Charley's Web (17 page)

“Do busy?”

“I know it sounds silly….”

“It really
does
sound silly.”

“It also really works.”

“But I’m not even home most of the day.”

“When you’re not home, he stays in his crate and sleeps. He sleeps in there at night too, and he never cries. I promise. Honestly, he pretty much takes care of himself.”

A dog, Charley thought, almost wishing it had been Lynn at her door again, and not Glen. What was she going to do with a dog? For three weeks! Still, he’d taken her son to Lion Country Safari without so much as a grumble…. “Is he okay with children?”

“Are you kidding? He loves children.”

“James can be pretty rambunctious.”

“He loves rambunctious.”

“Well, all right,” Charley conceded. “I guess we can manage for three weeks.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Glen was already opening the front door. “I’ll go get him.”

“What?”

“He’s in the car.”

“You left him in the car?” Charley followed Glen outside and down the front walk.

“Don’t worry. I left the windows open. See how good he is?” he asked, as they reached his Mercedes.

A little, white furry head popped into view. A tail began wagging furiously.

“It’s okay, buddy,” Glen said as the dog jumped up and down on the black leather seat. “See? I told you I’d be right back.” He opened the door and lifted the excited furball into his arms. The dog immediately began licking his neck.

“This is killing your image,” Charley said.

Glen laughed. “Say hi to Charley, Bandit. She’s gonna look after you for the next three weeks.” He transferred the squirming dog to Charley’s arms. The dog responded by immediately quieting down, burrowing into Charley’s neck, and laying his chin across her shoulder. “Well, well, well. Aren’t you the lucky one.”

“I’m lucky?”

“When a dog lays his head on your shoulder like that, it means he’ll bond with you for life.”

“We’re bonding?”

“For life.”

“For three weeks,” Charley stressed as Glen removed a large box of Bandit’s belongings from the trunk. “What’s all this?”

“His crate, his food, his dish, his leash, his toys—the squeaky hamburger is his favorite—the phone number of the vet….”

“Oh, God. I don’t think I can do this.”

“Are you kidding me? Anyone who can handle Jill Rohmer can surely handle a little dog for a few weeks.”

“Who says I’m handling Jill Rohmer?” Charley followed Glen back up the walkway to her house.

“You’re not doing the book?”

Charley shrugged as Glen opened the front door and deposited the box of Bandit’s things in the foyer. “Truthfully, I’m not sure where things stand at the moment. Last time we spoke, she hung up on me.”

“Nice to see you’re not losing your touch.” A mischievous smile tugged at his lips. “What’s she like anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Charley replied honestly. “I’m not sure what to make of her. One minute she’s like this lost little girl, all soft edges and vulnerability—you literally have to pinch yourself to remember she was involved in the deaths of three innocent children—and the next minute she gets this weird look in her eyes, like she’s measuring you for a casket, and you believe she could be capable of anything.”

“Sounds intriguing.”

“I don’t know. Her lawyer might be right. He doesn’t think I’m the right one for the job.”

“Then he’s wrong,” Glen said. “And who are you going to believe—some high-priced attorney with a handful of impressive degrees or a gangster-wannabe with an adorable white puppy? The choice is pretty clear, if you ask me.”

Charley laughed, felt the puppy snuggle in even tighter against her neck. “You’re sure there’s nothing wrong with this dog?”

“Are you kidding me? He’s in heaven. What guy wouldn’t be?”

Charley took a step back, as if to distance herself from the compliment, not to mention the man, who was becoming more attractive each time she saw him. Was this business with the puppy just a ruse to disarm her, a way to seduce and then dump her, to get back at her for the mean things she’d said about him in her column? Just because she wasn’t into revenge fucking didn’t mean he wasn’t. “Well, enjoy your visit with your son.”

“Thanks. I intend to.”

“Call me as soon as you get back. About picking up your dog,” she qualified immediately.

“I’ll do that. Bye, Bandit.” He walked around Charley in order to give Bandit a peck on his forehead. “Take care,” he said to Charley.

Charley found herself half-anticipating a similar peck on the forehead, and was almost disappointed when Glen merely patted her arm before climbing back into his car and pulling away from the curb, his left hand extended out the window in a prolonged wave good-bye. As he turned the corner at the end of the street, she lowered Bandit to the grass, shrugged, and said, “What the hell.
Do busy.”

The dog sniffed around for several seconds, found a patch of grass to his liking, then lifted his leg and promptly peed.

“Amazing.” Charley scooped the puppy back into her arms just as Gabe Lopez opened his front door and glared in her direction. “Mr. Lopez, good morning,” she called out, determining to make a fresh start while waving hello with her free hand.

“Just keep the dog off my lawn,” he said, before closing the door and retreating back inside his house.

FROM:
A new fan

TO:
Charley@Charley’sWeb.com

SUBJECT:
Great column!

DATE:
Mon. 12 Feb. 2007, 9:06:24–0400

Dear Charley: Wow! That was some column in yesterday’s paper. Couldn’t wait to get to work this morning to thank you for it. As a social worker, I thought your main points were very well taken. My colleagues and I have spent far too much time debating the issue of nature versus nurture, and our final consensus is, what difference does it make? What’s important isn’t so much causes as results. What’s needed isn’t argument but tolerance. Maybe if we were all more accepting and respectful of one another’s differences, there wouldn’t be any such thing as child abuse.

Sincerely,
Kara Stephenson

FROM:
Charley Webb

TO:
Kara Stephenson

SUBJECT:
Thank you

DATE:
Mon. 12 Feb. 2007, 9:08:16–0800

Dear Kara: Thanks so much for your kind note. It’s nice to be appreciated. I hope you continue to read and enjoy my columns.

Warmly,
Charley Webb

FROM:
Alarmed

TO:
Charley@Charley’sWeb.com

SUBJECT:
Your recent column

DATE:
Mon. 12 Feb. 2007, 9:14:02–0500

Dear Charley Webb,

I’ve always approached your columns with a mixture of glee and trepidation. Who will you be skewering today and why? What have you done to your body now? What thoughts are swirling through that pretty little head? So, imagine my chagrin at your most recent column, which was not only thought-provoking, but thoughtful as well. I hope this doesn’t mean you’ve abandoned your more selfish, pardon me, selfless pursuits, such as Brazilian waxes and Passion Parties—all in the name of research, to be sure—for more important, but far less entertaining subjects, such as child abuse. While I applaud your, no doubt, deep commitment to social justice, I yearn for the shallower Charley of old. Please don’t disappoint me again.

Arnold Lawrence

FROM:
Charley Webb

TO:
Arnold Lawrence

SUBJECT:
Thanks, but no thanks

DATE:
Mon. 12 Feb. 2007, 9:20:20–0800

Dear Alarmed Arnold,

I’ve read your letter several times now, and I’m still not sure whether to be flattered or insulted. While it’s always nice to be considered attractive, I’m dismayed you consider me little more than a decorative empty shell. And while I’m delighted you enjoy my columns, I’m disappointed you find them shallow. Just because something is entertaining doesn’t necessarily make it less worthy, any more than the reporting of a serious subject makes the reporter a person of consequence. Rest assured that I will continue to write about subjects that concern and intrigue me. Likely some will be of a serious nature; others will not. All will strive to provide food for thought and discussion. I hope you’ll continue to look forward to them with your usual mixture of glee and trepidation.

 

Sincerely,
Charley Webb

FROM:
Sheryl Volpe

TO:
Charley@Charley’sWeb.com

SUBJECT:
A personal pet peeve

DATE:
Mon. 12 Feb. 2007, 9:32:59–0400

Dear Charley—I’ve been reading you ever since you started at the
Post,
and I find your columns to be insightful, well written, and timely. Surprisingly, one of the things you have yet to address, although you kind of alluded to it in yesterday’s column about the father abusing his son, is my own personal pet peeve: overweight people on airplanes! Is there anything more aggravating than paying full price for a ticket and ending up with only half a seat because somebody who can’t control his appetite is spilling over into your space? That alone would have prompted me to demand a seat change! I’d love to see your views on this subject.

 

Yours truly, Sheryl Volpe

FROM:
An understanding reader

TO:
Charley@Charley’sWeb.com

SUBJECT:
Your mother

DATE:
Mon. 12 Feb. 2007, 9:42:13–0500

Poor, dear Charley: Finally we understand what has made you the way you are! Your mother! What a horrible and disgusting woman she is! She truly needs guidance, as do you, the helpless victim of her amoral indoctrination. There is a reason why God-fearing people everywhere vilify those who would pervert the will of the Lord. God himself decreed that these degenerates should be put to death. Your mother must renounce her evil ways, and until she does, you have no choice but to renounce her. I will pray for your souls.

God be with you,

An understanding reader

Charley was trying to come up with clever responses to the last two e-mails when the phone on her desk rang. “Charley Webb.”

“Hi,” came the clear, semifamiliar voice.

Charley tried to attach a face to it before the caller spoke again, but was unsuccessful.

“It’s Emily,” the woman said after a pause. “Your sister,” she added, enunciating each word clearly, as if speaking into a microphone.

Immediately the image of a beautiful young woman with strong, elegant features and chin-length, straight blond hair pushed itself before Charley’s eyes. “Emily! My God! How are you?”

“Very well, thank you. And you?”

“I’m great. Well, a little tired, I guess. I agreed to look after a friend’s puppy for a few weeks, and he’s supposed to sleep in his crate, but he was up most of the night crying, until I finally moved him into my bed, where he insisted on squeezing right up against my leg, and I guess I’m just not used to sharing my space….” What was the matter with her? She hadn’t spoken to her sister in almost two years. Why was she rambling on about the damn dog? “How
are
you?” she asked again.

“Still very well,” her sister replied coolly. “Look, I understand you’ve spoken to Anne.”

“A few weeks ago, yes. Why? Is something wrong?”

“No, of course not. Everything’s fine. Her new book is number two on the
New York Times
bestseller list.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“Have you read it yet?”

“I’m hoping to get to it this weekend.” Charley’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “Bram read it, though. He really liked it.”

“Was he stoned at the time?”

“No. Why? Is it that bad?”

“Dad says it’s execrable twaddle.”

“Sounds like something he’d say. What’s
your
opinion?”

“Twaddle, but not execrable,” Emily pronounced.

“High praise indeed.”

“How
is
Bram anyway?”

“Good. He’s been clean and sober for more than ten days now.”

“Ten whole days. Wow.” Emily was clearly less than impressed. “And Franny and James? Everybody well?”

“They’re terrific. And Catherine?”

“Growing like a weed. Anne tell you she’s letting A.J. have the kids?”

“What do you mean?” Charley remembered A.J.’s threat to sue for custody of Darcy and Tess if Anne refused to pay him alimony. “You’re saying she’s calling his bluff?”

“No. She’s giving him full custody. Says she travels so much these days, and when she
is
home, she’s working, doing interviews, etc., etc. She thinks they’ll be better off with him.”

“But that’s ridiculous.”

“No, that’s Anne. Or rather, that’s Elizabeth. You’re still in touch with our mother, I take it.”

“She’ll be devastated when she hears this.”

“Are you kidding? It’s a total affirmation of her child-rearing techniques.”

“Should I call Anne? Try to change her mind?”

“Oh, that’ll go over big, you being so close and all.”

“But she’s making a huge mistake. You know that.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Anyway, it’s not the reason I called.”

“What is?”

“It’s this
People
thing.”

“What people?” Charley asked, still reeling from Emily’s announcement. How could Anne even be considering giving up her children after everything they’d gone through themselves?

“People
magazine. This story they want to do.”

Charley vaguely remembered Anne having mentioned something about this. “The whole Brontë thing,” she said.

“Right. Apparently they don’t normally do authors because they’re kind of boring, but Anne’s an exception because of the mess with A.J., and because I’m on TV….”

“I’m really sorry I missed your spot on
Good Morning America,”
Charley interjected.

“No big deal. Anyway,” Emily continued, “once
People
heard that you’re a writer too, and that your name is Charlotte, well, how could they resist? So now they’re gung-ho to do the piece, and they want to interview all of us as soon as possible. They were thinking that since Anne is going to Palm Beach as part of her speaking tour, we could all meet there.”

A million questions raced through Charley’s mind. Only one emerged. “When?”

“The date still hasn’t been finalized. But probably sometime in the next couple of weeks. I’ll have to get back to you with the exact time and place.”

“You really think this is a good idea?” Charley asked. The three sisters hadn’t been in the same room together in too long to remember.

“Are you kidding? You can’t buy publicity like this. Think of the exposure, not to mention where it could lead.
Good Morning America
is already considering doing a segment about us. Anything’s possible. Even
Oprah.
”

A story in
People
certainly wouldn’t hurt her chances of interesting publishers in her book on Jill Rohmer, Charley recognized. They’d be lining up, dangling huge advances in front of her eyes. An appearance on
Oprah
would probably land the book on everybody’s must-read list. She’d be rich and famous, not to mention sought-after and respected. All she had to do was say yes. “What about Bram?” she said instead.

“Bram? What about him?”

“Well, aside from the fact he’s our brother, he’s also a very talented painter. Will he be involved?”

“He doesn’t exactly fit the story,” Emily said, “but I’m sure he’ll get some sort of mention.”

“He gets more than a mention,” Charley insisted with surprising force.

“We don’t get to control the content, Charley.”

“What about our mother?” Charley sidestepped.

“She has nothing to do with this.” Emily’s well-trained, mellifluous tones turned hard and cold.

Charley could see her sister biting the side of her bottom lip, the way she used to do as a child, whenever she was upset about something. “She has everything to do with this,” Charley told her. “There wouldn’t be three sisters named Charlotte, Emily, and Anne if it weren’t for her.”

“Just what are you getting at?” Emily asked impatiently.

What
was
she getting at? “I’ll do the interview on two conditions.”

“Two conditions,” Emily repeated incredulously.

“One, that Bram is an equal part of the proceedings.”

“You really think he’ll still be sober by then?” Emily interrupted to ask.

“…and two, that you and Anne agree to meet with our mother while you’re here.”

“What? No way.”

“Then I’m not interested.”

“You’re crazy. This story could put you on the map. It’s the chance of a lifetime.”

“There’ll be other chances.” Would there be? What was she doing?

There was a long pause. “I’ll have to get back to you.” Emily hung up before Charley could say good-bye.

Charley replaced the receiver, then stared at her computer screen in shock. What the hell had she just done? Had she really put the biggest opportunity of her career in jeopardy with her unreasonable set of demands? Who was she to dictate anything to anyone? Her sisters had chosen sides, just as she had. Who was she to tell them they owed their mother a second chance? Emily was right. She
was
crazy.

Charley absently scrolled down the list of new e-mails that had come in while she was on the phone, bringing the latest one up on her screen.

FROM:
A person of taste

TO:
Charley@Charley’sWeb.com

SUBJECT:
Your recent column

DATE:
Mon. 12 Feb. 2007, 9:53:01–0400

Dear Charley,

It seems some people never learn! After I wrote you last time, I thought there was a chance, just a chance, mind you, that you might actually consider what I had to say, and do something to mend your ways. Your column about excess spending was a definite move in the right direction, and gave me reason to be hopeful. But sadly, it appears I WAS WRONG!!! You are as STUPID and FOUL-MOUTHED as ever! How dare you rub your mother’s SICK and PERVERTED behavior in our faces. That she likes to EAT PUSSY is DISGUSTING enough, but the joy you take in reporting it is almost too much for any DECENT individual to bear. I can no longer feel even a modicum of sympathy for you.
YOU DESERVE TO DIE!

P.S.: Don’t fool yourself that your children will be spared. They won’t be.

“Oh, no,” Charley whispered into the palm of her hand. She immediately forwarded copies of the e-mail to both Mitchell Johnson and Michael Duff, then sank back in her chair and read the letter again and again until she could recite it by heart. “You sick bastard. How dare you!” She reached into her desk, found the card Officer Jennifer Ramirez had given her, and called her cell phone. But the policewoman was unavailable, and Charley could only leave a message on her voice mail. “Damn it! Damn it!” she railed, getting up and turning in helpless circles behind her chair.

The phone rang. Charley pounced on it. “Hello? Officer Ramirez?”

“Alex Prescott,” the man answered. “Is this a bad time?”

Charley took a few seconds to catch her breath and try to calm herself down. “No, it’s…I just had a rather unpleasant e-mail.”