Kitabı oku: «Girl In The Mirror»

Praise for the novels of
MARY ALICE MONROE

SKYWARD

“Monroe’s novel is a fascinating, emotion-filled narrative that’s not to be missed.”

—Booklist starred review

“A devoted naturalist and native of South Carolina’s Low County, Monroe is in her element when describing the wonders of nature and the ways people relate to it…. Hauntingly beautiful relationships between birds and people add texture to the story…. Monroe successfully combines elements of women’s fiction and romance in this lyrical tale.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Skyward is a soaring, passionate story of loneliness and pain and the simple ability of love to heal and transcend both. Mary Alice Monroe’s voice is as strong and true as the great birds of prey of whom she writes.”

—Anne Rivers Siddons

THE BEACH HOUSE

“With its evocative, often beautiful prose and keen insights into family relationships, Monroe’s latest is an exceptional and heartwarming work of fiction.”

—Publishers Weekly starred review

“Whether you are one of the hundreds of sea turtle volunteers in the southeast or just wish you were, this beautifully written story brings us a glimpse of their dedication and commitment to the conservation of the loggerhead sea turtle.”

—Sally Murphy, Sea Turtle Coordinator for the South Carolina Department of Natural Resources

THE FOUR SEASONS

“Mary Alice Monroe writes from her heart to the hearts of her readers. It is a quality of emotional honesty together with lyrical, descriptive passages that draw her audience to books like The Four Seasons.”

—Charleston Post & Courier

“With novels like this one and The Book Club, Mary Alice Monroe continues to be one of the leaders of complex female relationship dramas that hit home to the audience.”

—Midwest Book Review

“Moving, touching and beautifully drawn, the characters in this wonderful novel are compelling and true. Ms. Monroe’s skills as a teller of women’s fiction are becoming quite exceptional.”

—Romantic Times

THE BOOK CLUB

“Monroe offers up believable characters in a well-crafted story.”

—Publishers Weekly

“The Book Club skillfully weaves the individual story threads into a warm, unified whole that will appeal to readers who enjoy multifaceted relationship novels with strong women protagonists.”

—Library Journal

GIRL IN THE MIRROR

“A heart-wrenching, sensitive tale that will delight readers…”

—Painted Rock Reviews

Girl in the Mirror
Mary Alice Monroe

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This book is dedicated to

Oscar Rogers Kruesi

A Man of Ideas

Dear Reader,

Girl in the Mirror was my first book with MIRA Books, published in 1998. I was very interested in the growing popularity of elective plastic surgery in the 1990s, but never could I have guessed that “extreme makeovers” would be so popular in magazines and on television in 2004. My heroine, Charlotte, had what can readily be called an extreme makeover in this novel, and though the story isn’t new, it asks the timely question: what is true beauty?

Also, in 1990 there were not as many treatments available for HIV, and most HIV-positive people were expected to die. Today there are more than twenty drugs on the market to treat the disease, and research is continuing. Today there is hope.

I’ve enjoyed editing this edition of the novel to bring it up to date, yet the story remains largely the same. I hope you will enjoy it.

Happy reading,

Mary Alice Monroe

Contents

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Part Two

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Part Three

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Part Four

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Epilogue

Part One

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

—Margaret Wolfe Hungerford

One

April 1996

If all the world was a stage, it was time once again to play her part.

Charlotte sat in the green room of the television studio while outside, strains of the talk show’s theme song intermingled with audience applause. She had promised Vicki Ray this interview, and there was no choice now but to endure the hour or suffer months of bad press. She’d had enough bad press lately. Now her plan was set. Freddy had seen to every detail in his usual compulsive manner. How had he put it? “Interview, marriage, surgery. Bim, Bam, Boom.”

The only booming she felt right now was in her temples, a rhythmic, tympanic beat. How hot the room was! Bringing a fevered hand to her forehead, she noticed with alarm that it was trembling. And her lips, so parched. Oh, please, she prayed, holding her fingers tight, steadying them. Don’t let the symptoms come back now. Maybe one more pill, she decided, quickly fumbling through her purse. Just in case.

Three brisk knocks sounded on the door.

“Charlotte?” Freddy Walen walked in without waiting for a response. Although not a big man, his dominating presence filled the room, causing Charlotte to shrink inside. His eyes, as hard as the diamond on his pinkie finger, assessed her with a proprietary air.

“Good…good,” he said, stroking his neatly trimmed mustache, observing every detail. Her swanlike neck was unadorned, her golden hair spilled loosely around her shoulders, and her eyes, her large, luminous blue eyes, shone with an icy, mesmerizing luster. It was a look that Freddy referred to as “the brilliance of a star.” He’d taught her that her public expected Charlotte Godfrey to be dressed in understated elegance, and she never disappointed them.

“What’s that you’re taking?” he demanded.

“A painkiller. I’ll need it to get through the interview.” She stared at the white pill in her hand, then raised her eyes, worry shining clearly. “Freddy, cancel the interview. I’m not well enough. The symptoms are returning, my hands are shaking, and taking another pill is not the answer.”

“You’ll be fine,” he said in a gruff manner, patting her shoulder. “Buck up. We can’t cancel now. Besides, we need this interview to settle a few rumors. Then the press will be off our backs so we can hustle to South America and get you well. Zip up this show and we’ll be out of here. I promise. Now, take that pill.”

Charlotte poured herself a tumbler of water. “I don’t trust Vicki Ray. She’s tough. Crafty. What if she suspects?”

“Forget it. Vicki doesn’t have a clue. If she did, I’d know about it.”

“Miss Godfrey?” From outside her door came the high, strained voice of an usher. “Are you ready yet? It’s really time.”

She understood his panic and took pity. Besides, she couldn’t stall any longer. “Yes,” she called, quickly swallowing the medicine. “Of course. Right away.”

“Remember,” Freddy said, grabbing hold of her shoulders. “It’s just another part. Follow the script, babe, and you’ll be great.”

Charlotte shook off his hands. “Don’t be a fool, Freddy. There’s no script with Vicki Ray.”

Opening the door, she met a panic-eyed young man who guided her down the hall with the speed of a police escort, past a series of attendants who smiled at her with starry eyes. She’d become immune to that rapt expression during the past few years, knowing better than to be flattered. They knew nothing about her, the woman behind the face. She walked quickly by with only a nod of acknowledgment.

They reached the stage just as Vicki Ray launched into her introduction. She mentioned several of Charlotte’s film roles and the meteoric rise of her career. Charlotte listened keenly, compelling herself to become on camera the woman being described: a woman of legendary beauty. An on-screen phenomenon and an off-screen recluse. The new Garbo.

There was a minute’s silence, one brief moment to raise a hand to her brow and collect her wits. Charlotte took a deep breath, willed her hands to appear relaxed at her sides, then dug deep to deliver the mysterious, sultry smile that was her trademark.

The Applause sign lit. With a jarring flash, the lights bore down on Charlotte as she stepped out on the stage. To her, they were like prison searchlights blocking any avenue of escape. She walked with studied grace across the shining floor, then settled herself in the isolation of a single white chair in the center of Vicki Ray’s stage.

Under the glare of lights, she felt like a laboratory specimen being scrutinized. She looked out at the sea of faces and saw in the eyes of women the familiar flash of envy, and in the men’s, desire. It was always this way, she thought, feeling again a twinge of loneliness.

Then, decisively discarding the last remnants of her identity, Charlotte Godowski transformed herself into the role she’d painstakingly created and played so well: Charlotte Godfrey. It was a useful device, yet she felt a little more of herself die each time she employed it. Still, it was necessary to create an armor that was impenetrable. She allowed no one to pierce it. Not even Freddy. Especially not Freddy. Only Michael…At the thought of him she felt a chink in the armor.

The interview began easily enough. During the first half of the show, Vicki screened a number of film clips. Charlotte peppered the clips with anecdotes, especially about her handsome co-stars. The audience lapped it up, never for a moment suspecting the struggle within the actress. She appeared relaxed, loosening her knotted fingers, uncrossing her legs, even venturing to laugh at the occasional silly question posed by the audience, usually about her well publicized love life.

“Water,” she almost begged when the break came. With miraculous speed, the usher delivered Perrier and lime, which she sipped gratefully. Her lips felt cracked, and she sweltered in the glowing heat of her fever.

As the signal flashed that the show was continuing, Charlotte discreetly dabbed at her brow with a Swiss embroidered handkerchief and marshaled her wits. At the last second, she remembered to catch the eye of a cameraman and wink. He returned a crimson grin. Freddy had taught her tricks on how to get flattering camera angles.

“Welcome back,” began Vicki. “We were talking about your upcoming marriage.” Turning to the camera, she continued, “Freddy Walen, for those of you who don’t know, is not only Miss Godfrey’s fiancé, but her agent as well.”

“What can I say?” Charlotte replied, offering a slight gesture with her hand. “He’s wonderful. Supportive. He’s always there for me.” She glanced offstage. Freddy was standing with his feet wide apart and his hands clasped before him, the captain of a ship in unsteady waters.

He gave her a smile. Freddy looked formidable in the dark gray double-breasted suit that complemented his salt-and-pepper hair. She knew he was listening intently to every word she uttered because his pale blue eyes glowed with approval of her answer. He didn’t seem to mind that she refrained from saying she loved him.

“Walen discovered you, didn’t he? Some say he built your career.”

Charlotte shifted in her seat. “He believed in my talent, and any good agent advises his client. Isn’t that his job?”

Vicki smiled. “But in your case, it’s been said that Walen has a Svengali-like obsession with your career. And you.”

Charlotte had the presence of mind to laugh. “Is that what they say?”

“I suppose it’s natural for any man to be obsessed with you,” Vicki added magnanimously. The audience chuckled and mumbled in agreement. Charlotte shrugged her slim shoulders with seeming humor.

“So many men…” Vicki added with a devilish glint. The cameraman winked at her.

Charlotte knew where this was coming from and couldn’t blame Vicki for the insinuation. Freddy had carefully orchestrated her public image, hiding her natural shyness as a star’s reclusiveness and arranging numerous dates with her co-stars, then leaking to the press that she was having affairs. It was nothing new, an age-old publicity ploy, but the press and the public bought it, again and again.

“Now there’s only Freddy,” she replied without guile, and the audience responded with heartfelt applause. She imagined Freddy backstage, his chest expanding. He loved the spotlight, especially when it hinted at his virility.

“Your kind of beauty is the stuff that legends are made of. But some consider it to be a curse. There’s Helen of Troy and, of course, Marilyn Monroe.”

Charlotte paused. Beauty again…Is that all they see when they see me? Doesn’t anyone see anything else of value?

“I don’t think Marilyn’s beauty itself was a curse,” she answered with care. “The curse was that no one could look past her beauty to take her seriously.”

“You’re referring to the old ‘She’s beautiful so she must be stupid’ myth.”

“It’s hard when only your beauty is prized.”

“Couldn’t the same be said then of an ugly woman?”

Charlotte felt a dart of anguish and looked at her hands clasped white in her lap. “I’m sure,” she began with hesitation, “that it is the secret dream of every ugly woman that someone will discover the beauty within her. Redemption through love, isn’t that at the heart of fairy tales?”

“But life isn’t a fairy tale.”

“Unfortunately, both legend and reality bear out that men want women who are physically beautiful, as proof of their power and worth. The dream dies in an ugly woman. It withers, as any fruit withers on the neglected vine.”

“But…doesn’t beauty wither, too, in time? What happens then?”

Charlotte’s smile was hard. “Desperation.”

“So beauty is a curse?”

“I…” She thought again of Michael and sighed in resignation. “Yes. Perhaps it is. As is ugliness.”

“I don’t know if I buy this. I mean, aren’t women changing now? We talk about a woman’s worth, intelligence and goodness. Don’t these attributes constitute a woman’s beauty?”

Charlotte wanted to agree, oh God, how much. She thought of those days, in the garden, when she’d believed such a thing was possible. When, like a blossoming flower that reveals the delicate core, she’d been ready to give everything up for a single dewdrop of that ideal. But Michael had crushed that belief with the heel of his conceit. She’d learned that no one would love her for her intelligence or for her goodness. Without the beauty, no man was willing to even give those qualities a chance.

“Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.”

“Are you endorsing this attitude?” Vicki Ray interjected. Her tone was sharp, angry. Nearing fifty, she exuded the confidence of success. Yet Charlotte saw in her eyes the quiet panic of a woman who could not stave off the inevitable decline of her looks, and as a talk show host, possibly her career as well. “Do you believe women today should do everything they can, anything they can, to be as attractive as they can?”

Charlotte’s lids fluttered imperceptibly as she dredged up her personal history to answer this question. Everything…anything…for beauty?

“I do,” she replied firmly, each syllable sounding in her ear as a death knell. “Yes, absolutely.”

She heard the disapproving rumbling in the audience. Several women were now wildly waving their hands. Vicki, delighted, hurried to deliver the microphone.

“So what did you do to look so great?”

Charlotte exhaled a stream of air, then smiled. She wanted to say she’d sold her soul to the devil, but no, she couldn’t do that.

“I didn’t do a thing,” she lied with feigned nonchalance. Then, hinting at the truth, she added, “Don’t forget, legions of experts labor hours to make me look this good.” The woman chuckled and seemed to forgive Charlotte for her beauty.

“Have you always been this beautiful?” Vicki asked through narrowed eyes. Her microphone swung in her hand from left to right, like a club. “Confession time!”

Charlotte gripped the arms of her chair tightly. “Well…”

“Don’t you ever wake up with bags under your eyes or a pimple on the tip of your nose?” The audience laughed.

Charlotte put her hands together and looked at the ceiling. She felt like she’d just dodged a bullet. Should she tell them that she woke up every morning in raw pain? And with the knowledge that this marvelous facade was crumbling under the surface?

“I’m no different from anyone else,” she replied, wishing it were true.

“Were you a pretty little girl?”

The question pricked Charlotte, deflating her balloon of confidence. Her head felt woozy, and, slipping back in time, she saw the face of the little girl she had been. The sad eyes, the thin, gawky figure, and always, that face. A leaden weight was pulling her down, deeper into the memory, till she experienced again the stark loneliness of her childhood. She remembered how she used to stroll through the wealthy neighborhoods, the kind with the big houses and the manicured lawns, waiting for her mother to finish cleaning. It was so far and foreign from the noisy, close-set apartment buildings on Chicago’s far west side, where she lived. She didn’t mind waiting. She liked to peek through the windows at the people inside sitting on the pretty furniture. She’d thought they were so lucky to live where everything was so pretty, so content.

“Miss Godfrey?” Vicki’s voice was strident.

Charlotte blinked heavily. “What? Oh, yes, I was trying to recollect,” she said, struggling for composure. Lord, that extra medication was really kicking in. It felt like her brain was mush. “I…I don’t remember much of my childhood. At least not how I looked.” The lies were pounding in her head now. How much longer did she have to go on?

“What do you remember?” Vicki pressed.

Charlotte sighed heavily. “I can remember trivial things. Let’s see—” she rubbed her temple “—I was a bookworm, especially for Charles Dickens. I always wanted a garden and, of course, I remember the games.” She swallowed again, her throat dry, recalling how often she’d been the target of cruel games.

“The gossip that always surrounds a celebrity is difficult to live with,” Vicki continued, changing topics. “But you seem to attract so much gossip. You’ve been on the cover of almost every magazine and seem to be a favorite of the tabloids.”

“I can’t imagine why. I live a rather boring life.”

“Maybe it’s because they’re attracted to the unknown. Your quest for privacy is as legendary as your beauty.”

“Is it? I just prefer to keep to myself. What do they think they’ll find that’s so interesting? When I’m not working, I’m pulling weeds in my garden.”

“Well, for starters—” Vicki flashed a smile “—isn’t it true that you were released from your last film? Rumors circulated on the set that you were loaded with drugs. Perhaps even had a breakdown of sorts?”

Charlotte took a deep breath, knowing without looking that Freddy’s smile was gone and he was leaning forward, waiting for her answer, deliberating on damage control. She decided to face the truth head-on.

“I was sick,” she admitted. She saw Vicki’s brow rise in anticipation of a coup. “I had a terrible case of the flu that I ignored.” Vicki’s smile fell and Charlotte knew she wasn’t buying the story. “The role meant a great deal to me. My mother taught me that illness is a weakness to be worked through. Unfortunately, the flu progressed to pneumonia.” She shrugged slightly. “I’m told I had a serious case, and I have to admit I was frightened.”

“You disappeared.” Vicki’s eyes were hard.

“Yes.” The image of Michael again flashed in her mind. His touch, his eyes, his love—they were for her like the sun, soil and air were to the garden. Her smile cracked.

She brought a shaky hand to her face, but a warning glare from Freddy caught her before she betrayed herself. With a clever tilt of her palm, she gracefully settled her long fingers along the exquisite curve of her jaw.

Vicki waited with the patience of a pro.

“I didn’t really disappear,” Charlotte continued. “That sounds so glamorous. All I did was spend some time in the country, alone, to regain my health.”

“Like in Camille? You won an Oscar for that role.”

Charlotte laughed lightly, determined to regain control of the interview. “Yes, I suppose so. Life imitates art…or vice versa.” She kept her smile firmly in place. “My health,” she said, emphasizing the word, “was the reason I requested a release from my last film. The pills I was seen taking were prescription. And it is common knowledge that I adhere to a strict regime of vitamins and herbs.” She lifted one hand and flicked her fingers lightly. “I swear, one can’t take a vitamin anymore without being tagged a drug addict.”

Vicki smirked, and Charlotte realized the host was removing her gloves. All bets were off. Charlotte felt betrayed, trapped. As her headache pounded in her temples, she felt the beginnings of a wave of chills. Her hands formed fists in her lap, digging moon-shaped dents into her palms as she fought for composure. She wasn’t up to this. She had warned Freddy. Oh, God, she prayed fervently, don’t let me get sick now, on national TV.

“Can you respond to the rumors of a breakdown?”

Charlotte offered a steely smile. “I thought I just had.”

“Oh, surely you can’t pretend not to have been upset by your breakup with Brad Sommers?”

This time Charlotte genuinely laughed out loud. Freddy’s press releases had done their job. “Vicki, really. Give me a little credit. Brad and I are friends,” she lied.

“If not Brad, then—” Vicki quickly checked her note cards “—what about Michael Mondragon?” she asked, raising her eyes with a gleam of triumph. “Some say that behind your tall, ivy-covered walls you were in fact hiding a torrid love affair with your gardener.”

Charlotte sat back in her chair, dumbstruck. How did Vicki know about Michael? How dare she call him a gardener? Nausea rose up to choke her, forcing her to swallow hard, appearing to the camera, she knew, overwhelmed by the question. Her gaze flew to Freddy standing just offstage, a mute appeal in her eyes.

Her pal the cameraman obliged and shifted the camera focus to catch a glimpse of Freddy, arms now clasped tightly across his chest. He bore a hard grin, but his eyes were flashing. Freddy remained resolutely silent, only waving the camera away. Vicki made a discreet gesture and immediately the camera returned to her.

“Michael who?” Charlotte finally blurted. She sat straighter in her chair, angry at Vicki for digging into her personal life, angry at Freddy for leaking the information, angry at herself for not having enough courage to walk off the stage. “Me and my gardener? Really. This is too much.”

She couldn’t help herself; her hand rose to cover her eyes. The tremors were returning. She felt weaker, dizzy. Poor Michael. If he heard what she’d just said it would hurt him deeply. But what choice did she have? What choice had he left her?

“These kinds of rumors are why I choose to keep my private life private,” she added, raising her eyes. She didn’t realize her hands clutched the arms of her chair. “When Freddy and I are married we’re going to take a long trip, away from public view, so I can regain my health. When I come back I’ll be as good as new and ready to face whatever.”

Vicki retreated, moving into the audience. A sweet-faced woman, obviously a fan, flagged Vicki. “Is there another film we can look forward to?”

Charlotte mentally blessed the old woman. “Oh, yes,” she said, with a smile that lit up her face. “I’m very excited about my next project. I’ve always wanted to play the lead in Tess of the D’Urbervilles.”

“Another demanding role,” chided Vicki. “You’re known to become the character you play, but you won’t let yourself die like poor Tess, I hope?”

While the audience chuckled, Charlotte caught her breath. Did Vicki suspect? Was Dr. Harmon right and Freddy wrong? Who should she believe? It was clear she was getting sick again. Worse than ever. She could hardly get through a day without collapsing.

Charlotte focused on the answer by force of will. “Goodness, I hope not!” She flashed a megawatt smile straight at the cameras. “I hope you’ll all come see it.”

Vicki seemed satisfied, and the audience showed their approval with their applause. In the wings, Freddy was nodding with paternalistic pleasure. Everyone was smiling. Charlotte leaned back in her chair and quickly glanced at her watch. It was over. She’d made it through the interview without the truth slipping out. For a few tense moments, she’d thought Vicki had the scoop and would press her hard for a confession, breaking her down like a guilty witness on the stand. What good TV that would have been: the end of a career.

No matter, she thought, pretending not to feel the wrenching of her stomach. In a few minutes more, she could go home to her big four-poster bed, cuddle up under her down comforter, take another dose of her herbal remedy and pray for the illness to pass.

“We only have time for one more question.”

A man in the audience rose. There was something familiar in his towering height and the breadth of his shoulders. Something about the neatly clipped black hair brushed back from his forehead that caught her attention. A chill shivered through her. Her breathing grew shallow as she squinted through the haze of lights to focus on the man. He was moving forward now, down the stairs toward the front stage. Toward her. Each step he took was measured by her gasps. Each inch closer brought her further to despair.

Vicki, sensing something amiss, followed the man who boldly approached the stage. She opened her mouth to speak, but either instinct or memory hushed her. She stilled the security guard with a flick of her wrists and expertly allowed the tension to spread throughout the audience. While the camera whirred, one by one the hands dropped and the heads turned toward the handsome, dark-haired man who now stopped at the foot of the stage and stared with bruising intensity at the frozen actress. Silence reigned.

“Charlotte Godfrey,” he said, piercing the quiet with a voice that carried the clarity of conviction. “You are a fraud.”

A collective gasp surged through the room, and from somewhere she could hear the angry shouts of Freddy demanding that this moron be removed.

Charlotte stared back into the piercing dark eyes that silenced her. No words came for her response. She had no lines, no script. She was rendered mute with confusion, struck dumb by her blinding hatred for this man. And more. Oh, yes. That other, deeper, more excruciating pain. For she loved no man more than Michael Mondragon.

Vicki was talking now, rapidly closing the show, promising the gaping audience that she would schedule a follow-up. Freddy was being forcibly held back, but she could hear his garbled shouts rise up over the din. Mustering dignity, Charlotte stood up, catching hold of the chair to steady herself. Then, turning on her heel, she walked with her chin high, away from the blinding lights, away from the shouts of Freddy, and most of all, away from the tangible pull of Michael Mondragon. He called after her, more a demand, but she ignored him. Faster she walked, almost a trot, back to the seclusion of the green room.

“Don’t let anyone in,” she ordered the guard. He nodded and straightened his shoulders as she filed past him, locking the door behind her.

What should she do now? she asked herself as she paced the floor, holding her flushed and fevered face in her hands. Run? But where could she go?

“Charlotte!” Michael roared outside her door. He pounded, shaking the wood. “Open the door. We need to talk. I won’t let you die!” The door shook. “Charlotte!”

Then Freddy’s voice. Now both of them were calling her name. She threw herself on the sofa, covering her ears. Outside, they took to shouting at each other, like two territorial dogs defending what was theirs. Oh, God, were they fighting? She heard the muffled sounds of fists against muscle, grunts, followed by shouts of alarm from Vicki.

“Go away,” Charlotte screamed at the two men. “Please just leave me alone!”

She curled up on the sofa, bringing her knees to her chest, shivering. Each bone in her body ached, every muscle trembled. “Go away,” she moaned, over and over, crooning as the chills and fever racked her. She couldn’t go on like this. She wouldn’t. No more listening to Michael or Freddy.

Wasn’t it her face, her life that was at issue here? She had to make this decision alone. She had to think, to remember, to go back to where it all began.

Her eyelids felt like heavy weights and she could no longer fight off closing them. As soon as she relinquished resistance, she felt blanketed by a languid, drifting blackness. Her mind called out to the ghost of the child evoked earlier during the interview. As she slipped deeper into the darkness, from somewhere she heard the high-pitched, singsong voice of a little girl saying over and over, “I told you so….”

September 1976

Charlotte sat on the periphery of the playground. Her yellow dress hung limply around her knees as her feet dangled over the bleachers. Humming a nameless tune, she watched the other kindergarten children cover the ground, laughing, playing the many silly, exciting games that she knew by heart: hopscotch, jump-rope, cat’s cradle. But no one invited her to join, so she sat, swinging her legs, and watched.

Suddenly two young girls she knew well darted past her to hide behind the bleachers. Charlotte sat up, tense with anticipation. She marveled at how their pretty cheeks were pink with excitement. Their voices were shrill with feigned alarm.

“Come back here, Charlotte,” one of them whispered.

“They’ll see you and guess our hiding place. Hurry!”

Charlotte jumped up with a rush of joy to join them.

“Me? You want me to play?” No one ever wanted her to play.

“Hurry up!”

They were playing with her! Charlotte scurried around the green wooden bleacher and huddled with the other girls, her hands tight against her chest in excitement. She imagined her own cheeks were as pretty and pink as theirs. When the group of young boys spotted them, they pointed and charged. The girls took off, squealing in the chase.

Charlotte’s heart pounded gleefully as her little feet soared across the hard-packed grass of the playing field. She was running with them and, oh, she was fast! She could feel the wind kiss her smile and flap her dress hem against her thighs as she sprinted. Behind her she heard heavy footfall, and, feeling cocky, she looked over her shoulder teasingly. She knew she was smarter in school, and now she knew she was faster, too. The boy who chased her flushed and frowned furiously.

Charlotte’s laughter pealed and she ran harder. As she began to tire, she sensed a subtle shift in attitude. Them against her. Instead of one boy chasing her, now there were three, and they were frustrated and closing ranks. Where were the other girls?

“Hey, you’re fast,” one boy shouted with resentment.

“Like a horse,” called out another.

“Yeah, she does look like a horse.”

“Hey—Charley Horse!”

The boys burst out laughing, holding their sides and bumping shoulders as their pace slackened. They used the spontaneous nickname as a rallying call.

“Get Charley Horse!”

Little Charlotte Godowski ran hard then, as far as she could from the sound of the cruel nickname that poked fun at her face. It was hateful to be so mean. Mean, mean, mean.

Charley wasn’t her name. Her name was Charlotte. A beautiful name. Did she look like a horse? She couldn’t help how she looked…why would they say that? The name hurt and they knew it. They kept hurling it at her like stones as they chased. Charlotte felt a little afraid now, but she dug deep and ran faster. When she spotted the bleachers, she made a beeline for them. She would hide like before.

It was a dumb thing to do. She knew it the moment she ran behind them and saw that she was trapped by the chain-link fence. Like a pack of dogs they came after her, one from around the left side of the bleachers, two from the right. With cunning, they cornered her.

Charlotte moved away from the fence, instinctively allowing herself space. The boys clustered together, their young chests heaving, panting like dogs after the chase. As they stared, she saw conceit gleaming in their eyes.

The boys gathered closer. She could smell the candy on their breaths. Billy’s Keds were smeared; he had stepped in dog manure. The wind gusted, hurling the foul scent toward her. Charlotte shivered, wrinkling her nose, and searched through the slats of the bleachers to where the other schoolchildren were playing. Their high-pitched voices soared in the sky like birdcalls. They seemed so very far away. Suddenly, she felt very alone. She wanted her mother, her teacher. Where were the other girls? She didn’t like this game anymore. She didn’t want to play.

“Okay,” she said, putting out her palms. “You guys win.” She laughed, but it sounded queer, too high.

The boys looked at one another, nervously shifting their weight. Then one boy, Billy again, spoke. “If we catch you we get to pull down your pants.”

Charlotte paled and she sucked in her breath. She hadn’t heard this rule. She’d never have played the game if she’d heard this rule!

“Uh-uh, dog-doo foot,” she muttered, shaking her head and backing away with her palms turned outward against them. It was a big mistake, she thought, because she saw Billy’s eyes turn mean. “I didn’t mean it, Billy. I’m sorry. I quit this game. Okay? Please?”

Billy took the lead now. “Let’s see if she’s as ugly down there.”

Her breath stilled. Surely she hadn’t heard right. She looked at Billy with uncomprehending eyes. Ugly? How could that be? Her mama told her she was pretty. Just last night, at her bedside, her mama prayed to St. Levan for her to be pretty. No one had ever called her ugly. No! They were just being mean.

And yet…From some as yet unvisited place in her heart, Charlotte heard the whispering that it was true. For the first time in her life, at five years of age, Charlotte came face-to-face with her ugliness. Her arms slipped to her sides and she stared back at them with vulnerable eyes.

Sensing her new weakness, they were on her, pulling her to the dirt. Charlotte was filled with a panic she’d never felt before. She kicked her long, spindly legs blindly, with all her might, satisfied when she heard muffled umphs and grunts of pain. She fought hard but there were too many of them. With their sticky hands they held her down. She began to cry and beg them not to.

“No…Please…No!”

Their short, blunt nails scraped her hips as they pulled the pink flowered cotton down around her thighs. Then they looked, really looked, with their mouths hanging open, surprised that they’d actually gone through with it.

When the school bell pierced the air they all jumped back, startled, frightened by the reality of what they’d imagined. Charlotte instantly curled into a ball, tucking her thin yellow dress tight around her knees. With her face in the dirt, she hiccuped, tasting the salt of tears and the minerals of earth. She hated these boys. In the harshest jargon of a five-year-old, she shouted out, “You’re bad!”

Knowing what they’d done was wrong, the boys scuffed their shoes in the dirt in an embarrassed silence. From her level, Charlotte saw the manure still smeared on Billy’s Keds. When she looked up, she caught Billy’s expression before he turned heel and sped across the field to join the rest of the class as they filed into the school. Charlotte thought Billy had seemed horrified. It didn’t occur to her five-year-old mind that the boy may have been guilt stricken at his own behavior. All Charlotte thought was that maybe she was ugly—even down there.

Mortified, her tears cascaded down her grossly sloping chin to pool in the dirt. She hated boys. They were mean and not to be trusted. And she didn’t like the girls, either. Why didn’t they help her? She would have helped them.

Charlotte didn’t go back to school but stayed behind the bleachers until the teacher came out to fetch her and scold her for not following the bell. Charlotte told the teacher that she was sick and wanted to go home. The teacher looked at her tearstained face and believed her. It wasn’t really a lie, but Charlotte told God that she was sorry for the sin, anyway.

But she wasn’t sorry for hating the boys. She promised herself she was never going to let them hurt her again.

Two

December 1991

Charlotte, weary after a five-hour dress rehearsal of A Christmas Carol, unlocked the door of the four-room apartment she shared with her mother. The paint was chipped around the door handle and the single bulb in the hall cast a seedy pall. A home fit for Scrooge, she thought, with a resigned chuckle. She rubbed her sore throat with her mittened hand. What a hectic day. Her voice was hoarse from shouting replies to the harried director and from prompting lines to the actors, who seemed unable to memorize a single scene of dialogue. Charlotte couldn’t understand how they could be so lazy. She knew everyone’s lines; her memory was razor sharp. Everyone depended on good ol’ Charlotte to deliver. Perhaps that was part of the problem. As the stage manager, it was her job to make things easier for everyone else—and she was very good at her job.

Not that she expected to be cast in a role herself, as much as she would have loved it. She would have to remain behind the scenes. She’d accepted her fate years ago, when she accepted her deformity. The theater was in her blood, however, even if only as part-time stage manager for the local company. She was in charge of all the details no one else liked to do, a satisfying enough position for a detail kind of person like herself. She arranged dressing rooms, kept the scripts in order, stepped in for rehearsals when an actor didn’t show, and generally made nice-nice to keep everybody happy. She didn’t mind being in the background. With her looks, it was her lot in life. Her greatest, most secret thrill, however, came during the actual production when she stood offstage, her face upturned in the lights, and whispered the lines of the play with all the feeling and heart that was lacking on stage.

“Mama, I’m home!” she called out, dropping her coat on the bench by the door. She went first to her room, closed the door behind her and switched on the music, delighted with a few minutes all to herself, with no one calling her name. After undressing, she collapsed on her bed, relishing the soft comfort she had no intention of leaving till it was time to go to Sunday mass the next morning.

“Charlotte, you’re home so late!” Helena called out. The large Polish woman’s broad shoulders, already humped over from years of cleaning other people’s houses, stooped a little more in relief at seeing her only child safely home. At forty-seven, Helena Godowski’s face was as pale, translucent and crackled as a piece of her treasured bone china. But she was strong enough to lift the bulky dark wood armoire that housed the fragile dishes, and her physical strength paled when compared to her stern will.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry!” Charlotte hurried to erase the frown from her mother’s brow. “Rehearsals were crazy today, and I had to stay until everyone had their lines down pat. It’s always like this before an opening.” She ran a hand through her hair, shaking it out. “I’m pooped. I think I’ll go to bed early tonight.”

“Go to bed? But you can’t!” Helena raised the purple-and-pink plastic container that she carried under her arm. “Tonight there is nice party!” she said, her eyes bright.

“See, I brought my makeup. We will try something pretty, no?”

“Oh, no,” Charlotte groaned, her eyes closed tight in misery. Her stomach did a flip and she lost her appetite.

“The office party. I’d completely forgotten. Mom, I’d rather stay home. A Christmas Carol is on tonight. The old one with Alastair Sim. It’s the best one. And,” she added, thinking fast, “I’m so tired.”

“Movies,” Helena grumbled. “Movies and plays. Always this. You are a watcher. Day and night and never go out, except to that silly theater that doesn’t pay you enough for train fare. This is not good for you. You must live in real world, Charlotte. You can not always hide in your room. You’ll never find a husband like that.” Helena bent to pick up Charlotte’s clothing from the floor and folded the articles into a neat pile on the bed.

“Oh, Mama. I won’t find a husband at the office Christmas party. All I’ll find is a drunk.” She shuddered, rubbing her bare arms at the dismal prospect of another party of long hours sitting alone, enduring snide remarks. “Oh, all right, I’ll go,” she conceded when she saw her mother’s disappointment. “But only because Mr. Kopp sent a memo that implied we all have to show up—or else.”

“Your boss, he won’t let anything be too wild. You’ll have nice time. You’ll see.”

The image of “Fast Hands” Lou Kopp flashed through Charlotte’s mind. Her boss was the very one women worried about most. “I’ll try to have a good time,” she said with a sigh of resignation. “If I can find something to wear.” She dug through the dingy, cramped closet stuffed with old shoes, worn suits and a collection of dusty hats. Her mother never threw anything out. Everything had a little life left in it.

Making things do was the modus operandi for Charlotte and her mother. Their apartment was small and devoid of any charm, but it was located on a convenient bus line and the rent was cheap, so, like everything else, it had to make do.

If it wasn’t pretty, however, at least it was clean. Not a spot marred the old linoleum or the bland brown carpeting. Neither was there a stain on Charlotte’s old skirt or a button missing from her blouse. The pale green Formica in the kitchen might have been ugly, but it sparkled. As did Charlotte’s unpolished nails and polished shoes. And anyone who entered the narrow lobby on Harlem Avenue would tilt his head and sniff with closed eyes toward the delicious scents simmering behind apartment 2B.

“I have a good feeling about this party. You might meet someone,” Helena said with smug satisfaction. “I prayed to St. Jude.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes and turned her back to slip into an old red wool dress.

“A woman needs a man to look after her,” her mother continued. “And she must take care of him and his home. And his children. Matrimony is a holy state. A sacrament. Yah…I pray for that for you.” Her voice rose with emotion. “I don’t want for you to be alone and unhappy.”

Charlotte squeezed her hands around the hanger. In the mirror she saw herself as her mother refused to see her: an ugly, thin, twenty-year-old destined to be a back room accountant and live with her mother in this dingy apartment for the rest of her life.

“Mom,” Charlotte said, wrapping an arm around her mother’s shoulder. At just this moment, she needed to receive comfort as much as give it. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself—and you. We won’t be alone. I love you.”

She bent to kiss her mother’s cheek, thinking that each time she did so, there was less fullness to her face. Her mother stiffened, patted Charlotte’s arm, then gently pushed her away.

“You better get dressed now. Pretty, okay?”

Charlotte pulled back quickly. “Pretty…” she repeated, scorched by the word. She slipped the dress over her head, groaning as the tight waistband barely squeezed over her bust then cinched her waist. Either the wool dress had shrunk or her bust had grown, because the bodice felt like a vise around her chest. Looking up she caught the grimace on her mother’s face.

“You no can wear that dress to party!”

“It seems a little small, I know….” Charlotte tried stretching the fabric out from her chest.

“A little? I can see your…you know!”

“What?” Charlotte spun around to look at herself in the full length mirror. The dress clung to her long slender frame like a second skin, outlining her full breasts in scarlet, voluptuous detail.

Her mother flushed, pointing frantically. “Ach. The tips! They stick out—like coat hooks!”

Charlotte flushed as red as her dress. Her nipples did indeed protrude from the fabric. Mortified, she hunched her shoulders forward, but it was no use. Her breasts would not be concealed. Oh, Lord, Charlotte sighed with exasperation. Why did she have to have such big ones? In the dim light of a vanity lamp, she studied her figure, appalled. Her breasts were full and her waist was small; a figure most women dreamed of.

But she was unlike most women. Her figure was her nightmare. It attracted male attention—until they raised their eyes.

“You must wear something else.”

“I don’t have anything else! Except my church dress, and I’m not going to wear that old brown thing to a fancy party. I just won’t go.”

“No, no, you go. Maybe a jacket. To cover yourself. Is a sin to provoke.”

Provocation was the last thing she wanted. When Charlotte tried on a somber black suit jacket over the offensive dress, her mother visibly relaxed and nodded in satisfaction.

“It will do. You can wear jacket so nice. Like your father.”

“I hope he didn’t have a chest like this,” she muttered.

“Don’t talk like that about your father! He was a fine man. A fine man,” her mother repeated, smoothing out her sweater like ruffled feathers. “From a fine family in Warsaw. What grand house they had. And servants! And his mother—oh, such a lady. There was a woman who never had to lift a finger.”

Charlotte turned away and slipped off the jacket. It didn’t flatter the dress but, like everything else, it would have to make do. They were poor, had always been poor. What value was there in coming from a family that had once upon a time been wealthy? It was just another fairy tale.

“You are so like your father,” her mother continued wistfully, happy in her memories.

“But I don’t look like him.”

“What you know how he looked?”

Charlotte shrugged. Even as a child she’d thought it odd that there were no photographs of her father. All her classmates had albums full of relatives. She hadn’t even one.

“You told me he was handsome.” Her comment floated between them, like a challenge.

“You are smart like him,” her mother amended, picking at her sweater. “And you have his nose. A strong, noble nose. Still, you have my eyes, your grandmother Sophie’s eyes.”

Listening, Charlotte’s gaze traveled in the mirror up from her full chest, beyond her thin shoulders and long neck to her face. It wasn’t often that she suffered the study of her own reflection. Staring back were the large, wide, vivid blue eyes under dark, finely arched brows that resembled her mother’s. And the straight, narrow nose of her father.

“But from whom,” Charlotte asked bitterly, “did I get this grossly sloping chin and these drooping lips? Who do I have to thank for these fine features?”

“Hush, Charlotte,” her mother pleaded, her face ashen.

“You got your looks from God.”

Charlotte swallowed her retort and lowered her head, ashamed for the angry thoughts she’d just had about God. Besides, she didn’t want to upset her mother with useless anger. After all, what choice did her mother have but to accept her only daughter’s ugliness as God’s will? Charlotte’s own daily prayer was that she herself could accept the face.

“Someday,” her mother said, beginning the phrase that was more a prayer in this Polish Catholic house than the Our Father. “You will meet Someone. A fine man who will love you for all your good qualities. And you are a good girl, Charlotte.”

Charlotte pressed her lips together and turned away from the mirror. There would be no Someone. Not for her. “The jacket won’t fit under my coat,” she said. “I’ll carry it.”

Her mother closed her mouth and looked wearily at her hands. “Yes,” she said softly. “The jacket will be fine. Nice girls don’t need to advertise.”

Charlotte forgot her jacket. In her mind’s eye she could see the black wool lying on the bench beside the front door. How could she be so forgetful? she thought, mentally kicking herself. One minute of stupidity meant hours of agony.

She’d wave at her boss, enough to let him know she was here, then duck out. Charlotte peered in through the entrance of the banquet hall. Round tables, decorated with garish faux silk poinsettias festooned with glittering red and green ribbons, were assembled on an enormous revolving floor.

“Come on in!” someone shouted from the crowd. Charlotte took a small step into the room, clutching her coat close to the neck. Beyond, revelers slowly traveled a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree tour of Chicago’s skyline to the tune of “A Holly Jolly Christmas.”

Everyone was there, from the top management to the lowly file clerks. McNally and Kopp was a small accounting firm, but when you multiplied that number times two, it didn’t take great math skills to know that at least one hundred people were assembled to celebrate the holidays. And from the sounds of it, most of the guests were already on their second or third drinks.

In the far corner, a group of men in suits gathered at the bar. Between laughs and swallows, their eyes scanned the room with the hungry look of animals on the hunt.

“Charley!”

Charlotte cringed at the name. Looking up, she saw Judy Riker, her office manager, approaching wearing a peekaboo dress of red sequins and straps that barely held her together. Boy, oh boy, Charlotte thought with a smile. Her mother would be shocked to see so much of Judy’s “you knows” exposed. The men at the bar noticed, too, and Charlotte saw them lean over and comment to one another as Judy passed.

“I was just leaving,” Charlotte said as Judy walked up.

“Leaving? Nonsense. You’ve just arrived. Come on, don’t be such a wallflower. It’s time you had some fun.” Judy coaxed a reluctant Charlotte out of her coat. “My, what a nice dress,” she said, barely disguising her surprise.

“You look nice in red, Charley. You should wear it more often instead of that baggy black and gray you always wear. People always ask if you’re in mourning. With your long blond hair, red is definitely your color.”

“It’s Christmas,” she responded, blushing.

“Well, Merry Christmas, Charley! Come on. Let’s go get a drink. It’s a cash bar, those cheap bastards. You’d think they’d spring for Christmas. What the hell, it’s my treat. Let’s tie one on for Ol’ St. Nick.”

Judy bought Charlotte a white wine, then, her job as hostess done, disappeared into the crowd. Alone again, Charlotte clutched the stem of her wineglass like a lifeline and tracked her path to a table. Her heart sank. She had to walk past the bar.

Charlotte had learned early in life that an ugly face drew as many comments from a group of guys as a pretty one. Maybe more. Hunching her shoulders forward, she let her hair slide over her face in a practiced move of camouflage. She imagined that she was on stage, marked her point across the floor, then, eyes on the point, she proceeded in a straight line across the floor to the backbeat of “Babes in Toyland.”

As she passed the bar, the rowdy men quieted. She held her breath and invoked St. Anthony the Great to protect her from swine. Hurrying her pace, her hands clenching and unclenching the stem of her glass, she found her seat and slunk quickly down into the upholstery. Just when she was muttering thanks to St. Anthony, she saw a man swerving toward her. She sucked in her breath and averted her face.

“Excuse me,” he said at her side. “Have we met?”

It was her boss, Lou Kopp. A chill ran down her spine and she sunk farther into her seat, bringing her hand to her face. From the bar she heard the jeers: “Way to go, Lou.”

She felt like a trapped animal, but years of ridicule had taught her never to show fear. Taking a deep breath, she turned her head slowly to face him, and, as she looked up, her hair fell back from her face. Lou Kopp’s face registered woozy confusion, then shock as his smile slipped.

“What the hell—”

Charlotte winced but willed her voice to remain even.

“My name is Charlotte Godowski. You might remember who I am. I’m an accountant in your company.”

Now the voices from the bar turned to hoots of laughter. “Wow! Tonight’s your lucky night.” “Hey, this is Christmas, not Halloween!”

After each outburst they broke into a renewed round of drunken laughter that riddled like bullets.

Charlotte’s defense was to pretend not to hear them, or the sympathetic tsks from the women within hearing distance. Yet inside she felt like a slip of paper that had burned, curled and turned to ash. If only she could blow away.

For Charlotte knew, as she saw Lou Kopp swagger back to the bar to be welcomed with sympathetic slaps on the back, that tonight would be no different from all the other parties she had ever attended. No different from the lunchrooms at school. Now the naughty boys had a target upon which to vent their frustration against all the beautiful girls who’d scorned them.

Charlotte stood straight and filed past the boozy comrades at the bar. They drunkenly nudged and snickered as she crossed their line of vision. Judy Riker hurried to meet her at the door.

“Charlotte, I don’t know what to say. Maybe if—”

“Please,” she responded, holding up her hand. “Merry Christmas, Judy. Good night.”

It just wasn’t in her to muster a smile. Turning on her heel, she quickly collected her coat, covered the now despised red wool dress, then pressed the elevator button. The bell rang promptly and she moved quickly into the box, punching the lobby button, then closing her eyes in relief at being alone. Just as the doors swept shut, however, a man hurried in. The door bounced from his shoulders then quickly slid shut behind him.

Looking up, she saw Lou Kopp.

“Going to the garage?” Lou asked, pushing the G button.

Charlotte didn’t respond. Silently, she began praying. Hail Mary, full of grace…

“Listen. About what happened earlier…”

Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb…

“I’m sorry.”

Her prayer halted. Did he say he was sorry?

“Hey, it was a terrible thing we did in there. Some of the guys were drunk. Not that that’s any excuse,” he hurried to amend. “And, as your boss, I take full responsibility. Please, Miss Goz…Well. Accept my apology.”

Charlotte hesitated, looking up to gauge the expression in his eyes. Lou Kopp wasn’t a good looking man by most standards. Slick was the word that best described him. His eyes were his saving grace. They were a sunny sky blue that brightened when he smiled, as he did now. You’re the last person who should judge a person by looks, she scolded herself. She accepted his apology with a brief nod.

“How can I make it up to you?”

“You’ve said you’re sorry,” she replied. “That’s enough.”

“No, it’s not. How about I buy you a drink? Wanna go for a drink?”

“No. Thank you.”

“How’re you getting home?”

“I’ll take a cab. It’s not far.” She was planning on taking the train.

“You’ll never get a cab. It’s the holidays—a Friday night. No way. Hey, I’ll tell you what. I’ll drive you home. What d’ya say? It’s the least I can do.”

“That’s not necessary,” she replied, almost stammering.

“Sure it is. I’ll drive you home. It’s no big deal. Besides,” he added, “I’m your boss. I should take care of my employees, right?”

She didn’t have time to respond. The elevator doors opened on the fourth floor and a tall man, conservatively dressed in a long navy wool coat, stepped inside. The elevator seemed to shrink in size and Charlotte, mesmerized, grew acutely aware of everything about him. She stole a quick glance.

He had the most beautiful skin, she thought. The rich color of terra cotta. His cheekbones were high and pronounced, and he had a strong Mayan nose that gave him a distinguished, even stern appearance. Although his thick black hair was fringed along his starched white collar, it was so neatly cut that it was clear the length was by choice, not neglect. Most arresting of all, he bore the indefinable manner of a gentleman, which always set a woman at ease, knowing she had nothing to fear. The scent of sandalwood cut through the stale air of the small compartment.

As they descended, he stood with his dark, long, unadorned fingers clasped before him. In contrast, Lou fingered coins in his pocket. When they reached the lobby and the doors slid open again, the tall man stepped forward and paused to hold the door for her in an age-old gesture of chivalry. Charlotte, flattered, moved forward. Suddenly she felt Lou Kopp’s hand on her arm. She paused awkwardly. The stranger’s dark eyes flashed to meet Charlotte’s, then flicked to Lou’s hand on her arm before quickly snapping back to her, his brows knitted in question.

“Did you want to get out?” he asked. His voice was low and polite, yet she heard in the undercurrent the clear indication that he would help her if she needed it.

“I said I’ll drive you home.” Lou’s voice sounded insistent, and she felt his grip tighten on her arm. He was her boss and Charlotte responded instantly to the authority in his voice.

“Thank you,” she said to the stranger. “I’m fine.”

The man’s gaze probed like an eagle’s, then without another word, he nodded politely and stepped aside, allowing the doors to hum shut between them.

“Lousy spic,” muttered Lou. “What did he think he was doing?”

Being a gentleman, Charlotte thought to herself as she dropped her gaze to her shoes. She felt suddenly and inexplicably lonely.

Lou Kopp and Charlotte rode down the one floor to the garage in silence. Neither did they speak as she followed him along the freezing ramp of the dimly lit, deserted garage. The cement walls were dingy and smeared with graffiti, and the frigid air was heavy with the acrid smell of gasoline. At last they reached a large gray Oldsmobile parked in the corner. He opened the doors and slid into the front seat. Charlotte followed suit.

Lou fired the engine but it coughed, chugged and stalled in the bitter cold. “Damn, but it’s cold. Can’t barely touch the metal.”

Charlotte didn’t respond but curled her chilled toes in her shoes.

Finally the engine turned over, sputtering unevenly and rocking the car like an old beast of burden roused from its hibernation. “Good ol’ American car,” Lou said with a gleam of triumph while rubbing his hands vigorously. Long streams of vapor flowed from his lips and the scent of stale brandy hung heavily in the air. Charlotte ducked her nose into her collar and tucked her icy fingers under her arms. Tonight was one of those arctic Chicago nights that froze the hair in one’s nostrils.

“Yep. Cold tonight,” he repeated, glancing her way with a spark in his eyes. “Wind chill brings it below zero.”

“Feels like it,” she responded shyly, shivering in the darkness. The lights from the garage were dim and made their skin appear sallow and gaunt. “Maybe we should wait inside till the engine warms up.”