Girl in the Mirror

by Mary Alice Monroe

  Michael looked at his shoes, ashamed. Looking back up, he saw the hurt in Bobby’s eyes more than the anger. “I’m not afraid. I’m just a guy who wasn’t ready to hear all that from his brother.”

  Bobby looked at him with a strained expression, as though he wanted to argue the point. He pressed his fingers to his lips, eyes squinting, then simply shook his head.

  “Well, I’m just a guy who happens to be gay. It’s your problem how to deal with being my brother. Not mine.” Then he whirled around and walked away down the gravel path, disappearing into the darkness.

  Nine

  Charlotte woke up two days later to discover Michael Mondragon pacing the width of the lot outside her bedroom window. She was peeking out at the day’s weather when her hand froze on the curtain. She gasped and the lace fell back across the window. She told herself it didn’t matter what she wore, but she tossed away two dresses before she chose the simple mint green sheath, slipped into sandals, splashed her face with cold water and hurried out to meet him.

  Michael smiled when he saw her, thinking the day just turned sunnier. She was a vision with her pale blond hair caught in the wind and her long, slender legs looking like they went on forever under that short summer dress. She took long, graceful strides across the lot. When she drew near, he was moved by the eagerness in her eyes.

  “Hello,” she said with a tilting glance, her hand smoothing her hair in the breeze. “You can’t be finished with your drawings already?”

  On another woman it might have been a coquettish gesture, but there was nothing intentionally come-hither about Charlotte.

  “I am. Time was of the essence, since you’re leaving in a few weeks. I should have called, but I spent most of the night finishing them and drove out here at first light. I doubted you were up that early this morning.”

  “Just woke up now, as a matter of fact.”

  He tucked his hands behind his back and stood erect, holding back his enthusiasm. His thick dark brows had a way of angling down to his straight nose in a serious, almost scowling manner. It made his boyish excitement all the more endearing.

  “Well, let me see them. I’m dying of curiosity.”

  He began to unroll the designs, but the wind tugged at the thin sheets of paper.

  “This won’t do,” she called out, chasing after one and catching it midair. “Let’s go inside. I’m desperate for a cup of coffee, anyway. How about you?”

  “You’re an angel of mercy.”

  “How do you like it?”

  “Strong and black, please.”

  Of course, she thought to herself, glancing back. His lush black hair was tied back in a stubby ponytail again today. Thanking her stars that she’d scoured away Melanie’s lasagna mess last night, she led him to the kitchen, where he spread out the designs for her on the hardwood table, using utensils as weights. The sugar bowl rested on the magnolia tree, a fork lined a row of rhododendrons, a spoon rested on the perennial bed, and a salt shaker held down a few Australian pines. Charlotte slipped down into the chair, her chin in her palm only a few inches above the wood, staring like a child at a picture book story.

  The blue ink transformed the blocky terrain of her lot into a rounding, graceful living space filled with flowering bushes, a few well chosen trees and swirls of perennial beds, ground covers and tiered annual beds.

  “It’s more than you asked for, so don’t get worried. I like to get a picture in my mind of what can be done, then we can pare down together what you want and can afford. It’s not a hard sell, believe me. It’s only to give you choices.”

  “Who said I was worried? I’m just speechless. It’s hard to believe it’s the same lot. It’s…wonderful.”

  His eyes sparkled in pleasure. “It’s all about using space to its maximum. People don’t need a lot of land to feel like they’ve got a beautiful place to come home to.”

  She’d always wanted a beautiful place to come home to. “What’s this one?” she asked, leafing through the several drawings and pulling out one that included sketches for the house.

  “You weren’t supposed to see that one,” he said, pulling the design sheet out of the pile.

  “Please let me. I’d like to see your ideas for the house.” She shrugged. “Even if it’s way beyond the possibility.”

  He traced his long index finger around the blue lines that extended the house’s left side to encircle the tile patio facing the cliff. The skin under his rolled up, long sleeved white shirt was deeply tanned and marked by tiny crisscrossed scratches from vines or maybe roses.

  “I couldn’t help myself. It’s so painfully obvious to me what this house needs.” He swept his fingers across the design, as though sweeping away the fantasy. “I know it’s a rental, but I wanted to draw it out for my own pleasure. It’s been a while since I’ve done an architectural drawing.”

  It was clear that the house, not the garden, held his heart. “Why did you leave architecture?” she asked.

  His face clouded, and he placed another garden design over the house design. “I didn’t. I’m working at the nursery for a short time to help the family.” He paused, then added in a quieter, slightly troubled voice, “Sometimes, family needs take priority.”

  She felt more attracted to him for his loyalty to his family and his reticence to talk about his personal life. Michael Mondragon had a quiet reserve that she resonated to.

  “Do you build houses?”

  “I can,” he replied easily. “But I prefer skyscrapers. To build something that literally scrapes at the clouds is thrilling.”

  “From the earth to the sky. That’s quite a leap.”

  He smiled then, thinking in an odd way that this girl understood. Looking at the design, he asked, “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “You’ve just made a leap into movies. No mean feat that.”

  “If you only knew,” she muttered, playing at a corner of the paper. “I’ve been very lucky. I always wanted to act but never believed I’d actually get the chance.” When he looked at her quizzically, she added, “Let’s just say I was a gawky child.”

  He laid down his pencil and sat down beside her. “Beautiful women always say that. How ugly they were as children. Why is that? It strikes me as a little phony sounding.” He leaned back in his chair. “I can’t believe you were ever ugly. I’ll bet you came out of the womb perfect.”

  Charlotte forced a smile on her face and turned her head. Inside her stomach, the coffee burned. “Believe me, I was ugly.”

  He seemed skeptical. “The ugly duckling turned into a swan story.”

  “Something like that.” She swung her head around, her eyes defiant. “Why is that so difficult to believe? You tell me you can make that ugly space of land out there turn into this beautiful garden and expect me to believe you.”

  He held out his hands in surrender. “You win. I believe you were an ugly child.”

  Hearing the words took her breath away. She wanted suddenly to be honest with him, to say, “Yes, that’s right,” then tell him all about the teasing, the cruelties. The surgery. Maybe, too, how she’d met him once before. In the elevator. She was that ugly girl—did he even remember her?

  Impossible, she thought. He could never know that. He’d think she was some kind of freak. She’d made her decision back in Chicago. Charlotte Godowski was gone. She was Charlotte Godfrey now. Charlotte Godfrey was the woman Michael Mondragon knew. Pushing the shy, embarrassed girl deep down inside of herself, Charlotte focused on the garden designs on the table.

  “I’d like the magnolia near my bedroom, so I can see the blooms. My mother loved magnolias.”

  Resting his palm on the table, he leaned again to quickly alter the design, moving a tree with a few sharp strokes of his pencil. Her stomach fluttered as his shirt breezed against her cheek.

  “Done. And I think you should definitely do the annuals. Here…and here.”

  His closeness was suffocating. She couldn’t believ
e that he didn’t feel the intensity that their nearness provoked.

  “You make it look so easy. I can’t even draw a straight line.”

  “I owe it all to the nuns and the Palmer Method of Handwriting.”

  She laughed, remembering the Palmer Method herself. “Row after row of loops.”

  “Where did you grow up?”

  Her laughter faded and she sat back in her chair. “Chicago,” she replied cautiously.

  “No kidding? Small world. Where?”

  “Oh…” Her mind scanned possible locations that would be vague enough, nice enough. Somewhere her mother might clean houses. “Out in the western suburbs.”

  “Which suburb?”

  He was nothing if not persistent. What would happen if she said, Oh, actually, the western part of the city. On Harlem Avenue, in one of those apartment buildings an architect like you would just love. Right next to Burger King and Stella the Star Gazer. She tells fortunes for ten bucks a pop.

  She looked up at him as he waited for her reply. Would that make her any less desirable? she wondered. Would she want him if it did?

  “Oak Park,” she replied, coughing on the lie. “It’s a city, actually. Just off the Eisenhower Expressway.”

  “Of course I know where it is. The Frank Lloyd Wright museum is there. Some great houses of his, too.” He looked at his hand, then asked in a casual way, “Did you live alone?”

  “No.” She held back her smile when his brows knitted.

  “I lived with my mother. She needed me and I felt I should stay with her.”

  He couldn’t conceal his pleasure.

  “And you?”

  “I live downtown. I still have a loft on Printer’s Row.”

  She arched a brow. “That’s a nice area. Very artsy and chic.”

  “It’s convenient, close to the museums and the library. It suits me.”

  She imagined it did. Very well. “You must miss it.”

  He shrugged. “You must miss your mother.”

  “I do…I do.” She thought quickly. “She’s very active, has lots of friends. She had this lovely old house that she’d lived in forever, but it got to be too much for her, you see. Especially since I was leaving for California. So she had to sell it. Now she lives in a condo. It’s very nice,” she hurried to explain. “Everything she wants at this point in her life. Elevators, it’s near shopping and the church. All her friends are close by. You know, a no-muss-or-fuss style of living.” Charlotte wiped her brow, feeling the beginning of a headache in her temples. “I’m sure she doesn’t miss me.”

  “I find that hard to believe. I’m sure she must miss you very much.”

  She looked away. “Let’s talk about the garden,” she said, pursing her lips and squinting as she made a show of studying the plans. Then in sharp precision she pointed to areas of plantings.

  “If I understand it right, we’ve got the annuals here and here by the front door…the magnolia here…I can wait on the ground cover…a few yews here, and oh, yes. I must have this bed of lilies. Done. How much is that?” She raised her gaze to his, all business. “With labor included. And, of course, whatever you need to bring the soil up to speed. Compost, peat moss, whatever. I want the plants I put in to thrive. I’d rather start small but with a good foundation.”

  Michael wondered what he’d said that made her suddenly so cool and unapproachable. He hadn’t meant to press. He thought he’d been careful. Still, he couldn’t help but be impressed. She was able to make quick decisions, and her instincts were good. He’d have advised her to make the same choices.

  “A three dollar hole for a one dollar plant, my father always says.” He made a few notations on his designs while she watched, leaning far over the table, her face inches from his. Her hair smelled sweet, like shampoo. He closed his eyes and inhaled it, then cleared his throat.

  “Would you rather I leave this here for you to look at? You can call me at the nursery if you have any questions. Or perhaps you’d rather Bobby called?”

  “No,” she replied quickly, sitting back in her chair. “I’d rather you stayed.” Their gazes locked, and she saw with some amazement that it wasn’t only she who was feeling nervous. She’d never thought that someone like him might feel awkward, especially not with someone like her. She reached out to touch his arm.

  “Stay, please. Do you think I would know what questions to ask?” she said through a small smile. “I think that I’d rather you explained it all to me. Very carefully. There’s no hurry. I’ll make that coffee. And I’ve got scones. Have you had breakfast?”

  The morning lingered long past the point where she’d selected the annuals, added a few more perennials and changed to a cluster of rhododendrons near the front door. Michael had already decided that he’d do a large portion of the labor himself, at his own expense. It would give him a good excuse to be near her. Charlotte wanted Michael to add one small feature to the plan.

  “I’d like a small kitchen garden, for Melanie. Tomatoes, herbs, those kind of things.”

  Michael cocked his head. “Are we thinking of the same Melanie? She made it clear she didn’t want anything to do with a garden.”

  “Not flowers or bushes, nothing like that. But she loves to cook, and I’d like to do something special for her. Nothing that would require a lot of work,” she added, thinking of Melanie’s manicure.

  “I’ll do whatever you like, of course.” He paused, scribbling. “The two of you are an odd pair,” he said. “You’re.. different.”

  “I suppose. She can be very sweet. She knows a lot about things I don’t, like the smarts of filmmaking. And makeup.” She looked at her own ruined manicure. The day after they were done she’d ruined her nails by scrubbing the floors with hot, soapy water. Melanie had taken one look at the chipped polish, hurried for her kit and wiped it all off. Charlotte smiled at the memory.

  “I don’t think you saw her best side the other day.”

  His eyes lit up. “I’d say she has any number of good sides.” Relieved that she chuckled, he considered the plan again. “I was thinking,” he said, tapping the pencil. “What about pots on the patio? It’s quick, easy, attractive. I think even Melanie would approve.”

  “Perfect! She can step out from the kitchen and clip them with scissors. She won’t muss a nail.”

  “I have a few more calls to make today.” He hesitated, then took the gamble. “Why don’t we finish this later, over dinner? Say, about six?”

  She couldn’t believe he was saying the words. She reached for her coffee and took a small sip. “You don’t have to do that,” she replied, looking at her cup. “I don’t expect you to work that hard just because I’m in a hurry.”

  He took her hand and studied her long fingers with their oval nails. Unpolished, unpretentious, like her. “It will be my pleasure,” he said, gently rubbing her knuckles with his thumb. Then with a wicked smile, he added, “And I hope it won’t all be work.”

  That evening, Michael picked her up, not in his red pickup truck with the name Mondragon emblazoned on the door, but in a sleek, dark and powerful convertible, his one indulgence for putting the rest of his life on hold and living with his family, he explained to her as they roared toward the city. She ran her hand over the buttery softness of the leather, thinking dangerous thoughts. The night was balmy so the top was down. She wound a silk scarf around her hair, enjoying the feel of warm air and soft silk against her face. He drove her to a charming Italian restaurant that faced the Pacific Ocean and had a great sunset view.

  The maître d’ at La Luna knew him by name and welcomed him with a wide grin of pleasure. When he spied Charlotte beside him, he pursed his lips in a silent whistle while shaking his hand as though it were burning. Michael discreetly lowered his brows and shook his head in warning, but it didn’t do any good. By the time they were seated at his favorite table by the window, two busboys were circling Charlotte like buzzing bees, filling her water glass to the brim, piling a tower of pats of butter o
n her plate. When one moonstruck boy, an eighteen-year-old, offered to smooth her napkin onto her lap, Michael scowled dangerously and grabbed the napkin from his hand.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, offering her back the napkin. “It’s not often they see a woman as beautiful as you.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she said, though she felt uneasy. She always found such displays uncomfortable. “I’m told I have to get used to it.”

  He raised his brows. “Ah, yes, the ugly duckling.” He saw her frown and quickly gestured to the waiter, who promptly brought a bottle of Pinot Grigio to the table. Michael tasted it, then took the bottle, pouring her a glassful himself. She sipped it slowly, her long fingers with the pale nails curled around the crystal. Her skin glowed in the candlelight, and again he felt a powerful surge of desire for her. He’d have to be very careful with this one.

  The waiters, eager to make amends, hurried to bring heaping platters of aromatic pasta, grilled eggplant, peppers and zucchini dribbled with extra virgin olive oil and rosemary, long coils of spicy sausage and samplings of pungent, creamy cheeses. Charlotte ate with abandon, savoring the delicious meal as she told him stories about her life.

  For that’s what she told him, stories. Fiction, peppered with facts as pungent and spicy as the food. Her mother was a widow living comfortably on the money left to her by her father. What did she do in her spare time? Well, she spent her time painting. She was very good, respected by her colleagues. But no, he wouldn’t know her work. Her mother didn’t show in galleries any longer. Her father died when she was young, but she remembered him well. He was handsome. A good, kind man. She’d loved him very much. There wasn’t much left of the small fortune he’d left them, so her mother was prudent.

  Charlotte went on to tell him how she loved to act and played principal roles in all her high school and college plays. Did he enjoy Shakespeare? She’d played so many roles: Juliet, Ophelia, Portia.

  As the candles glowed low, she recited her life’s story, her voice well modulated, the gentle music playing in the background. He asked her questions which she answered carefully, always with an amusing detail added, such as the time she missed her cue and left Romeo hanging on the balcony, or how her father loved to watch her run and dance herself into a frenzy as he played the Hungarian Rhapsody on the piano…the old family Steinway. While Charlotte Godowski quivered deep inside of her, Charlotte Godfrey came alive as she spoke, filling in the gaping holes in her background with tales that, in time, she’d claim as her own.