by Joy Fielding
“Still very well,” her sister replied coolly. “Look, I understand you’ve spoken to Anne.”
“A few weeks ago, yes. Why? Is something wrong?”
“No, of course not. Everything’s fine. Her new book is number two on the New York Times bestseller list.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“Have you read it yet?”
“I’m hoping to get to it this weekend.” Charley’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “Bram read it, though. He really liked it.”
“Was he stoned at the time?”
“No. Why? Is it that bad?”
“Dad says it’s execrable twaddle.”
“Sounds like something he’d say. What’s your opinion?”
“Twaddle, but not execrable,” Emily pronounced.
“High praise indeed.”
“How is Bram anyway?”
“Good. He’s been clean and sober for more than ten days now.”
“Ten whole days. Wow.” Emily was clearly less than impressed. “And Franny and James? Everybody well?”
“They’re terrific. And Catherine?”
“Growing like a weed. Anne tell you she’s letting A.J. have the kids?”
“What do you mean?” Charley remembered A.J.’s threat to sue for custody of Darcy and Tess if Anne refused to pay him alimony. “You’re saying she’s calling his bluff?”
“No. She’s giving him full custody. Says she travels so much these days, and when she is home, she’s working, doing interviews, etc., etc. She thinks they’ll be better off with him.”
“But that’s ridiculous.”
“No, that’s Anne. Or rather, that’s Elizabeth. You’re still in touch with our mother, I take it.”
“She’ll be devastated when she hears this.”
“Are you kidding? It’s a total affirmation of her child-rearing techniques.”
“Should I call Anne? Try to change her mind?”
“Oh, that’ll go over big, you being so close and all.”
“But she’s making a huge mistake. You know that.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Anyway, it’s not the reason I called.”
“What is?”
“It’s this People thing.”
“What people?” Charley asked, still reeling from Emily’s announcement. How could Anne even be considering giving up her children after everything they’d gone through themselves?
“People magazine. This story they want to do.”
Charley vaguely remembered Anne having mentioned something about this. “The whole Brontë thing,” she said.
“Right. Apparently they don’t normally do authors because they’re kind of boring, but Anne’s an exception because of the mess with A.J., and because I’m on TV….”
“I’m really sorry I missed your spot on Good Morning America,” Charley interjected.
“No big deal. Anyway,” Emily continued, “once People heard that you’re a writer too, and that your name is Charlotte, well, how could they resist? So now they’re gung-ho to do the piece, and they want to interview all of us as soon as possible. They were thinking that since Anne is going to Palm Beach as part of her speaking tour, we could all meet there.”
A million questions raced through Charley’s mind. Only one emerged. “When?”
“The date still hasn’t been finalized. But probably sometime in the next couple of weeks. I’ll have to get back to you with the exact time and place.”
“You really think this is a good idea?” Charley asked. The three sisters hadn’t been in the same room together in too long to remember.
“Are you kidding? You can’t buy publicity like this. Think of the exposure, not to mention where it could lead. Good Morning America is already considering doing a segment about us. Anything’s possible. Even Oprah.”
A story in People certainly wouldn’t hurt her chances of interesting publishers in her book on Jill Rohmer, Charley recognized. They’d be lining up, dangling huge advances in front of her eyes. An appearance on Oprah would probably land the book on everybody’s must-read list. She’d be rich and famous, not to mention sought-after and respected. All she had to do was say yes. “What about Bram?” she said instead.
“Bram? What about him?”
“Well, aside from the fact he’s our brother, he’s also a very talented painter. Will he be involved?”
“He doesn’t exactly fit the story,” Emily said, “but I’m sure he’ll get some sort of mention.”
“He gets more than a mention,” Charley insisted with surprising force.
“We don’t get to control the content, Charley.”
“What about our mother?” Charley sidestepped.
“She has nothing to do with this.” Emily’s well-trained, mellifluous tones turned hard and cold.
Charley could see her sister biting the side of her bottom lip, the way she used to do as a child, whenever she was upset about something. “She has everything to do with this,” Charley told her. “There wouldn’t be three sisters named Charlotte, Emily, and Anne if it weren’t for her.”
“Just what are you getting at?” Emily asked impatiently.
What was she getting at? “I’ll do the interview on two conditions.”
“Two conditions,” Emily repeated incredulously.
“One, that Bram is an equal part of the proceedings.”
“You really think he’ll still be sober by then?” Emily interrupted to ask.
“…and two, that you and Anne agree to meet with our mother while you’re here.”
“What? No way.”
“Then I’m not interested.”
“You’re crazy. This story could put you on the map. It’s the chance of a lifetime.”
“There’ll be other chances.” Would there be? What was she doing?
There was a long pause. “I’ll have to get back to you.” Emily hung up before Charley could say good-bye.
Charley replaced the receiver, then stared at her computer screen in shock. What the hell had she just done? Had she really put the biggest opportunity of her career in jeopardy with her unreasonable set of demands? Who was she to dictate anything to anyone? Her sisters had chosen sides, just as she had. Who was she to tell them they owed their mother a second chance? Emily was right. She was crazy.
Charley absently scrolled down the list of new e-mails that had come in while she was on the phone, bringing the latest one up on her screen.
FROM: A person of taste
TO: Charley@Charley’sWeb.com
SUBJECT: Your recent column
DATE: Mon. 12 Feb. 2007, 9:53:01–0400
Dear Charley,
It seems some people never learn! After I wrote you last time, I thought there was a chance, just a chance, mind you, that you might actually consider what I had to say, and do something to mend your ways. Your column about excess spending was a definite move in the right direction, and gave me reason to be hopeful. But sadly, it appears I WAS WRONG!!! You are as STUPID and FOUL-MOUTHED as ever! How dare you rub your mother’s SICK and PERVERTED behavior in our faces. That she likes to EAT PUSSY is DISGUSTING enough, but the joy you take in reporting it is almost too much for any DECENT individual to bear. I can no longer feel even a modicum of sympathy for you. YOU DESERVE TO DIE!
P.S.: Don’t fool yourself that your children will be spared. They won’t be.
“Oh, no,” Charley whispered into the palm of her hand. She immediately forwarded copies of the e-mail to both Mitchell Johnson and Michael Duff, then sank back in her chair and read the letter again and again until she could recite it by heart. “You sick bastard. How dare you!” She reached into her desk, found the card Officer Jennifer Ramirez had given her, and called her cell phone. But the policewoman was unavailable, and Charley could only leave a message on her voice mail. “Damn it! Damn it!” she railed, getting up and turning in helpless circles behind her chair.
The phone rang. Charley pounced on it. “Hello? Officer Ramirez?”
“Al
ex Prescott,” the man answered. “Is this a bad time?”
Charley took a few seconds to catch her breath and try to calm herself down. “No, it’s…I just had a rather unpleasant e-mail.”
“What do you mean, unpleasant?”
“The usual: I’m stupid and disgusting and deserve to die.”
“That definitely qualifies as unpleasant.”
“You ever get e-mail like that?”
“Occasionally. My favorite ones are the ones that quote Shakespeare. You know the line about, ‘First, we kill all the lawyers’?”
“Really?” Charley realized she was smiling, and wasn’t sure why she should be taking so much comfort in the fact that Alex’s life had been threatened, too. “So you don’t think I have anything to worry about?”
“I’m sure it’s just an empty threat.”
“It also threatened my children,” she said, hearing her voice break.
“Then I think you should phone the police.”
“I’ve done that. I was just waiting for them to call back.”
“I’ll call you another time,” he offered.
“No, that’s okay. What’s up?” Had Jill contacted him, told him she was upset about their little spat, and that she wanted to bring in another writer?
“Jill’s sister, Pam, has agreed to meet with you.”
“Really? When?”
“Unfortunately it has to be this weekend. Her father and brother will be out of town, and she’ll only talk to us when they’re not around.”
“I’ll see what I can arrange.”
“You’ll let me know as soon as possible?”
“Absolutely.” Charley hung up the phone. It rang again immediately. “Officer Ramirez?”
“Not quite,” her sister replied, each word a block of ice.
“Emily?”
“I’ve talked to Anne,” she said. “You’ve got a deal.”
CHAPTER 18
You look tired,” Alex said as Charley climbed into the front seat of his car. A light rain was falling, so the top on his convertible was up.
Charley waved good-bye to her mother, who was watching from the living room window, and tried not to bristle at Alex’s assessment. She’d actually spent considerable time getting ready for this trip—more than she would have devoted to an actual date—and she thought she looked pretty damn good. She’d selected her wardrobe carefully, eliminating a pale pink blouse for being too girlish, and discarding a bright floral print for being too loud, before ultimately selecting a mauve silk jersey top over a pair of classic black pants. The outfit was sophisticated without being imposing, alluring but not overtly sexual. “Who are you trying to impress?” her mother had asked.
Who was she trying to impress? Charley wondered as Alex pulled the car away from the curb. Not Jill’s sister, Pam, that was for sure. And certainly not Alex, who was dressed casually in jeans and a checkered shirt, and who had obviously made no effort at all to impress her. “I haven’t been getting a lot of sleep.”
“More threatening e-mails?” Alex turned north toward Okeechobee, heading for I-95.
“No, thank God. Just a puppy with a tiny bladder.”
Alex looked surprised. “I never would have pegged you for a dog lover.”
“Just doing a favor for a friend.” Charley quickly explained the situation with Glen McLaren.
(“It’s Glen’s dog,” Charley had told her mother earlier. “What could I do? I owed him.”
“He wouldn’t settle for a blow job?” had come her mother’s instant response.)
“Glen McLaren,” Alex repeated now, twisting the name around his tongue, as if it were familiar.
“You know him?”
“The name rings a bell.”
“He owns a nightclub in Palm Beach.”
Alex shrugged, as if he’d already lost interest. “I’m sure it’ll come to me. Was that your mother watching us from the window?”
“That was my mother.”
“Very attractive from what I could see.”
“Definitely one of a kind.”
Alex smiled. “Aren’t they all?”
“Sounds like you speak from experience,” Charley observed.
“I’m sure we all have our ‘mother’ stories to tell.”
“Tell me one of yours.”
For an instant, Charley thought she might have pushed the familiarity button too far, that Alex might opt out of the conversation altogether and revert to the safety of his legal tapes, but he only smiled and said, “My mother is one of those people who never uses one word when a thousand will do. She can take a whole day to tell you what she had for breakfast.”
“Sounds fascinating.”
“It isn’t. But what can you do?”
“What do you do?”
“I listen. It’s not the end of the world.”
“And your father?”
“He stopped listening when I was two years old. To make my mother’s very long story short, he walked out the door one day and never came back.”
“You’re saying you never saw him again?”
“I saw him off and on until he got married again, started a new family. After that, I didn’t see him much. Haven’t heard from him at all in about five years now. I think he moved to California.”
“Do you miss him?”
“Can’t say that I do. Although I have a couple of half-brothers I’m a little curious about,” he continued, unprompted.
“You could contact them,” Charley suggested.
“I could,” he agreed. “If I’m remembering what Jill said correctly, you have a brother and two sisters.”
Charley’s shoulders stiffened. She was still angry at being given the brush-off by Jill earlier in the week. She’d driven all the way to Pembroke Pines, only to be told that Jill wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t be able to see her. “If she pulls that stunt one more time,” Charley said now, without bothering to elaborate, “I’m pulling the plug.”
Alex didn’t try to pretend he didn’t know what she was talking about. “She told me to tell you how sorry she is about the way she acted.”
“She has to understand that no question is off limits.”
“She understands that.”
“This book was her idea,” Charley reminded him. “I’m not here to be jerked around.”
“She swears it’ll never happen again.”
“Well, she’s right about that,” Charley said, determined not to forgive Jill so easily. The week had been a busy one, what with trying to organize her next column and trying not to obsess over her latest threatening e-mail.
“I’ll need that list,” Officer Ramirez had reminded her, and Charley had spent several hours jotting down the names of everyone she’d ever offended, starting with Lynn Moore and Gabe Lopez, and going all the way back to grade school. She’d even included her father and sisters on that list, ignoring the look of surprise that flashed through Jennifer Ramirez’s dark eyes.
“My sisters are actually coming to Palm Beach in a couple of weeks,” Charley heard herself confide.
“That’s nice.” Alex paused, turned his head toward her. “Isn’t it?” “I guess we’ll find out.” They didn’t speak again for several minutes. Alex turned on the radio, and the sound of “easy rock” filled the car, Josh Groban crowing mellifluously, if more than a touch melodramatically, about being “raised up.”
“What kind of music do you like?” Alex asked.
“I guess I should say classical,” Charley responded after a moment’s thought.
“Why should you?”
“I don’t know. So you won’t think I’m shallow, I guess.”
“I don’t think you’re shallow.”
“You don’t? Because I am,” she said, and was grateful when he laughed. “Country,” she admitted after a pause. “I like country.”
“Really? Any artist in particular?”
“I like them all,” she admitted. “Garth Brooks, Vince Gill, Tim McGraw.”
“No women?”
“Faith Hill, Alison Krauss. Dolly Parton, of course.”
“Of course. Everybody likes Dolly.”
“What kind of music do you like?” Charley asked in return, realizing she was asking because she was interested and not just because she felt obligated.
“Classical,” he deadpanned. “Just kidding. Actually, I’m kind of partial to country myself.” He switched the station to WIRK. The Judds were singing “Mama, He’s Crazy.” “I even play a pretty mean guitar.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Well, actually, I’m a little surprised you play the guitar, but not at all surprised you play it well, if that makes any sense.”
“I think it might.”
“I used to play the piano,” Charley said.
“You don’t anymore?”
“I stopped when I was twelve. My father said my playing gave him migraines.”
“You were that bad?”
“I was that good,” Charley corrected. “Took a lot of dedicated practicing to give that man a headache.”
Alex was clearly intrigued, although he stopped short of asking her to elaborate. “What’s your favorite food?” he asked, perhaps seeking safer ground.
“Italian.”
“Thought you might say that. Ever eaten at Centro’s?”
“No. Where’s that?”
“A little strip mall not far from Pembroke Correctional. Maybe we’ll go there after we see Jill on Wednesday.”
Was he asking her out on a date? Charley wondered, sidestepping the question of dinner. “I didn’t realize you’d be joining us,” Charley said, referring to Wednesday’s meeting with Jill.
“I thought it might be a good idea, in light of what happened. Plus, I have an appointment in Fort Lauderdale in the morning. I can meet you at the prison. Unless, of course, you have any objections….”
“No. No objections.”
“Good.”
