“You I can trust…”
“If not me, who?”
She had to give him that. “Okay, go on. But first, when’s dinner coming? I’m starved.”
“It’ll be here any minute. Now, where was I? Oh, yeah. Keep your distance and don’t go accepting help from every corner. I’ll get you whatever you need. Be independent. Move fast. Moss doesn’t grow on a rolling stone and all that. When you receive an invitation, tell me. I’ll let you know which parties you should attend and which you should not.”
Charlotte felt a sudden chill. Memories of earlier parties in her life crept back into her consciousness. Parties where she was mocked and teased mercilessly. “Promise me you will come with me.”
He stopped his tirade suddenly to look at her. Stubbing his cigarette out on the marble floor, he came to her side and took her hand.
“Baby, baby…you’re not scared, are you?”
She raised her eyes to his and he was struck by the genuineness of the emotion he found there. Looking into her eyes, so brilliant a blue against her pale cream-colored makeup, he was suddenly reminded of the cerulean skies of his homeland against white cirrus clouds. He was reminded of the robins’ eggs he’d collected as a boy. He was reminded of so many things….
Freddy frowned. What the hell was the matter with him? This fixation with the girl was becoming an obsession. It was worrisome. Irritating. But he was powerless to stop it. Like her, he’d committed to ride this train all the way.
“Don’t worry,” he replied, surprised by the tenderness he felt. “I’ll always be beside you.”
Five days later, Charlotte sat quietly on a stool in the shadows of a very large screening room at Universal. She was here to read for the film
American Homestead.
Her thick makeup and elaborate Victorian dress felt stiff and stifling, even in the deep air-conditioning. In the center of the room there was a circle of lights and cameras, and beneath them long, thick cables entwined like pythons. She didn’t know the names of most of the equipment, or what it was used for. Freddy did, however, and was out there in the middle, talking animatedly with the lighting cameraman, Josef Werner. Earlier he’d introduced her to him, nudging her forward while whispering in her ear how she always wanted to have the cameraman on her side. Now he was out on the set arguing the angles, determined that they get the lighting right.
Charlotte’s hands were sweating, her breath came short and she couldn’t seem to drink enough water to keep her mouth moist. The scene she was scheduled to read was not the one she had prepared for. Freddy was elated that the studio execs were so enamored with her during the dinner that they were asking her to read for a bigger part. It had been easy to follow Freddy’s admonitions and merely push her food around her plate. What wasn’t easy was to not stab Dole’s sausagelike fingers with her fork each time he grasped her hand.
Freddy was elated with Dole’s response to her, however, and whispered in her ear after dinner, “A good man to have on your side.”
Which side of the bed? she’d wondered.
She’d received the new script last night by special messenger. Even though it was a push to study the scene in time for today’s reading, she felt much more empathy for this character. Her name was Celeste. She was the beautiful, slightly neurotic bride of a possessive brute of a man who kept her virtually imprisoned on their estate. It was a small role, but significant. What Freddy called “a juicy part.” A get-noticed kind of role beside big, billable stars.
“Okay, let’s do it,” called out the director.
Charlotte’s heart pounded loudly in her ears, but she managed to slide from the stool to walk to the center of the room. Her legs and arms felt stiff, her head was balanced on her neck like a ball on a stick. Once in the center of the cameras, she couldn’t find her mark. Her knees felt watery. She looked around with vague, uncomprehending eyes. The cameras and lights began to blur.
Freddy, sensing her panic, hurried forward and gently guided her to where she was to stand, murmuring soft reassurances, handling her as carefully as a trainer would a spirited racehorse at the gate.
“There are only two things you have to keep in mind,” he said, holding on to her shoulders and forcing her to focus on his steady gaze. “First, you must be aware of the period the character is living in. This is 1897, New York, with Victorian morals, and you are very, very rich. Second, you must be aware of who the character is. It’s simple. It is
you.
”
“I don’t know who that is.”
He shook her shoulders lightly. “You are Celeste.”
She stared at him with the dawning of understanding.
“Off the set. Let’s go!” called the director.
“You can do it.” Freddy looked into her eyes, straight through to
her,
and repeated, “You can do it.” He released her and hurried from the set.
Charlotte closed her eyes and shut out the cameras, the lights, Freddy, Josef, everyone and everything. She traveled down the velvety blackness within herself to that secret place in her heart where Charlotte Godowski felt most comfortable and secure. It was in this private place that she stored her favorite books and music, her cherished memories, her most precious dreams. It was to this place that she went whenever she’d been teased as a child, or hurt as a teen, or neglected as an adult, to nurture whatever it was that was unique about herself.
She realized with a burst of sudden clarity that from these carefully wrapped units inside of herself, which she’d lovingly tended all these years, her strength as an actress would come. Like an actor rummaging through old costume trunks, she’d find her inspiration here.
Charlotte Godowski slipped deeper into herself, shrinking very, very small. She was skilled at doing this, had done this so many times all her life. Then slowly, tentatively, she allowed the character of Celeste to emerge. She opened her eyes and blinked heavy lids, like one awakening from a deep sleep, then with smooth steps, took her position under the lights. Her mannerisms, her voice, her inflection, they were all Celeste.
And Celeste knew exactly what to do.
There was absolute silence on the set as though everyone else sensed that they were witnessing a remarkable transformation. The director gave the cue, the cameras whirred and with her beautiful, clear voice, Celeste began to speak.
Freddy watched the rushes with Sam Bonnard, the director, Dave Dole and a few other men, including Josef Werner, who insisted he see the dailies. After her entrance on the scene, there was a gasp followed by an intense hush. Charlotte on film was even more illuminating than Charlotte in the flesh. It had something to do with the skin. It had a luminous quality that only a few others had: Greta Garbo, Marilyn Monroe, Uma Thurman. The camera loved her; she literally lit up the screen. Her voice was low and seductive with a natural cadence. He was right about her eroticism, too. Paired with her innocence, it was a lethal combination. Looking at the men in the room, he could tell she was having the same effect on all of them. They stared at the screen, transfixed. A few shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
Freddy faced the screen again, filled with glee. He wanted to laugh out loud. Charlotte was the one he was waiting for. His instincts had been correct. She had it all, beauty
and
talent. She was going to be big. Very big.
And nobody was going to get to her—except through him.
Freddy Walen returned to his large Mediterranean-style home, locked the door behind him and dropped his briefcase on the floor. The sound reverberated through the empty house. He moved on to the large, sterile kitchen, stuck a frozen low fat dinner into the microwave, poured himself a Scotch and water, and went straight for the phone and dialed. One thing he’d learned in this business: be fast. After a few rings, he reached John LaMonica, a deal maker.
“I saw her,” LaMonica said. “I want her.”
Freddy smiled and swirled the ice in his glass. “Everybody does, John.”
“I’ve optioned this book,” he said, excited. “I’ve got bound galleys coming to you by rush messenger. Read it, then we’ll have lunch at La Scala. Already some big interest in the project. Major capital infusion. We’re getting preproduction started and we all agreed. We’d like to see Charlotte as Nancy.”
“Nancy? Who the hell is Nancy? I don’t know what that means, John.”
“Nancy as in the lead,” he replied, smugness ringing across the lines.
Freddy sat down on a flimsy little iron chair beside the mosaic-and-iron kitchen table, one of the few pieces of furniture his wife had left him after the divorce. Cleaned him out, the bitch, but it could have been worse. She got most of the cash, the furniture, the summer home up north and every damn stick of furniture and piece of china or crystal they’d accumulated in their ten-year marriage. He got the house and his sanity.
Freddy wiped his face with his hand. Who the hell cared about that now? He had Charlotte Godfrey.
“You’ve got backing?”
“As I said. Really deep pockets, as in Asia and Germany. Look, read the book. You’ll see why she’s perfect for the role. If Garbo was alive, we’d a wanted her. But this girl. Damn if she might not be better.”
John was flattering him by building up his client, but a little kiss-ass was expected in this business. He smiled, thinking how good it felt. It’d been a long time since anyone had bothered.
“Sure I’ll look at it, John. If you like it, I’m sure it’s great. I’ll call you as soon as I finish it.”
He hung up the phone and stretched his arm out on the counter, resting his head. He was tired, heaving like he’d just run five miles uphill. He removed his sunglasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose and said a short but fervent prayer of thanks to God for giving him Charlotte Godfrey. LaMonica was interested in her? He wanted to weep.
With his left foot he kicked the other iron chair, a bistro chair Ali had called it, and sent it flying across the room. Fuck this cheap furniture, he thought, feeling exuberant. Fuck his ex-wife. And her new husband who was loaded, though part of him loved the guy because he didn’t have to pay alimony anymore. Ali had married again and was already pregnant with her second child. Freddy swallowed the Scotch, feeling the burn slide down his throat. Yep, that’s what she always wanted. A kid.
And it was the one thing he couldn’t give her. An injury years ago, as a young man, had rendered him impotent. “Shrapnel to the groin will do it every time,” the doctor had said with a laugh. Freddy never saw the humor in that.
Ali had been a good sport, he’d give her that. She’d really tried to make the marriage work. On those rare occasions, like tonight, when he could get past his bitterness, he could forgive her for dumping him.
The microwave’s high beep let him know his pasta Alfredo was done. He grabbed a mitt, pulled out the small orange box and carried it to the single chair in his living room. He swallowed a forkful of the Alfredo, then another, but the runny, tasteless, overcooked noodles didn’t match the excitement of the day. Setting the box on the floor, he nursed his Scotch instead.
Maybe it was seeing the future in those crystal clear eyes of Charlotte Godfrey on the screen that had set him off tonight. He had dreams again, after such a long streak of bad luck. Ten years back, this house was buffed and polished, dressed to the nines. He and Ali had had some good parties here. Now the place could use a good face-lift—like most of his clients.
If all went as he hoped, he’d be popping those champagne corks in this house again. Then no more dodging bill collectors, double tightening the water faucets, turning off lights and being on a first-name basis with appliance repairmen. And he’d pick up some new furniture, too. Hell, maybe even hire one of those decorators Ali was so fond of.
He leaned back in the threadbare wing chair and looked out the window, slowly swirling the ice in his drink to the moody tempo of Chopin. Down in the street some super-nanny was pushing one of those old English prams while beside her a little girl was pumping away on a pastel tricycle. She was a sweet little girl, with long blond pigtails and her gingham dress flipping back over chubby legs as she pedaled. He felt a short stab of disappointment that he and Ali never had a kid. It was an old, familiar pain, but one he’d not felt in a long while. He liked kids, liked to think he would have been a good father if he’d had the chance. Their little girl would probably have looked a lot like that one, with Ali’s German blood and his Polish blood. As it was, one explosion and he was the last of his line.
He downed the rest of his Scotch in a gulp, then leaned forward to close the blinds. He wasn’t about to fall into that self-pitying trap again. In this town a loser could be sniffed out at twenty paces. It was survival of the fittest, supermen able to leap major deals in a single bound. He had the smarts, the contacts and the drive. Most of all, he had a sweet little girl all his own.
He had Charlotte Godfrey.
S
urely nothing more could happen in a lifetime, Charlotte thought blithely. She chuckled in the early summer wind. At least not today. For today she was on vacation, the first she’d taken in ages. No classes, no fittings, no makeup, no nothing. She meant to do something fun and for no other reason than the pure pleasure of it.
Today she would begin her garden.
She pressed her foot on the accelerator of her new car, anxious to arrive at the nursery. She wanted to put some distance between herself and the strange new thing her life was becoming.
Her first supporting role in
American Homestead
was “in the hopper,” as Freddy liked to say, and she felt flush with the compliments from the director and the cast alike. Even though it would be months before the film would be released, Freddy said there was a buzz about her name now and he’d lined up her first co-starring role in a major independent film.
The screen test went as Freddy had predicted it would. Signing a big contract in the immense office, shaking hands, laughing at the pop of a champagne cork—it all happened so quickly. Suddenly she had money.
Not a lot of money, but enough to really begin the life she’d charted for herself such a short time ago. She patted her purse, amazed that a few Ben Franklins were actually nestled in her wallet. After so many years of hanging around Abraham and George.
She laughed again, feeling more free than she could remember, and pushed the accelerator again. Her navy sports car pushed past the city, past thoughts of work, Freddy and the film she would soon be starting. She wanted to keep moving, to keep memories far behind her. Today was her day to think about flowers and the sun kissing her face, and to sing out loud with
La Traviata
blaring from her CD player.
Melanie had claimed she was crazy to spend her money on a flower garden. Why fix up the place, she’d argued, when you don’t even own it? You’ll only raise the rent. What did she care? she’d argued back. She’d pay the difference; it was worth it to her. So she’d picked a nursery from the phone book—the Mondragon Nursery—because she liked the name. She’d be there soon. Small green-and-white signs, freshly painted, pointed the way.
At first she leisurely strolled through the rows upon rows of blooming flowers. She didn’t know the names, but she refused to feel overwhelmed. She had a fine memory, especially of things she loved. It would only be a matter of time till she had a handle on this gardening thing. Something was here for her, she felt certain.
She was touching the smooth, chubby leaves of a begonia when she saw him.
He was standing surrounded by a trio of women, each with a potted flower in her hand, each with eyes fixed on his long, handsome face. He was being kind; it was obvious by the fixed smile and the way he tilted his head while he listened, as though he couldn’t bear to miss a word. His black hair was the color of a raven’s wing, his shirt as white as the clouds above. Beneath it was the smooth, terra-cotta-colored skin she remembered so well.
From somewhere a bird called. She thought it was her sigh.
He looked up and briefly looked her way, then turned back again to the ladies. She held her breath. Slowly, as though he saw something he wasn’t quite sure of, he turned his head again in her direction. His brows furrowed, as though he was trying to place her.
Charlotte couldn’t move, not her feet, nor her hands, not even her mouth or eyes. It was him. The stranger she’d met in the elevator on a cold, fateful night in Chicago. It was as though all she’d experienced, all her decisions, all the roads she’d traveled since that night had led her to this moment.
He didn’t seem to recognize her, yet she felt certain that he sensed some connection, too, because he straightened and returned her study with the same open-eyed wonder she was sure she wore.
He cocked his head and squinted.
Who are you?
She smiled.
Yes, it’s me.
The trio of women around him, realizing that they’d lost his attention, silenced and turned curious gazes her way. She saw them as scenery, a mere backdrop to the action between her and him. He apologized to the ladies, oblivious that their faces dropped in disappointment, and signaled for an assistant to come over. Then he walked toward her, eyes on her face.
She didn’t move, couldn’t move, but gauged his progress toward her with her breaths. His hair was longer now, tied back at the nape of his neck. Thick dark brows formed a serious line over eyes shining with intent. He seemed a formidable mass, all black and white, rolling toward her, like thunder. She was powerless to stop it now.
“Do I know you?” he asked, stopping before her.
It was the same voice, the same dark undercurrent she remembered as if it was yesterday. They both knew the question sounded too much like a pickup line. Charlotte stared at the gravel, wildly wondering whether to answer yes, and explain all her history. Or to simply say no, and start anew.
“No,” she replied, then smiled tentatively.
His large, brown eyes probed under heavy brows like an eagle. “I thought I might. There’s something…” He shook his head with some embarrassment. “It doesn’t matter. My name is Michael.” He paused, extending his hand. “Michael Mondragon.”
She nodded, making the connection to the nursery. “I’m Charlotte.” She took his hand. “Charlotte Godfrey.”
His hands were strong and slightly callused, and the touch of them sent a tingling up her arm. She’d wondered about his hands so many times during those many lonely nights in Chicago. She’d seen them in her mind’s eye: long-fingered, tanned, scrubbed.
He took back his hand and tucked the tips of his fingers into the back pockets of his jeans. “Well, Miss Godfrey. Can I help you?”
His eyes held the sparkle of interest, though his demeanor was very proper. She remembered his chivalry in the elevator. She remembered that she’d held back that night and said no. This time, her answer would be different.
“Yes, thank you,” she replied, picking up a white lily and examining it very carefully.
“Would you like to look around?” he asked, extending his hand.
They strolled in a companionable manner through the rows that Charlotte had walked through before. Each felt that this was a special moment in time. Each tried to pretend that it was not.
Michael pointed out specific plants, reaching out to touch the leaves of flowers as he described them with great detail. It impressed Charlotte how much he knew about so many things: the soil, the plant’s requirements. Every plant had a story. When she mentioned this to him, he laughed and indicated a little white plastic tab stuck in the dirt of each plant.
“A cheat sheet,” he said, pulling one out and showing her how each one had the plant’s name and care instructions on the tab.
“Thank goodness for those,” she replied. “Even someone as lost as I can figure out a picture of a full or a half sun.”
“I take it you don’t know much about gardening?”
“Not a thing. But I’m a quick learner. I have a nice piece of land that has lots of potential and lots of sun. It could be something special. To me, anyway. It’s the first piece of land I’ve ever lived on.”
“I’d be happy to help. What kind of plants are you interested in? Perennials or annuals?”
“Is that full sun or half sun?”
He laughed. “Annuals live for one season, then die off. Perennials come up every year. I’d recommend mostly annuals if this is your first season in your garden. It will give you color and lots of show while you get to know your garden better.”
“There’s so much I don’t know,” she confessed after their tour of the nursery garden shop was completed. “I thought this would be so easy. Just go to the nursery, pick out what you liked, sort of like a dress, then come back and stick them in the ground. I’m sure you’ve figured out by now that I’m your worst nightmare.”
All he could think was that she was his dream come true.
“It’s not that overwhelming. You just have to decide where to begin.”
“Where would you suggest?”
He smiled. This was going far too easily. “With your garden space,” he replied casually. “Where do you live?”
They arranged for Michael to come for a site visit on the following day. As far as Charlotte was concerned, tomorrow wasn’t soon enough. She went directly from the nursery to her local library, emerging an hour later with an armful of gardening books. The ones she chose had scores of pictures of blossoming flowers and shrubs; she needed pictures. She didn’t know the names of any of them. When she got home, she sat at the kitchen table with a tuna fish sandwich and a cup of coffee and did what she hadn’t done in years—crammed for a test. She wasn’t about to let Michael Mondragon think she didn’t know a begonia from a petunia.
All night long she tossed and turned, waiting for the morning. Never in her twenty-two years had a man come to see her at her home. A pitiful state of affairs, and if she admitted it to herself, even this was business and not a date. But it was the closest she’d ever come to one.
When the sun finally rose the next morning, she’d worked herself into a frenzy of anticipation.
“What are you all freaked about?” Melanie asked in a sharp tone. She was wearing a skimpy thong bikini of fluorescent pink, carrying a bottle of suntan lotion in one hand and a tall iced tea in the other. A paperback book was tucked under her arm. She obviously had her morning planned.
“I just want everything to be right,” Charlotte replied, smoothing back her hair.
“It’s probably why you were an accountant.” Melanie scrunched up her face and walked across the patio straight to a lounge chair. Once settled in, she immediately began lathering on a coat of lotion. “This is your madness, not mine. I’m not about to work into a sweat just to impress some gardener.”
Charlotte felt stung by the nasty tone of Melanie’s voice. Michael Mondragon could hardly be called just some gardener. Melanie was snapping a lot lately. Like she was sitting on a burr.
She looked at Melanie as she lathered the lotion onto her already deeply tanned skin. In the bright morning sun, her hair appeared even more brassy. Melanie had changed her hair color to blond, a shade suspiciously close to Charlotte’s own. Melanie was borrowing her clothes a lot lately, too, and when she bought new ones, they were very much in the sleek style that Charlotte preferred. Not at all like the colorful, formfitting styles that were Melanie’s trademark.
She rubbed her neck, feeling the heat of the early morning sun prickle. Maybe her fears were right; Melanie was jealous of her recent success. Melanie’s career was in a downward spiral. That was a lot of pressure for them both to bear.
“You’re not upset that I’m going ahead with this? The last thing I want to do is start pushing you around in your own place.”
“No, no, don’t be silly. It’s just as much your place. More, if you consider how much cleaning and organizing you’ve done.” She paused and took a long breath. “Honey, if you want to grow some pretty flowers, go right ahead. I’ll only get upset if you ask me to pull any weeds. Flowers and bugs are just not my thing. Cooking on the other hand…” She turned her head, listened for a moment, then flopped a hat over her face. “There’s the doorbell. It must be your gardener.”
There was no time to change into the outfit she’d finally picked out, or comb her hair, or even wash her hands. The doorbell rang again. Oh, well, she thought as she trotted through the living room to the front door. What did it matter, anyway. This wasn’t really a date.
After taking a deep breath for composure, she swung open the door, hoping that despite her muddy jeans and old oxford shirt, the expression she’d placed on her face was gracious.
Seeing him again literally took her breath away. She felt the same way she did as a child at Christmas when she opened a wrapped present to find that the gift she’d desperately wanted was actually there. He was every bit as imposing in his dark good looks as she’d remembered. He was wearing jeans and an immaculate long sleeved white shirt—what seemed to be a uniform for him. The formality suited him, she decided.
He was inspecting her with the same intense scrutiny. When his eyes rested on her forehead, he smiled, amused.
“What?” She reached up to touch her forehead.
“May I?” With his eyes crinkled, he reached up to brush some dirt from her forehead.
“I was in the garden….” She was mortified and began rubbing at her forehead furiously.
“A streak of mud is a badge of honor in our business.”
She felt a blush rising. “You were early.”
“I hope you don’t mind. We weren’t sure how long the trip would take.” We were eager, he thought.
“No, of course not,” she blurted. “I’ve been waiting for you.” Her toes curled. Was that too obvious?
“My brother is here to help take measurements. He’s already walking around to the side lot.” He turned on the step toward the yard.
Charlotte hid her disappointment that they wouldn’t sit first to discuss her plans, perhaps over a cup of coffee, with some thick cream and one of the doughnuts she’d purchased especially for him. She’d imagined showing him all the books she’d read, pointing out the pictures of flowers she liked best and now knew the names of. “You’re a quick study,” he might say. She’d demur. Perhaps they’d even laugh, get to know each other a little better. Why did she always have such hopes, she scolded herself as they walked outdoors in single file. She was such a romantic. Why did she think this was anything but business?