Girl in the Mirror

by Mary Alice Monroe

  But he told her again how much he loved her face, how her beauty mesmerized him. How would he feel about her if she told him the truth? He would think she was unnatural. Some kind of freak. The truth died, unspoken, on her lips. So the lies endured, and the more days that passed, the more trapped she became by them.

  All these thoughts were like thorny rambling roses in her mind as she dug energetically in the late summer garden, the one he’d created for her. Tomorrow, she’d be leaving to begin filming One Day in Autumn in Maine. They had only today left before they’d be separated for two months. Their love was too new to test, she decided. She’d tell him everything when she returned.

  “You should wear some gloves or your hands will get callused.”

  Charlotte startled, bringing mud to her shirt where her hand covered her heart. It was more than the surprise that made her heart jump. That feeling happened every time she saw Michael Mondragon.

  “You scared me. I didn’t hear you.”

  “You were a million miles away.”

  “Not really. I was thinking of you.”

  That answer pleased him. His eyes lit up and shone like the sunshine, and he gathered her in his arms as gently as if she were a bunch of flowers.

  Freddy was eager to see Charlotte, eager to discuss the travel itinerary with her, eager to give her the good news of another pivotal project he’d just lined up for her. Production of One Day in Autumn was right on schedule. And he already had another project in the works. A big deal with big money that would eclipse anything she could have imagined. Another period piece. Charlotte’s classic features were perfect, and combined with her remarkable ear for accents, a whole vista of film opportunities closed to actresses without her range lay open to her.

  Then there was that book treatment on the horizon that LaMonica had sent over. It was a zany book, full of action, romance and humor and, most of all, memorable characters. If film could do the book justice, then it was sure to be a cult hit. Like Pulp Fiction.

  He was coming from a meeting with LaMonica that had lasted from coffee and doughnuts in his office, to Ma Maison for lunch to cocktails at the Polo Lounge. There was a part in there for Charlotte that could really showcase her. Zoom her right to the top. He knew it, LaMonica knew it. The question was, for how much?

  LaMonica kept saying, “We’re also talking to Uma Thurman.”

  Freddy would counter with “Yeah, and we’re talking to Begelman about another deal.”

  It was a game they were playing, shuffling the pieces like cards on the table. He knew that LaMonica wanted the script and the director to be the stars of this film. An unknown actress with an unforgettable face was what he was really after. And Freddy had her.

  “Go fish, John,” he said to himself with a smug grin as he pulled into Charlotte’s driveway and yanked back the parking brake. He was in the works early on this one and was working like a dog trying to package the big deal. When he left LaMonica’s office, it was all set except for Charlotte’s signature on the line.

  He grabbed the bottle of Dom Pérignon from the passenger seat, slammed the door and almost sprinted to the house. He was feeling buoyant, like he was full of helium and about to fly. What was that cornball saying? High on life, not blow? Whatever, it was true. When there was no answer at the door, he mumbled impatiently and trotted around the back.

  En route, he looked around, puzzled. It dawned on him that something was different since he’d been here last. The place looked pretty good. What was it? He craned his neck. The shutters and the front door were painted a bright turquoise color, there were some nice bushes by the front door, and hell, he was walking on an attractive winding gravel path that wasn’t here before.

  When he rounded the corner of the house, he stopped short, mouth agog. The whole frigging yard was transformed. It was like a fairy godmother had come, flicked her magic wand and changed the pumpkin into a coach.

  “What the—” With his hands on his hips he took in the curves of flowers and landscaped walks, the blooming shrubs. It was like he was in a small park. Where the hell did all this come from? Who died and left these gals some money? He heard a soft, throaty laugh and turned his head toward the back patio. Under a pergola that wasn’t there two weeks ago, he saw Charlotte on her knees digging some kind of leggy vine into the dirt at its base. Beside her knelt some dark-haired, dark-skinned man, no doubt the gardener. Freddy’s heart skipped when he saw her in that funny little white straw hat and those cute little gloves. She was something, all right. What a pretty picture she made.

  He lifted his hand in a wave and was about to shout out a hearty hello when he saw her raise her eyes to the gardener and, with a coy smile, reach up to tenderly brush a leaf from his hair. Her hand lingered by his ear, then slid down to cup his jaw in her palm while she gazed at him. The man’s eyes burned into hers, then he turned his head to kiss her lightly.

  Freddy’s hand dropped to his side. His mouth turned dry and he felt the breath whoosh out of him like he’d been socked a good one in the solar plexus. What the hell was going on here? He stared for a few minutes more before getting the feeling that his eyeballs were going to burst into flames. He could understand her flirting a bit with the gardener. Hell, every estrogen-replaced woman in Southern California licked her lips over those broad shouldered, tanned young boys who toiled in their manicured lawns. But Charlotte was a hot young girl with a world of prospects. She didn’t have to bottom fish.

  So could someone explain to him why she was in her backyard with some guy in stained khakis and dirty hands, both of them cooing and pawing each other like teenagers in a hormone surge?

  His own blood began to bubble and he could feel his pressure rise. He wasn’t about to sit back and watch his investment go down the proverbial cesspool. Gripping the champagne tight, he stepped forward.

  “Charlotte!” he called out. “Come to Papa, baby. I’ve got good news.”

  Charlotte sprang to her feet, and he was pleased to see an embarrassed flush flame her cheeks. Yeah, he thought bitterly. Caught you in the act. He sauntered, even swaggered, to her side, arms outstretched. When he reached her, he pulled her into his arms and hugged her long enough, and with enough familiarity, so as to make it clear to the guy he wasn’t just another acquaintance.

  Charlotte stepped back from Freddy’s embrace and eyed the young man at her side warily. From the corner of his eye he noted that the dark-haired man was standing very still, his broad shoulders thrown back over slim hips, and his dark, thick brows knitted over squinting eyes. Freddy thought he looked like a matador and despised him instantly for that glamour, that brutal power. He resented him deeply for making him feel like the goddamn snorting bull.

  “Freddy,” Charlotte said, her voice high with tension.

  “I’d like you to meet Michael Mondragon. From the Mondragon Nursery.”

  Alarms went off in his head. Nursery? So that was where all the flowers and stuff came from. Shit, he thought, looking around. What the hell did she do to deserve all this? Freddy purposefully slighted him, dismissing him with a scant glance.

  “Hmm, yes.”

  Charlotte flushed and the young man eyed him with barely concealed fury. Freddy added insult to injury by turning his back to the young man and addressing Charlotte.

  “Can we go somewhere and talk? In private.” He looked over at the man with deliberate disdain. “Tell your gardener to go home. It’s past quitting time.”

  “He’s not my…”

  “I’m afraid you misconstrue the situation,” the man said in a low, dangerous voice.

  Freddy turned with insolent slowness, taking the man’s measure in a trick he’d learned years ago from a five foot two, balding movie mogul. It was all in the straight shoulders and the sneer, and it almost never failed to intimidate.

  “Oh, yeah?” he drawled, finishing the routine. “And just how do you know what I ‘construe’?”

  The man didn’t back down. Rather, he smiled with a superior k
ind of mockery that set Freddy’s teeth on edge. “I have no intention of leaving. I’ve only just arrived. My business with Miss Godfrey is personal. It’s you, I believe, who keeps business hours with Miss Godfrey and it’s—” he looked briefly at the red sun lowering in the western sky “—quite late. We were just about to have dinner.”

  Freddy felt the doughnuts he’d had for breakfast, the mussels marinara he’d consumed for lunch and all the nuts he nibbled on with his martinis roil in his gut and threaten to choke him. His temper erupted and he took a step forward and pushed hard against the man’s chest, shoving him back. “Listen, you lousy spic, I oughta…”

  He couldn’t finish. In a flash he felt a hand shoot out to grab him by the lapels. The man leaned into his personal space, his face just a few inches from his own, his eyes shooting fury like flame, and he ground out in a menacing tone, “Don’t…ever…call…me…that…again.”

  “Michael, please,” Charlotte cried to him, her trembling hands on his shoulders pulling him away. Her eyes were wide with panic. “Please. Let him go.”

  Freddy felt the scorch of shame hearing her plead for his release, but he had the good sense to keep his mouth shut. In his heart, however, he was vowing himself to a plan of revenge.

  The man she called Michael took a deep breath and dropped his lapels with that macho lifting of his hands Latino men were so good at—a gesture that implied to touch him any further would dirty him.

  “Never attack a man unless you’re prepared to back it up,” Michael said, then turned his back and walked a few feet away, like a matador turning his back on the wounded bull after he’d made the fatal lunge. Freddy felt his pride drain out of him like blood.

  “Freddy,” Charlotte cried, “are you all right?”

  Her solicitation infuriated him. Made him feel even more ashamed. “Yeah, sure I’m all right,” he sputtered, elbowing her away and straightening his tie. “Get rid of him before I call the police.”

  “I can’t…”

  “Get rid of him, I said,” he shouted in fury.

  Michael spun around, his fists clenched.

  Charlotte jumped in front of Michael and blocked his path. “Freddy, stop goading,” she called over her shoulder.

  “Go inside. I’ll meet you there. I need to talk to Michael for a minute. Please, Freddy,” she said sharply when he didn’t budge.

  Freddy bent over to pick up the champagne that was lying in the grass, thinking sourly that he couldn’t uncork it now or they’d be sprayed with the stuff after it was shaken up. This only added to his frustration, and he stomped toward the house, pounding holes with his heels in the soft, new gravel.

  From the kitchen window he watched as Charlotte talked hurriedly to the man, her hands fluttering on the long row of buttons of his shirt. She was placating the son of a bitch! He had to put a stop to this. Quick. He rubbed the stubble on his jaw, grown after a long, hard day of negotiating this girl’s future. Anger and frustration burned white in his brain, but he calmed down, telling himself now was the time for action.

  Okay, okay, he said to himself. At least he was getting her out of town. Away from that Latin lover. She had this juicy part in One Day In Autumn, that would get her out of town for a few months. But she’d be back in her garden with this guy in the dog days of summer. That was no good…. He’d have to pair her up with some big names, some handsome actors.

  As he watched the two from the kitchen window, he saw Mondragon lean over and kiss Charlotte soundly on the mouth while his hands roamed her body possessively. Freddy’s own mouth went dry again, this time in desolation.

  He was totally consumed by his jealousy of the tall, handsome, masculine young man who was now reaching out for Charlotte’s hand, reeling her in, gently kissing her forehead at the gate. Only a man who was so utterly sure of his virility could cause a woman to tremble as Charlotte was trembling with one chaste kiss.

  For twenty some years he’d raged against God for that freak accident that caused his impotency. That anger festered in his soul, like a fetid cancer. Now that cankerous, foul, soul-crushing anger had a target.

  The obvious virility of Michael Mondragon.

  Twelve

  The golds of early fall, like the golds of Charlotte’s hair, were gone again. Michael tromped through the leaves of autumn, leaves that had sheltered him from the sun’s scorching glare a few months earlier. “Nothing gold can stay….”

  He missed her when she went away. She took a part of him with her, the best part. Their love had ripened over the summer months, and now that she’d left, he felt as dry and lifeless as the leaves that passed him on their fall to the earth.

  He looked around at the tawny colors surrounding the nursery, shut up now for its winter rest. The crowds had gone; it would be peaceful till the madness of March. The pale ecru-colored cornstalks rattled in the wind by the makeshift roadside stand he’d set up to draw weekend tourists to the piles of fat, glossy pumpkins, bundles of dried everlastings, crisp red apples and a few crafts and jellies made by local women.

  He trod on past the compost heaps, the sheds filled to bursting, up the road to the quaint stucco house with the bright green trim and yellow door sitting on the top of the hill. It had the best view of the valley. His father had built the house for his family fifteen years ago, once Roberto, Miguel and Rosa were educated in the Catholic schools and he could leave the suburbs. It was a modest house, a happy house, always filled with Mexican music, the smell of Mama’s cooking and the intimate sounds of Spanish. His father was more complacent since he’d returned and taken over the business. He was relaxing more in front of the TV, talking about taking a vacation with Marta—their first. The deep lines of worry were fading from his brow. Mama smiled more often, too, and took time to play with the grandchildren.

  Like the seasons, however, Michael knew his time here was coming to an end. He’d be leaving soon, heading back to his job and his old life in Chicago. It was long overdue. He’d like to be back by the first snowfall. Now all he had to do was tell his father.

  After taking a deep breath, he brushed a few leaves from his jacket, stomped the mud from his feet and entered the house to the warm calls of welcome in Spanish.

  Maria Elena grabbed his hands and herded him with excited laughter to the fireplace. “Look, Tío Miguel,” she called, her face flushed from excitement and the heat of the flames. “Abuelo Luis lit the first fire of the season.”

  “In my honor!” Cisco informed him, his eleven-year-old chest expanding with pride. “For my birthday.” Already the smell of chestnuts filled the room. Papa and Manuel were at the table, drinking beer and playing cards. In the kitchen, Mama and Rosa were preparing dinner. Often there would be an aunt and uncle visiting from Mexico, nieces and nephews, numerous cousins. Any family was welcome in this house.

  Bobby hadn’t arrived yet. Michael rubbed his hands before the fire. It pained him that Bobby had kept his distance not only from him, but from the entire family throughout this summer. He was probably afraid that Michael would say something, or accidentally hint at the truth, and preferred to eliminate that possibility by steering clear. It hurt that Bobby didn’t trust his silence. It angered him that he kept away. He was missed by Mama at the Sunday dinners.

  “Where is Roberto?” his mother worried as she looked out the front window. Her head bobbed every time she carried another steaming dish to the long wood table. “It has been several weeks since he’s come.”

  “He’ll be here, Mama,” Rosa called back. “He knows it’s Cisco’s birthday. He won’t miss the party.”

  “Won’t he?” Papa muttered. “He has no respeto, that one. He likes his wild lifestyle with those painter friends of his in Los Angeles. Staying out late, going to bars. He’s up to no good. He’d better behave himself if he ever does get here. Around these bebés. Manuel and Rosa, they are doing a good job teaching them to have respect for the family and our ways.” He waved his hand brusquely.

  “Come away from the
window,” he commanded Marta.

  “This life’s five windows of the soul….” Michael muttered.

  Luis looked his way, wary. “What is it you are muttering now in your English?”

  “Bobby is a grown man and able to choose his own friends,” Michael replied soberly, still staring at the fire.

  “If we’re going to discuss respect here, we should respect him enough to honor, and welcome, his choices.” He was treading on dangerous ground now and needed to be exceedingly cautious.

  His father stared at him, gauging his meaning. “He doesn’t choose us, his family. He is a stranger to his parents.”

  “He’s as he always was,” Marta said softly. “A good and loyal son.”

  “Loyal? How can you say that? Is he here now, for Cisco’s birthday? Is he here, in the family business like his brother and sister? No!” he thundered. “He chooses to help only in the summer. Because he needs the money, not because we might need him. He chooses to live in the city and paint walls with his friends who have purple hair and soft palms. I did not raise my son to be like this. He is the eldest. He should be more like the younger.”

  Michael groaned and shook his head. “No, Papa. Stop.”

  “What? I speak the truth. You are fuerte and formal,” he said, raising his hand to count off two fingers.

  “Cisco, Maria,” Michael called to the children. His voice was terse and brooked no refusal. “Go and watch television for a few minutes. I want to talk to your grandfather.”

  He had to talk to his father now. To tell him that he was leaving, as planned. He could see that his father thought otherwise. He was pushing him, relentlessly, to stay on. His decision would cause a divide in this family bigger than the San Andreas Fault, but the rumblings were beginning and the quake was overdue.

  “I don’t want to watch TV,” Cisco whined, and moved closer to Michael. “I want to stay by Tío Miguel.”