner? “I’m friends with the family that owns the place, and actually—” I take a deep breath, preparing to say the words I’ve been practicing all day. “—Actually, my boyfriend is one of the owners.”

  Boyfriend. It’s the first time I’ve said the word out loud, and I listen as it pings around my little living room, bouncing off the secondhand sofa and landing in the center of the wool rug from Morocco.

  My mom clasps her hands over her chest and beams, glancing at my father. Even my dad looks taken aback, though there’s skepticism in his eyes.

  “You’re dating the owner of a luxury resort?”

  “His family owns the resort,” I tell him, having rehearsed these words carefully. “Jonathan’s a silent partner. He’s spent the last few years captaining a ship for Sea-Watch, and before that—”

  “Sea-Watch?” My father gapes, impressed for the first time in years. “The humanitarian group that rescues refugees in the central Mediterranean?”

  “That’s the one,” I tell him, trying hard not to sound boastful. “He’s on medical leave right now because he donated a kidney to his sister.”

  “My goodness.” My mother claps her hands like I’ve just recited a cure for cancer. “He sounds like an amazing young man. I can’t wait to meet him.”

  “And you will.” I glance at my watch. “In less than an hour, so if you’d like to freshen up, the guest bath is all yours. The towels are clean.”

  For once, my father doesn’t say anything about the impact of textile production on the environment or how more than thirty-five percent of the world lacks clean water and basic sanitation. Just grabs his suitcase and wheels it down the hall, murmuring to my mother in Ukrainian.

  Is it wrong to gloat just a little? To feel proud he’s impressed by something I’ve done, even if it’s just landing a man who ticks most of the boxes for his approval.

  Everyone’s in good spirits as we drive out to the resort. The Ponderosa Luxury Ranch Resort sign in curlicue copper and iron makes my mom gasp in wonder, and my dad points out the herd of mule deer munching grass in the pasture. The sun’s plummeting fast toward the mountains, and my mother pauses behind the car after we park and whips out her camera.

  “I want to take a picture,” she says. “To remember it by.”

  My father looks at his watch. “We should hurry if we want to—”

  “Both of you, over there,” my mother orders in a rare show of assertiveness. “I want to capture this moment.”

  My father sighs but drapes an arm around my shoulders as we turn our backs toward the mountains and my mom clicks away with her iPhone. “There,” she says, tucking the phone back in her purse. “You two look so much alike.”

  I glance at my father, taking in his strong jaw, his cool blue eyes, the intense look of determination on his face. My mother’s told us countless times we resemble one another, but I never see it.

  “Let’s go,” I tell them. “We don’t want to be late.”

  We’ve almost reached the front of the lodge when Bree steps out the front doors and smiles. “Blanka.” She pulls me into a hug that feels like balancing a basketball between us. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

  “It’s good to see you,” I say, hugging carefully so I don’t squish the baby. “How many weeks to go?”

  “Three weeks, six days, and too many hours, but who’s counting?” She winces and puts a hand on her belly. “Okay, I’m counting. Every minute and hour and—oh, sorry, where are my manners?” She stretches out a hand to my mother. “Bree Bracelyn-Dugan, I’m the VP of Marketing at Ponderosa Resort. You must be Blanka’s parents?”

  “Pleasure to meet you.” My father offers her a stiff handshake. “Thomas Kushnir Kramer. Thank you for having us to dinner.”

  I wait for him to introduce my mother, but he’s already turned to survey the sun sinking behind the Cascade Range. It’s impressive from this angle, the snow-capped peaks jutting into whipped cream fluff of pink and orange. I give him a pass and introduce her myself. “Bree, this is my mother, Galyna Pavlo.”

  “Pleasure to meet you.” Bree shakes my mother’s hand before waving us inside. “You can head in if you like. There’s already a good crowd, and Jon’s saving you a table with the best view. We’ve got a gorgeous sunset tonight.”

  “Thank you.” I rest a hand between my mother’s shoulder blades, guiding her in the direction of Juniper Fine Dining. A sign at the entry announces the menu for the six-course Pacific Northwest and Southern Fusion Experience hosted by Sean Bracelyn and Athena Reynolds.

  “Athena has a show called Misfit Kitchen,” I tell my mother, hopeful she’s seen it. “And Sean is Jonathan’s brother.”

  My mother nods, pleasure spreading over her face. “And Jonathan is your man.”

  “Yes.” It’s all I can do to tamp down the pride in my voice. “Yes, he is.”

  “Blanka!”

  I look up to see Jon striding toward us, trademark smile on full display. He’s wearing a tie, and I blink twice to make sure it’s not the one with the tiny penises. Face heating with the memory, I slip into his arms as he pulls me close for a hug.

  “I’m so glad you made it.” With a tight squeeze, he lets me go, then turns to my parents. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

  It takes me a moment to realize it’s my mother he’s addressing first. He’s clasping her hand in his, shaking it firmly while holding eye contact.

  I didn’t realize it was possible to love him more.

  “I’ve heard so much about you,” he says. “Blanka’s showed me some of your art. I love that painting you did of the mother and child in front of the Charles Bridge in Prague.”

  “Why thank you.” My mother straightens, visibly startled. I’m not sure if it’s from Jon’s recognition of the landmark, or the fact that I’ve shared her art with him. Either way, pride lights her eyes. “I painted that nearly twenty years ago. I’ve always wished I could find that mother to give her a copy.”

  “Did you paint it from a photograph or make up the whole scene?” Jon’s holding eye contact, genuinely interested in the answer.

  My mother blooms under his attention. Few people bother asking her about herself this way. “I took a photo the day I visited, but most of the detail was here.” She touches her forehead, smiling a little.

  “It’s an incredible painting,” Jon says. “The way you captured the light—it’s almost ethereal.”

  I’m not positive my mother knows that word in English, so I translate quickly. “Ah,” she says, beaming. “Yes, thank you.”

  Jonathan smiles. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mrs. Pavlo.”

  “Please, call me Galyna.”

  “Galyna,” he says. “That means calm, doesn’t it?”

  My mother blinks. “You speak Ukrainian?”

  “Only a few words.” His face flushes just a little as he throws me a wink. “I’ve had extra time on my hands lately, so I’m taking an online language course.”

  My mother and I do a simultaneous swoon, perhaps for different reasons.

  As my boyfriend—boyfriend!—turns to my father, I can’t miss the flash of hero worship in Jon’s eyes. Who could blame him? My father has that effect on people, but especially a guy whose life’s work has been all about helping people.

  “Mr. Kushnir Kramer,” he says. “Congratulations on your nomination for the Robert F. Kennedy Human Rights Award. I’ve followed your work for years, and it’s an honor to meet you.”

  “You as well, son.” He pumps Jon’s hand, assessing him the way men do with each other. “I understand you’ve been working for Sea-Watch.”

  “Yes, sir,” he says. “It’s a terrific organization, and I’m proud of the time I spent with them.”

  Jon’s use of past tense isn’t lost on my father. “You’ve left the organization for good?” He tilts his head, and I
can’t tell what the right answer is in his mind.

  Jonathan slips an arm around my waist, and a sense of rightness floods my system. This. This is the exact right answer in my mind. “I’m taking some time to assess what comes next,” he says. “If I’ve learned anything, it’s that the best opportunities appear when you least expect them.”

  There goes my mother swooning again, though my father seems to miss it. He misses the flush in my cheeks as well, though I feel like I’m burning up. Maybe that’s Jon’s arm around me, his presence simultaneously comforting and arousing. I should definitely not be getting turned on in front of my parents.

  Fortunately, we’re saved by Jonathan’s mother.

  “Hey, you two—sorry we’re late.”

  Wendy’s voice makes me turn toward the door as she and Chuck arrive hand in hand. Their proximity to one another, the casual ease of how they move together, is a marked contrast to my own parents’ connection. Or lack thereof. There’s five feet of space between my mom and my dad, a common enough arrangement that I’ve wondered how I was conceived at all.

  “You’re not late,” Jonathan assures them, sliding his arm from around me to properly greet his parents. “We just got here ourselves.”

  Chuck scrubs a hand over his forehead, frowning a little. “I lost track of time. Got busy helping Gretchen plan her route for driving out to Denver next week.”

  “We’re here,” Wendy says brightly, but there’s an off-note in her voice. A strain in her expression that she’s trying hard to hide.

  “Hey, Wendy.” I pull her in for a quick hug, conscious of how tense her shoulders are.

  She hugs me in return while Jon makes introductions. As I draw back, I watch Chuck for signs something’s wrong. He looks the same as always, so maybe the tension is all in my head.

  “So lovely to meet you.” Wendy hugs my startled-looking mother, who rarely hugs anyone besides me. “We just adore Blanka,” Wendy’s saying. “You must be so proud of everything she’s accomplished. Her work at the USGS—”

  “Yes, she’s very well-educated,” my father interrupts with a glance at Jonathan. “But it’s nice to see her becoming more well-rounded.”

  There’s a long, awkward silence. Even Wendy seems unsure what to say.

  But Jon slides his arm around me again, and his quick hip squeeze feels like a signal. “I’ve always found Blanka to be perfectly rounded,” he says. “It’s one of the things I love about her.”

  Love. He really just said it in front of my parents. His parents, too, which feels like a huge step.

  My father clears his throat. “And how long have the two of you known each other?”

  We’re spared from answering when a middle-aged woman grabs Jonathan by the arm. “Dear Lord, you must be Cort’s son.”

  And just like that, the light leaves Jonathan’s smile. The smile stays locked in place, but there’s a sudden dimness in his eyes. “I—um—yes.”

  The woman’s still gripping his arm, oblivious to the impact her words are having on Jon. “I own a restaurant in town, and your father used to come in all the time,” she says. “It’s uncanny how much you look like him. It’s nice to see you’re here keeping his legacy alive.”

  “Right. Um. Yes.” Jon’s gone positively gray.

  I’m ready to jump in and rescue him when the chime of an old-fashioned dinner bell punches through the curtain of awkwardness.

  The woman wanders away as all eyes swivel toward the kitchen entrance where Sean stands in chef whites beside a beautiful woman with brown hair and gray eyes.

  “Good evening, everyone,” Sean says. “Thanks to all of you for coming tonight. For those who haven’t met her yet, this is Chef Athena Reynolds of the Misfit Inn in Tennessee. Some of you might recognize her from her show Misfit Kitchen.”

  Athena smiles and surveys the crowd. “Thanks for having me, y’all. It’s sure beautiful out here. I’ll have to bring my boyfriend next time.”

  Sean grins and gives her a wink. “Makes a great place to get engaged,” he points out. “Or have a honeymoon.”

  Athena’s cheeks pinken, but her smile shows how much she likes that idea. “Let’s not put the cart before the horse.”

  Sean and Athena riff back and forth about the menu, and twice I have to lean over and translate culinary phrases for my mother. A smartly dressed waitress moves past with a tray of icy cocktails made with Douglas Fir liqueur and some kind of fancy Southern bourbon. Each glass bears a garnish of juniper berries and mint leaves anchored on a tiny copper spear.

  “This is delicious.” Jonathan’s mother sips her drink as we’re led to a long, live-edge table in the corner. “I can’t wait to see what else is on the menu.”

  Chuck glances at his watch. “How many courses did they say this is?”

  Wendy’s smile falters. “Six, why?”

  He shrugs and pulls out her chair. “I was hoping to get some work done on that cradle for Bree’s baby. Mark offered his woodshop tonight.”

  “Tonight?” Wendy frowns. “We agreed this would be date night. You said we’d hike up to that point to watch the stars.”

  “Right, right.” Chuck plants a kiss at the edge of her hairline as he takes his seat beside Wendy. “Some other time.”

  Wendy opens her mouth, then closes it quick. I can tell she’s wondering the same thing I am—some other time for the hike or the woodworking? —but she doesn’t push.

  Still, I can’t be the only one to notice the flash of pain in her eyes. It’s the sort of thing Jon would usually catch, but he’s deep in conversation with my father.

  “We’re wrapping things up over the next couple weeks with the orphanage,” my father’s saying.

  Jon frowns. “The orphanage isn’t going away, is it?’

  “No, definitely not.” My father sips his drink and makes a face. He sets the glass down at the head of the table, claiming the spot for himself. “Just handing it over to local organizers so we can turn our efforts toward new endeavors. It’s important to empower local communities, you know.”

  “Absolutely.” Jon squeezes my hand once before releasing it to pull out my chair. He drops a kiss on my temple as I sit down, and I feel myself glowing again. As he takes the seat between my father and me, he slips a hand over my bare knee and gives another squeeze.

  Love you, he mouths silently.

  Love you, too.

  He turns to address the rest of the table. “Does anyone mind if we save a spot for my niece? She wants to join us later.”

  “Of course,” Wendy says, unfolding her napkin onto her lap. “This is Mark’s girl?”

  “Libby, yes.” Jon shakes out his own napkin and smiles at my mother. “My brother and her mom got married a few months ago.”

  “How old is she?” my mother asks.

  “Seven,” Jon says. “I’ve loved getting to know her while I’ve been home.”

  Home.

  There’s that word again. It’s not the first time I’ve heard him say that about Ponderosa, but I’m catching it more often now. I know it’s presumptuous, but I can’t help thinking of myself as part of that package. Home, whatever that means to Jonathan.

  I glance around our table, cataloging everyone’s seat choices. My father’s at the head, of course, with Jonathan to his right. Across from Jon to my father’s left is the empty spot reserved for Libby. Next to that is Chuck, who’s got his arm around Wendy. My mom sits stiffly next to Wendy, diagonally across from me. She’s ramrod straight in her chair, not smiling, but not looking uncomfortable, either. She’s just…there. The furniture in my father’s life, and a twist of sadness grabs my guts.

  I watch her until she looks up, then give her a small smile. “I’m glad you’re here, Mom.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Her smile is tiny, but warm. “So am I.”

  I glance toward my father, holding court at the other end of the table. Does anyone else notice the distance between my parents? Not just physical, but everything. I wonder if there wa
s a point long ago when the two of them burned with passion. If they ever felt the same way Jon and I do now.

  Feeling my eyes on him, Jonathan catches my eye and reaches under the table to touch my knee again.

  “Here, Uncle Jonathan.” Libby bustles over and thrusts a basket into Jon’s hands. “It’s kinda like Indian fry bread—”

  “From India or Native American?” my father interjects.

  I open my mouth to point out a seven-year-old isn’t going to know that, but Libby doesn’t miss a beat.

  “Native American,” Libby says, lifting her chin. “The Northern Paiutes, the Wasco, and the Warm Springs tribes are part of the Confederated Tribes of Warm Springs, and their land is that way.” She points north, and I half expect her to break out a map of the nearby reservation. “They make fry bread like this, and Chef Athena is serving it with bourbon bacon butter because she’s from the South and in the South they put bourbon and bacon on everything.”

  I’m tempted to applaud both the child and the Bend Public School System, but I settle for giving her a discreet low-five.

  “Sounds delicious.” Jon takes the basket and winks. “They’re putting you to work tonight, huh?”

  Libby nods and shoves her hands in the pockets of her apron. “Mom says if I want another pet rabbit, I have to earn it. Uncle Sean said I could bus tables.”

  “Your mom’s smart,” he says. “You always appreciate the things you have to work for.”

  Libby looks dubious. “Mom and Mark want a baby and they’re working at it all the time. Always in the bedroom with the door closed and—”

  “Aaaand I’m guessing they don’t want you sharing that with dinner guests.” Jon’s mouth twitches, and I can tell he’s holding back laughter. “Did I just hear Sean calling you?”

  “What?” Libby frowns. “Where?”

  “The kitchen,” he says. “Your services are needed.”

  Libby sighs and heads off toward the kitchen while everyone at the table fights to keep a straight face.

  Even my father seems charmed, which is new for him. “You’re good with children,” he observes, directing his words at Jonathan. “You’ve worked with kids?”