Girl in the Mirror

by Mary Alice Monroe

  The phone rang four times before she heard Helena’s voice.

  “Mama? Mama, it’s me. Charlotte.”

  There was no reply, but she heard a quick intake of breath. She held the receiver tightly in both her hands and closed her eyes, willing her mother to respond.

  “Mama, I have some good news. I’m getting married! Aren’t you happy, Mama? I finally found my Someone. He’s wonderful. Kind, hardworking. He’ll be a good provider, Mother. We want to get married in the church. And…” She rushed on, hearing no reply. “I bought a house. Isn’t that wonderful? You can come live with me. With us.”

  There was no answer on the other end. Just a deathly silence. Charlotte clutched the phone tighter in her hands.

  “Please say something, Mother. Please. I miss you so much.” Tears sprang to her eyes and her voice caught in her throat. “Mama?”

  She heard the click of a phone, then the harsh buzz of disconnection. Drooping her head, Charlotte lay the receiver back in its nest, lowered her head upon her hands and wept.

  Freddy was seething with fury when Charlotte showed him the ring and told him the news of her engagement. This time, however, he was more careful to conceal it. Charlotte was due to start her first leading role, and the early reviews of her work in American Homestead were drawing critical acclaim. Word was also out that she was brilliant in the just completed One Day in Autumn as well. There was a definite buzz about her now. Her name was hot, strictly A list, and the offers were tumbling in. Big offers.

  Her biggest break yet was this new film, the remake of Camille. Joel Schaeffer, director extraordinaire, had long desired to direct this project and Charlotte had won the role of Marguerite over Thurman, Paltrow, and a dozen other big Hollywood stars. It was a plum part. Charlotte was born for the role and Schaeffer was genius enough to see it.

  So right now Walen wanted her happy. No sense in stirring up the mud—which was exactly how he thought of Michael Mondragon.

  “Listen to me, babe,” Freddy said, palm held out. “I’ve never given you bad advice. You’ve got to keep this engagement a secret.”

  Charlotte tsked and shook her head no.

  “I mean it. The timing’s all wrong.” He fought to keep anger out of his voice. “We made a deal, you and me. I’ve kept my part of the bargain. I told you it was going to be rough. I told you that you’d have to trust me. You gave me your hand. You swore.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Just for a while, babe. This film is going to be a blockbuster. Tell that matador of yours to cool it. The engagement’s off.”

  She reared. “No, it’s not.”

  “At least the ring is. Christ, Charlotte. With your looks, you could get a ring three times that size. Four.”

  Charlotte looked at the one-carat diamond and thought she would never want anything more. “I’ll wear it around my neck,” she replied stubbornly.

  Freddy knew when to quit. He’d take what he could get. Mondragon was the enemy. He’d won this battle and he had every intention of winning the war.

  Fifteen

  In May, Freddy sat in his office on Wilshire Boulevard, listening to a voice on the phone, frowning out at the bright May spring day. He didn’t see the beautiful women strolling down the street as colorful, charming and plentiful as spring flowers. In his mind’s eye he saw one face, Charlotte Godfrey. And she was the topic of conversation of this international call to France—where Camille was being filmed.

  Freddy wasn’t happy when Charlotte was thousands of miles away from him on location, this time in a remote village of Provence. He liked knowing what she was doing, who she talked to. So he’d hired Jean-Luc, ostensibly as Charlotte’s personal bodyguard. His main job was to act as Freddy’s eyes and ears on the set, and to block as much communication as possible between Charlotte and a certain Michael Mondragon of California.

  “What do you mean she’s in trouble? What kind of trouble? Is there a man or something?”

  “Non, it’s not about a man,” replied Jean-Luc, the assistant he put on the payroll to look after Charlotte. “Especially not that man.”

  “Make sure of it, or you’re fired.”

  “I’m doing my job.” He sniffed. “This Mondragon is…persistent. He is calling with the phone and sending the letters every day. And now flowers. Every day with the flowers. I give them to the script girl. She is happy. Thinking they are from me, oui?”

  “Yeah, whatever. I don’t care who gets them as long as it’s not Godfrey.” He paused. “So what’s the trouble?”

  “She is not looking so good. She is sick, I think.”

  Freddy sat up in his chair. “What kind of sick?”

  “The doctors here they don’t know. Headache and stomachache. Tired.”

  Freddy’s hope was that after a few months away from Mondragon, what with being in a foreign country and experiencing the excitement of doing a blockbuster film, if she didn’t hear from the guy her passion would die down. Sick, though, that wasn’t good. Damn, she couldn’t get sick now—or depressed. There was far too much riding on this film.

  “Keep close to her. Don’t let anything upset her, especially that Mondragon guy. Block communication coming in or going out, got it?”

  Another California summer was approaching and a fourth season’s cycle was well underway. The heavy chores of spring, done while the days turned long, the wind was cool and the spring rains watered, were beginning to pay off. The sharp rotating disks of the tractors clawed the soil to a loamy silt fit for seedlings. Now, when he looked over the rolling hills, Michael could see the beginnings of a fine, vigorous stock. It made him think of the secure future he was building here. Of planting seeds and watching them prosper. It made him think, too, of planting seeds in Charlotte and starting a family of their own.

  Spring was also a time to mend fences.

  Lord knew he was working on that, too. He and Rosa were on speaking terms again. It was a start. His father seemed to be mellowing, partly due to old age, partly due to the comfort of having his sons take over the business. And now he was building this log cabin for Bobby.

  Michael wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve and turned to look at the log cabin he was doing the finishing touches on. He’d built it for Bobby to live in, to give him a place of his own. The cut wood represented a kind of mended fence, he thought. Fresh, strong timber, without rot or disease. A good omen.

  He heard a shout of hello from the road and turned to see his brother walking up the hill from the main house. Michael had chosen this quiet spot near the pond for the cabin, a peaceful but friendly distance from his parents’ house. Bobby might need close care if he took a turn for the worse. Seeing the improvement in Bobby’s health, so readily visible even from a distance, gave him hope that invalid care would not be necessary. Bobby’s face was fuller and his cheeks had a healthier glow. As his father exclaimed, “There’s meat on the bones!”

  “You’re looking good, bro. How are you feeling?”

  “I don’t know,” Bobby replied, rubbing his belly. “Mamacita just gave me my morning dose of rotgut. How many chili peppers do you think a man can eat before he burns a hole in his belly? ‘The hot kills the germs!”’

  Bobby and Michael laughed at Bobby’s excellent imitation of Marta. Their eyes met, then they smiled and nodded, both knowing Bobby’s improvement was due to drug trials with the new protease inhibitors. There was early indication that the virus was being reduced in the bloodstream. The hope was that it would be eliminated. A hope that was too breathtaking, too dear to be voiced.

  So in addition to Mamacita’s good food and chilis, Bobby took fistfuls of vitamins, minerals, herbs and other medications, natural and drug. During the winter, his nausea was almost constant, as was fatigue, but he held forth a strong front, only allowing Michael to witness his suffering. By spring, however, he was genuinely feeling better, even euphoric, as his health began to improve. Michael knew when he gave his brother the money to pay for the $15,00
0-a-year drugs that Bobby would never be able to pay him back.

  “How about lending a hand?” he called to Bobby. “It’s your damn house, after all.”

  “Oh, no, hermano. You’re just looking for some free help. I refuse to accept your house, but I will help build it. Now, which one of those tools is a hammer?”

  “Very funny.” Michael flipped him the hammer. “Neither of us can live with Papa too long. And since I don’t want to set roots here—” he met Bobby’s gaze steadily “—the house is yours.”

  Bobby’s eyes were sad. He shook his head and stepped forward, taking a beer from the cooler.

  “I thought you were enjoying your life here. Everything is going so well for you. The business is just beginning to reap the rewards of your efforts for the past three years. You’ve brought in dozens of new clients. This spring the phone is ringing off the hook.” He smiled crookedly. “All the suburban housewives are asking for that handsome Mr. Mondragon.”

  “Funny. I’m not getting those messages….”

  “Charlotte would have my head on a silver platter if I put those through to you. I just pass them over to Papa. He thinks they’re asking for him.”

  “That explains why his chest is the size of a barrel—it’s so puffed up.”

  “His chest isn’t the only thing that’s puffed up.”

  Michael roared, thinking of how the cockiness in his father had indeed returned this spring. He leaned back his head, taking in a long swallow of the cool beer that Bobby handed him. “Boy, that feels good. My throat is parched.”

  “I’m not surprised. You’ve been working like a slave.”

  “I’ve had a lot of time to kill.” He took another swallow, squelching the loneliness he felt for Charlotte.

  Bobby, knowing the facts, adroitly changed the subject. “You should be pushing out your chest as well, Miguel. Look at the place. You’ve earned it.”

  “The business is doing well enough,” he admitted modestly.

  “Well enough? The nursery is booming! You’ve more than doubled the business. Rosa and Manuel should be kissing your feet.”

  Bobby studied the expression on his brother’s face. “You don’t get any personal pleasure from your accomplishments here, do you?”

  He shrugged. “Sometimes I walk the land at night and see the young trees growing straight and tall, smell the flowering shrubs, bend over to touch a sprout just emerging from the dirt, and I think, yes. This is good. Life is good.”

  “But…”

  He ran a weathered hand through his hair. “But what am I doing here? I am an architect. I’ve spent a lifetime preparing for that career, studying hard, planning my escape from all of this. I thought…” He looked over his shoulder at his brother and beyond to the winding pathway that led to his father’s house. “I thought I was better than this.”

  Bobby snorted. “Spoken like a true academic snob.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Who ever told you that you were too good for the soil?”

  “Nobody ever said it in so many words. But the message was clear enough.”

  “How old are you? And you still go on and on about what other people might have said once upon a time? I won’t even begin to tell you what folks have said to me.”

  Michael heard no self-pity in Bobby’s voice, and it shamed him.

  “If I stay here, I’ve failed.”

  “Fascinating. You think that all the success you’re enjoying now is beneath you. A novel concept, isn’t it? Success in failure?”

  “Actually, success in failure is an ancient Japanese concept. Achieving personal success—honor—even while the world views you as a failure is considered noble.”

  “Well put.” Bobby flipped the hammer gracefully, placed it back into the toolbox and closed the lid.

  Michael pursed his lips and looked at the rolling hills, freshly planted.

  “I’ve promised Papa I’d drive him to Melton’s farm to pick up the new chicks. Mama wants more eggs to fatten me up.” He laughed, then walked past Michael, pausing to rest a hand on his shoulder. “I understand that stuff about success in failure. Look at my career. At my life. In a way, this disease has opened my eyes. With these new meds I’m no longer condemned to die tomorrow, but I’m not cured, either. Each day could be my last.” He smiled. “In this way, I am no different from you or anyone else. The way I see it, there is no success or failure. Only living. Every day. The best way we know how.” He patted Michael’s shoulder, then walked away down the path to their father’s house.

  Michael knit his brows and took another drink from his bottle, then leaned against the cabin, resting his head against the cool, coarse wood. Bobby was right—he was an academic snob. During his years and years of sterling education at the top institutions he stockpiled knowledge, building self-esteem as he was building this house, one log at a time. And in that time, other men’s thoughts became his own. Other scholars’ words became his own quotes. The community of scholars had become his family.

  Returning home again, however, he realized that they were not his family. The stern faces of professors did not elicit the tender feelings of the beloved faces of relatives. A limp, polite handshake among colleagues was insipid compared to the emotional embraces with loved ones.

  Why did he think that he was a failure if he didn’t achieve success in the academic areas? That academic fields, such as architecture, were superior to fields of plants or crops?

  Yet wasn’t he getting as much satisfaction putting together this simple log cabin with his bare hands as he ever did building a structure on paper? It was no skyscraper; it was only two bedrooms. But it had a large center room with a massive stone fireplace and a wide front porch overlooking the sweet-smelling valley. He looked around and took in the acres of well managed lots before him. Compared to the drought-destroyed acres of two years earlier, these were lush with his new irrigation system and the stock was vigorous. And Bobby…His brother was healthier and more content now than he’d been in years. Weren’t these successes?

  He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything anymore. After spending a lifetime in pursuit of academics, he never felt more humbled by his ignorance.

  Vicki Ray was in France to report on the shooting of the final scene of Camille for “Entertainment Tonight.” As far as she could gather, the film had almost killed Charlotte Godfrey.

  Joel Schaeffer, the director, in a fervor to create a masterpiece, drove the actors and crew at a fevered pace, demanding retake after retake until he got the scene just right. No one questioned Joel’s brilliance once the shooting began. Scriptwriters were at the ready. Cameramen stood at attention. A small crowd of local people were allowed to watch from behind barriers. Even the proud and aloof inhabitants of Provence were eager to see the celebrated, beautiful new film star from America who was chosen to play their beloved Marguerite of the Camellias.

  Vicki was standing on the sidelines with the rest of the press, taking notes, when she heard a cry of excitement from the crowd. Everyone surged forward. An excited nasal buzz in French hovered over the set as the trailer door opened and Charlotte Godfrey emerged.

  Even Vicki, as hard-boiled an entertainment reporter as they came, had to admit that when Godfrey stepped out of her trailer in her spectacular lavender-and-white gown, leaning heavily on the arm of her bodyguard, she felt awed. Everyone stopped and stared, eyes popping, hearts pounding. The fans, the crew—even Vicki Ray.

  Godfrey’s gown would win a Best Costume Oscar for sure. But it was the woman who had the luster and presence that caused eyes to widen, mouths to drop and hearts to sigh. Her golden hair was entwined with camellias, her face as waxy and white as their petals, her demeanor as fragile. Godfrey didn’t acknowledge the crowd as she was escorted to the set. She looked straight ahead, serene and focused, like one hypnotized. Vicki Ray would later describe it better in her report. She said that Godfrey was “as one walking in a trance.”

  Her foreign fan
s accepted this as concentration and were not put off when she walked by without notice. They hushed in respect, whispering compliments, unlike her many American audiences who expected waves and smiles and resented being ignored. It was this concentration, Vicki thought, that gave Godfrey the reputation of being a conceited snob. It made Vicki all the more curious about the actress’s personal life.

  Because there was no doubt that her acting was pure genius. Either she was the best damn method actor she’d ever seen or the woman was really sick. And Joel didn’t let up on her. He shot the scene first in master shots, then moved in for closer angles, mostly of Charlotte, but several of Leonardo DiCaprio’s expressive face as well. The two worked magic together as the ill-fated lovers. But Joel wanted blood, and from the pallor on her face, it looked like he was getting it. No one believed for a moment her agent’s line about her having allergies. When the character coughed and choked during her death scene, even her bodyguard stepped forward, his dark, unreadable eyes sharply focused on his charge. What was the story there? Vicki wondered.

  “Wonderful! Cut. Print,” called Joel, beaming. The cast and crew clapped and cheered, as happy with the performance as the culmination of the scene. It had been a long day for everyone. Godfrey had to practically be carried back to her trailer by that hunk of a bodyguard. No one was allowed access to the star. Vicki was determined to get her story, however. The Godfrey woman mesmerized her.

  “Hey, Joel!” she called out, trotting after the famous director. “Vicki Ray, from ‘ET.’ Any comment on the film? Or your star?”

  The tall, thin, enigmatic director turned to scowl at his PR director, a sensitive-faced man with Ralph Lauren glasses and long, curled hair. Vicki had already run him over with her determination. The poor man cringed under the director’s stare.

  “Tell her I’ll see her and everyone else tomorrow at four.”

  “What? You want enough time to get Charlotte Godfrey on a plane out from Paris?”