Captain Dreamboat (Ponderosa Resort Romantic Comedies Book 7)

by Tawna Fenske

  Jonathan takes a sip of his cocktail. “I grew up with seven younger sisters.”

  Wendy sends him a doting smile. “You were always a huge help with the girls.” She turns to my parents, sensing a need to fill them in. “Chuck was in the Coast Guard and traveled a lot. I don’t know what I would have done without Jonathan sometimes.”

  My mom looks up from spreading butter on her bread. “That must have been difficult for you, having your father—your stepfather—” she hesitates, stumbling over the configuration of branches in the Bracelyn family tree. “—having the man of the house gone all the time.”

  Jon and Chuck exchange a look I can’t quite read. “Separation’s never easy,” Jonathan says mildly. “We always understood Chuck was doing important work.”

  “Shared values were something we talked about a lot when the kids were young,” Chuck adds. “Being part of something bigger, making sacrifices for the greater good.”

  There are nods around the table, and I see approval in my father’s face. It’s an expression I’ve seen so seldom that I have to look away. My gaze lands on Jonathan, who gives my knee another squeeze.

  “Thanks for inviting us,” I murmur.

  “I’m glad everyone could come.”

  Sean steps to the front of the room again to explain the first course. It’s an artichoke and corn fritter, and my stomach rumbles as servers march from the kitchen with platters piled high

  “These are gluten free,” our waitress says as she sets down the serving plate. “So is the honey and hatch chili dipping sauce.”

  “Gluten free,” Jon murmurs as he holds out the plate so I can take one. “Cindy would be pleased.”

  I laugh and spoon a little of the sauce onto my plate. “Only if they’re really gluten free and not fake gluten free like Angela and Archie might make.”

  His hand brushes mine as I take the plate, and a pulse of heat moves down my arm. I love that we have shared jokes. I love the physical closeness. I love him, and I can’t believe how lucky I am.

  “So, Jonathan.” My father inspects his fritter before picking up his fork. “What’s next for you in terms of work?”

  As Jon finishes chewing, all eyes swivel to him. I get the sense everyone’s interested in the answer. “I haven’t decided yet,” he says carefully. “For the moment, I’m enjoying spending time with Blanka.”

  “Right, but a man’s gotta have a purpose,” he says. “Something that lets him make the world a better place.”

  “True enough,” Chuck murmurs as he lifts his wineglass. “We’ve always been proud of Jon in that regard. He’s grown up to be a helluva good man.”

  Jon seems to glow beneath the light of Chuck’s praise, but Wendy shoots Chuck a look I can’t quite read. “You think tending to his health isn’t enough of a purpose? Being around family and loved ones and—”

  “I looked you up,” my father says, interrupting with this nonsensical bit of information directed at Jonathan. “While Galyna was getting ready for dinner. Aside from your work with Sea-Watch, you’ve done volunteer missions all over the globe. Water conservation, children’s charities, education initiatives. And the Coast Guard, too—like your father. Following in a parent’s footsteps is admirable.”

  My dad shoots a pointed look at me, which I ignore. I’m too busy noticing the dynamic between Jon and Chuck. The way Jon sits up a little straighter, reveling in the comparison to his stepfather instead of Cort Bracelyn.

  “I’ve been lucky to have the freedom to do those things,” Jon says. “The freedom to make a difference.”

  Money. I know in this context that freedom means money, though he’s too classy to say that. I suppose that’s one thing he can credit to Cort Bracelyn. In the weeks I’ve spent with Jon, I’ve realized money’s no object. He’s frugal when spending on himself but gives generously to every charity under the sun. His late father’s money makes that possible.

  Chuck nods to Jonathan. “Nothing gives a man a better sense of purpose than helping others.”

  Beside him, Wendy fiddles with the garnish on the edge of her drink. I can’t help noticing the way my mother watches her. How the two of them resemble each other in a way. On the surface, they have nothing in common. One is fair-haired and tiny; one tall and robust like me. One has a happy marriage filled with children and laughter, while the other has a lifetime of martyrdom and a lone daughter living six-thousand miles from her home country.

  But it’s the lines around their eyes, the stoic composure. Both mothers are a portrait of self-sacrifice and duty. It’s a painting my mother could capture with her eyes closed.

  “You’ve developed quite the resumé, son,” my father continues.

  Jon swivels his gaze back to my father. “I never gave much thought to my resumé,” he says mildly. “The choices I’ve made, they’re because it’s the right thing to do.”

  “Excellent.” My father says it like Jon’s a game show contestant giving the right answer.

  “That’s my boy.” Chuck sticks his palm out for a complicated hand slap ritual that makes Jon glow again. “From the time he was little, he never cared about money. His first lemonade stand, he gave all the cash to the local food bank.”

  My father nods, ready to adopt Jon on the spot. “Sounds like you and his mother raised him right,” he says to Chuck. “I understand you’re a decorated member of the military?”

  Chuck waves him off, not one for the limelight. “Sure, but that’s not the sort of thing you do for the glory. You’ve gotta be in it for the right reasons or it’s just another job.”

  My father lifts his drink, though I can’t tell if he’s toasting Jon or Chuck or himself. “So nice to meet a family that understands the meaning of service.”

  Jonathan shifts his gaze to mine, and the smile he gives me holds a hint of unease. I recall what he said that day on the lake.

  Isn’t my volunteer work just a way to feel good about myself? It’s selfish at the core.

  I reach for his hand and lace my fingers through his. Does this feel awkward to him, too? Maybe it’s too soon to bring our families together. We’ve barely discussed the idea of dating, and now we’re dining with the in-laws.

  In-laws.

  I roll the word around in my mind, testing its weight. For the first time in my life, I’m not horrified by the idea of joining my family with someone else’s. I catch Wendy’s eye and smile, delighted when she smiles back.

  I’d definitely be getting the better end of the deal.

  “These fritters are outstanding,” Wendy says, offering the plate to my mother. “I’m going to fill up before we get to the main course.”

  My mom nods and cuts one with the side of her fork. “Did you try the sauce? It is the perfect amount of spicy and sweet.”

  There’s some more banter about the meal, and everyone cleans their plate before the next course arrives. My mom and Wendy dive headfirst into the peach and baby kale salad with warm bacon dressing, chatting like old friends about recipes and travel.

  I glance at the men, picking up scraps of their conversation. Several times I hear the word duty, and I can’t help noticing Jon’s rapt attention on my father.

  Wendy leans across the table and smiles at me. “They’re getting along swimmingly.”

  I take a sip of my water. “I always knew my father and Jon had a lot in common.”

  “I meant Chuck and your dad.” She spears a juicy slice of peach. “I suppose all three of them have a similar drive.”

  A chill trickles down my arms. “I suppose that’s true.”

  She dabs her mouth with a napkin. “Men fueled by an acute sense of responsibility. By a need to be of service to others.”

  My mother smiles faintly. “I’m glad you found a good man,” she says. “Your Jonathan is wonderful.”

  I smile as I lace bits of baby kale onto my fork. “He is, isn’t he?”

  Jon’s voice gets louder, animated as he speaks with swelling passion. “It makes no sense th
at money should be what separates people from resources our planet has in such abundance,” he says. “Water, food, basic education—doesn’t everyone deserve access regardless of whether they’re born in the poorest countries or the wealthiest?”

  “Absolutely,” my father says, ignoring his food as he gives Jon his full attention. “And it’s our job as members of the species to help close the gap between the haves and have-nots.”

  I take a big gulp of water, desperate to wash back the sour panic moving up my throat. This is wonderful. I agree with everything they’re saying. I should be thrilled they’re getting along so well. And yet—

  “Juniper-smoked baby back ribs.” A waitress sets a platter of meat at the head of the table in front of my father, then adds a bright silver bowl mounded with something orange and buttery. “The acorn squash for this maple-infused mash was grown right here in Ponderosa Resort’s on-site gardens.”

  “Beautiful,” my mother says, eyeing both dishes. They’re far out of reach for her. Even I can’t get to them. Why are these tables so massive?

  “The ribs look delicious.” Jon’s mother clears her throat, trying to get someone’s attention. My father, Jonathan. The platters are right between them, waiting to be passed.

  I touch Jonathan’s arm. “Sweetheart.”

  The word feels funny coming out of my mouth, but nice. I’ve never used terms of endearment with a significant other. Neither did my parents.

  Jon doesn’t move. Doesn’t react at all to my hand on his sleeve. He’s deep in conversation with my dad, something about medical care in third world countries. I stretch my arm past him, trying to reach the platter of ribs.

  My father glances over and frowns. “Don’t be rude, Blanka.”

  Heat warms my cheeks as I draw my hand back. Jonathan turns to me with an apologetic smile. “Let me get that.”

  He hefts the platter and I grab the tongs from the edge of it, ready to serve both of us. “How many would you like?”

  “Two, please.”

  I settle the ribs on his plate, then grab two for myself. He holds the platter out for my father, who takes his time choosing his own. After settling them on his plate, my dad takes the platter and sets it down in the empty spot beside him, the one Jonathan reserved for Libby.

  “As I was saying,” my dad continues. “The water rights in parts of southern Europe are—”

  “Um, excuse me.” Interrupting my father is a sin akin to belching at the table, and he jerks his gaze to me like I’ve done just that.

  Instead of cowering, I sit up straighter. “They haven’t been served yet.” I gesture to my mother and Jon’s mom. The two women exchange an uneasy look.

  My father sighs. “Honestly, Blanka.”

  “I’ve got it.” Chuck stands up and takes the platter, carrying it to the space between Wendy and my mother. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you, dear.” Wendy helps herself, then gestures to my mom. “How many would you like?”

  “Just one,” she says. “And I’d really like to try that squash.”

  I turn to Jon, who’s gone back to talking animatedly with my father.

  “What’s unbelievable is how many of these deaths are totally preventable,” Jon’s saying. “Fifty-eight million from kidney disease alone, with thirty-five million of those attributed to chronic disease.”

  My father’s nodding along, thumping his fist on the table. “And it’s totally treatable, given the right resources.”

  I touch Jonathan’s arm. “Could we please get the—”

  “Just a minute, Blanka.” He doesn’t look at me.

  I draw my hand back, feeling slapped. My mother gives me a pitying look. “Your father has that effect on people.”

  I nod, ignoring the unease in my gut. “Jon’s passionate about human rights.”

  “He always has been,” Wendy says. “We can wait for the squash.”

  “Nonsense, I’ve got it.” Chuck sets down the platter of ribs and hurries back to the head of the table. Scooping up the bowl of squash, he carries it back to Wendy and my mom.

  “Thank you.” My mother glances at me as Wendy serves all three of us. “The food is certainly wonderful.”

  “It is.” But this pressure building in the center of my chest isn’t so much. I take a bite of squash, willing it to subside.

  Jonathan still hasn’t turned. His food sits untouched on his plate as he speaks passionately about equal access to medical care. He’s in his element, and I can’t fault him for that.

  But I also can’t stop the churning in my stomach. I pick up my fork and focus on the meal. The ribs are delicious, smoky and flavorful with just a hint of zing. Sean and Athena have outdone themselves.

  Libby zips over and refills everyone’s water glass, and my mother watches her with interest. As soon as she’s gone, Wendy leans close. “Do you want children, dear?”

  A hunk of meat gets stuck in my throat. I reach for my water glass while trying to force air into my lungs. Wendy scurries around the table and whacks me between the shoulder blades. She starts to wrap her arms around me, her inner nurse going for the Heimlich. I wave her off.

  “I’m fine,” I croak, flashing a weak smile for my concerned-looking mother. “I’m okay.”

  My mother glances at Jon, who hasn’t noticed any of this. Catching Libby’s eye, my mom signals for another water refill.

  I chug half the glass in one gulp, hoping they’ve forgotten the question about children. I’d just as soon not talk about procreation or my plans to try it anytime soon.

  No such luck.

  “Children,” Wendy says as my mother settles back in her chair. “Would you like them someday?”

  “Yes,” I say slowly. “I think so.”

  It’s a dream I’ve only thought about in arbitrary ways. Yes to motherhood, without any concrete thought about how I’d get there. I’ve admired babies, but I never in a million years saw myself mapping out plans to start a family. To build a life with a husband and kids.

  I glance at Jon, grateful he’s still deep in conversation with my dad. I can barely say the words aloud to my mother, to Jon’s mother.

  “I do picture myself as a mother someday.”

  Both mothers beam, and I don’t dare add the rest. The devoted, supportive husband. The happy family. The dream is raw and new, a featherless bird not ready to be shoved from the nest.

  But I risk another glance at Jon and feel a faint flutter of hope. I know it’s silly, but I can’t help it. I pick up my water glass and use it to hide my smile.

  “Children are just wonderful.” Wendy lowers her voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “I hope it’s not presumptuous of me to say you and Jon would make beautiful babies.”

  My mother nods. “He seems like he would be a good father,” she adds. “He would provide well for you.”

  I mumble something unintelligible and shovel squash in my mouth. What would that be like? Jonathan, me, a child of our own. My brain reels with the possibility, with the picture of a happy, functional family. For something I never fully voiced as a life goal, it’s suddenly all I can think about.

  “Mmhmm,” I manage as I swallow my food.

  I concentrate on finishing my dinner, conscious of the buzz of conversation to my left. The men are so deep in their discussion, they’ve missed Sean and Athena’s last couple announcements. At least everyone’s getting along. No food fights or public drunkenness or squabbles about politics. It’s mellow as far as meet-the-family scenarios go.

  The clang of a spoon tapping a water glass draws our attention to the front of the restaurant.

  Everyone except my father and Jon, who keep right on talking.

  “Thanks again for joining us this evening,” Sean says. “You’ll find comment cards on the tables, and we’d love to get your feedback.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ve still got dessert,” Athena says. “Y’all are in for a real treat.”

  They go on to describe a scrumptious riff on pecan pie w
ith locally grown hazelnuts standing in for their Southern cousins. There’s a buttery filling and a side of vanilla-bourbon ice cream that sounds amazing.

  Not that Jonathan hears any of it. He’s nodding at something my dad’s saying, ribs still untouched on his plate. “That does sound incredible,” Jon’s saying. “An amazing opportunity.”

  A plate of pie lands in front of me, and I wait until everyone else has been served before digging in.

  “You’d be interested, then?” My father’s voice jars me from my thoughts, and I turn to look at him.

  Jonathan’s nodding, water glass gripped in his hand. “It sounds like a great cause,” he says. “How soon would you need me?”

  Wait, what?

  I turn toward Jonathan, not positive I heard right. He’s still facing my father, still deep in conversation.

  “I need to get someone on the ground in Dovlano right away,” he says. “By the end of next month ideally.”

  “And the time commitment?” Jon sips his water, unaware I’m hanging on every word.

  “Two years, to start. You’d be hands-on from the very beginning. As wealthy as Dovlano is as a nation, it has no major air service within its borders. Transportation in the poorest areas is particularly atrocious.”

  “Yes, my sister mentioned that,” Jon says, nodding. “Most medical transports take place via water.”

  “So, you can see where you’d fit in.”

  “Of course.”

  So can I, obviously.

  What I can’t see is where I’d fit in. Jon and me, as a couple. How would that even work?

  My father glances over and notices me watching. I don’t know what he sees on my face, but he nods in my direction. “Blanka will be free to come visit, of course,” he adds. “As long as it doesn’t cause any interference with the mission.”

  Interference?

  I blink, expecting Jon to say something. To tell my father he’s not ready to race off on another international crusade for two years—two years! Or assure my father that I’m more to him than an interference.