Charley's Web (11 page)

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate…”

“You don’t have to. How’d it go with Jill Rohmer?”

“Looks like I’ll be writing that book,” she said.

“Sure that’s what you want?”

“I’m sure,” she told him, realizing she was.

“Well then, good for you. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. Now I just have to find a publisher.”

“I can’t imagine that’ll be a problem.”

“Hopefully not,” she agreed, realizing she didn’t want him to go. “Feel like a drink? I’m sure you could use one.”

“No. I better not.”

“Hot date?”

“Hot nightclub,” he said. “And a hot date,” he admitted in the next breath.

Charley tried to mask her disappointment with a quick smile. Two men had turned her down in one afternoon. That had to be a first. “I don’t think you ever told me why you called the other day,” she ventured. Surely it had been to ask her out.

“Just wanted to check that your brother was okay.”

“Oh.” God, she really
was
losing her touch. “James,” she called toward the bathroom, louder than she’d intended. “Come say good-bye to Glen.”

“I’m on the toilet,” James called back.

“I think this is where I came in,” Glen said, laughing. “Bye, James. See you again soon.”

“Bye, Glen.”

“I owe you,” Charley reminded him.

He was halfway down the front walkway when he turned back toward Charley. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I fully intend to collect.”

T
he next letter from Jill arrived at Charley’s office the following Friday.

Dear Charley,

I can’t begin to tell you how thrilled I was to meet you on Saturday. It was like my favorite fantasy coming true. You were everything I expected and more. Not only are you more beautiful in person than your picture in the paper—you really should think about having a new one taken, that one doesn’t begin to do you justice—but you’re every bit as smart and savvy as I knew you’d be. You didn’t let me get away with a thing, and that’s exactly what I need—what this book needs—to make sure the whole story gets told.

By the way, I hope that Alex isn’t giving you too hard a time. I know he’s not especially keen on you for this project—he told me during our last phone conversation that he still thinks we should recruit someone with more experience and “intellectual clout,” as he put it—I had to remind him you went to Harvard!—but please don’t let his negativity get you down, or give you second thoughts about doing this book. It isn’t that he doesn’t like you. He does. It’s just his way of looking out for me. I’m convinced in time he’ll come to appreciate your talent as much as I do. So, let’s prove him wrong, and write the best damn book we can. I can’t stress enough how much I’m looking forward to our collaboration.

So, Mr. Prescott still doesn’t think I’m up for the job, Charley thought, irritated at herself for being irritated with Alex’s assessment of her limited “intellectual clout.” “Pompous ass,” she muttered.

Anyway, he told me he’s trying to set up a meeting for next Wednesday, and while I’m disappointed that we have to wait so long to see each other again, I’m glad to know that things are moving in the right direction. I’m especially grateful for your kind offer to phone you whenever I want, either at your office or on your cell. Trust me, I won’t take advantage of your generosity and goodwill, and will only call you if I think of something really important, or am afraid of trusting it to the mail. I don’t want you to get tired of me, and I won’t make a pest of myself, I promise.

In the meantime, I think your idea of writing letters is a good one. We can save a lot of time that way, and it might help you in preparing your questions. Not that I’m trying to tell you how to organize your time. I’m not. I’d never dream of telling a writer of your caliber what to do. I’m just so excited that we’ll be working together, so please forgive me if sometimes I appear too enthusiastic.

Another side benefit of my writing these letters is that it gives me something to do. I spend so much time alone in my cell, and even though prisoners on death row are allowed a radio and a small black-and-white TV in our cells—did you know that?—sometimes you just want to have someone to talk to. (And I don’t mean the other inmates.) Admittedly, writing letters is a bit one-sided, but still I can pretend you’re here with me, and I can imagine you looking at me, and really listening to what I’m saying, and hopefully trying to understand. Even if we achieve nothing else, I’d settle for that.

Alex said you thought I should start with my childhood. I think that’s an excellent idea. We’re all products of our childhood, after all. Everything we become as adults springs from who we were as children, how we were treated, who and what shaped our ideas and values. We are who we were—just taller. Do you agree?

Charley lowered the letter to her lap. “‘Everything we become as adults,’” she repeated out loud, “‘springs from who we were as children.’ I guess I can agree with that.” She took a deep breath, released it as if she were exhaling smoke from a cigarette.
We are who we were,
she reread silently.
Just taller.
“I bet you think you’re terribly clever, don’t you?”

“Well, yes. Now that you mention it,” Mitch Johnson said from behind her.

Charley spun around in her seat. “Knocking would be nice,” she said to her round-faced, round-bellied superior.

“A door would be nice, too, but what the hell, we make do with what we have.” He moved closer to her chair. Charley caught a faint whiff of body odor as he approached. “More threatening mail?”

Charley turned Jill’s letter facedown across her knees. “No. There’s been nothing all week.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“Yes, it is.” She waited for him to either say something else or leave. “Is there anything I can do for you, Mitch?”

“Michael tells me you’re writing a book about Jill Rohmer.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“It would have been nice to hear about it firsthand.”

“It’s still in the very early stages,” Charley demurred. She was in no mood to have to deal with Mitch’s bruised ego. “I don’t even have a contract yet.”

“A little out of your comfort zone, isn’t it?”

“I guess I’ll find out.”

“I could help you…get comfortable. Dinner? Tomorrow night?”

Was he joking? Charley wondered. “I can’t,” she said. “But please tell your wife I appreciate the kind offer.”

“Polly and the kids are out of town for the weekend. I was thinking we could try this new place that specializes in
Brazilian
food.”

Charley shook her head. “This is really inappropriate, Mitch.”

“Aw, come on, Charley. Lighten up. You didn’t think I was serious, did you? Where’s your sense of humor?”

“I don’t have one, Mitch. Anything else?”

“This Sunday’s column,” he said after a pause. “Not your best.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Way too serious.”

“Drunk driving is a serious subject,” Charley said.

His eyebrows rose in unison. “Suppose you leave the serious subjects for the serious journalists.”

The phone rang just as Charley was contemplating throwing it at his head. Mitch Johnson smiled and backed out of the cubicle. “Charley Webb,” she growled into the receiver.

“Miss Webb, this is Ella Fiorio, Alex Prescott’s secretary.”

Charley pictured the deeply tanned woman with the unflattering haircut. She took a deep breath, tried to banish Mitch Johnson from her mind. “Yes. How are you?”

“Fine, thank you. Mr. Prescott asked me to give you a call regarding Jill Rohmer.”

Charley wondered briefly why Alex wasn’t calling her himself.

“He said to tell you he was able to schedule a two-hour meeting for you and Miss Rohmer for next Wednesday, starting at one o’clock. I trust that works for you.”

Charley quickly did the calculations. A two-hour meeting with at least ninety minutes of travel time on either side meant that, to all intents and purposes, she’d be tied up between eleven and five. Which meant she’d have to find someone to look after Franny and James when they got home from school. She thought of Glen and shook her head at her former audacity. She couldn’t very well call on him again. She hadn’t even heard from him all week. That hot date must have proved quite scorching.

“Miss Webb?” the secretary asked.

“Yes, that works fine.”

“Good. I’ll inform Mr. Prescott.” She hung up before Charley had a chance to ask whether or not Alex would be present during the interview, or if she could expect to hear from him between now and then.

Another desirable man with no desire to talk to her, she thought. Unlike the Mitch Johnsons of the world. She returned her attention to the letter in her lap.

Okay, so where to start?

I guess we could start with the first thing I remember, which, believe it or not, is me standing in my crib, shrieking my lungs out. I couldn’t have been more than two years old, and my father insists it’s impossible for anyone to remember anything when they’re that young, but I swear I remember standing in that crib, holding on to the bars and screaming because my brother, Ethan, had taken my stuffed bear and was sitting on the floor, pulling the bear’s arms so hard they tore right off. And all the stuffing came pouring out all over the carpet, just like blood.

Ethan swears that never happened, but I know it did because

my sister, Pammy, told me she remembers it, too. She’s three years older than I am, so she would have been about five at the time. And Pam has what they call a photographic memory. She just has to see something once, and her mind records it. Like a camera.

“Or a videotape recorder,” Charley whispered.

I still can’t get over the coincidence with regard to my sister and your brother. The next time I see her, I’ll have to ask her about him. (What’s his name again? I remember from one of your columns that it was something like Brad, only different, more unusual.) Not that Pam ever comes to visit me. You’ll probably get to see her before I do. If you do, please tell her I miss her, and that I hope she can find it in her heart to forgive me for all the pain I’ve caused her. Tell her it was never my intention to hurt her, and that I’m truly sorry if she’s suffered because of my weaknesses.

Sisters are funny, aren’t they? Since you have two of them, I’m sure you understand what I mean. They’re your own flesh and blood, cut from the same cloth, and you’d think we’d be more alike. Certainly Pammy and I share some of the same physical characteristics. We’re both petite and blond, and we both have brown eyes, although mine are darker. Hers are bigger, and flecked with bits of gold. Fairy dust, our mother used to say, and I was so jealous because I didn’t have any fairy dust in mine. Once I tried to fool everybody by going into this dirty old shed we had in our backyard and rifling around, trying to get dust in my eyes. Turned out I got it everywhere
but
there. I was just covered in it. My mother thought it was really funny, but my father didn’t laugh at all. He made me wear that filthy dress to a neighbor’s birthday party that afternoon. I was so embarrassed and didn’t want to go, but he said if I didn’t, he’d cut the head off my pet turtle to teach me a lesson. So, of course I went to the party. I took the turtle with me—her name was Tilly—hiding her in the pocket of my dress. But she must have crawled out, because when I checked my pocket later, she was gone, and I never saw her again. Pammy said the neighbor’s cat probably got her. My father said it served me right. My mother said it was God’s will.

Anyway, back to what I was saying about sisters. It just amazes me how different people can be, people who’ve come from the same two parents, and were raised in the same household, with the same set of values, etc., etc. To give you an example: Pam was always the good girl. She never got into any trouble, always did her homework, always got straight A’s, unlike me, who was always in hot water about something. She had lots of friends, although she was never as popular with boys as I was. She was an idealist, I guess you’d say. She used to talk about joining the Peace Corps, and going to Africa and helping the poor people dying of AIDS and stuff. My father said if she was so intent on helping poor people, she could stay at home and help him with my mother, who got diagnosed with MS about ten years back. And that’s pretty much what Pam ended up doing. Even though she graduated high school at the top of her class, she never went to college. She took a few night classes a couple of years ago, but that was pretty much the extent of it. Then after I got in trouble, she became pretty much a recluse. She just stays in that house, looking after my mother, and cooking for my father and brother. Ethan’s over thirty, but he still lives at home. Can you believe it? He was married for a little while, but his wife kicked him out after he kicked out two of her teeth.

Anyway, I seem to be getting ahead of myself, and the point I’m trying to make is that despite the fact we’re sisters, Pammy and me couldn’t be more different. (Should that be Pammy and I?) I was always the hellion, the one getting into trouble. It wasn’t that I wanted to be bad. I didn’t. I tried really hard to be good. Like at church. It was tough to sit there every Sunday listening to that preacher tell us we were going to hell for every little thing. I started to believe that even being in hell had to be better than being in church. I mean, he was really boring, and so

I’d start to fidget, and next thing you know, my father would reach over and smack me on the back of my head. Soon I was getting mouthy and rebellious, falling behind in school. Until I met Wayne Howland, and he turned my life around, showed me a better way.

But again, I’m moving a little quickly here. You wanted to know about my childhood, and I keep jumping around. I guess that’s just the way my mind works, why I was always getting into trouble.

So, what else do I remember about my childhood? Well, I remember my mother.

“I remember Mama,” Charley said, leaning back in her chair and stretching out her arms and legs. She put down the letter and reached for the phone. “Mom, hi,” she said when her mother answered after the first ring. “How are you?”

“Fine, darling. I’m so glad you phoned.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t returned your calls. I’ve been really busy.”

“Of course, dear.”

“How was your cruise?”

“It was fabulous. I had the most marvelous time. There was gambling. I won fifty dollars.”

“Fifty whole dollars?”

“Well, you know me, darling. The minute I win, I quit.”

“Actually, I didn’t know that about you.”

“I guess I’m not much of a gambler.”

Charley was about to disagree. What would you call a woman who abandons not only her family but her entire way of life, to reinvent herself halfway around the globe, if not a gambler?

“And I met this very lovely gentleman,” her mother continued, a strange note of girlish excitement creeping into her voice.

“You met a man?”

“A widower from Newark. His name is Phil Whitmore, which I think is a terribly handsome name, don’t you? He’s a retired investment banker, who’s looking to buy a condo on the ocean. Which would be very nice, because I love the ocean.”

“Mom?” Charley interrupted.

“Yes, dear?”

“You’re gay,” Charley reminded her mother.

“I think the word is
bisexual,
darling,” Elizabeth Webb protested. “Something Phil found quite intriguing actually.”

“I don’t think I’m ready to have this conversation,” Charley said.