Girl in the Mirror

by Mary Alice Monroe

  Charlotte rubbed her long, thin arms, feeling suddenly cold. They’d had words about Michael. “He has a new deal he wants to discuss. It’s a lot of money and he says it’s a great part.”

  “When does it start?” Michael asked sharply.

  “I’m not sure. Fairly soon.”

  “Damn, Charlotte,” Melanie exploded. “He’s going to kill you. You need a break. You can’t go back to work yet. Look at you!”

  “I know….” She had told Freddy the same thing, buthe’d pushed it aside with his typical bravado. Everything was going to be great, he’d told her. Leave it to Freddy.

  The deal was everything to Freddy. She also knew Freddy would apply relentless pressure. He’d hammer at her resistance like a tidal wave. Right now, she didn’t trust that she had the strength to stand up to him. She needed a chance to recoup.

  “He’s coming over.”

  “Good,” Michael said, glaring. “There are a few things I’d like to tell him.”

  “I don’t want you to see him. I don’t want another scene.”

  Michael stood up. He moved quickly. “Then grab your bags. Let’s go.”

  “What? Where?” She balked.

  “Come home with me. I’ve a small house, a cabin in the woods. It’s beautiful there, overlooking a pond. It’s private and secure. You can rest there and grow strong again, surrounded by flowers. My mother will cook good Mexican food to fatten you up. Bobby will make you laugh. And I—” His face hardened with intent. “I will stand between you and anyone or anything that threatens you in any way.”

  “I—I can’t just leave. Disappear. I have responsibilities. There are people to notify.”

  “I’ll take care of all that,” Melanie volunteered. “That’s what you pay those press agents and secretaries for.”

  “Charlotte,” Michael said. “You’re stalling. Yes or no.”

  “Your bags are all packed,” Melanie prompted. “You just have to throw them in the car.”

  It was incredible to her that Michael would suggest such an impulsive act. He was not a man who acted without thought and deliberation. Neither was she. This made the invitation somehow all the more appealing.

  “This is just like Camille. Marguerite was ill and her lover took her to the country to get well.” She laughed lightly. “I don’t suppose this is the time to tell you she died?”

  “Write your own ending,” Melanie said. “Go on. Be happy. I’ll hold down the fort here.”

  Charlotte’s breath came fast. Could she follow her hunch? Could she really just run away?

  “Charlotte?” Michael was impatient.

  Charlotte looked into Michael’s eyes. Her accountants, lawyers, press agents, secretaries, even the vision of Freddy, zooming his way along the freeway in his vintage Mercedes, all vanished.

  “Please, Melanie, call Mrs. Cookson and ask her to inform everyone that I am taking an extended leave. The numbers are all in her Rolodex.” She paused, thinking that Freddy would track her down if he thought she was with Michael. “When Freddy arrives, tell him…” She thought for a moment. “Tell Freddy that I’ve gone to the country, to a spa, to take a well needed rest. It was, after all, his suggestion in the first place.”

  She spoke to Melanie, but she was looking at Michael.

  He was smiling.

  Sixteen

  Michael brought her to his cabin. Charlotte was surprised to learn that he’d built it himself. The living room was centered around a massive stone fireplace. The house was barren of any furniture, save for a new double bed, a large oak table and four chairs fashioned from twisted saplings. He put her in bed immediately, ordering her to rest. She felt safe, protected, in a cocoon. She muttered something about it being the most wonderful cabin she’d ever seen while she drifted off to sleep.

  She slept for three days in the large four-poster while Michael slept on a cot in the other room. She vaguely remembered waking to drink water and eat thick chicken broth with crushed saltines that Michael brought to her on a tray.

  On the morning of the fourth day, she awoke to the sound of sprinklers outside her window, swishing out water in a circular pattern on the newly planted grass. In the distance she heard the rumblings of a tractor, the whistle of a mockingbird and occasionally a muffled shout from somewhere in the distance. She felt as though her bones were made of lead and her mouth of cotton.

  “You’re awake,” Michael said, appearing at the bedroom door. “Would you like to test your legs?”

  “I’m still so tired.”

  “Then stay in bed. It’s your choice. You have nothing at all to do.”

  The concept was foreign to her. “I miss you. I think I’ll get up.”

  And she did, if in a wobbly manner. He bathed her in the small porcelain claw foot tub, scrubbing her back vigorously with a loofah. Then he washed her hair with a rose-scented shampoo, his long fingers massaging her scalp till it tingled. After she was rinsed and wrapped in his navy terry robe, he offered her a tall glass of ice water with a slice of lime.

  “You need to drink a lot of water. To flush out the toxins. Bobby has sent me a list of instructions and a hoard of vitamin pills for you to take.” He didn’t tell her he’d found the painkillers in her makeup bag. He would discuss that with her later, when she was stronger.

  “You’re spoiling me. I should be helping you.”

  “No, querida. Relax. Let me take care of you. Now you should rest. Drink your water. I’ll make your lunch.”

  So it continued for another two days. She totally let go, letting him take care of her. She slept here as she’d never slept anywhere else. During the day he checked on her frequently, and when he was busy at the nursery or a site visit, Bobby stopped by to visit and chat. In the evenings, Michael cooked her meals and read Robert Frost to her while holding her in his arms. On the fifth day, she at last felt refreshed, well enough to go outdoors. Perhaps even well enough to feel a little bored.

  It was then that she received an invitation to Sunday dinner from Michael’s parents. It was a family tradition, Michael informed her. Every Sunday the family gathered at his parents’ house for a meal.

  “Quaint,” she replied, sipping her echinacea tea and raising her brow in query. “Have you brought many girls to this dinner?”

  “No,” he replied openly. “In fact, never. I’ve brought girls…women…to the house for a drink, or to say hello. I’ve always preferred to keep my family and friends separate. They were—” he shrugged and looked at his palms “—from different worlds.”

  Charlotte hadn’t expected this reply. She’d expected that he’d had loads of girlfriends to the house, what with his handsome looks. This made her own visit loom more ominously.

  “Perhaps I should wait. Till I feel better,” she hedged.

  “If you wish. But—” he smiled at her, breaking her heart. “I’m anxious that you meet my family.” He paused and she sensed his burgeoning impatience and excitement.

  “Charlotte, we’ve wasted so much time already. I’m thirty. I don’t want to pretend any longer that we aren’t engaged. I’m too old for these games and it doesn’t suit my nature. I know what I want and I want it now. I’ve been patient for your sake. For the sake of your career. Now I say to hell…” He corrected himself. “Your career will survive. I’m not sure I will if we keep this up. My ring is on your finger. I want you to keep it there. I want to introduce you to my mother and my father. To announce our engagement.” He paused and brought her ringed hand to his mouth, kissing it. “I want to tell the world.”

  “Well, when you put it like that…” she replied, smiling warmly. “How about we just start with your parents?”

  He smiled broadly, drawing her close.

  “Do they know I’m living here?”

  “Of course.”

  She frowned, thinking how her own mother would condemn a young woman for living with a man before marriage. At least they were engaged, she thought. “What does a gringa like me give her future mot
her-in-law for a gift?”

  “A grandchild,” he replied, then kissed her soundly.

  Charlotte dressed with great care. On the bed lay a tilting pile of rejects. She had discarded any dress with a plunging neckline or that was too short or clung too tightly. Bright colors might attract too much attention, strong cuts and lines of design might appear out of place in the rural setting. She stood before the bed in her slip, wringing her hands with worry, when she had a sudden memory of her cramped closet in Chicago, when she had only one good dress that had to “make do.” That girl seemed so far away.

  Michael stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her, nibbling her neck. “I don’t see why you’re getting so worked up about this. It’s just my family.”

  “Oh, you’re no help,” she replied, leaning back into his arms. “You just casually shower off the day’s dirt, then swagger over to your closet and pull out your uniform.”

  “I like white shirts.”

  “How easy it is to be a man. As long as you’re clean and cut your toenails, we women count ourselves blessed.” She looked behind at his customary white cotton shirt and black trousers. “Ah, you’re all dressed up. I see you’ve switched from Dockers to Armani.”

  “Well, it is a special occasion,” he replied with a wry smile.

  She settled at last upon a simple Chanel dress she’d worn to one of her promotional appearances. Her last costume designer had declared that one could always count on Chanel to set the right tone. Estelle had won two Oscars for her costumes so Charlotte decided she’d go with her advice. Michael warned her that his family was simple and not to dress too formally. But she was too intent on making a favorable impression to believe him. Meeting the in-laws required an Oscar-winning entrance. She placed around her neck a single strand of pearls, moderate in size so as not to be showy, and on her ears, modest mabe pearls encased in a ring of diamonds. The only jewelry on her hands was the diamond ring, which was as it should be, she thought.

  The moment she walked up the steps and into the brightly painted Mondragon farmhouse she knew that she’d overdressed. Two men were sitting at a table by the window playing cards. They were wearing chinos and pale blue shirts, open necked, and heavy brown laced shoes. Two children in shorts and cotton T-shirts were stretched out on the floor playing Monopoly, their shoulders hunched over the board, intent on their game. There was only one woman in the room, a large boned, tall and assertive type shouting orders to one of the men at the table. Presumably the younger one was her husband. She was dressed in a long, casual, flowing red skirt of crushed cotton and a scoop-neck yellow cotton shirt that revealed many dark freckles on her fair skin. Her light brown hair was worn long and loose. The only jewelry she wore were large hoop earrings and a thick gold wedding band on her large hand.

  Charlotte curled her nylon-covered toes in her Ferragamo pumps, wishing they were sandals. She was about to slip off the pearls and mabe earrings and stuff them into her purse when Bobby looked up and smiled.

  “They’re here!” he called out, leaping to his feet. He hurried toward them with his hands out to Charlotte. “At last. The troops were getting restless,” he said, indicating with a nod of his head the children staring up at them from the floor with large round eyes the same color as Michael’s.

  “I told them that an actress always likes to make a big entrance.”

  Charlotte blushed and smiled graciously, taking his hands. She looked beseechingly at Michael as Bobby drew her into the center of the room. She felt the old surge of anxiety reach up to choke her. Michael appeared at ease in the circle of his family, even amused by Bobby’s showmanship. There would be no help from him, she thought, feeling that circle tighten around her in curiosity. She could tell he was eager to make the announcement.

  The two men at the table folded their cards and stood as Bobby brought her near.

  “Papa, Manuel, this is Charlotte Godfrey. The Charlotte Godfrey.”

  Luis, who was eye level with Charlotte, took her hand and smiled perfunctorily—a smile that did not reach his eyes.

  “So, you are the famous actress?” he said in a loud, heavily accented voice. He said the word actress in the same tone he might have said “leper.”

  “I’m an actress, anyway,” Charlotte replied, maintaining eye contact.

  The other man was a younger, porky man with his shirt half open and his sleeves rolled up over sun weathered skin. He was shorter than Charlotte by a good four inches and seemingly overwhelmed, either by her fame or her beauty. He mumbled his greetings.

  “I’m Maria Elena,” the little girl announced with complete assurance, stepping closer.

  Charlotte turned toward her, beaming with open gratitude for the child’s warmth. How much easier to talk to children!

  “Maria Elena, what a beautiful name. It rolls off my tongue like a song.”

  She seemed pleased. “I’m Tío Miguel’s niece.” She spoke crisply and with the unique poise of a precocious child who enjoys being on stage. “I want to be an actress, too, when I grow up. Or a dancer. Oh, and that’s Francisco. We call him Cisco.”

  Charlotte’s gaze moved to the boy still kneeling by the Monopoly board. She guessed he was about ten and the girl not much younger. He hovered near puberty and bore all the signs of awkwardness she remembered so well.

  “Hello, Cisco.”

  “Hi.” He looked down at the game.

  Charlotte tried her best not to reveal how nervous she was. She wanted so much for Michael’s family to accept and like her. It wasn’t until she met Michael’s sister, Rosa, however, that she realized it was going to be an uphill battle.

  Rosa nodded brusquely when she was introduced, as close to a brush-off as she could deliver in a family setting. When she thought that Charlotte wasn’t looking, she stared at her dress and her jewelry with undisguised envy, sucking in her stomach and fiddling with her hoop earring. Charlotte sighed, accustomed as she was to women’s resentment.

  When she met Michael’s mother, however, she felt the first stirrings of hope.

  Marta, as she asked to be called when Charlotte addressed her politely as Mrs. Mondragon, came from the kitchen carrying a tray of warm tortillas and salsa. There wasn’t a trace of hostility in the petite woman as she approached, wiping her hands on her crisp white apron. A mother’s warmth emanated from her smile and her outstretched hand; there was no pretense or veiled glances. When Charlotte accepted her hand, she noticed how small it was, and how well worn. These hands were no stranger to hard work. The hands instantly reminded Charlotte of her own mother and her heart melted.

  For Marta was very much like Helena. Not in size. Unlike Helena, she was small and slight and wore modest, somber-colored dresses with buttons that reached high up the neck and hems that fell well below the knees. Her brown hair, streaked handsomely with gray, was worn in a classic bun, her skin was smooth and well lined with character, and her dark brown eyes sparkled with a quiet intelligence. Marta had the air of servitude about her, though not in the negative sense of a servant. Rather, it was more an air of someone who understood the true meaning of civility. That quiet politeness and thoughtfulness that prompted one to pour wine into an empty glass, to offer a seat to someone standing, to be kind to a stranger. Someone who knew that at the root of courtesy was a simple consideration for another’s comfort.

  The difference between Helena and Marta, however, was that Helena’s air of servitude was often a posture of subservience. Helena was a fear biter who might lash out when cornered.

  Marta, on the other hand, flanked by her strong, bullish husband, whom she obviously adored, her two handsome sons, a daughter and grandchildren, was secure. She could afford to share the warmth of her love as there was plenty to go around.

  “I have an announcement to make,” Michael said as the family clustered around them. “I’ve never brought a woman home for you to meet before. There has never been a woman in my life before who mattered enough to me to dare endure your scrutiny.”r />
  There was a smattering of polite laughter. Everyone was tense, sensing where this unusual jocularity was headed. Charlotte looked at her shoes, feeling the intense prickle of a brilliant blush on her cheeks.

  “I’ve asked Charlotte to be my wife. And it’s my great honor to announce that she’s agreed.”

  There was a moment of silence broken by Bobby’s whistle of joy. “At last! You’ve gone public. It’s about time. Charlotte, I was beginning to think I’d never see that ring on your finger.” He winked, and she knew instantly that Michael had pressed him into service as chief confidant about her wearing the ring around her neck. “He’s not worthy of you, but since you’re fool enough to marry into this family, come let your brother give you a proper Mexican embrace.”

  He hugged her warmly, patting her back and rocking her back and forth. Charlotte felt as high as a kite when Bobby spoke like that, including her in the family. The children danced on tiptoe, waiting to be hugged, first Maria Elena, then Cisco. Over their heads, Charlotte caught the raised brows and the surprised glance shared by Luis and Marta.

  Luis stepped forward, clasped her hand between his two enormous callused ones and kissed her soundly on the cheek. “Welcome to the family,” he said. He’d said the right words, but there was little enthusiasm in his voice.

  Charlotte forced her wide smile and replied, “Thank you.”

  Marta leaned toward her son and whispered something to Michael in Spanish, low and furtive, and he replied in like. Charlotte wondered wildly if his mother was inquiring if she was pregnant or some such. Then Marta advanced in a hesitant shuffle, reaching up to kiss Charlotte on the cheek and repeating Luis’s congratulations in a soft voice. Her large, dark eyes were round with worry despite the smile. Manuel stepped up, scrunching up his dry lips and kissing her briefly on the mouth. Rosa puffed up her cheeks and left the room without a word.

  Charlotte bore the reserved reception with a grace that belied her hurt, because she wanted so much to be a part of Michael’s family. It was only natural that they’d be hesitant about the first woman Michael had brought home.