Girl in the Mirror (23 page)

He began to tug impatiently at her pants. She lowered her hands to help him.

“Now, Michael. Now.”

His hands cupped her rear, lifting her higher against the hard wall of the tree. She felt a burning scrape where tender skin met coarse bark, then a sudden, fierce filling when he thrust high within her. She gasped and clasped him tighter around the neck, wrapping her bare legs around his hips as he thrust again, harder and faster, pounding her against the bark. She bit his neck, stifling her scream as she shook and tightened around him.

He gave one powerful shove that pinned her against the wood, cried out her name, then shuddered against her.

Nearby, birds fluttered in the air, pierced the sky with their high calls, then gradually circled and slowly came to rest on overhead branches.

Michael lowered his head and looked into her eyes, triumphantly.

She tilted her head and smiled shyly.

“I love you,” he said against the crown of her head. A simple declaration of fact.

Her heart expanded so; it took her breath away. “I love you, too.”

They both felt what this coupling had meant. They knew that here in the primitive setting of nature he had claimed her as his own—and she had accepted him.

Michael flew back to California that afternoon. Cruising high above the thick cloud cover, the plane suddenly lurched, causing him to shift in his seat. The movement released the faint scent of Charlotte’s Joy perfume still lingering on his clothes and skin. Instantly he was filled with a rush of memories of the past twenty-four hours: their farewell, her beautiful face upturned, her luminous eyes soft with longing, her soft mouth pressing against his own. Shifting again in the cramped space he smiled, imagining—hoping—that when she changed that afternoon for her next scene with Sommers, she would smell his scent on her as well, and remember that incredible coupling they’d shared in the woods.

He leaned back in his seat, comfortable in the knowledge that he trusted her completely. No Brad Sommers or Freddy Walen or any other man would steal her away from him. Looking out his window, he saw the sunshine pierce the clouds.

C
harlotte didn’t fly home to California right after the film had completed shooting a few weeks later. Instead, she took the short flight from Maine to New York to keep an appointment with a financial adviser recommended to her by the producer of the film. Charlotte didn’t have a great deal of money to invest, at least not by the producer’s standards. By her standards, however, the post-tax, post-agent, post-expenses dollars she’d set aside to invest was a veritable fortune. At some point during the past few weeks her perspective on her life had crystallized. The eerie juxtaposition of Melanie’s suicide attempt and Michael’s declaration of love showed her how fleeting life was—and how precious love was. She wanted permanence in her life and had resolved to attain it.

Her visit to Bessemer Trust lasted two hours. In that time she’d set up a portfolio that invested a sizable portion of her capital in high risk ventures that would double her money quickly—or lose it even more quickly. Charlotte surprised Kenneth Clark with her ability with numbers and her keen sense of money. She had been, after all, an excellent accountant. The fact that she was now investing her own money only sharpened her skills.

When she returned to California, she maintained her forced march. The first appointment she made was with Mrs. Delaney, the elderly widow who owned the house she rented. Mrs. Delaney didn’t want to meet with her at first. She was a frustrated, irritable old woman who felt the world had done wrong by her. Like most people, however, she was soon won over by Charlotte. Together they walked through the garden. Charlotte helped her water the roses and threw sticks for Mrs. Delaney’s two overweight Scotties. Mrs. Delaney seldom had visitors, invited no one, and other than her housekeeper, rarely saw anyone. Charlotte was patient with her, thinking of her mother, giving the older woman time to vent her frustrations and to talk endlessly about her sorry relatives. Eventually, Charlotte guided the conversation to pleasanter topics, such as the dogs, the garden, Mrs. Delaney’s collection of Japanese porcelains. Given the opportunity, Mrs. Delaney could discuss these happier topics with more animation.

After the afternoon tea was served, she agreed to sell Charlotte the squat, postwar tract house on the bluff.

“You what?” Melanie’s hands framed her face, the very picture of surprise.

“I bought the house,” Charlotte replied with feigned nonchalance, setting down her purse on the front table. She cast a sidelong glance at Melanie’s stunned expression, then burst out laughing, hugging Melanie with the sheer joy of her first house purchase. The two women danced and sang around the house, a tall, slender figure holding hands with a small, curvaceous one.

“Whatever did you do to make that old battle-ax sell?”

“She’s really very nice, beneath that cold exterior,” Charlotte replied. “She reminded me a lot of my mother, actually. A hard life and disappointments can sour a woman. She didn’t even care about the house. Hung on to it for lack of anything better to do with it. She’s got plenty of money, she’s just lonely. I think we should invite her over once in a while for tea, or maybe a game of canasta. She likes to play cards. So did my mother.”

Charlotte felt a sudden pang of homesickness for her mother. She’d sent Helena a generous check every month with a long letter informing her of everything that was going on in her life. She never failed to include her dreams, her hopes and her successes. In every letter, Charlotte begged her mother to come live with her in California and never work another day in her life.

Helena never wrote her in reply. The checks came back, uncashed.

“When you want something, Charlotte Godfrey, you get it,” Melanie exclaimed. “I saw it in your chart right away. You are a Leo through and through.” She didn’t want to tell Charlotte that she saw a difficult time ahead for her as well. She’d found it best to keep that kind of revelation to herself.

“I made another stop today. For you,” she said, handing Melanie a packet.

“What are these for?” she asked. She absently shuffled through the brochures. “Cooking school? You can’t be thinking I’m going back to school? At my age? Don’t be ridiculous. School is for young people. I’m too old to go back to school. I’d be laughed out of class.”

“Is this the same Melanie Ward I know? Talking about age?”

“No, it’s not the same Melanie. And you know it. My body is worn out with rehab travails. Age
is
an issue.”

“No, that’s not true. You showed me that. It’s certainly not true when you’re talking about going back to school. There are plenty of men and women in their forties who return to school. Older, too. In this day and age it’s normal for people to change careers at least twice in their lifetimes. It seems to me that you’ve only had one career so far, so isn’t it time that you open the door for another?”

“I can’t,” Melanie said, back-stepping. “You know me. I’m all body and no brains.”

“Again, not true. Melanie, you always see the glass half-empty. A positive outlook is good for the soul.”

“What if I’m not a born optimist, like you? To me, the glass
is
half-empty somedays and half-f on others. Sometimes, it’s bone-dry.”

“Or overflowing. Optimists are made, not born. You can’t always change your circumstances, but you can change the way you react to them. For one thing, depressed people bring you down. Spend time with people who are upbeat.”

“Yeah, well I have you for my roommate. I’d have thought that was cheerful enough to last a lifetime. You and your lists,” she muttered, sifting through the brochures.

“Exactly,” Charlotte persevered. “I’m the queen of list-making. My favorite holiday is New Year’s Eve just because I get to make new ones.”

“I know what you’re trying to do….”

“Try it,” Charlotte said, linking arms with her. “I’ll tell you what. Let’s pretend this is our own private New Year’s Eve. November ninth, the day we bought the house.”

“We?”

“Absolutely, we,” Charlotte insisted. “Let’s make a list of all the things we want to do for the house and for ourselves. Like decorating. Cleaning out our closets. Finally starting that fitness program.” She looked at Melanie with a wicked gleam. “Going to school.”

“You’re pretty clever, sweetie. A regular Pollyanna.”

Charlotte laughed, delighted that she was catching Melanie in the spirit of the game, despite her protestations. She nonchalantly strolled into the kitchen to open a bottle of chardonnay. From there she watched as Melanie poked at the brochures with one finger, then felt a surge of triumph when Melanie bent over to open one up and scan the pictures. Her tiny nose drew close to the pages as she squinted.

“Hey,” she called out, pointing to one picture. “That guy looks pretty old.”

Charlotte walked in with two glasses of wine in her hands and peered over Melanie’s shoulders. “Fifty if a day,” she replied, handing a glass to Melanie.

“Do you think?”

“Go on. All I’m asking is that you go take a look at the place. For me.”

Melanie frowned and sipped her wine. “Even if I did want to go, where would I get the money?”

“I’ll spot you a loan.”

“Oh, no.” Melanie rolled her eyes. “I don’t want to start that.”

“It’s no big deal. They’re paying me an obscene amount of money for my next film. Who’s to say what’s fair? Why can’t I do something with all that money that will give me pleasure and help my best friend? Besides, I consider it a good investment. I’ve been eating your cooking for years, and I’m a firm believer in your talents. You have a future as a chef, I’d bet my life on it. I’d like to bet my money on it.”

“I don’t know, Charlotte. It would be a big gamble.”

“You know me, I’m very careful with my money. I’ve never made a bad investment and I don’t intend to start now.”

“I know what you’re trying to do and I appreciate it. I admit I’m interested. I’d be a fool not to, considering my prospects. But I’d never be able to pay you back. If only I’d done this years back when I had money. Damn, when I think of all the money I wasted. It makes me sick.”

“Half-empty…”

Melanie laughed.

“Seriously now,” Charlotte said. “Lending you money will not be a hardship for me. After you complete your degree, we can talk about how you can pay me back.” She sipped her wine. “I was rather hoping you’d do something exotic, like open a restaurant or a catering business. Something I could roll over the debt into.”

Melanie’s Kewpie-doll mouth twisted, considering the possibilities. Charlotte took hope from the way her eyes were dancing with the light. “I could do the housework, the shopping and the cooking to pay for my rent while I’m in school. God, I can’t believe I’m saying that. Me, cleaning house. I don’t even want to think about my nails. But I could do it, you know. You taught me a lot about how to clean a toilet bowl, sweetie. In fact,” she continued, moving to the edge of her seat, “maybe I can do other chores, too, you know, like ironing or something.”

“Before you turn into little Miss Suzy Homemaker, let’s work out a loan program between the two of us that won’t make you my personal slave.” Her tone changed. “I don’t want anything to ruin our friendship.”

“No. Me, neither. Agreed.”

“I’m going to be on location and on promotional tour so much in the next few months. And now that I’m a homeowner, I hate to leave the place unattended.” She smiled.

“I just thought of another job you can do. You can be the house sitter.”

Melanie shook her head and threw up her hands, giving in. “Sure. Why not?”

“So.” Charlotte put out her hand. “Does this means you’ll go to school?”

Melanie took the hand. “When God closes a door, he opens a window, my grandmother always said.” They shook on the deal, then hugged. Melanie slunk back in the chair and snorted. “And I always thought you were stingy. Turning off the lights, using coupons, tight budgets. But you’re not. You’re one of the most generous people I’ve ever met.”

“I prefer to call it frugal. So I can blow it on something I really care about. Like you.”

Charlotte moved to the sofa and leaned back into the pillows. Her whole body ached. Now that she was home, every muscle demanded that she take time to relax.

“You look tired,” Melanie said, coming to sit beside her.

“I am.”

“Are you taking your vitamins?”

“I’ll be better, I promise.”

“You drive me crazy. What’s a mother to do? I’m going to pack them myself next time, and if you come home with a bag full of vitamins, I’m going to do something drastic. I don’t know what yet, give me time to think of it.”

“I don’t try to be bad. I’ve just been so busy….”

“All the more reason. Charlotte, you’re not looking well. I’m worried about you. You’re losing weight.”

“Just a few pounds.”

“Five, more like it. Are your headaches back again?”

“Mmm,” she replied with a soft groan. “They come more often than not now. Migraines, the doctor says. I’m not so sure. My joints hurt, too. In tiny little spots, like those itsy bones in the wrist, the knuckles of my toes, the balls of my hips.” She especially ached where Melanie had hit her in the jaw in the water, but she didn’t want to mention that. No sense in making Melanie feel terrible, too.

“Now I know why you and Mrs. Delaney got along so well. You were a pair of old dotties, comparing aches and pains.”

“We did,” she replied, a smile curving her lips. She stretched out on the sofa, kicked off her shoes and covered herself with a ratty old afghan her mother had knitted for her years before. “Could you dim the lights a bit, please, Mel? I need to rest for a minute before Michael gets here. I don’t want to greet him after several weeks hobbling about like an old woman.”

Melanie studied Charlotte as she lay on the sofa, her practiced eye picking up the details of her appearance. She was wearing a simple black dress with a fabulous cut, a Prada probably, a favorite of Charlotte’s. The thick gold earrings and matching necklace were exquisitely braided and had the rosy luster of eighteen karat. No bracelets or rings cluttered her long, slender arms and fingers. Only a simple black Movado watch on a thin black leather strap encircled her slender wrist—a gift from Michael Mondragon. Melanie sighed, knowing that Charlotte Godfrey would look as beautiful in her own, inimitable way at forty as she did now. It was that timeless quality, more than anything else, that Melanie envied.

It was Charlotte’s inner beauty, however, that made it impossible for her to begrudge Charlotte any good fortune that came her way. When she thought of what Charlotte had suffered as a child it put her own misery to shame. She was wise beyond her years. An old soul. If Charlotte could find the courage to make such incredible changes in her life, could she not at least try to make some changes in her own?

Melanie walked over to tuck the afghan under Charlotte’s chin. How pale she looked, almost wan. Freddy put so much pressure on her, but then again, she put so much on herself. Charlotte Godowski…Charlotte Godfrey…the woman still remained a mystery. She had her beauty, she had success. What was it, she wondered, that still drove Charlotte so hard?

Later that same evening, Charlotte sat with Michael in front of the fireplace watching the embers flicker blue and red, the first fire in her new home. Earlier, Charlotte had laughed gaily and served chilled champagne for Michael and Melanie. They’d raised glasses and toasted the purchase of the house. Then Melanie declared how there was a movie playing at the Biograph that she was just dying to see and slipped out the door, announcing with exaggerated tones that she wouldn’t be home until midnight at the earliest.