Praise for the novels of
MARY ALICE MONROE

SKYWARD

“Monroe’s novel is a fascinating, emotion-filled narrative that’s not to be missed.”

—Booklist starred review

“A devoted naturalist and native of South Carolina’s Low County, Monroe is in her element when describing the wonders of nature and the ways people relate to it…. Hauntingly beautiful relationships between birds and people add texture to the story…. Monroe successfully combines elements of women’s fiction and romance in this lyrical tale.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Skyward is a soaring, passionate story of loneliness and pain and the simple ability of love to heal and transcend both. Mary Alice Monroe’s voice is as strong and true as the great birds of prey of whom she writes.”

—Anne Rivers Siddons

THE BEACH HOUSE

“With its evocative, often beautiful prose and keen insights into family relationships, Monroe’s latest is an exceptional and heartwarming work of fiction.”

—Publishers Weekly starred review

“Whether you are one of the hundreds of sea turtle volunteers in the southeast or just wish you were, this beautifully written story brings us a glimpse of their dedication and commitment to the conservation of the loggerhead sea turtle.”

—Sally Murphy, Sea Turtle Coordinator for the South Carolina Department of Natural Resources

THE FOUR SEASONS

“Mary Alice Monroe writes from her heart to the hearts of her readers. It is a quality of emotional honesty together with lyrical, descriptive passages that draw her audience to books like The Four Seasons.”

—Charleston Post & Courier

“With novels like this one and The Book Club, Mary Alice Monroe continues to be one of the leaders of complex female relationship dramas that hit home to the audience.”

—Midwest Book Review

“Moving, touching and beautifully drawn, the characters in this wonderful novel are compelling and true. Ms. Monroe’s skills as a teller of women’s fiction are becoming quite exceptional.”

—Romantic Times

THE BOOK CLUB

“Monroe offers up believable characters in a well-crafted story.”

—Publishers Weekly

“The Book Club skillfully weaves the individual story threads into a warm, unified whole that will appeal to readers who enjoy multifaceted relationship novels with strong women protagonists.”

—Library Journal

GIRL IN THE MIRROR

“A heart-wrenching, sensitive tale that will delight readers…”

—Painted Rock Reviews

Girl in the Mirror
Mary Alice Monroe

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This book is dedicated to

Oscar Rogers Kruesi

A Man of Ideas

Dear Reader,

Girl in the Mirror was my first book with MIRA Books, published in 1998. I was very interested in the growing popularity of elective plastic surgery in the 1990s, but never could I have guessed that “extreme makeovers” would be so popular in magazines and on television in 2004. My heroine, Charlotte, had what can readily be called an extreme makeover in this novel, and though the story isn’t new, it asks the timely question: what is true beauty?

Also, in 1990 there were not as many treatments available for HIV, and most HIV-positive people were expected to die. Today there are more than twenty drugs on the market to treat the disease, and research is continuing. Today there is hope.

I’ve enjoyed editing this edition of the novel to bring it up to date, yet the story remains largely the same. I hope you will enjoy it.

Happy reading,

Mary Alice Monroe

Contents

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Part Two

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Part Three

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Part Four

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Epilogue

Part One

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

—Margaret Wolfe Hungerford

One

April 1996

If all the world was a stage, it was time once again to play her part.

Charlotte sat in the green room of the television studio while outside, strains of the talk show’s theme song intermingled with audience applause. She had promised Vicki Ray this interview, and there was no choice now but to endure the hour or suffer months of bad press. She’d had enough bad press lately. Now her plan was set. Freddy had seen to every detail in his usual compulsive manner. How had he put it? “Interview, marriage, surgery. Bim, Bam, Boom.”

The only booming she felt right now was in her temples, a rhythmic, tympanic beat. How hot the room was! Bringing a fevered hand to her forehead, she noticed with alarm that it was trembling. And her lips, so parched. Oh, please, she prayed, holding her fingers tight, steadying them. Don’t let the symptoms come back now. Maybe one more pill, she decided, quickly fumbling through her purse. Just in case.

Three brisk knocks sounded on the door.

“Charlotte?” Freddy Walen walked in without waiting for a response. Although not a big man, his dominating presence filled the room, causing Charlotte to shrink inside. His eyes, as hard as the diamond on his pinkie finger, assessed her with a proprietary air.

“Good…good,” he said, stroking his neatly trimmed mustache, observing every detail. Her swanlike neck was unadorned, her golden hair spilled loosely around her shoulders, and her eyes, her large, luminous blue eyes, shone with an icy, mesmerizing luster. It was a look that Freddy referred to as “the brilliance of a star.” He’d taught her that her public expected Charlotte Godfrey to be dressed in understated elegance, and she never disappointed them.

“What’s that you’re taking?” he demanded.

“A painkiller. I’ll need it to get through the interview.” She stared at the white pill in her hand, then raised her eyes, worry shining clearly. “Freddy, cancel the interview. I’m not well enough. The symptoms are returning, my hands are shaking, and taking another pill is not the answer.”

“You’ll be fine,” he said in a gruff manner, patting her shoulder. “Buck up. We can’t cancel now. Besides, we need this interview to settle a few rumors. Then the press will be off our backs so we can hustle to South America and get you well. Zip up this show and we’ll be out of here. I promise. Now, take that pill.”

Charlotte poured herself a tumbler of water. “I don’t trust Vicki Ray. She’s tough. Crafty. What if she suspects?”

“Forget it. Vicki doesn’t have a clue. If she did, I’d know about it.”

“Miss Godfrey?” From outside her door came the high, strained voice of an usher. “Are you ready yet? It’s really time.”

She understood his panic and took pity. Besides, she couldn’t stall any longer. “Yes,” she called, quickly swallowing the medicine. “Of course. Right away.”

“Remember,” Freddy said, grabbing hold of her shoulders. “It’s just another part. Follow the script, babe, and you’ll be great.”

Charlotte shook off his hands. “Don’t be a fool, Freddy. There’s no script with Vicki Ray.”

Opening the door, she met a panic-eyed young man who guided her down the hall with the speed of a police escort, past a series of attendants who smiled at her with starry eyes. She’d become immune to that rapt expression during the past few years, knowing better than to be flattered. They knew nothing about her, the woman behind the face. She walked quickly by with only a nod of acknowledgment.

They reached the stage just as Vicki Ray launched into her introduction. She mentioned several of Charlotte’s film roles and the meteoric rise of her career. Charlotte listened keenly, compelling herself to become on camera the woman being described: a woman of legendary beauty. An on-screen phenomenon and an off-screen recluse. The new Garbo.

There was a minute’s silence, one brief moment to raise a hand to her brow and collect her wits. Charlotte took a deep breath, willed her hands to appear relaxed at her sides, then dug deep to deliver the mysterious, sultry smile that was her trademark.

The Applause sign lit. With a jarring flash, the lights bore down on Charlotte as she stepped out on the stage. To her, they were like prison searchlights blocking any avenue of escape. She walked with studied grace across the shining floor, then settled herself in the isolation of a single white chair in the center of Vicki Ray’s stage.

Under the glare of lights, she felt like a laboratory specimen being scrutinized. She looked out at the sea of faces and saw in the eyes of women the familiar flash of envy, and in the men’s, desire. It was always this way, she thought, feeling again a twinge of loneliness.

Then, decisively discarding the last remnants of her identity, Charlotte Godowski transformed herself into the role she’d painstakingly created and played so well: Charlotte Godfrey. It was a useful device, yet she felt a little more of herself die each time she employed it. Still, it was necessary to create an armor that was impenetrable. She allowed no one to pierce it. Not even Freddy. Especially not Freddy. Only Michael…At the thought of him she felt a chink in the armor.

The interview began easily enough. During the first half of the show, Vicki screened a number of film clips. Charlotte peppered the clips with anecdotes, especially about her handsome co-stars. The audience lapped it up, never for a moment suspecting the struggle within the actress. She appeared relaxed, loosening her knotted fingers, uncrossing her legs, even venturing to laugh at the occasional silly question posed by the audience, usually about her well publicized love life.

“Water,” she almost begged when the break came. With miraculous speed, the usher delivered Perrier and lime, which she sipped gratefully. Her lips felt cracked, and she sweltered in the glowing heat of her fever.

As the signal flashed that the show was continuing, Charlotte discreetly dabbed at her brow with a Swiss embroidered handkerchief and marshaled her wits. At the last second, she remembered to catch the eye of a cameraman and wink. He returned a crimson grin. Freddy had taught her tricks on how to get flattering camera angles.

“Welcome back,” began Vicki. “We were talking about your upcoming marriage.” Turning to the camera, she continued, “Freddy Walen, for those of you who don’t know, is not only Miss Godfrey’s fiancé, but her agent as well.”

“What can I say?” Charlotte replied, offering a slight gesture with her hand. “He’s wonderful. Supportive. He’s always there for me.” She glanced offstage. Freddy was standing with his feet wide apart and his hands clasped before him, the captain of a ship in unsteady waters.

He gave her a smile. Freddy looked formidable in the dark gray double-breasted suit that complemented his salt-and-pepper hair. She knew he was listening intently to every word she uttered because his pale blue eyes glowed with approval of her answer. He didn’t seem to mind that she refrained from saying she loved him.

“Walen discovered you, didn’t he? Some say he built your career.”

Charlotte shifted in her seat. “He believed in my talent, and any good agent advises his client. Isn’t that his job?”

Vicki smiled. “But in your case, it’s been said that Walen has a Svengali-like obsession with your career. And you.”

Charlotte had the presence of mind to laugh. “Is that what they say?”

“I suppose it’s natural for any man to be obsessed with you,” Vicki added magnanimously. The audience chuckled and mumbled in agreement. Charlotte shrugged her slim shoulders with seeming humor.

“So many men…” Vicki added with a devilish glint. The cameraman winked at her.

Charlotte knew where this was coming from and couldn’t blame Vicki for the insinuation. Freddy had carefully orchestrated her public image, hiding her natural shyness as a star’s reclusiveness and arranging numerous dates with her co-stars, then leaking to the press that she was having affairs. It was nothing new, an age-old publicity ploy, but the press and the public bought it, again and again.

“Now there’s only Freddy,” she replied without guile, and the audience responded with heartfelt applause. She imagined Freddy backstage, his chest expanding. He loved the spotlight, especially when it hinted at his virility.

“Your kind of beauty is the stuff that legends are made of. But some consider it to be a curse. There’s Helen of Troy and, of course, Marilyn Monroe.”

Charlotte paused. Beauty again…Is that all they see when they see me? Doesn’t anyone see anything else of value?

“I don’t think Marilyn’s beauty itself was a curse,” she answered with care. “The curse was that no one could look past her beauty to take her seriously.”

“You’re referring to the old ‘She’s beautiful so she must be stupid’ myth.”

“It’s hard when only your beauty is prized.”

“Couldn’t the same be said then of an ugly woman?”

Charlotte felt a dart of anguish and looked at her hands clasped white in her lap. “I’m sure,” she began with hesitation, “that it is the secret dream of every ugly woman that someone will discover the beauty within her. Redemption through love, isn’t that at the heart of fairy tales?”

“But life isn’t a fairy tale.”

“Unfortunately, both legend and reality bear out that men want women who are physically beautiful, as proof of their power and worth. The dream dies in an ugly woman. It withers, as any fruit withers on the neglected vine.”

“But…doesn’t beauty wither, too, in time? What happens then?”

Charlotte’s smile was hard. “Desperation.”

“So beauty is a curse?”

“I…” She thought again of Michael and sighed in resignation. “Yes. Perhaps it is. As is ugliness.”

“I don’t know if I buy this. I mean, aren’t women changing now? We talk about a woman’s worth, intelligence and goodness. Don’t these attributes constitute a woman’s beauty?”

Charlotte wanted to agree, oh God, how much. She thought of those days, in the garden, when she’d believed such a thing was possible. When, like a blossoming flower that reveals the delicate core, she’d been ready to give everything up for a single dewdrop of that ideal. But Michael had crushed that belief with the heel of his conceit. She’d learned that no one would love her for her intelligence or for her goodness. Without the beauty, no man was willing to even give those qualities a chance.

“Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.”

“Are you endorsing this attitude?” Vicki Ray interjected. Her tone was sharp, angry. Nearing fifty, she exuded the confidence of success. Yet Charlotte saw in her eyes the quiet panic of a woman who could not stave off the inevitable decline of her looks, and as a talk show host, possibly her career as well. “Do you believe women today should do everything they can, anything they can, to be as attractive as they can?”

Charlotte’s lids fluttered imperceptibly as she dredged up her personal history to answer this question. Everything…anything…for beauty?

“I do,” she replied firmly, each syllable sounding in her ear as a death knell. “Yes, absolutely.”

She heard the disapproving rumbling in the audience. Several women were now wildly waving their hands. Vicki, delighted, hurried to deliver the microphone.

“So what did you do to look so great?”

Charlotte exhaled a stream of air, then smiled. She wanted to say she’d sold her soul to the devil, but no, she couldn’t do that.

“I didn’t do a thing,” she lied with feigned nonchalance. Then, hinting at the truth, she added, “Don’t forget, legions of experts labor hours to make me look this good.” The woman chuckled and seemed to forgive Charlotte for her beauty.

“Have you always been this beautiful?” Vicki asked through narrowed eyes. Her microphone swung in her hand from left to right, like a club. “Confession time!”

Charlotte gripped the arms of her chair tightly. “Well…”

“Don’t you ever wake up with bags under your eyes or a pimple on the tip of your nose?” The audience laughed.

Charlotte put her hands together and looked at the ceiling. She felt like she’d just dodged a bullet. Should she tell them that she woke up every morning in raw pain? And with the knowledge that this marvelous facade was crumbling under the surface?

“I’m no different from anyone else,” she replied, wishing it were true.

“Were you a pretty little girl?”

The question pricked Charlotte, deflating her balloon of confidence. Her head felt woozy, and, slipping back in time, she saw the face of the little girl she had been. The sad eyes, the thin, gawky figure, and always, that face. A leaden weight was pulling her down, deeper into the memory, till she experienced again the stark loneliness of her childhood. She remembered how she used to stroll through the wealthy neighborhoods, the kind with the big houses and the manicured lawns, waiting for her mother to finish cleaning. It was so far and foreign from the noisy, close-set apartment buildings on Chicago’s far west side, where she lived. She didn’t mind waiting. She liked to peek through the windows at the people inside sitting on the pretty furniture. She’d thought they were so lucky to live where everything was so pretty, so content.

“Miss Godfrey?” Vicki’s voice was strident.

Charlotte blinked heavily. “What? Oh, yes, I was trying to recollect,” she said, struggling for composure. Lord, that extra medication was really kicking in. It felt like her brain was mush. “I…I don’t remember much of my childhood. At least not how I looked.” The lies were pounding in her head now. How much longer did she have to go on?

“What do you remember?” Vicki pressed.

Charlotte sighed heavily. “I can remember trivial things. Let’s see—” she rubbed her temple “—I was a bookworm, especially for Charles Dickens. I always wanted a garden and, of course, I remember the games.” She swallowed again, her throat dry, recalling how often she’d been the target of cruel games.

“The gossip that always surrounds a celebrity is difficult to live with,” Vicki continued, changing topics. “But you seem to attract so much gossip. You’ve been on the cover of almost every magazine and seem to be a favorite of the tabloids.”

“I can’t imagine why. I live a rather boring life.”

“Maybe it’s because they’re attracted to the unknown. Your quest for privacy is as legendary as your beauty.”

“Is it? I just prefer to keep to myself. What do they think they’ll find that’s so interesting? When I’m not working, I’m pulling weeds in my garden.”

“Well, for starters—” Vicki flashed a smile “—isn’t it true that you were released from your last film? Rumors circulated on the set that you were loaded with drugs. Perhaps even had a breakdown of sorts?”

Charlotte took a deep breath, knowing without looking that Freddy’s smile was gone and he was leaning forward, waiting for her answer, deliberating on damage control. She decided to face the truth head-on.

“I was sick,” she admitted. She saw Vicki’s brow rise in anticipation of a coup. “I had a terrible case of the flu that I ignored.” Vicki’s smile fell and Charlotte knew she wasn’t buying the story. “The role meant a great deal to me. My mother taught me that illness is a weakness to be worked through. Unfortunately, the flu progressed to pneumonia.” She shrugged slightly. “I’m told I had a serious case, and I have to admit I was frightened.”

“You disappeared.” Vicki’s eyes were hard.

“Yes.” The image of Michael again flashed in her mind. His touch, his eyes, his love—they were for her like the sun, soil and air were to the garden. Her smile cracked.

She brought a shaky hand to her face, but a warning glare from Freddy caught her before she betrayed herself. With a clever tilt of her palm, she gracefully settled her long fingers along the exquisite curve of her jaw.

Vicki waited with the patience of a pro.

“I didn’t really disappear,” Charlotte continued. “That sounds so glamorous. All I did was spend some time in the country, alone, to regain my health.”

“Like in Camille? You won an Oscar for that role.”

Charlotte laughed lightly, determined to regain control of the interview. “Yes, I suppose so. Life imitates art…or vice versa.” She kept her smile firmly in place. “My health,” she said, emphasizing the word, “was the reason I requested a release from my last film. The pills I was seen taking were prescription. And it is common knowledge that I adhere to a strict regime of vitamins and herbs.” She lifted one hand and flicked her fingers lightly. “I swear, one can’t take a vitamin anymore without being tagged a drug addict.”

Vicki smirked, and Charlotte realized the host was removing her gloves. All bets were off. Charlotte felt betrayed, trapped. As her headache pounded in her temples, she felt the beginnings of a wave of chills. Her hands formed fists in her lap, digging moon-shaped dents into her palms as she fought for composure. She wasn’t up to this. She had warned Freddy. Oh, God, she prayed fervently, don’t let me get sick now, on national TV.

“Can you respond to the rumors of a breakdown?”

Charlotte offered a steely smile. “I thought I just had.”

“Oh, surely you can’t pretend not to have been upset by your breakup with Brad Sommers?”

This time Charlotte genuinely laughed out loud. Freddy’s press releases had done their job. “Vicki, really. Give me a little credit. Brad and I are friends,” she lied.

“If not Brad, then—” Vicki quickly checked her note cards “—what about Michael Mondragon?” she asked, raising her eyes with a gleam of triumph. “Some say that behind your tall, ivy-covered walls you were in fact hiding a torrid love affair with your gardener.”

Charlotte sat back in her chair, dumbstruck. How did Vicki know about Michael? How dare she call him a gardener? Nausea rose up to choke her, forcing her to swallow hard, appearing to the camera, she knew, overwhelmed by the question. Her gaze flew to Freddy standing just offstage, a mute appeal in her eyes.

Her pal the cameraman obliged and shifted the camera focus to catch a glimpse of Freddy, arms now clasped tightly across his chest. He bore a hard grin, but his eyes were flashing. Freddy remained resolutely silent, only waving the camera away. Vicki made a discreet gesture and immediately the camera returned to her.

“Michael who?” Charlotte finally blurted. She sat straighter in her chair, angry at Vicki for digging into her personal life, angry at Freddy for leaking the information, angry at herself for not having enough courage to walk off the stage. “Me and my gardener? Really. This is too much.”

She couldn’t help herself; her hand rose to cover her eyes. The tremors were returning. She felt weaker, dizzy. Poor Michael. If he heard what she’d just said it would hurt him deeply. But what choice did she have? What choice had he left her?

“These kinds of rumors are why I choose to keep my private life private,” she added, raising her eyes. She didn’t realize her hands clutched the arms of her chair. “When Freddy and I are married we’re going to take a long trip, away from public view, so I can regain my health. When I come back I’ll be as good as new and ready to face whatever.”

Vicki retreated, moving into the audience. A sweet-faced woman, obviously a fan, flagged Vicki. “Is there another film we can look forward to?”

Charlotte mentally blessed the old woman. “Oh, yes,” she said, with a smile that lit up her face. “I’m very excited about my next project. I’ve always wanted to play the lead in Tess of the D’Urbervilles.”

“Another demanding role,” chided Vicki. “You’re known to become the character you play, but you won’t let yourself die like poor Tess, I hope?”

While the audience chuckled, Charlotte caught her breath. Did Vicki suspect? Was Dr. Harmon right and Freddy wrong? Who should she believe? It was clear she was getting sick again. Worse than ever. She could hardly get through a day without collapsing.

Charlotte focused on the answer by force of will. “Goodness, I hope not!” She flashed a megawatt smile straight at the cameras. “I hope you’ll all come see it.”

Vicki seemed satisfied, and the audience showed their approval with their applause. In the wings, Freddy was nodding with paternalistic pleasure. Everyone was smiling. Charlotte leaned back in her chair and quickly glanced at her watch. It was over. She’d made it through the interview without the truth slipping out. For a few tense moments, she’d thought Vicki had the scoop and would press her hard for a confession, breaking her down like a guilty witness on the stand. What good TV that would have been: the end of a career.

No matter, she thought, pretending not to feel the wrenching of her stomach. In a few minutes more, she could go home to her big four-poster bed, cuddle up under her down comforter, take another dose of her herbal remedy and pray for the illness to pass.

“We only have time for one more question.”

A man in the audience rose. There was something familiar in his towering height and the breadth of his shoulders. Something about the neatly clipped black hair brushed back from his forehead that caught her attention. A chill shivered through her. Her breathing grew shallow as she squinted through the haze of lights to focus on the man. He was moving forward now, down the stairs toward the front stage. Toward her. Each step he took was measured by her gasps. Each inch closer brought her further to despair.

Vicki, sensing something amiss, followed the man who boldly approached the stage. She opened her mouth to speak, but either instinct or memory hushed her. She stilled the security guard with a flick of her wrists and expertly allowed the tension to spread throughout the audience. While the camera whirred, one by one the hands dropped and the heads turned toward the handsome, dark-haired man who now stopped at the foot of the stage and stared with bruising intensity at the frozen actress. Silence reigned.

“Charlotte Godfrey,” he said, piercing the quiet with a voice that carried the clarity of conviction. “You are a fraud.”

A collective gasp surged through the room, and from somewhere she could hear the angry shouts of Freddy demanding that this moron be removed.

Charlotte stared back into the piercing dark eyes that silenced her. No words came for her response. She had no lines, no script. She was rendered mute with confusion, struck dumb by her blinding hatred for this man. And more. Oh, yes. That other, deeper, more excruciating pain. For she loved no man more than Michael Mondragon.

Vicki was talking now, rapidly closing the show, promising the gaping audience that she would schedule a follow-up. Freddy was being forcibly held back, but she could hear his garbled shouts rise up over the din. Mustering dignity, Charlotte stood up, catching hold of the chair to steady herself. Then, turning on her heel, she walked with her chin high, away from the blinding lights, away from the shouts of Freddy, and most of all, away from the tangible pull of Michael Mondragon. He called after her, more a demand, but she ignored him. Faster she walked, almost a trot, back to the seclusion of the green room.

“Don’t let anyone in,” she ordered the guard. He nodded and straightened his shoulders as she filed past him, locking the door behind her.

What should she do now? she asked herself as she paced the floor, holding her flushed and fevered face in her hands. Run? But where could she go?

“Charlotte!” Michael roared outside her door. He pounded, shaking the wood. “Open the door. We need to talk. I won’t let you die!” The door shook. “Charlotte!”

Then Freddy’s voice. Now both of them were calling her name. She threw herself on the sofa, covering her ears. Outside, they took to shouting at each other, like two territorial dogs defending what was theirs. Oh, God, were they fighting? She heard the muffled sounds of fists against muscle, grunts, followed by shouts of alarm from Vicki.

“Go away,” Charlotte screamed at the two men. “Please just leave me alone!”

She curled up on the sofa, bringing her knees to her chest, shivering. Each bone in her body ached, every muscle trembled. “Go away,” she moaned, over and over, crooning as the chills and fever racked her. She couldn’t go on like this. She wouldn’t. No more listening to Michael or Freddy.

Wasn’t it her face, her life that was at issue here? She had to make this decision alone. She had to think, to remember, to go back to where it all began.

Her eyelids felt like heavy weights and she could no longer fight off closing them. As soon as she relinquished resistance, she felt blanketed by a languid, drifting blackness. Her mind called out to the ghost of the child evoked earlier during the interview. As she slipped deeper into the darkness, from somewhere she heard the high-pitched, singsong voice of a little girl saying over and over, “I told you so….”

September 1976

Charlotte sat on the periphery of the playground. Her yellow dress hung limply around her knees as her feet dangled over the bleachers. Humming a nameless tune, she watched the other kindergarten children cover the ground, laughing, playing the many silly, exciting games that she knew by heart: hopscotch, jump-rope, cat’s cradle. But no one invited her to join, so she sat, swinging her legs, and watched.

Suddenly two young girls she knew well darted past her to hide behind the bleachers. Charlotte sat up, tense with anticipation. She marveled at how their pretty cheeks were pink with excitement. Their voices were shrill with feigned alarm.

“Come back here, Charlotte,” one of them whispered.

“They’ll see you and guess our hiding place. Hurry!”

Charlotte jumped up with a rush of joy to join them.

“Me? You want me to play?” No one ever wanted her to play.

“Hurry up!”

They were playing with her! Charlotte scurried around the green wooden bleacher and huddled with the other girls, her hands tight against her chest in excitement. She imagined her own cheeks were as pretty and pink as theirs. When the group of young boys spotted them, they pointed and charged. The girls took off, squealing in the chase.

Charlotte’s heart pounded gleefully as her little feet soared across the hard-packed grass of the playing field. She was running with them and, oh, she was fast! She could feel the wind kiss her smile and flap her dress hem against her thighs as she sprinted. Behind her she heard heavy footfall, and, feeling cocky, she looked over her shoulder teasingly. She knew she was smarter in school, and now she knew she was faster, too. The boy who chased her flushed and frowned furiously.

Charlotte’s laughter pealed and she ran harder. As she began to tire, she sensed a subtle shift in attitude. Them against her. Instead of one boy chasing her, now there were three, and they were frustrated and closing ranks. Where were the other girls?

“Hey, you’re fast,” one boy shouted with resentment.

“Like a horse,” called out another.

“Yeah, she does look like a horse.”

“Hey—Charley Horse!”

The boys burst out laughing, holding their sides and bumping shoulders as their pace slackened. They used the spontaneous nickname as a rallying call.

“Get Charley Horse!”

Little Charlotte Godowski ran hard then, as far as she could from the sound of the cruel nickname that poked fun at her face. It was hateful to be so mean. Mean, mean, mean.

Charley wasn’t her name. Her name was Charlotte. A beautiful name. Did she look like a horse? She couldn’t help how she looked…why would they say that? The name hurt and they knew it. They kept hurling it at her like stones as they chased. Charlotte felt a little afraid now, but she dug deep and ran faster. When she spotted the bleachers, she made a beeline for them. She would hide like before.

It was a dumb thing to do. She knew it the moment she ran behind them and saw that she was trapped by the chain-link fence. Like a pack of dogs they came after her, one from around the left side of the bleachers, two from the right. With cunning, they cornered her.

Charlotte moved away from the fence, instinctively allowing herself space. The boys clustered together, their young chests heaving, panting like dogs after the chase. As they stared, she saw conceit gleaming in their eyes.

The boys gathered closer. She could smell the candy on their breaths. Billy’s Keds were smeared; he had stepped in dog manure. The wind gusted, hurling the foul scent toward her. Charlotte shivered, wrinkling her nose, and searched through the slats of the bleachers to where the other schoolchildren were playing. Their high-pitched voices soared in the sky like birdcalls. They seemed so very far away. Suddenly, she felt very alone. She wanted her mother, her teacher. Where were the other girls? She didn’t like this game anymore. She didn’t want to play.

“Okay,” she said, putting out her palms. “You guys win.” She laughed, but it sounded queer, too high.

The boys looked at one another, nervously shifting their weight. Then one boy, Billy again, spoke. “If we catch you we get to pull down your pants.”

Charlotte paled and she sucked in her breath. She hadn’t heard this rule. She’d never have played the game if she’d heard this rule!

“Uh-uh, dog-doo foot,” she muttered, shaking her head and backing away with her palms turned outward against them. It was a big mistake, she thought, because she saw Billy’s eyes turn mean. “I didn’t mean it, Billy. I’m sorry. I quit this game. Okay? Please?”

Billy took the lead now. “Let’s see if she’s as ugly down there.”

Her breath stilled. Surely she hadn’t heard right. She looked at Billy with uncomprehending eyes. Ugly? How could that be? Her mama told her she was pretty. Just last night, at her bedside, her mama prayed to St. Levan for her to be pretty. No one had ever called her ugly. No! They were just being mean.

And yet…From some as yet unvisited place in her heart, Charlotte heard the whispering that it was true. For the first time in her life, at five years of age, Charlotte came face-to-face with her ugliness. Her arms slipped to her sides and she stared back at them with vulnerable eyes.

Sensing her new weakness, they were on her, pulling her to the dirt. Charlotte was filled with a panic she’d never felt before. She kicked her long, spindly legs blindly, with all her might, satisfied when she heard muffled umphs and grunts of pain. She fought hard but there were too many of them. With their sticky hands they held her down. She began to cry and beg them not to.

“No…Please…No!”

Their short, blunt nails scraped her hips as they pulled the pink flowered cotton down around her thighs. Then they looked, really looked, with their mouths hanging open, surprised that they’d actually gone through with it.

When the school bell pierced the air they all jumped back, startled, frightened by the reality of what they’d imagined. Charlotte instantly curled into a ball, tucking her thin yellow dress tight around her knees. With her face in the dirt, she hiccuped, tasting the salt of tears and the minerals of earth. She hated these boys. In the harshest jargon of a five-year-old, she shouted out, “You’re bad!”

Knowing what they’d done was wrong, the boys scuffed their shoes in the dirt in an embarrassed silence. From her level, Charlotte saw the manure still smeared on Billy’s Keds. When she looked up, she caught Billy’s expression before he turned heel and sped across the field to join the rest of the class as they filed into the school. Charlotte thought Billy had seemed horrified. It didn’t occur to her five-year-old mind that the boy may have been guilt stricken at his own behavior. All Charlotte thought was that maybe she was ugly—even down there.

Mortified, her tears cascaded down her grossly sloping chin to pool in the dirt. She hated boys. They were mean and not to be trusted. And she didn’t like the girls, either. Why didn’t they help her? She would have helped them.

Charlotte didn’t go back to school but stayed behind the bleachers until the teacher came out to fetch her and scold her for not following the bell. Charlotte told the teacher that she was sick and wanted to go home. The teacher looked at her tearstained face and believed her. It wasn’t really a lie, but Charlotte told God that she was sorry for the sin, anyway.

But she wasn’t sorry for hating the boys. She promised herself she was never going to let them hurt her again.

Two

December 1991

Charlotte, weary after a five-hour dress rehearsal of A Christmas Carol, unlocked the door of the four-room apartment she shared with her mother. The paint was chipped around the door handle and the single bulb in the hall cast a seedy pall. A home fit for Scrooge, she thought, with a resigned chuckle. She rubbed her sore throat with her mittened hand. What a hectic day. Her voice was hoarse from shouting replies to the harried director and from prompting lines to the actors, who seemed unable to memorize a single scene of dialogue. Charlotte couldn’t understand how they could be so lazy. She knew everyone’s lines; her memory was razor sharp. Everyone depended on good ol’ Charlotte to deliver. Perhaps that was part of the problem. As the stage manager, it was her job to make things easier for everyone else—and she was very good at her job.

Not that she expected to be cast in a role herself, as much as she would have loved it. She would have to remain behind the scenes. She’d accepted her fate years ago, when she accepted her deformity. The theater was in her blood, however, even if only as part-time stage manager for the local company. She was in charge of all the details no one else liked to do, a satisfying enough position for a detail kind of person like herself. She arranged dressing rooms, kept the scripts in order, stepped in for rehearsals when an actor didn’t show, and generally made nice-nice to keep everybody happy. She didn’t mind being in the background. With her looks, it was her lot in life. Her greatest, most secret thrill, however, came during the actual production when she stood offstage, her face upturned in the lights, and whispered the lines of the play with all the feeling and heart that was lacking on stage.

“Mama, I’m home!” she called out, dropping her coat on the bench by the door. She went first to her room, closed the door behind her and switched on the music, delighted with a few minutes all to herself, with no one calling her name. After undressing, she collapsed on her bed, relishing the soft comfort she had no intention of leaving till it was time to go to Sunday mass the next morning.

“Charlotte, you’re home so late!” Helena called out. The large Polish woman’s broad shoulders, already humped over from years of cleaning other people’s houses, stooped a little more in relief at seeing her only child safely home. At forty-seven, Helena Godowski’s face was as pale, translucent and crackled as a piece of her treasured bone china. But she was strong enough to lift the bulky dark wood armoire that housed the fragile dishes, and her physical strength paled when compared to her stern will.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry!” Charlotte hurried to erase the frown from her mother’s brow. “Rehearsals were crazy today, and I had to stay until everyone had their lines down pat. It’s always like this before an opening.” She ran a hand through her hair, shaking it out. “I’m pooped. I think I’ll go to bed early tonight.”

“Go to bed? But you can’t!” Helena raised the purple-and-pink plastic container that she carried under her arm. “Tonight there is nice party!” she said, her eyes bright.

“See, I brought my makeup. We will try something pretty, no?”

“Oh, no,” Charlotte groaned, her eyes closed tight in misery. Her stomach did a flip and she lost her appetite.

“The office party. I’d completely forgotten. Mom, I’d rather stay home. A Christmas Carol is on tonight. The old one with Alastair Sim. It’s the best one. And,” she added, thinking fast, “I’m so tired.”

“Movies,” Helena grumbled. “Movies and plays. Always this. You are a watcher. Day and night and never go out, except to that silly theater that doesn’t pay you enough for train fare. This is not good for you. You must live in real world, Charlotte. You can not always hide in your room. You’ll never find a husband like that.” Helena bent to pick up Charlotte’s clothing from the floor and folded the articles into a neat pile on the bed.

“Oh, Mama. I won’t find a husband at the office Christmas party. All I’ll find is a drunk.” She shuddered, rubbing her bare arms at the dismal prospect of another party of long hours sitting alone, enduring snide remarks. “Oh, all right, I’ll go,” she conceded when she saw her mother’s disappointment. “But only because Mr. Kopp sent a memo that implied we all have to show up—or else.”

“Your boss, he won’t let anything be too wild. You’ll have nice time. You’ll see.”

The image of “Fast Hands” Lou Kopp flashed through Charlotte’s mind. Her boss was the very one women worried about most. “I’ll try to have a good time,” she said with a sigh of resignation. “If I can find something to wear.” She dug through the dingy, cramped closet stuffed with old shoes, worn suits and a collection of dusty hats. Her mother never threw anything out. Everything had a little life left in it.

Making things do was the modus operandi for Charlotte and her mother. Their apartment was small and devoid of any charm, but it was located on a convenient bus line and the rent was cheap, so, like everything else, it had to make do.

If it wasn’t pretty, however, at least it was clean. Not a spot marred the old linoleum or the bland brown carpeting. Neither was there a stain on Charlotte’s old skirt or a button missing from her blouse. The pale green Formica in the kitchen might have been ugly, but it sparkled. As did Charlotte’s unpolished nails and polished shoes. And anyone who entered the narrow lobby on Harlem Avenue would tilt his head and sniff with closed eyes toward the delicious scents simmering behind apartment 2B.

“I have a good feeling about this party. You might meet someone,” Helena said with smug satisfaction. “I prayed to St. Jude.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes and turned her back to slip into an old red wool dress.

“A woman needs a man to look after her,” her mother continued. “And she must take care of him and his home. And his children. Matrimony is a holy state. A sacrament. Yah…I pray for that for you.” Her voice rose with emotion. “I don’t want for you to be alone and unhappy.”

Charlotte squeezed her hands around the hanger. In the mirror she saw herself as her mother refused to see her: an ugly, thin, twenty-year-old destined to be a back room accountant and live with her mother in this dingy apartment for the rest of her life.

“Mom,” Charlotte said, wrapping an arm around her mother’s shoulder. At just this moment, she needed to receive comfort as much as give it. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself—and you. We won’t be alone. I love you.”

She bent to kiss her mother’s cheek, thinking that each time she did so, there was less fullness to her face. Her mother stiffened, patted Charlotte’s arm, then gently pushed her away.

“You better get dressed now. Pretty, okay?”

Charlotte pulled back quickly. “Pretty…” she repeated, scorched by the word. She slipped the dress over her head, groaning as the tight waistband barely squeezed over her bust then cinched her waist. Either the wool dress had shrunk or her bust had grown, because the bodice felt like a vise around her chest. Looking up she caught the grimace on her mother’s face.

“You no can wear that dress to party!”

“It seems a little small, I know….” Charlotte tried stretching the fabric out from her chest.

“A little? I can see your…you know!”

“What?” Charlotte spun around to look at herself in the full length mirror. The dress clung to her long slender frame like a second skin, outlining her full breasts in scarlet, voluptuous detail.

Her mother flushed, pointing frantically. “Ach. The tips! They stick out—like coat hooks!”

Charlotte flushed as red as her dress. Her nipples did indeed protrude from the fabric. Mortified, she hunched her shoulders forward, but it was no use. Her breasts would not be concealed. Oh, Lord, Charlotte sighed with exasperation. Why did she have to have such big ones? In the dim light of a vanity lamp, she studied her figure, appalled. Her breasts were full and her waist was small; a figure most women dreamed of.

But she was unlike most women. Her figure was her nightmare. It attracted male attention—until they raised their eyes.

“You must wear something else.”

“I don’t have anything else! Except my church dress, and I’m not going to wear that old brown thing to a fancy party. I just won’t go.”

“No, no, you go. Maybe a jacket. To cover yourself. Is a sin to provoke.”

Provocation was the last thing she wanted. When Charlotte tried on a somber black suit jacket over the offensive dress, her mother visibly relaxed and nodded in satisfaction.

“It will do. You can wear jacket so nice. Like your father.”

“I hope he didn’t have a chest like this,” she muttered.

“Don’t talk like that about your father! He was a fine man. A fine man,” her mother repeated, smoothing out her sweater like ruffled feathers. “From a fine family in Warsaw. What grand house they had. And servants! And his mother—oh, such a lady. There was a woman who never had to lift a finger.”

Charlotte turned away and slipped off the jacket. It didn’t flatter the dress but, like everything else, it would have to make do. They were poor, had always been poor. What value was there in coming from a family that had once upon a time been wealthy? It was just another fairy tale.

“You are so like your father,” her mother continued wistfully, happy in her memories.

“But I don’t look like him.”

“What you know how he looked?”

Charlotte shrugged. Even as a child she’d thought it odd that there were no photographs of her father. All her classmates had albums full of relatives. She hadn’t even one.

“You told me he was handsome.” Her comment floated between them, like a challenge.

“You are smart like him,” her mother amended, picking at her sweater. “And you have his nose. A strong, noble nose. Still, you have my eyes, your grandmother Sophie’s eyes.”

Listening, Charlotte’s gaze traveled in the mirror up from her full chest, beyond her thin shoulders and long neck to her face. It wasn’t often that she suffered the study of her own reflection. Staring back were the large, wide, vivid blue eyes under dark, finely arched brows that resembled her mother’s. And the straight, narrow nose of her father.

“But from whom,” Charlotte asked bitterly, “did I get this grossly sloping chin and these drooping lips? Who do I have to thank for these fine features?”

“Hush, Charlotte,” her mother pleaded, her face ashen.

“You got your looks from God.”

Charlotte swallowed her retort and lowered her head, ashamed for the angry thoughts she’d just had about God. Besides, she didn’t want to upset her mother with useless anger. After all, what choice did her mother have but to accept her only daughter’s ugliness as God’s will? Charlotte’s own daily prayer was that she herself could accept the face.

“Someday,” her mother said, beginning the phrase that was more a prayer in this Polish Catholic house than the Our Father. “You will meet Someone. A fine man who will love you for all your good qualities. And you are a good girl, Charlotte.”

Charlotte pressed her lips together and turned away from the mirror. There would be no Someone. Not for her. “The jacket won’t fit under my coat,” she said. “I’ll carry it.”

Her mother closed her mouth and looked wearily at her hands. “Yes,” she said softly. “The jacket will be fine. Nice girls don’t need to advertise.”

Charlotte forgot her jacket. In her mind’s eye she could see the black wool lying on the bench beside the front door. How could she be so forgetful? she thought, mentally kicking herself. One minute of stupidity meant hours of agony.

She’d wave at her boss, enough to let him know she was here, then duck out. Charlotte peered in through the entrance of the banquet hall. Round tables, decorated with garish faux silk poinsettias festooned with glittering red and green ribbons, were assembled on an enormous revolving floor.

“Come on in!” someone shouted from the crowd. Charlotte took a small step into the room, clutching her coat close to the neck. Beyond, revelers slowly traveled a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree tour of Chicago’s skyline to the tune of “A Holly Jolly Christmas.”

Everyone was there, from the top management to the lowly file clerks. McNally and Kopp was a small accounting firm, but when you multiplied that number times two, it didn’t take great math skills to know that at least one hundred people were assembled to celebrate the holidays. And from the sounds of it, most of the guests were already on their second or third drinks.

In the far corner, a group of men in suits gathered at the bar. Between laughs and swallows, their eyes scanned the room with the hungry look of animals on the hunt.

“Charley!”

Charlotte cringed at the name. Looking up, she saw Judy Riker, her office manager, approaching wearing a peekaboo dress of red sequins and straps that barely held her together. Boy, oh boy, Charlotte thought with a smile. Her mother would be shocked to see so much of Judy’s “you knows” exposed. The men at the bar noticed, too, and Charlotte saw them lean over and comment to one another as Judy passed.

“I was just leaving,” Charlotte said as Judy walked up.

“Leaving? Nonsense. You’ve just arrived. Come on, don’t be such a wallflower. It’s time you had some fun.” Judy coaxed a reluctant Charlotte out of her coat. “My, what a nice dress,” she said, barely disguising her surprise.

“You look nice in red, Charley. You should wear it more often instead of that baggy black and gray you always wear. People always ask if you’re in mourning. With your long blond hair, red is definitely your color.”

“It’s Christmas,” she responded, blushing.

“Well, Merry Christmas, Charley! Come on. Let’s go get a drink. It’s a cash bar, those cheap bastards. You’d think they’d spring for Christmas. What the hell, it’s my treat. Let’s tie one on for Ol’ St. Nick.”

Judy bought Charlotte a white wine, then, her job as hostess done, disappeared into the crowd. Alone again, Charlotte clutched the stem of her wineglass like a lifeline and tracked her path to a table. Her heart sank. She had to walk past the bar.

Charlotte had learned early in life that an ugly face drew as many comments from a group of guys as a pretty one. Maybe more. Hunching her shoulders forward, she let her hair slide over her face in a practiced move of camouflage. She imagined that she was on stage, marked her point across the floor, then, eyes on the point, she proceeded in a straight line across the floor to the backbeat of “Babes in Toyland.”

As she passed the bar, the rowdy men quieted. She held her breath and invoked St. Anthony the Great to protect her from swine. Hurrying her pace, her hands clenching and unclenching the stem of her glass, she found her seat and slunk quickly down into the upholstery. Just when she was muttering thanks to St. Anthony, she saw a man swerving toward her. She sucked in her breath and averted her face.

“Excuse me,” he said at her side. “Have we met?”

It was her boss, Lou Kopp. A chill ran down her spine and she sunk farther into her seat, bringing her hand to her face. From the bar she heard the jeers: “Way to go, Lou.”

She felt like a trapped animal, but years of ridicule had taught her never to show fear. Taking a deep breath, she turned her head slowly to face him, and, as she looked up, her hair fell back from her face. Lou Kopp’s face registered woozy confusion, then shock as his smile slipped.

“What the hell—”

Charlotte winced but willed her voice to remain even.

“My name is Charlotte Godowski. You might remember who I am. I’m an accountant in your company.”

Now the voices from the bar turned to hoots of laughter. “Wow! Tonight’s your lucky night.” “Hey, this is Christmas, not Halloween!”

After each outburst they broke into a renewed round of drunken laughter that riddled like bullets.

Charlotte’s defense was to pretend not to hear them, or the sympathetic tsks from the women within hearing distance. Yet inside she felt like a slip of paper that had burned, curled and turned to ash. If only she could blow away.

For Charlotte knew, as she saw Lou Kopp swagger back to the bar to be welcomed with sympathetic slaps on the back, that tonight would be no different from all the other parties she had ever attended. No different from the lunchrooms at school. Now the naughty boys had a target upon which to vent their frustration against all the beautiful girls who’d scorned them.

Charlotte stood straight and filed past the boozy comrades at the bar. They drunkenly nudged and snickered as she crossed their line of vision. Judy Riker hurried to meet her at the door.

“Charlotte, I don’t know what to say. Maybe if—”

“Please,” she responded, holding up her hand. “Merry Christmas, Judy. Good night.”

It just wasn’t in her to muster a smile. Turning on her heel, she quickly collected her coat, covered the now despised red wool dress, then pressed the elevator button. The bell rang promptly and she moved quickly into the box, punching the lobby button, then closing her eyes in relief at being alone. Just as the doors swept shut, however, a man hurried in. The door bounced from his shoulders then quickly slid shut behind him.

Looking up, she saw Lou Kopp.

“Going to the garage?” Lou asked, pushing the G button.

Charlotte didn’t respond. Silently, she began praying. Hail Mary, full of grace…

“Listen. About what happened earlier…”

Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb…

“I’m sorry.”

Her prayer halted. Did he say he was sorry?

“Hey, it was a terrible thing we did in there. Some of the guys were drunk. Not that that’s any excuse,” he hurried to amend. “And, as your boss, I take full responsibility. Please, Miss Goz…Well. Accept my apology.”

Charlotte hesitated, looking up to gauge the expression in his eyes. Lou Kopp wasn’t a good looking man by most standards. Slick was the word that best described him. His eyes were his saving grace. They were a sunny sky blue that brightened when he smiled, as he did now. You’re the last person who should judge a person by looks, she scolded herself. She accepted his apology with a brief nod.

“How can I make it up to you?”

“You’ve said you’re sorry,” she replied. “That’s enough.”

“No, it’s not. How about I buy you a drink? Wanna go for a drink?”

“No. Thank you.”

“How’re you getting home?”

“I’ll take a cab. It’s not far.” She was planning on taking the train.

“You’ll never get a cab. It’s the holidays—a Friday night. No way. Hey, I’ll tell you what. I’ll drive you home. What d’ya say? It’s the least I can do.”

“That’s not necessary,” she replied, almost stammering.

“Sure it is. I’ll drive you home. It’s no big deal. Besides,” he added, “I’m your boss. I should take care of my employees, right?”

She didn’t have time to respond. The elevator doors opened on the fourth floor and a tall man, conservatively dressed in a long navy wool coat, stepped inside. The elevator seemed to shrink in size and Charlotte, mesmerized, grew acutely aware of everything about him. She stole a quick glance.

He had the most beautiful skin, she thought. The rich color of terra cotta. His cheekbones were high and pronounced, and he had a strong Mayan nose that gave him a distinguished, even stern appearance. Although his thick black hair was fringed along his starched white collar, it was so neatly cut that it was clear the length was by choice, not neglect. Most arresting of all, he bore the indefinable manner of a gentleman, which always set a woman at ease, knowing she had nothing to fear. The scent of sandalwood cut through the stale air of the small compartment.

As they descended, he stood with his dark, long, unadorned fingers clasped before him. In contrast, Lou fingered coins in his pocket. When they reached the lobby and the doors slid open again, the tall man stepped forward and paused to hold the door for her in an age-old gesture of chivalry. Charlotte, flattered, moved forward. Suddenly she felt Lou Kopp’s hand on her arm. She paused awkwardly. The stranger’s dark eyes flashed to meet Charlotte’s, then flicked to Lou’s hand on her arm before quickly snapping back to her, his brows knitted in question.

“Did you want to get out?” he asked. His voice was low and polite, yet she heard in the undercurrent the clear indication that he would help her if she needed it.

“I said I’ll drive you home.” Lou’s voice sounded insistent, and she felt his grip tighten on her arm. He was her boss and Charlotte responded instantly to the authority in his voice.

“Thank you,” she said to the stranger. “I’m fine.”

The man’s gaze probed like an eagle’s, then without another word, he nodded politely and stepped aside, allowing the doors to hum shut between them.

“Lousy spic,” muttered Lou. “What did he think he was doing?”

Being a gentleman, Charlotte thought to herself as she dropped her gaze to her shoes. She felt suddenly and inexplicably lonely.

Lou Kopp and Charlotte rode down the one floor to the garage in silence. Neither did they speak as she followed him along the freezing ramp of the dimly lit, deserted garage. The cement walls were dingy and smeared with graffiti, and the frigid air was heavy with the acrid smell of gasoline. At last they reached a large gray Oldsmobile parked in the corner. He opened the doors and slid into the front seat. Charlotte followed suit.

Lou fired the engine but it coughed, chugged and stalled in the bitter cold. “Damn, but it’s cold. Can’t barely touch the metal.”

Charlotte didn’t respond but curled her chilled toes in her shoes.

Finally the engine turned over, sputtering unevenly and rocking the car like an old beast of burden roused from its hibernation. “Good ol’ American car,” Lou said with a gleam of triumph while rubbing his hands vigorously. Long streams of vapor flowed from his lips and the scent of stale brandy hung heavily in the air. Charlotte ducked her nose into her collar and tucked her icy fingers under her arms. Tonight was one of those arctic Chicago nights that froze the hair in one’s nostrils.

“Yep. Cold tonight,” he repeated, glancing her way with a spark in his eyes. “Wind chill brings it below zero.”

“Feels like it,” she responded shyly, shivering in the darkness. The lights from the garage were dim and made their skin appear sallow and gaunt. “Maybe we should wait inside till the engine warms up.”

“Nah.” Lou reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a small flask. The silver flashed in the yellow light. “Always be prepared,” he said, unscrewing the top with a wink. “This’ll warm us up, eh?”

Charlotte’s eyes widened and she shook her head no.

A shadow of a frown crossed his brow before he wrapped his lips around the flask and took a swallow. When he finished, he released a long sigh and glanced her way. “You don’t think I’m trying to get you drunk here, do you, honey?”

“Of course not, Mr. Kopp,” she replied quickly, embarrassed that he thought her such a prude. Of course he wouldn’t be trying to make her drunk. What man would?

“Just trying to warm you up a little. Spreadin’ some Christmas cheer.” He lifted the flask to his mouth and drank heavily. “How about some music?” He reached over and flicked on the radio. “A Holly Jolly Christmas” played again.

“Isn’t the engine ready yet?” she asked, her voice high with tension.

“Nope. Engine’s not idling. It’s colder than a witch’s teat out there.” His eyes shifted to her chest. “Speakin’ of which, that was a very pretty dress you wore tonight. You’re a regular wolf in sheep’s clothing, if you know what I mean.”

Charlotte shrank into the upholstery.

“Never noticed you before,” he continued. “You’re a real nice girl, you know that? Real nice. What’s your name again?”

“Charlotte. Charlotte Godowski.”

“Charlotte…” He said the name slow, rolling it with his tongue. “Charl…” He stopped and smiled a surprised grin. “Charley?”

She looked out the window, catching her horselike reflection in the glass.

“Well, how come they all call you Charley when you’ve got such a pretty name? Charlotte is so, I dunno, elegant. You know?”

“The name doesn’t exactly match the face,” she replied.

“Hey, what kinda thing is that to say?”

Charlotte was momentarily surprised by his defense and responded to his backward compliment like a dry sponge to a droplet of water. She loosened her grip on the door handle.

“So, how’d you get to be called Charley?”

“One boy thought of it and the name just stuck.” Get Charley Horse! In a flash she recalled the many times she’d lifted her desktop to find carrots or bits of sugar inside, followed by explosions of giggles and laughter.

“Well, Charley’s a decent enough name, I guess. Here,” he said, handing a capful of brandy her way. “Merry Christmas, Charley.”

He was smiling at her, being nice to her, and she wondered if perhaps she’d misjudged him after all. Perhaps he was just like her, teased and tormented by co-workers and merely seeking out a friend on a lonely holiday night. She knew he was no longer married, and this made him safer in her mind.

“Maybe I will,” she said, feeling adventurous. She took the small cap from his hands with a shy smile.

“You have a real nice smile, Charley.”

Her heart skipped at her first real compliment, and she could feel the heat of a furious blush across her face. Charlotte bent her head and brought the icy cap to her lips, desperately trying not to look like a horse with a feed bag. The liquid was smooth and burst like a flame in her belly, warming her all over.

“See? I was right. Told you it’d warm the blood.” He smiled, refilling the cap. “Get your juices flowing.”

Charlotte braved another smile and swallowed more, closing her eyes. She did rather like it. It tasted of fermented plums mixed with fire and something magical that tickled her nose and tingled her tum. When she opened her eyes, Lou was still smiling at her. She searched his crooked features with a forgiving eye, seeking signs of integrity and goodness, qualities she may have overlooked before. No, he wasn’t a handsome man, not even a good looking one. But she never expected the attention of a handsome man. If his heart was kind, wasn’t that enough?

“Aren’t you getting warm in here now? Why don’t you take off that heavy coat? We’re having a little party here.”

“No,” she blurted. “No, I’m still cold.”

“Let me warm you up.” Lou swooped down to press his mouth against hers.

The sudden move took Charlotte by such surprise that she was frozen in shock. Then it dawned on her. My God, she was actually being kissed! For years, she’d only imagined the poetic experience of flesh on flesh. And now it was happening to her. She’d begun to believe it never would. She ought to discourage him, push him away, but what harm was there in one kiss?

In the cool, blanketing anonymity of night, the spinster analyzed the sensations with studied detachment. His lips felt dry and chapped and tasted of brandy. Yet it wasn’t so bad, she decided. As she relaxed more she felt a queer sensation, a tingling, that spread through her bloodstream like the brandy had. It left a fiery sensation in her belly, then, yes, lower in that secret place. Charlotte felt wicked and thrilled that she was experiencing a kiss, a real kiss—at last.

“There now,” he murmured with satisfaction, slipping the coat off her shoulders and shifting his body so that he was leaning over her. He smiled at her sweetly. She half smiled in return. “You should wear clothes like this more often,” he said, his voice rich with praise. “Shows you off. Shows these off.”

His gaze traveled from her shoulders down to her chest. He encircled her breasts with his hands, weighing their fullness over the stretch of red wool. He sighed lustily.

“Oh, you’re big. And it’s all you, too. We weren’t sure they were real.”

He lowered his mouth to hers again, and she soon discovered how he got the name Fast Hands. Charlotte was awash in new sensations and asked herself again and again if she should stop. But surely this was all harmless. She’d heard the girls in the office talk about this sort of thing all the time. Why shouldn’t she experience this, too?

Suddenly, Lou lifted himself back with a jolt, unbuckling his belt. As the cold air settled between them, she saw him fumble with his zipper. Charlotte realized in a snap that they’d gone too far. She didn’t want anything that had to do with unzipping trousers.

“I think we should stop now,” she said firmly, pushing up on her elbows.

“No…no, not yet. We haven’t even started having fun yet.” The zipper hummed loudly in the darkness.

“I said that’s enough.” Her voice was as crisp and cold as the night.

“Whoa, baby. Not so fast. You’re a wild one, aren’t you? I’m ready for you, though. Oh, yeah. I’m gonna give you a real nice Christmas present.”

She wrestled her hand away from his grasp with a cry of alarm. Where was the spark of kindness that she thought she’d detected? How could she have been duped into trusting him against her better judgment. Fear replaced pleasure in a sudden rash move. She fought against him, but he wrestled her legs wide, maneuvering one up onto the seat while the other dangled uselessly to the floor. When his hand moved to slide under the waistband of her panty hose, Charlotte screamed but he cut it off with his palm.

“I’ll bet I’m the first one, right?” When he saw her eyes widen in horror, he laughed. “Thought so. Didn’t think a whole lot of guys would be lining up. You got a great body, kid, but I swear, I oughta put a bag on your head.”

Tears instantly flooded Charlotte’s eyes as she felt a despair deeper and more raw than any caused by a physical blow. She bit his palm, digging into soft flesh, then threw her head back and screamed as loud as she could. “No!”

He hit her then, hard, stunning her.

“Shut up,” he said in an angry growl. “You’d better play along or you’ll lose your job. Besides, you’re so ugly, you should pay me for it.”

Lying there, feeling the tug of fabric roll down her hips, buttocks, then thighs, Charlotte flashed back to the time long ago, in kindergarten, when she’d felt the same brutal pulling down of her pants. Now it was happening again, she realized with unspeakable shame. She was lying here, on this smelly car seat in this dirty garage, letting Lou Kopp do it to her all over again.

Something snapped in Charlotte. All the anger and shame that she’d felt lying on the dirt behind the bleachers came back to her in a rush. Fifteen years of remembering that incident, wishing she’d fought harder, screamed louder. Years of anguish from cruel jeers and taunts from boys while she just sat back and took it all, came rushing to her. Suddenly, in a brilliant flash that lit up her dim dismay, Charlotte remembered the promise she had made herself back behind the bleachers.

Consumed with fury, indignation and resolve, she was strong. Charlotte bunched her hand into a fist. “N-o-o-o!” she screamed, and swung up to meet his jaw with a resounding crack.

Lou cried out, falling back, slapping his palm against his jaw. Seizing the moment, Charlotte raised her right leg and with righteous power kicked like a horse, making direct contact with what he’d been so proud of moments before. Lou howled in pain and doubled up.

Not wasting a second, Charlotte yanked open the door with her hand. Pushing hard away, she fell back out of the car, losing her shoes and landing in a heap on the hard, cold pavement. Scrambling to her feet, she yanked up her pants, grabbed her purse and ran, shoeless, toward the stairs. She allowed herself only one quick backward glance at Lou Kopp. He was still moaning and cursing, hunched over in the front seat. A wounded wolf howling at the moon.

Vindication surged through her veins as she raced to the door. She’d fought back! No more cowering. No more whimpering. Never again would she allow someone to take advantage of her. She was through feeling sorry for herself.

Running out of the garage to the sidewalk, Charlotte gulped the air. The icy cold burned her chest, cleansing her. It awoke her to the stars that flickered in the sky overhead. Standing in her stocking feet, with her coat and purse dangling at her side, she lifted her face to them.

“I matter,” she called out to the stars. Then farther into the heavens, she called out to God. “I do not accept this fate you’ve given me. I swear by all that is holy that I will find a way to change it. And if you have any mercy at all for me, your lowliest of creations, you will not stop me.” She took a deep, trembling breath, afraid of the new feelings that rumbled inside her breast, demanding to be heard.

“And if you do try to stop me,” she cried, shaking her fist in the sky, “I will defy you!”

Three

Michael Mondragon paused at the hotel lobby door. The look in that woman’s eyes as the elevator door closed stayed with him. As well as that huddled-shoulder stance that he saw so often in women when they were feeling shy or insecure. A gut instinct told him that he should have pressed further, made sure that she was all right. But she had said no. Any more interference would have been seen as aggressive.

Certainly the sour looks from that other man told him to back off. Michael’s lips curled. He knew the type: a real sleazebag out for a good time. Another reason why he didn’t feel comfortable leaving a seemingly naive girl with him. There was something about her. Not beauty. It was a shame about her chin…. She had lovely, silent-movie-queen eyes that spoke for her. And they spoke eloquently of an innocence that men like that creep preyed on. And that men like him defended.

Michael blew a steady, calming stream of air from his lips, trying to shake off the guilty feeling. She’d said no, he reminded himself. These days women knew their own minds and didn’t appreciate unasked-for chivalry.

“No good deed goes unpunished,” he muttered, closing the case in his mind and pushing open the glass doors.

He stepped straight into a frigid blast of wind that gusted from Lake Michigan. It took his breath away and whipped his long hair back from his forehead.

“Damn this Chicago weather,” he cursed. The Windy City was aptly nicknamed, and this close to the lake, the gusts were strong enough to push along even a man as big as he. He’d never get used to it. Michael hunched his shoulders, turned up his collar and rammed his hands into his pockets before joining those few foolhardy enough to walk the sidewalks this arctic night. He thought of the warm breezes of California and fingered the envelope in his pocket.

Michael quickened his pace to Michigan Avenue where, with luck and a piercing whistle, he might catch a cab. He’d just ducked out of a small wedding reception for a fellow architect at city hall. Frank and his bride seemed so happy, so sure of their decision to spend the rest of their lives together. Their happiness left him feeling hollow, reminding him how empty his own life was.

Michael fingered again the envelope in his coat pocket. He had received the letter from his father early today and carried it with him, rereading it several times. His father hadn’t written him more than three letters in his whole life. Most of the letters he’d received were from his mother. Her English was better, and she would kindly include his father’s opinions. “Your father and I are proud of your good work at school.” “Your father sends you his love.” “Your father and I wonder why you don’t come home more often.”

His father, however, rarely lifted a pen to write a letter. Michael never judged him harshly for it. Truth was, he understood that his father was too exhausted from lifting a shovel all day to even consider lifting a pen into his large worn and callused hands.

He had received his first letter when an essay he’d written on the Constitution was published in the local newspaper. The second when he graduated from college. “A college graduate!” his mother had crooned, her breast as puffed as a hen’s. The first ever from his family. Michael’s entire extended family had gathered to celebrate the occasion at a noisy fiesta with plenty of singing and laughing. He remembered with chagrin the suspicious glares from the “gringos” neighbors. And now this one. In this third letter, his father, Luis, had called Michael home.

“My hands,” he had written in his own hand. “They are bad now. They no do what they must do. And the customers, they are not happy. So many young men come with new ideas. Ha! They know nothing of the soil. Of the plants. But they draw pretty pictures for los gringos who know even less nothing than they do.

“I need you now,” he wrote, underlining now. “To help the family. You know how to draw those fancy pictures. You know how to talk the English good. Most of all, you know the soil. I need you. Tu. Miguel. My son.”

Michael shivered as a cold blast shot down his spine. Mi padre. He loved his father. And he missed him. Yet his father was asking him to give up his career as an architect to return to California and the landscape business that his father had started thirty years earlier. Asking him to return to his roots.

Michael closed his eyes against the memories. Roots. The soil. Black dirt under his nails. He ground his teeth. What did he want with roots? He was an architect. He built skyscrapers. Madre de Dios, he swore under his breath. He strove higher and higher into the sky. Miles—years—away from the soil. Away from the time he was scurrilously considered just another spic with a shovel. Wasn’t that why he’d left California? To sever the roots? To break with the culture that grounded him?

Michael lifted his chin and laughed loudly into the bitter wind. Fool, he was! Such roots could not be severed. He would return. He knew it. Like poison ivy, the roots of his family were invasive. They dug too deep. No matter how he fought to deny it, he was Mexican. It was his culture, his blood. It was who he was. And, more, he was a Mexican man. Machismo. A Mexican male could not be weak or cry about his pain. Machismo required that he honor his father. Machismo demanded that he remember the family.

To remember it all.

The Michigan Avenue office of Dr. Jacob Harmon was as glittering and impressive as his reputation. The waiting room had the cool, smooth elegance of crystal, and as with fine crystal, Charlotte felt afraid to touch anything. But her eyes took in everything: the forced paperwhites in a pinecone basket, the lovely petit point upholstery, and a pungent, silvery eucalyptus wreath for the holidays. Even the artwork was original, not like the cheap prints and peeling posters on the walls at McNally and Kopp. It made her feel that she’d come to the right place. She held her hands tight against her thighs, not willing to so much as move a single up-to-date magazine in the plastic-protected covering from its precisely ordered line. In the corner, her blue wool coat hung in shabby contrast to the other luxurious ones. It embarrassed her just to look at it.

“Miss Godowski? Come this way, please.”

The stunning brunette nurse led her to a small, shell pink examining room to take a thorough medical history. Then she was transferred across the dove gray carpet and left to roost in Dr. Harmon’s office. She thought all the glass and shiny chrome was rather cold and hoped it didn’t reflect the doctor’s personality. Charlotte was exceedingly nervous about the interview. She knew that the doctor’s psychological exam was as important as the physical one in determining if she was fit for surgery. And she just had to have the surgery….

After what felt an interminable wait, the office door swung open and Dr. Harmon came sweeping into the room with a billowing white coat, followed by another model-perfect nurse. Charlotte’s mouth fell open. The doctor appeared more a boy. He was short, small boned, with amazingly smooth skin for a grown man. How old could he be? she wondered. More to the point, how many operations had he done?

Dr. Harmon delivered a quick, piercing look as he passed her, then moved to sit behind the huge desk that only dwarfed him further. The nurse appeared attentive, even fawning, to Dr. Harmon as she presented him with the chart and a coquettish smile. She left without so much as a nod of acknowledgment to Charlotte.

Charlotte’s heart began to pound. She slunk far back into the chair and peered out at Dr. Harmon with a guarded expression. He appeared unaware that she was even in the office. He leaned far back in his leather chair and began reading her chart, flicking pages with sharp, quick precision. She thought of a sparrow picking at seed. Good hands for a plastic surgeon, Charlotte decided.

Gradually he lowered the manila chart and raised his gaze. It was as though a searchlight had been flicked on and was scouring every inch of her eyes, her nose, her lips and the awkward line of her deformed jaw. Charlotte didn’t feel embarrassed by the scrutiny because Dr. Harmon studied her with the cold focus of a clinician.

Then, as suddenly, his expression changed. The intensity dissipated, and a slight, practiced smile politely took its place on his face. Charlotte sat up. The interview was about to begin.

“Good morning, Miss…” He looked again at the chart.

“Godowski.”

“Ah, yes. Thank you. Miss Godowski. Your general health seems to be in fine shape. I’ll give you a complete exam, but I don’t anticipate any worries there.” He looked up again at her with a benign expression. “Suppose you tell me, in your own words, how you would like me to help you.” Dr. Harmon folded his hands neatly upon the desk and looked at her with a bemused expression.

Looking at his face, a face so baby smooth she wondered if hair ever grew on it, Charlotte was at a loss for words. “I…” She stammered and looked away. “I would think it’s obvious.”

The doctor only offered that same faint grin in reply.

She clenched her hands tightly in her lap. What could she say that he didn’t already see? He cocked his head as a prompt. Taking a deep breath, Charlotte blurted out the truth that hovered at her lips.

“I want to be beautiful.”

He furrowed his brows and pursed his lips in concern.

“I see,” he replied.

Charlotte flushed. Of course he saw, all too clearly, and no doubt he thought she was crazy. She shifted her weight, mortified to have released her innermost secret. “Well maybe,” she amended, plucking at her dress with trembling fingers, “maybe just sort of pretty?” She could hear her mother saying, “We’ll make her pretty, no?”

Dr. Harmon’s expression altered to reveal compassion. “Maybe,” he conceded. “In fact, quite possible.” Studying her face like an artist would a blank canvas, he continued. “There are changes I could suggest, but I’d like to hear your thoughts first. What specifically would you like to see done?”

Charlotte took a deep breath, blinking. He hadn’t laughed at her. He hadn’t said her dream was impossible, rather, he’d said “possible.” Did he have any idea how much hope he had just given her?

“Well…I guess…let’s see…” she stammered out. Then, raising her gaze to meet his, she said firmly, “My chin.”

“What about your chin?”

“I want one,” she said more boldly. “A real one that curves out from the jaw and rounds out under my lips. And now that I mention it, I’d like a jaw, too. One that rolls at a right angle from my neck. A separate entity, not the mountain slope that I have now.”

“And the rest? Your nose, your eyes, your cheekbones?”

Charlotte thought a moment. “No,” she replied. “God gave me those. They reflect my mother and my father, and I accept those as part of who I am.”

“Very good.”

He smiled, and Charlotte felt enormously relieved. That was obviously a right answer. She began to relax a bit, unclenching her fingers. She was aware that Dr. Harmon noted in that steel trap of a gaze every movement she made.

“How long have you been unhappy with your chin?”

“Forever. I used to think God shortchanged me on my face.”

“Shortchanged? That’s an interesting way to put it.”

“When I was a little girl, I believed that God made each of us separately, like a sculptor. The rest of me is just fine.” She blushed and laughed shortly. “I figured God ran out of time and had to push me through, leaving my chin unfinished.” She looked up, relieved to see an amused smile on Dr. Harmon’s face. “A child’s reasoning, I know,” she continued. “But I haven’t found another excuse yet. It just feels so…unfair.”

She paused, choosing her words. “I’m not looking to change all of me, Doctor,” she said in earnest. “I’m just asking you to finish what God started.”

Dr. Harmon didn’t speak for a moment. He seemed moved by what she had said.

“I’m pleased to hear that you don’t want me to change everything. That would be unrealistic. What you have is a congenital flaw in your jaw. It’s a rare condition, and correction will involve a long, sensitive procedure. The jaw will be cut and repositioned, bone grafts will be considered, and in extreme conditions such as yours, artificial implants are inserted to augment size and thrust of the jaw and chin. Simply moving bone is not enough. And follow-up with an orthodontist. It is, however, doable, and frankly, you have come to the right doctor. I specialize in craniofacial surgery.”

“I heard that. I also heard that you were the best.”

A flicker of satisfaction crossed his face, but he had the grace not to confirm the compliment.

“How does your family feel about the operation?”

“Family?”

He glanced at his chart. “It says here you live with your mother.”

“That’s right.”

“Is there anyone else important to you? A significant other?”

Charlotte sighed. “There’s only my mother.”

He raised his brows, determined that she would speak.

“I haven’t told her yet.”

His brows rose higher. “Why not?”

“I don’t believe she’ll approve.”

“Sometimes relatives don’t understand how important it can be for someone to have a particular operation. Nonetheless, it is important that you discuss it with her if only to determine the degree of support you can expect.”

“I can do this alone.”

“Miss Godowski, after any operation there is a physical and psychological stress that may affect both your stamina and mood. That is only natural.”

“I’m very fit. I have great stamina.”

“By this I mean many people feel blue and down for a while. You will need some support. I encourage you to talk to your mother. Honestly and frankly.”

Charlotte nodded in compliance. “I’ll try.”

“You will let me know her reaction?”

Charlotte nodded again.

“What if your mother opposes surgery? What will you do?”

Charlotte looked up and met his gaze squarely. “I will still have the operation.”

Dr. Harmon narrowed his gaze. “This operation means so much to you?”

“Yes. It means everything.” She forced herself not to shrink away from his questioning gaze.

“Why?” he pursued. “Why now? Usually women who are born with your condition have surgery at least by their adolescence. You are—” he again checked her chart “—twenty. What prompted you to seek help now?”

The image of Lou Kopp flashed in her mind. She couldn’t tell him that. Definitely not. And if she was honest with herself, Lou Kopp wasn’t the only reason why she wanted change. Truth was, he was just the tip of the iceberg, the proverbial last straw.

“I guess it just took me longer to grow up than those other women,” she replied slowly. Then, thinking of her old dreams, she added, “I used to believe that beauty was in the eye of the beholder. I had to. If I didn’t, I’d have to give up the dream that someday, someone would see beyond this face and love the person I am inside.” She looked at her shoes and her shoulders slumped. “I finally figured out no one will give me a chance with this face.”

“By give you a chance you mean…”

“Love me.”

“Ah, I understand.” Dr. Harmon tapped his fingers together. “And you believe that this operation will make someone love you?”

“No,” Charlotte replied, wise to the trap. “I know my face alone won’t make someone love me. That’s why I said ‘chance.’ All I want is a chance.”

“That’s a fair answer. So, in general, would you say that life treats you pretty well?”

She gave another crooked smile. “To be totally honest with you…no. This face hasn’t made life easy.”

“Have you ever seen a psychiatrist, or any other mental health professional?”

“I’m ugly, not crazy.” Charlotte dropped her hands and sighed. “I know you have to ask all these questions, Doctor. But I’m not asking you for some cosmetic repair here, like a nose job or a face-lift. I have a legitimate deformity. You said so yourself. I’m physically well. I exercise, eat well and have no known ailments. I’m a prime candidate. And though my life has been dull, Doctor, it has been stable. There are no skeletons in my closet. I assure you, I am not crazy.”

“No one is suggesting that you are. You must realize, however, that a surgery such as this, that can dramatically alter your appearance, will require psychological adjustment, too. It will take time—weeks, perhaps even months—for you to accept your new appearance. You may even experience a personality change.”

“I’m not afraid, Doctor. I’m ready for a change. I’ve waited for twenty years.”

She could tell by the way he tilted his head and stroked his chin that Dr Harmon was making far more than superficial observations.

“Very well, Miss Godowski,” he said, closing her chart. There was no warmth in the gaze he offered, but she hadn’t come here for that. Shining in Dr. Jacob Harmon’s eyes were the bravado and conceit of a supreme surgeon who had made a decision, who knew he could get the job done—and done better than anyone else. Charlotte sat straighter in her chair. Her excitement could barely be contained. She sensed that he meant to do the operation.

“One more question, Miss Godowski, and we’ll be done. Tell me. Do you believe that this surgery will change your life?”

She raised her gaze to his. “I don’t believe surgery will change my life. But it will make it better.”

Dr. Harmon allowed himself a smile then and she knew she’d passed the exam. When his smile broadened and his eyes twinkled, she knew she’d scored an A.

“Well then,” he replied, laying down his pencil and sitting up in his chair. “In that case, I don’t see why we can’t proceed.”

Jacob Harmon swiveled in his Eames chair while pouring over the computer images he had designed for Charlotte’s face. On the table beside him dozens of photographs of her face and body that he’d shot over the past week lay in scattered piles, along with X-rays, dental models and other diagnostic studies. He magnified the computer images and traveled the hills and valleys of her cheekbones to the gaping nostril hollows, then north to large blue lakes of eyes and the broadening plains of the brow. The doctor punched in coordinates and brought the whole face back again to gain better perspective of his new jawline design, the resulting curve of her lips and the triumph of her delicately curved chin.

Charlotte was a most challenging case. Her body…Remembering it now still gave him pause. If he had not known better he’d have sworn she’d been well worked over by teams of surgeons to achieve such perfection. It had everything. Symmetry, proportion, smoothness, color. Even her skin was perfect, like polished alabaster.

Still, she had something more that compelled him toward absolute perfection. She possessed an ethereal quality that brought her beyond mere mortal beauty. Charlotte’s eyes—they mesmerized him. Past her veil of shyness, Charlotte’s eyes held mystery.

Jacob returned to his sketches with renewed vigor. His fingers itched to work. Surgically, Jacob knew what had to be done. He’d reached the point where the physician’s work ended and the artist’s work took over. Crossing this line was what made his work poetry and so many other surgeons’ efforts merely adequate. He chuckled to himself, delighted at the concept of himself as an obsessed artist at work on his masterpiece.

For that was what she would be—his masterpiece. He knew that body image was a view of the body through the mind’s eye. But this girl wanted to be beautiful. And he would make her more beautiful than even she had dreamed possible.

Charlotte’s visit with Mr. McNally a week later was quick and businesslike. As she coolly told her former employer the reason why she was quitting her job, she watched McNally’s usually ruddy face pale and pinch. As she stammered out the sordid details, his lips thinned and his eyes narrowed in silent fury. At the end of the discussion, Mr. McNally did not call in Lou Kopp, as she had worried he would. He calmly assured her that she would be spared any further discomfort, then asked if she’d like a cab home.

As soon as Charlotte left, Mr. McNally hurried to his phone and dialed his lawyer.

“George, Kopp has been at it again. I had some girl in my office threatening to sue for sexual harassment.”

There was a long, rumbling sigh on the other end of the line. “What did he do this time?”

McNally briefly recounted the events, including the job threat.

“I think it would be better if we settled this one quickly,” the lawyer advised in a somber tone. “The other one may still go to trial.”

Charlotte was delighted later that the amount offered for settlement was enough to cover the cost of her operation. Charlotte’s lawyer had suggested more, but Charlotte wasn’t greedy. In fact, she was so relieved by the amount that she had to stop herself from thanking Mr. McNally.

“I only want one assurance,” she said as they shook hands.

McNally raised his brow.

“I want assurance that Mr. Kopp won’t do this to someone else. He’s plagued the women in that office for years.”

“I think we can take care of that.”

That was enough; she was not out for blood. Although she did break out in a grin when, a few months later, she learned that Mr. Kopp had left the company for “personal” reasons.

Four

On Christmas Eve, Michael Mondragon eased his rented Mustang convertible onto Interstate 5, stretched his arm over the car seat and began whistling along with the Christmas melodies playing on the radio. He had to admit, Christmas Eve was always best when spent with family. And he’d be home in time for Mama’s Christmas Eve dinner.

As he pushed beyond the gray tentacles of Los Angeles into the vertical green of the mountains and valleys that surrounded his home, he felt the long trip’s tension slide off his shoulders like rocky boulders. Chicago seemed a million miles away. An hour’s drive out, he turned off the main road to an obscure side road, barely fit for travelers. Those with money and sense kept to the main road that led to plush resorts and well maintained camping grounds. Only the adventurous few ventured along these roads that wound past small townships and farms and through forests of white fir, cedar and piñon, ponderosa and Jeffrey pines. He knew the names of all the trees and vegetation. It was, after all, the family business.

The road angled sharply, then dipped lower as he entered the familiar lushness of the valley he called home. It had rained recently; the road was slick and black sage lent a purple hue to a whole mountainside. The rain-scented wind stung his face and he could taste its sweetness. Michael drove steadily down the same road that, years ago, he’d driven trucks along from the Mondragon nursery to the yards of California suburbia.

Memories passed through his mind like mile markers as he drove by familiar landmarks of his youth. At a favorite lookout point, Michael slowed to a stop and turned off the engine. Dusk was setting in; the birds were calling. From his high vantage point, the valley lay spread before him as open and lush as a willing woman. He breathed in deeply, his chest expanding. Damn, but she smelled sweet, too.

Deep in the valley, the dark vegetation reached up to the sky, as though to grab the pale evening clouds that hovered low. “The hems of the angels,” he’d called them as a child. Michael had always felt that at this languid hour, at this mystical spot, he was within reach of heaven.

He sighed, running his hand through his thick hair. So many old memories stirred. It was here that he first found love in the cab of a Mondragon truck. Here that he’d made his decision to defy his family and take the Harvard scholarship. Here that he’d sworn that someday he’d leave these mountains and never return.

And he did leave. His life in Chicago was more than the few thousand miles away from his Mexican-American family. It was a world apart. Yet there lay the irony. Why was it, he wondered, that no matter how far he traveled or how much he changed, when he returned home he slipped back into old, familiar patterns? He knew that when he drove through the Mondragon gates, he would no longer be Mr. Michael Mondragon who’d graduated magna cum laude from Harvard, who’d earned a hard-fought-for position at a well connected architectural firm in Chicago, who’d billed more in one year than his father dreamed of billing in a decade. No, in a few moments more he would be poor little Miguel, the brooding outcast who’d dared to leave the family fold.

His large, manicured hands molded over the gearshift, tightening in resolve. He’d worked too hard, come too far, to play any more roles. When he saw his father, mother, sister and brother, he would make them see, this time, who he was. Now. Michael took a last look at the fading sunset, then shook his head as a bittersweet smile hovered at his lips.

He might as well try to catch the hem of the angels.

Once he passed the borders of his father’s property, he saw visible signs that the business had taken a bad turn. The outbuildings were slipping down, the stock was sparse and what was left didn’t have the luster and vigor that Mondragon plants were known for. His brow knit, but he traveled without pause past the hilly slopes of viburnum, euonymous and evergreens to the small stucco house with the red tile roof a hundred yards beyond. His father’s Chevy pickup was parked in front beside a few newer, full-size American cars. He recognized his sister’s wedding garter hanging from her Mercury’s rearview mirror.

The house looked pretty much as it always did. Mama’s bright yellow front door was trimmed with fresh pine boughs and holly, and behind Mama’s lace curtains, the lights were blazing and Papa was playing mariachi music. His heart skipped with anticipation—no, he had to admit, eagerness. No sooner had he pulled the car to a stop than the front door of the house flung open and his father stepped forward, both arms stretched wide and a toothy grin on his weathered face. Michael felt childishly pleased knowing that they’d been on the lookout for him.

“He’s home!” Luis boomed, his voice like thunder in the valley. “Everyone. Come out. Miguel, he is home at last!”

Behind him came the high-pitched welcomes of his mother and his sister, Rosa, and behind them, Rosa’s children. More slowly, his brother Bobby sauntered forward. As he embraced them one by one, he could smell the heady scent of a Mexican Christmas on their clothes, in their hair and lingering in their kisses. Dark chocolate, vanilla and oranges.

Once inside, he was tempted to walk around the family home, to peek into bedrooms and closets, to see if he still had a room. He felt nervous. Out of place. The family clustered around him, however, chatting amiably, reminiscing over events that were far sweeter in memory. After a few minutes the conversation slowed, but this was to be expected. After all, it’d been several years since he’d been home. His ear was quick to pick up the soft, intimate sounds of Spanish, the language of his family. Michael could feel his tongue stumble around the vowels and consonants as he struggled with his broken replies.

“Little Francisco speaks better Spanish than his uncle Miguel,” his mother teased. Michael only smiled. This was an old stalemate that had begun when Michael, the only Mexican in his suburban first grade class, announced one night at family dinner that he would only speak English as the nuns had instructed him to. His mother, hurt and confused, had ceased her fluid flow of Spanish and met his announcement with obedience. “If the nuns said so…”

His father had responded typically, exploding in anger and casting him off to his room, where Michael preferred to be, anyway. It was the beginning of the unraveling of his ties to his family. The first step in the distance he was to create between them.

Tonight there was no criticism in Luis’s eyes, however. He beamed at his youngest son.

“Rosa,” Luis boomed to his daughter. “Settle your children. I want to talk to Miguel alone for a moment.” He guided Michael to the large family kitchen. Closing the door, he paused and sighed a bit theatrically. “Ah, some peace and quiet, eh? If I could harness the energy of those bebés, I could live forever! But—” he shrugged with his whole body, arms and palms lifting upward “—I’ll settle for a small glass of beer.”

“Ah, Mama,” Michael said, accepting a bottle and sniffing the air. The familiar scents of Mexican cooking, mingled with the sounds of children laughing and grown-ups talking in Spanish in the room next door, was like a soothing balm, restoring his sense of place.

“Smells like heaven.”

Marta said nothing, but her skin flushed with pleasure as she hovered over the huge stove covered with simmering pots. He and his father leaned against the wood counter in the delicious-smelling room, arms crossed, bottles held in fists as they began the awkward conversation that always followed months of separation.

“So,” Luis began. It was more a clearing of the throat.

“How are you?”

“Fine…fine,” Michael responded slowly. He hoped he didn’t sound cautious, and took a long swallow of beer.

“Real good.”

“What you doing in Chicago?”

He shrugged. “Same old, same old. Mayor Daley wants more trees planted, so when we finish a building, we plant him more trees.” Father and son exchanged glances over their bottles and shared a mutual laugh.

“Glad to see you’re still planting something.”

They tried hard to maneuver their conversation into friendly territory, and the occasional quips Marta offered as she stirred at the stove helped. Yet it was clear to Michael that his father was pining to talk plainly but didn’t want to push his son hard the moment he stepped in the door. Luis was a tall, big-fisted and broad-shouldered man with a voice to match. Seeing him stutter over inanities was like watching a bull stumble in a china shop. Michael decided to make it easier for him.

“The nursery looks hard hit,” he opened, going straight to the point.

Luis’s face revealed surprise, immediately followed by relief. He began to nod his burly head widely. “Yes, yes, exactly!” he boomed, stretching out his arm in agreement. “The drought last year, aieee! We lost so much, and what is left—” he shook his hands to the heavens “—it’s not fit to live. Son of a bitch drought. Grass burn like hell, and the people call and say, ‘No cut.’ When we no cut they no pay. Do they care? No! ‘No cut’ is all they say.” He shook his head. “So much dies.”

“I heard it was bad. I’m sorry you were so hard hit.”

Luis shrugged. “Will of God, no?”

“Perhaps…” He took a long swallow of beer, avoiding a religious debate. In the Mondragon household, life’s twists and turns were all part of God’s infinite plan. To be endured. “How is Manuel doing?” Michael didn’t know his brother-in-law very well. He seemed a decent sort of fellow, but the man would have to be a saint to live with his hot-tempered sister, Rosa.

His father shrugged noncommittally. “He does okay cutting the lawns. The men they like him, but…” Luis rubbed his jaw. “It’s not just drought. He no can draw the land pictures like the people want now. They want something special, you know? And if you can draw the pictures, you can sell stock, too. Draw for free sometimes, just to get the job.”

“I know what you mean, Papa. It’s common now. Why didn’t you hire someone? A designer?”

“Why I go hire someone when my son is best there is?”

Michael’s sigh rumbled in his chest. “Perhaps because I’m an architect in Chicago? Papa, I build skyscrapers. High in the sky.” He ground his teeth and said softly, “I don’t dig in the earth anymore.”

“Madre de Dios. How can you like working away from the soil? What you want to play with concrete blocks for in Chicago when you can have all this fine California earth? This precious land. I ask you!”

Michael heard the pleading hidden in the boisterous exclamation and it broke his heart. His father was a proud man, raised harshly as an orphan by his relatives in Mexico. At twenty-two he brought his family to America because a bachelor uncle had died and left a small piece of California land to his only living nephew. From the moment he’d seen the fertile valley, Luis Mondragon’s life had had purpose. He’d turned a deaf ear to the many lucrative offers for the land and held on tight to his future—a risky move for a poor Mexican with three hungry children.

When he’d saved enough money, Luis had moved his ragtag family to the suburbs and established a modest lawn maintenance company. He slaved in suburban yards from dawn till sundown seven days a week, like a huge bull in the harness. Luis hated the suburbs, but Marta had wanted the good “gringo” schools where the nuns would teach her children the same things as white children. Besides, what could he do? The suburbs was where the money was. The people liked his wit and strong back, and his business thrived. When the boys grew older they helped run the mowers and hedge clippers, working for a pittance.

Though his father may have been cheap with a dollar, he was very generous with his knowledge. Like his precious nursery, he nurtured his boys, teaching Roberto and Miguel about the soil, stock and the family secrets for a vigorous plant. Every spare penny earned went back to the land. When at last he could begin a nursery, he sold only a few select plants, just the ones his customers were likely to buy. Then, slowly, with his twinkling eyes and infectious laughter, he teased his customers to “try something a little bit different, no?” Plant by plant, Luis built the reputation of the Mondragon nursery, and Michael knew it had to break the old man’s heart to see a lifetime of struggle strangled by heat, drought and competition. Looking at his face now, he saw how the drought had coursed new crevices in his father’s handsome face as well.

“What would you have me do, Papa?” he asked simply.

His father searched his face, then relaxed with a satisfied, proud grin. “Ah, Miguel. You are a true son to me. Sí! I see so much of me in you.”

Michael stepped back from the bear hug, rebelling against the comparison. He wasn’t like his father. Not at all. “Papa…”

“You see, Marta?” Luis interrupted, tightening his possessive arm around Michael’s shoulders. The force of his will flowed through him. “I told you my son would help me. I have one good son.”

Michael met his mother’s gaze over his father’s head.

“No, Luis,” she replied somberly. “You have two good sons.”

When the feast was prepared, the family gathered around the long, dark wood table while Marta served the family favorites with pride. Ceviche, roast leg of pork in adobe sauce, corn pudding and green rice. For dessert, Marta insisted on no less than four cakes with fresh strawberries and cream.

“Sit down now, Marta,” bellowed Luis. “Enough! You run like a rabbit. It makes me tired just to watch. Sit! It is time to eat.”

Clucking her tongue while scanning the table for any missing salt shakers, butter or salsa, Marta reluctantly took her seat beside Luis.

While Luis led the family in prayer, Michael studied the faces collected at the table. His family reflected Mexico’s rich and diverse history. His father was still a virile, handsome man. Tall, with dark hair boldly streaked with gray and heavy, bushy brows. His mother, Marta, had skin as fair and glowing as the Madonna in the May holy card pictures she adored. Her brown and gray hair, rolled smoothly back into a bun, accentuated the delicate, patrician features that reflected her Spanish descent.

His brother, Bobby, was the most like her. His hair was as blond as hers once was, his skin as light and his frame as delicate. His cocky smile carved deep dimples into a face already over-blessed with good looks. His sister, Rosa, was also fair. But to her lifelong dismay, she was tall and wide in the shoulders, like himself and their father, a large woman able to lift heavy machinery and do a man’s day of work. Luis had often complained bitterly to Marta that she had somehow gotten the genes between Bobby and Rosa mixed up.

Michael grew up knowing that of all the family, his features were the most Indian-like. Unusually tall, like his father, his skin was the darkest, his hair the coarsest and his face as severely chiseled as any Mayan statue. Of the three Mondragon children, only he’d been given a nasty push from behind by the local suburban boys after school.

“We do not come together every Christmas,” began Luis, his dark eyes gleaming white against terra cotta skin as he stood at the table, a glass of wine held in a toast.

“We are together—as a family should be.” His gaze scanned the family, one by one, settling firmly on Michael.

“A la familia!”

“To the family!” Michael replied in English, covertly catching Bobby’s amused glance.

“You look good,” Bobby said later, his eyes openly appreciating Michael’s black jacket, crisp white shirt and knitted silk tie. Bobby had always been the sharp dresser and used to chide Michael pitilessly while growing up. “Armani, huh? Where are the worn jeans, the mismatched socks, and God…remember the leather jacket?”

“Of course,” he replied with a wistful smile. “Wish I still had it.”

When he was young he’d always worn a shirt, even in the summer, so his already dark skin wouldn’t darken more. He could still remember how hot and sweaty he got working in the yards, covered up, while watching pale-skinned boys run and play in cool T-shirts. He’d saved every penny he earned, not buying a candy or seeing a movie, in order to buy himself that leather jacket, and it had become a second skin.

“Man, I loved that jacket.”

“Maybe, but that one’s not too shabby. Los gringos in Chicago finally taught you how to dress?”

Michael smiled, refusing to rise to the bait. Truth was, clothes didn’t matter to him in the least. As long as it was well cut and black, he was satisfied. What mattered to him was how pale and thin his brother looked. Bobby’s clothes hung from him as limply as from a wire hanger.

“You feeling all right, big brother?” Michael leaned over and asked, concern in his lowered voice.

A shadow flickered in Bobby’s eyes, then, as quickly, disappeared. “The flu,” he replied with a casual smile. His gaze darted to his mother. “It’s been going around.”

“Sí, it is terrible,” Marta exclaimed. “Everybody is getting it. One of those terrible new bugs. From China.” She crossed herself. “Be careful, Miguel, you don’t get it, too.”

“Ha!” Bobby barked out a laugh.

Luis glared at him, his spoon halted before his tightly closed lips. Bobby’s smile quickly vanished and he seemed to withdraw inwardly.

After the four cakes were served and the coffee was poured, the family gathered around the tree, as they did every Christmas Eve, to hand out a few special “parent-child” gifts.

“Bobby, you are eldest. You be Santa’s helper,” ordered Luis.

“Glad to, Papa,” Bobby replied with enthusiasm.

Michael watched with affection as his elder brother donned a red Santa’s cap and let loose a hearty round of “ho-ho-ho’s” before handing out the gifts. Although he made a pitifully thin Santa, Bobby was not above playing up the part for the sake of his niece and nephew. The children squealed with delight.

“Enough! Don’t be a fool, horsing around,” Luis barked.

Bobby’s shoulders drew back, but he smiled urbanely. “God bless us, everyone. Even you, old Scrooge.”

Luis grumbled as he shifted in his seat.

Bobby pressed on with enthusiasm, shaking the children’s gifts and making them guess. Everyone, save Luis, laughed and clapped as the children unwrapped their treasures. Instead, he sat with a bemused expression, watching as a king would his subjects.

Later, when the children were playing with their toys, the adults cast surreptitious glances at the remaining few packages under the tree. Just as when they were children, they wondered what gifts their parents had selected for them this year.

An awed hush fell in the room when Bobby opened his wrapping to find their great-uncle’s pocket watch nestled inside, the same revered uncle who’d left Luis the prime California land. Rosa and Manuel were equally surprised and delighted with the set of china that had been in Marta’s family for generations. Eyes were wide. These were not the usual token gifts: a camera, perhaps a new sweater. Tonight their parents had passed on the few family treasures they possessed. Now all eyes turned to Michael. Bobby searched under the tree but there was nothing left.

“Poor Tío Miguel didn’t get a gift,” said Maria Elena, wrapping a small, thin arm around his shoulders in consolation.

“I guess I was a bad boy,” he quipped, giving Maria Elena a hug.

At that Luis rose with great ceremony and walked before the fireplace. From the mantel he took an envelope, and after a dramatic pause, he delivered it to Michael with an expression of enormous pride.

Michael searched his father’s face for some clue, then quickly darted to the faces of Bobby, Rosa and Manuel. Their expressions were curious…guarded. Apparently no one knew what the envelope contained.

With a nod of gratitude he took the envelope from his father’s hands, opened it and read the legal documents enclosed. The color drained from his face.

“This is a promissory note.”

“I am a man of my word. I ask you to come to California to help and you came. He came!” Luis exclaimed to the others, turning his head to meet their gazes. “He has proved himself a son and now he will prove himself a Mondragon. He will rebuild the family honor in this valley. Michael will draw the designs, we will start again, as a family. I know this and it brings my old heart great joy to see.”

He moved closer, placing his hand upon the shoulder of his seated son with as much pride and dignity as any king would place a sword upon the shoulder of his champion knight. “I promise to you the land, the business, everything! In you I place the future of the Mondragon name.”

The burden of the honor was heavy on Michael’s shoulders. Unwelcome, unspoken promises were tied up with this promissory note: A promise of loyalty, of continuance. A promise to marry, to settle on the land, to produce an heir. Looking into his father’s eyes, he saw Luis’s determination to collect each promise.

“Father, how can you do this?” cried Rosa. She was the first to break the stunned silence and her bitterness rang clear. “Manuel and I, we’ve slaved for you all these years. Years that Miguel was away. We always understood…”

“Understood what, querida?” asked Luis, his voice strained in warning. Slowly he turned toward his only daughter. “You will always be part of the business. But your name is not Mondragon. Your son’s name is not Mondragon. This is what is understood.”

Rosa flushed as bright as a poinsettia, and she cast a furious glance at her husband. “Speak up, Manuel. Why must you always sit there like a beaten dog and let me fight your battles?”

Manuel flushed and his jaw set, forcing his lips into a tight line. Without a word, he rose and hurried from the room.

“What about you, Roberto?” she charged, turning to face her elder brother.

Bobby raised his glass to his lips with a shrug. “It’s Papa’s land to do with what he wants. And—” he paused, taking a sip “—Papa wants to give it to Michael.”

“You are the eldest son! It should be yours!”

Michael saw pain flash in Bobby’s eyes, but it quickly was doused with wine. “I paint murals, Rosa. What would I do with a landscape business?”

“Enough, all of you,” Michael said, standing in the middle of the tightening circle, unaware that he’d just sounded exactly like Luis. He silenced Rosa with a sharp glance, then turned to his father. Looking him in the eye, he handed back the papers. “Papa, this is a great honor.” He paused.

“Too great an honor.”

“You are fuerte, no?” Luis replied, pushing back the papers. “Strong. In heart and character.” He patted his son firmly on the back, and it shamed Michael to feel such joy in his father’s pride. “You will not turn your back on me. You will help the family, no?”

“Help, yes. You need me, that’s true. And I’ll do what I can. But I didn’t ask for all this in return.”

“Ask? Miguel, I give you everything. The lawn maintenance company, the nursery, the spring, everything! I give you freedom. Your own place makes you your own man. Nobody to tell you what to do, to make you feel small. With this a man with skills such as yours could be rich.”

He exaggerated, but to some extent, Michael knew it was true. The land was very valuable now, and the springwater could be tapped for untold amounts. He was humbled by the enormity of the gift.

“Gracias, Papa. Truly. However, I need time to think this through.”

“Think? Think?” Luis’s eyes were wide with shame and embarrassment that his most precious gift was refused. He swung his hand down like a machete. “You always need to think. Sometimes you think so much you don’t see with your heart. It turns to stone.”

Father and son stared at each other across a familiar impasse. It was always this way between them. Hot temper versus cool stone. Luis abruptly turned toward the Christmas tree. The lights were flashing green and red against the white and black of his father’s hair. His eyes were mournful. Michael thought he looked like a great bull that had just received the sword.

“Papa.” Michael moved to speak.

Luis cut him off with a backward wave of his hand. He glanced sharply at Marta. She stood quietly with her small hands clasped meekly before her apron, her eyes cast downward. Then, with a shrug of his wide shoulders, he turned and stomped from the room.

“So, you think this is fair, little brother?” Rosa said, her sharp voice breaking the brittle silence. “Is this why you came home? To get it all?”

“Rosa!” Marta exclaimed, horrified.

Michael, saddened and insulted by her bald-faced resentment, met her sharp gaze evenly. She was hurt, he knew this, and she was very angry to be ignored by her father. Poor Rosa, she would never be happy filling the traditional female role in their culture, despite their mother’s determination. She was too bold, too smart. She deserved better treatment than this. But so did he.

“First off,” he began, his voice low, trembling with control, “I only came home because our father asked it of me. Second, I don’t want any of this.” His hand angrily slashed the air. “And if you’d listen instead of shout, you’d have heard me turn it down. Third, and pay good attention, hermana. If you paid half your mind to building up that husband of yours instead of tearing him down, perhaps Manuel would be able to take over the operation.

“As it stands, Papa is right. I am the only one in this family who can rebuild this nursery, and if you’d quiet your waspish tongue long enough to consider it, you’d realize it’s true. I didn’t come here to take anything from anybody. I came here to help my family. And I intend to honor that promise. But when I’m done, I’m out of here. It’s clear nothing has changed. I’m still ‘pobre negrito’ in your eyes. Undeserving. But I’ve learned something in that wide world out there. I deserve everything I work hard for.”

He scanned the faces of his family. They were flustered and silent. Then he followed his father out to the front porch.

He found Luis standing, one foot before the other, leaning against the porch railing. His eyes stared out at the dark. Michael knew it must seem to the old man that in rejecting the land he rejected him. Was it true? he wondered, gazing at the fertile property stretched out before him. Was he rejecting his father or the land?

“I will give you one year,” he said aloud. “This I will do out of love for you and my mother.”

“One year is not enough. We cannot rebuild in that time. Two. I need two. We can do much in that time.”

Michael set his jaw, realizing that a two-year leave would jeopardize all he’d worked for. Yet his father was right. Two years would be enough time to begin again.

“Agreed,” he replied. “If you promise not to hound me about my decision. After that—” he placed the papers firmly back into his father’s hand “—we will talk again.”

His father turned his head and studied Michael, staring intensely into his eyes, as though to catch a loophole. Whatever he found must have satisfied him because he nodded, squinting, and at last accepted back the papers.

“Starting when?”

“March. In time to complete orders for the spring.”

“Not soon enough! I begin in two weeks.”

“Mail me the materials. I’ll do it from Chicago.”

A loud, boisterous laugh burst from Luis’s lips and he wrapped his arm around his son’s shoulder, squeezing possessively. “How can I lose?” he asked in a voice gruff with emotion. “I know my land. She is like a fine, fat woman. All fertile and sweet smelling. You will plant your seeds in her and she will make you hers. See? I know you, too. You are my son. You are machismo. You will never turn your back on her that you love most.”

In Chicago, Ascension Church was ablaze in light and song as the jubilant congregation celebrated midnight mass. Though it was packed to the rafters, Charlotte and Helena sat in the reserved section near the altar, a boon for spending the day decorating the church. Charlotte looked with a proprietary air at the yards of crisp white linen trimmed in green embroidery, the six handsome balsams twinkling in white lights, and clustered around them the scores of fresh red and white poinsettias.

“Beautiful,” Charlotte sighed.

Father Frank offered them a wink of approval from the altar.

Charlotte’s heart was filled with thoughts of beauty this Christmas. Dr. Harmon had presented his final plan and, though she was shaken, the composite of her new face was so beautiful he could have wrapped and tied it up with a bow as a gift.

She’d stared at the sketches. “I can’t believe that will be me,” she’d said, breathless.

“Believe it. I can make it happen.”

“But the nose. You’ve changed it. It isn’t mine.”

“It will be,” he replied, persistent.

“I don’t know. My mother, she won’t like to see me so changed.”

“How do you like it, Miss Godowski?”

Her gaze lingered on the beautiful curve of the jaw. “I love it.” She then slipped a piece of paper over the face so only the eyes were left showing. “Is it still me?”

“Of course it is. And how clever of you to look at the eyes, Charlotte. That, my dear, reveals the real you.”

I wonder, she thought to herself. Yet, she had agreed to the design, refraining from telling her mother about the nose. Her new face was her gift to herself. Her gift to her mother was her new job. Dr. Harmon had kindly offered her the position of accountant for his practice at a handsome salary. Now her mother wouldn’t have to worry about the money coming in. She’d surprise her mother with the news when they broke the fast after mass tonight.

When the choir began singing “Joy to the World,” Charlotte joined in, singing loudly, joyfully—meaning every word. Her world was beautiful, full of joy and hope. How could her heart contain such happiness?

Five

Three months later, Dr. Harmon methodically removed the bandages that wrapped Charlotte’s head while she lay motionless upon the hospital bed. Like a high priest and a mummy, she thought, staring out from an open patch. Three men and a woman in their late twenties, cloaked in white jackets and clutching clipboards, all inched closer, their eyes focused on her face. They were residents in cosmetic surgery, Dr. Harmon had told her. Her case was particularly interesting, and over the past few weeks, they’d stopped by frequently to check her vitals, ask the same questions and read over her chart. Dr. Harmon allowed no one but himself to direct this case. Charlotte sensed from the residents and nurses that he’d taken an especially keen interest in her case, and within the walls of Six West, where Dr. Harmon ruled, she felt like a queen.

Two weeks had passed since her operation, weeks of desperate arguments with her mother. Weeks of praying that the operation would be a success while beating her breast in worry if she even had a right to pray, now that she’d “defied God’s will,” as her mother claimed. Charlotte felt again the prickly surge of resentment. She was not her mother’s sacrificial lamb. How easy for her mother to condemn her decision. Helena had a pretty face.

Charlotte didn’t blame her mother, however. Charlotte was simply past the point of being able to accept her ugliness as God’s will. To her mind, God gave her this life and it was up to her to make the best of it.

Well, she thought, tapping her foot against the bed’s cool metal rail in a dance of anxiety. This was the moment of truth. There would be no more waiting. As the bandages were unwound and gathered from around her head, she could smell the oddly sweet, pungent odor of dried blood and her stitches. Loosened from the constraints, her jaw throbbed, the nerve endings tingled.

“Just a few more…” muttered Dr. Harmon. The seconds seemed an eternity as his delicate fingers twisted and unwrapped the bandages.

When at last the final layer was removed, Charlotte’s face felt tingly and raw, exposed to the elements. Dr. Harmon examined her, touching her face with confidence. It stung where his fingers met skin. When he was done he cradled her head in his nimble hands and studied her with his pale, piercing eyes. Time seemed to stand still as she searched his face for some sign of his approval or distress.

“Are you ready?” he asked at length. His tone was fatherly.

She couldn’t speak. Very gingerly she brought her fingers to her jaw and palpated the soft flesh. It felt squishy and swollen, like a partially deflated balloon. Yet even in its fullness she detected the unmistakable curve of a jaw and, traveling farther forward, a jutting of bone that could only be a chin.

She glanced at her mother. Helena was peering down, her eyes squinting and her mouth working silently. She looked appalled.

Charlotte swallowed hard. Her throat was as dry as a desert.

“Mirror?” Dr. Harmon asked a nurse.

It took a Herculean effort just to sit up. The room spun and nausea rose in her throat, but she fought it back down, determined to sit. In an odd way, she felt as though she were about to meet someone new. Someone important.

“Now, remember that you will still see swelling and some bruising. That will be with you for quite a while, but gradually your face will appear normal.”

She felt alarmed. He sounded very tense. Had something gone wrong? She tried to speak, but the incisions inside of her mouth and the swelling made it hard to move her lips. “Normal?” she mumbled.

A resident piped in. “He filled it in nicely, but it’s so early yet.”

“What do I look like?”

“Why don’t you see for yourself.” Dr. Harmon handed Charlotte the mirror.

Charlotte held the mirror in her hands for a long moment, gathering her courage. Then she manipulated the glass, peeking first at her forehead and eyes, old friends that remained unchanged. Then slowly, hesitatingly, she tilted the mirror.

“Charlotte?” Dr. Harmon moved closer. “Are you all right?”

No, she wasn’t all right! She was afraid. Terrified. Charlotte set down the mirror with agonizing slowness and laid back upon the bed in degrees, closing her eyes. The world was spiraling. She felt as though her spirit had risen from her body and floated in the air, into some other dimension, like some people described near-death experiences. Hadn’t she died in a way? Wasn’t she some wandering spirit?

For there was no doubt, the Charlotte she had been was no more.

Helena huddled beside her daughter’s bed, her fingers speeding over the rosary beads and her lips moving silently in prayer. The hour was late; the lights were lowered to a dim green in the small, bare hospital room. Someone was moaning in the next room, a low keening sound that failed to arouse the nurses, who were busy preparing for the eleven o’clock shift change. They made eerie shadows on the wall as they passed the door. Throughout Six West there was an uneasy loneliness in the night quiet. Patients and nurses alike shared an unspoken understanding. Everyone was simply trying to get through the night.

Helena shivered and returned to her prayers. She hated hospitals, would rather die in the streets than return to one. Outside the room a pair of nurses were discussing Charlotte’s case: bandages off today…swelling normal…Percodan for pain on demand. After the medical report, the tone lowered to personal mumbles. Helena’s mouth twisted in annoyance. No doubt they were nattering about Charlotte’s transformation. Everyone on the floor was talking about it.

Helena shifted her weight, showing the nurses her back, and brought her face within inches of Charlotte’s. Where was her daughter with this new face? She bunched her fist. Who had the right to change it? Certainly not that pompous Dr. Harmon. Guilt rose up like a wave as she recalled her consultation with the doctor prior to surgery. Helena winced, recalling his barely concealed fury.

“Why haven’t you pursued surgery for Charlotte before now?” he had asked her, his eyes glaring and his tone bordering on an accusation. “These techniques are not new. Certainly she could have avoided years of—” He waved his hand, searching for a word that could possibly describe what Charlotte had endured. No word sufficed. He set his mouth in a grim line.

She replied with the usual simpered excuses: no money, no insurance, ignorance. Dr. Harmon had shook his head with pity.

“True, yes, it was all true,” Helena told the sleeping Charlotte, clutching the thin mint green hospital blanket. Helena’s reserve crumbled and she lowered her head upon her daughter’s hand. How effective these little truths were in obscuring the one big Truth. So much more effective than lies. But God knew, she scolded herself. God knew that she was a sinner. And the scourge for her sin had passed on to her daughter.

“The sin was mine, Lord, not hers,” she prayed. “The blame belongs to me. Perhaps I should have told her. But how?” Her thin fingers, worn dry and brittle by cleaning solvents, spread out to cover her eyes as she wept. “My sin…my sin…” she mumbled. “Mine and Frederic’s, so long ago.”

The first moment Helena saw Frederic Walenski, she knew she loved him. At twenty-six, unmarried and isolated on her family’s farm, her prospects were slim. Life was hard in the late 1960s in Poland. Food prices were rising and salaries were falling. The economy was in an uproar. Helena remembered those years as a time when they struggled just to keep their livestock and family fed.

Her village sat at the edge of the Carpathian Mountain range, and on weekends young men and women from the cities would flock to the mountains to hike. Helena wasn’t flirtatious, nor did she seek out the attention of the young men who strolled through the village. This Frederic, however, was different. He was more stocky than tall, with thick blond hair and large, insolent eyes. He had a bearing that bordered on haughtiness, that spoke to her of the city, of privilege and of a worldliness unknown in her provincial town. She spotted him while he hovered with his friends over a map, backpacks tilting from their shoulders. While the others pointed and argued what route to take, this handsome man glanced her way. Helena, shocked by her own boldness, didn’t avert her eyes. He returned a knowing glance and a slow, simmering smile. Her blood roiled. She felt a rush like she’d only read about in books.

Falling in love was easy in the mountains. The air high up was thin and sweet, far from the haze of industrial smoke and revolutionary politics that hovered over the cities. Every weekend Frederic returned to court her, and eventually, Helena did not refuse his kisses. Frederic was so different from anyone she had ever met. Unlike herself, who took the vocational tract in school, Frederic was educated at the University of Warsaw. Where she was politically passive, he was passionately anti-Communist, a rebel who allied himself with protesting students and political organizers who resented Communist attacks on the church and intellectual freedom. On summer nights after making love on the fresh hay of her father’s barn, he wooed her with promises of a golden future, together, in a new Poland. By December, when they sat together near the warmth of the hearth, he murmured in her ear that he loved her. Helena, happier than she’d ever been in her life, believed everything.

Then late December of 1970 the dream went wrong. She didn’t know exactly what had happened. Frederic’s voice was frantic, and his explanations were garbled and rushed during his last phone call from Warsaw. Something about worker riots over food prices, gunshots and a bomb. He had to leave, quickly. His family had connections and could whisk him out.

“I must go, Helena,” he’d said urgently, while her hands shook on the telephone. “I must. Now, or risk prison.”

“No! No, Frederic, you can’t go.”

“I’ll send for you in America. As soon as I can, I will arrange it.”

Helena clutched the phone while her heart slammed against her chest. “No! I’ll come with you. I’ll leave right away.”

“Goodbye, Helena.”

There was a click and she knew he was gone.

She’d waited for him as loyally and diligently as any wife would await a husband away at war. For that’s how she saw it. They were married in their hearts, weren’t they? Each day she ran to meet the post, and each day brought a new torrent of tears to find the box empty. One month, two, and not a word came from America. Not a single postcard telling her that he had arrived safely and was waiting for her. At first she convinced herself that he was just being cautious lest the authorities track him down. As the months pushed on, however, she grew more desolate. These feeble excuses would not explain away the growing child within her belly.

“You disgrace the family!” her mother wailed when she could hide her pregnancy no longer. Devout Catholics, her family couldn’t reconcile the shame, and soon afterward, Helena was sent to the Nuns of the Holy Sacrament in Warsaw.

The nuns at the convent were kind and sympathetic to her situation. Their eyes blazed with fervor as they assured her that God would forgive her for the sin of fornication if she prayed hard, showed remorse and vowed to sin no more. During the following two months a new calm settled within, one that grew as her baby grew.

It was then that Father Oziemblowski from her village came to see her. “Good news!” he’d announced. He’d found a family that would adopt her baby. After the birth, Helena could discreetly return home and not another word would be mentioned of this unfortunate affair.

“You must trust our guidance in these matters,” Father had told her. “For your child’s sake, if not for your own.”

Helena listened with eyes wide and meek, but in her heart, she balked. Give up Frederic’s child? Unthinkable! Her child was not a bastard. If Frederic was here, they would be married, in a church, blessed by God. Maternal instincts flared, making her cunning.

As soon as she found an unsupervised moment, she sneaked from the cloister and took the bus to the old section of the city where a row of flat-faced, four-story buildings in stages of disrepair stood shoulder to shoulder before a park, like ancient grande dames sitting in the splendid shade of trees in full bloom. The Walenski apartment was in one of the larger buildings with a grand entryway. After a brief wait, a stylish stocky woman answered the door. Immediately, Helena recognized the same regal haughtiness she had once admired in Frederic, and the same strong, aristocratic nose.

“I am a friend of Frederic’s,” Helena said, standing tall in her shabby, oversize raincoat. “I was hoping you could help me find him. It’s urgent.”

Mrs. Walenski was on guard. “I don’t know where my son is.”

“Wait!” Helena pushed her hand against the closing door. “Just one moment. What I have to tell you should be spoken in private.”

Mrs. Walenski’s eyes narrowed in scrutiny, and Helena read dismissal in their flinty coldness. “I don’t allow strangers inside my home. What is this about?”

Standing on the front stoop, Helena stubbornly held her ground. She unbuttoned her long coat and slipped it open, revealing the rounded belly of a woman in her fifth month of pregnancy. She felt tawdry beside the elegance of her surroundings, ashamed of her predicament, but for her child’s sake, for Frederic’s, she would not back down.

“I am carrying Frederic’s child.”

“You are lying,” Mrs. Walenski whispered, quickly ushering Helena into the foyer and closing the door. “Do you think you are the first girl to try to trap my son in such a vile manner?”

While Mrs. Walenski moved through the rooms with sharp precision, Helena wandered as though she were walking in a dream. The house was a blur of splendor, such a contrast from the ramshackle farmhouse her family squeezed into. As she gazed around the room, she noticed details rather than the whole: a gold filigreed clock, the rich carpet, a crystal chandelier of princely proportion. What must it be like to be the mistress of such a house? she wondered. If she were Frederic’s wife, would she live here as well?

“Tell me who you are,” Mrs. Walenski demanded.

“I am Helena Godowski and I am not trying to trap your son. Don’t you think it’s the other way around? I am carrying his child. Your grandchild. Frederic promised he would send for me from America, but as you can see, I can’t wait any longer. My family is shamed and I can’t return home, either. I’ve nowhere else to turn. The nuns want me to give away my child. Did Frederic never mention me?”

Mrs. Walenski was blinking heavily and shifting in her seat. “No, never. What do you want?”

“I want Frederic. I want to be with him.”

“That’s impossible! I don’t know where he is. Really, I don’t. He cannot write, you little fool. The authorities are looking for him, surely you understand that? You don’t want him to go to prison, do you? You can’t want that.”

“No, no, of course not.” Helena was flustered now, her face flushed with joy. If Frederic could not contact his mother, then surely he could not contact her, either. He had not forgotten her. He loved her! She was sure of it.

“I love Frederic,” she said. “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt him, you must believe me.”

Mrs. Walenski’s shoulders lowered. She nodded, and a new sadness entered her eyes.

“I need help,” cried Helena, encouraged by the sympathy she now sensed. She looked at her belly. “Frederic doesn’t know about the child. He left before I was certain. Before I could tell him.” Raising her eyes, she leaned forward. “Please, if you could tell me just the name of the city in America he’s in, I’m sure I can find him. Please, you must believe me.”

Mrs. Walenski stared at nothing for a long time. Her hand had risen to her cheek and she sat as though frozen in thought. When she brought her hand back to her lap, her eyes were focused on Helena and the curve of her belly.

“I do believe you,” Mrs. Walenski replied at length.

“And now you must believe me. All I know is that he went to a city called Chicago in a province called Illinois. There is a large Polish population there.”

“Perhaps you can give me the names of your relatives, or friends. Someone I can reach when I arrive. I know no one in America. And I’m already five months along.”

“I’ll write a letter of introduction to a friend of mine. She will help you. And I will give you money to purchase an airplane ticket. One way.” She cleared her throat. “And there will be enough to give you a new start in America.”

“Oh, thank you,” Helena exclaimed, her hands covering her face as she sobbed in relief. She had never hoped for so much.

“Don’t thank me. You don’t know my son as well as I do.” Mrs. Walenski seemed to shrink inside herself as she continued. “Frederic is a selfish boy. Perhaps it’s my fault. I’ve spoiled him.” She fingered a rosette of garnets in her ear for a moment, then dropped her hand with a vague gesture. “If you should find him,” she began, pausing, searching for the words. “Please know that he may not welcome you. I don’t say this to hurt you, but you see…you are not the first girl he has placed in this situation. Frederic is very determined when he wants something. Obsessed. And…sometimes cruel. His father can be like that, you see. The other girl was from a small village, like you.”

Helena looked away, afraid the worry in her eyes would betray her.

“He never mentioned your name to me, not once,” Mrs. Walenski continued. “Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

“I must find him,” Helena replied in a strangled voice.

“Very well. I shall see to the arrangements. One more condition, however. If you do not succeed in finding my son, you will promise not to declare your child a Walenski.”

The affront took Helena’s breath away. “But the child is…”

“I must insist on this point,” she interrupted.

Helena lowered her head. “I promise.” With two words, Helena whispered away her child’s heritage.

Mrs. Walenski was true to her word. Within the month a young, very pregnant Mrs. Helena Godowski arrived in Chicago. Helena learned quickly that a woman alone in a foreign country, especially a pregnant one, had no friends. So close to term, and with no English skills, the best that a letter of introduction got her was a baby-sitting job, earning enough for room and board. Whenever she could, Helena searched for Frederic.

She searched everywhere, begging the help of the close-knit Polish community for any word of a Frederic Walenski from Warsaw. One man had seen him, soon after his arrival, but had not seen him since. It was generally believed that he’d left town.

When her water broke, Helena realized she was about to give birth, alone, without a husband, or a mother, or even a friend. Her dream of finding Frederic in time was over. It suddenly became very clear to her that she was in this alone.

“Do you speak any English?” the nurse at County Hospital asked her. She spoke very loud and slow.

“N-no English,” Helena stuttered, her mouth dry with panic.

The nurse rolled her eyes. “Oh, boy. I’ve got a prima here with no English. We’re in for a ride. You just take it easy, honey. I’ll take good care of you.”

Helena stared at the peeling ceiling as she was wheeled past rooms filled with moaning women. They parked her in a small, pale green room where men and women dressed in uniforms took turns spreading her legs and poking cold fingers in her. She felt so alone, so afraid, so vulnerable. But she had to be strong for her baby.

The pain came in waves now, mounting high, roiling through her abdomen, then crashing against her lower back. The graphs on the strange beeping machine they hooked to her belly arched high and dipped low. Rhythmically, one after the other. Her sweat glistened. Sweet mother of God, why had no one told her? Was it like this for every woman, or was this a special punishment, just for her? She had no one to ask.

Suddenly she felt a strange, overpowering sensation to push. She cried out in Polish, “My baby is coming. Hurry! He’s coming!”

Suddenly three people in white surrounded her, shouting instructions she couldn’t understand. Gritting her teeth, she pushed till her breath squeezed out of her and tiny gray dots blurred her vision. Then again, and again, like a snarling, spitting animal tearing at its bindings, seeking to be free. “Frederic!” she cried out.

Then with a gush of relief, the pain suddenly was gone, and over the din of voices she heard the lusty wail of her baby. She tried to hoist herself up on her elbows but slipped back down, too exhausted. Tears, this time of joy, sprang to her eyes as she caught glimpses of the people in white bending over her bawling infant, talking excitedly. It seemed to take forever for them to finish fussing over her baby. At last they handed into her arms a baby swaddled as tight as a pierogi.

Helena’s breath stilled as she stared at the face of her newborn, nestled in the pink blanket. The baby’s face was puckered, and large blue eyes blinked heavily with wonder. But something was wrong. Very wrong. Now Helena blinked, and her attention zoomed in on the baby’s chin and jaw. They slid down into the neck, like a mudslide she had once seen in the mountains.

She shot a worried glance at the nurses standing beside her. Their eyes reflected pity, and without a word being spoken, Helena instantly understood that this was not normal. Like a madwoman she tore open the blanket to investigate the rest of the baby’s body. Exposed to the cold, the baby began to howl and kick while Helena’s gaze devoured the child. Everything looked normal. Ten fingers, ten toes. And it was a girl.

Helena looked again at the deformed chin on that little, scrunched-up face in her arms. She could not ignore it, nor wish it away. This deformity would not improve with time like the funny wrinkles or the pressed nose that she already knew would resemble Frederic’s.

Helena turned her head away. So…God had not forgiven her after all. She quietly wept. She hated the nurses who patted her arm and spoke garbled words of sympathy. Why didn’t they leave her alone? Didn’t they understand? This was her punishment—her cross to bear. Her pain went far beyond mere hopelessness and despair. Helena was like the dog that had been beaten so many times it no longer hid from the club. Her last vestige of hope faded. She resigned herself to her fate. Her one consolation was that at least she had Frederic’s child. She was not alone.

Twenty years later, Helena again sat in a hospital room and studied the face of her daughter. This new face. This stranger’s face, she thought. What was done to her child was a travesty! Heartbreak flared anew.

Where are you, Frederic? she asked herself. The scars were expertly hidden. Soon they would be invisible and there would be no trace of what deception was committed here. Unnatural thing! His nose…There was nothing left of Frederic.

Now, she thought bitterly, I am truly alone.

In California, the spring sun beat hard upon Michael’s neck as he watched the twenty-two men that made up his crews gather together at the Mondragon compound to kick off the new season. The men were mostly Americans, from their twenties to their fifties, most of them married, with children. There was one group of Mexican men, clustered together, separated by language and choice. These were men who came to the Mondragon nursery every spring to work especially for Luis. They all came in one single rusting truck that belched fumes and grunted like an old man.

Some men of the crews were more experienced in the business than he was. They’d worked for his father for as long as he could remember. A few were greenhorns and had to be trained. Like Cisco, his nephew. He was only nine years old, but he was here at Michael’s invitation, earning a good wage. It pleased Luis to see another generation in the business.

Young or old, experienced or green, citizen or not, it didn’t matter. As long as they put in an honest day’s work they were paid an honest day’s wage. They all understood this as Michael stepped forward and began outlining his plans for change in their routines. It was also understood that Michael was a Mondragon. And Luis had made it clear to all that this Mondragon was now in charge.

While Michael spoke to the men, he noticed that Bobby was translating his words to the small cluster of Mexican men who stood apart from the rest. They listened to Bobby, but they kept their dark eyes on him. He felt an old uneasiness rise up, the gnawing ambiguity that he couldn’t speak his father’s language well enough.

“Is good what you say!” Luis complimented him when he was finished and the crews had dispersed to begin their work. “You are El Patron now, eh?” His dark face was flushed with pleasure, and his eyes sparkled as brightly as the sun overhead. “But now is the real test. Now you must go out to work with your men. Make your soft hands work, eh? Shovel. Rake. Real work.” He slapped his back and laughed. Then, calling out to his foreman, Luis hurried away, boasting loudly to anyone who would listen.

“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” Michael said to Bobby, who was smothering a smile behind his hand.

“Hey, better you than me.”

Michael looked at his brother’s long, thin frame and his linen trousers flowing in the breeze and realized that what he said was true for many reasons.

“I’m doing the designs and managing this place,” he replied gruffly. “Papa’s got another thing coming if he thinks I’m wielding a shovel out there. I’m through with dirty nails.” He wiped the back of his neck, feeling the beginning of a sunburn. He muttered a curse under his breath for forgetting to wear a hat.

“Whatever you say, bracero.” Bobby reached out and placed his floppy-brimmed panama hat over Michael’s head, laughing.

Later that evening, Michael hobbled into the Mondragon office, clutching his back and limping like an old man. An old, enfeebled man.

Bobby looked up from his paperwork and his face broke into a grin of pure pleasure. “Hey, El Patron. I thought you weren’t going to do any hard labor,” Bobby teased, tilting on the hind legs of his chair.

“There was this tree root—” Michael waved his hand “—never mind. Give me a beer.”

The icy liquid flowed down his throat, feeling like spring rains after a drought.

“I’d forgotten what it was like out there.” He wiped his brow with his sleeve. After a brief pause, a sheepish grin crept across his face. “You know, it felt good to use my body like that again.” He stumbled over to the old sofa and collapsed upon it, stretching his long legs out before him. “Look at my hands,” he groaned, holding his palms before his eyes. Blisters were already forming where he’d grasped the shovel and pickax. He smiled, remembering how an old-timer had come up to him and told him he was doing it all wrong, then proceeded to show him how to do it.

Michael drank down his beer in a few chugs, then let his hand droop, his fingers barely balancing the bottle on the floor.

“Why don’t you go home and take a hot bath?” Bobby asked. “You earned it, bracero. And you could use it. Whew.”

“Yeah, yeah, I will. I’m just going to close my eyes for a minute. Just for one minute.”

In that short space of time, his hands loosened, the bottle tilted and rolled to the floor, and he was out.

Bobby rose and walked to his brother, picking up the bottle and resting Michael’s hands up on his belly. A bittersweet smile flickered across his face when he noticed the mud in Michael’s manicured nails.

“Welcome home, El Patron.”

Part Two

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes.

—George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron

Six

It had been a long year of recovery. Charlotte’s progress had been slow and agonizingly painful, full of medication and examinations, months of orthodontics and adjustments. There was a brief time of panic soon after the surgery when she’d had a bad reaction to the sutures, but she’d endured it without complaint, dreaming of the day when she’d begin the next phase of her plan.

And that day had finally arrived.

“You’re moving where?”

Charlotte’s hand hovered over the kitchen sink. Soapy water trickled in rivulets down her forearm to soak in the sleeves of her rolled-up, starched white blouse. Turning her head to look over her shoulder, she saw that her mother had thrown back her shoulders and her eyes were like sharp daggers of fury. Charlotte squeezed the sponge hard, draining it completely.

“C-California,” she managed to stutter out.

“Do you know how far that is away from Chicago? From all you know? From your mother?”

Helena snapped the blue-and-white-striped kitchen towel against her thigh. The crack ricocheted in Charlotte’s ears. She kept her gaze riveted to a thin streak of soap that floated above the white breakfast china in the sink.

“What you know about going far from home? It is hard and cruel for a young woman who travels alone. People, they take advantage.” Her eyes grew bright with hysteria.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I—I wouldn’t be alone. Dr. Harmon gave me the name and address of a big agent in Hollywood. Dr. Harmon’s writing a letter of introduction.”

“Dr. Harmon again?” Helena’s eyes glittered with hatred as she pronounced his name slowly. “Always it’s Dr. Harmon with you.”

“Mother, please. Let’s not start that again….”

“You take his word over mine. It doesn’t matter anymore what I think. I’m only your mother. I only gave you your life, and give you a roof over your head and food for your belly. What right have I to have opinion? You change your face, your job, and now you want to change how and where you live? In California!” She grunted, shook her head and placed her hands on her hips, caught in a private thought. “A letter of introduction? Ha!”

She felt her mother’s will push down on her, suffocating her. “I’ve always wanted to act.”

Helena slapped the air. “Ach, you are no actress, Charlotte. You just do a little helping at the theater. Stop dreaming. Why not you just be happy as accountant? It’s a good job. That is enough for people like us. You can’t do something like be an actress.”

“Mama, I can do this! Why do you always tell me what I can’t do?”

“Because I know better. And I don’t want you get hurt.”

“I want to try.”

Helena raised herself up, tossing the towel upon the spotless counter. “No,” she declared sharply, making the decision for both of them. She straightened her broad shoulders and clasped her hands before her on her belly. “You will not move to California where they make movies and live wild life.” She began wiping her large hands on her apron, as though the very idea was dirty.

Then she speared Charlotte with an accusing look. “And you will throw out that ridiculous list that you hide in your room. Yes, yes, I saw it. You write down how you want to change everything.”

Charlotte paled and her breath shrunk in her breast, thinking of her list of wishes, goals and dreams. “You’re going through my things now? In my room? That’s…that’s private! That’s unforgivable. I’m not a child. How could you do that?”

“Don’t you dare raise your voice to me. I’m your mother! This is my home. I can do what I want in my own home!”

Charlotte was white with anger. How long had she handed over her paycheck, willingly, to support her mother? Only to be told she didn’t even have the right to privacy in her own bedroom? She didn’t have the right to make her own decisions? She felt so exposed. Naked. Her list was her most private secret. Except for…

She flushed, realizing that her diary was also in her drawer. Lifting her hands from the cooled, greasy water, she glanced quickly at her mother. Helena was watching her with arms akimbo.

“You read my diary.” It was an accusation.

The truth glittered in her mother’s pale eyes. Her guilt was written on her rising blush and the nervous tapping of her fingers.

Charlotte couldn’t look at her. She felt physically ill. Drying her hands quickly, she asked in staccato, “You know what happened to me? About Lou Kopp?”

“Ach, dirty. That filthy man. I hope to think you learned your lesson.”

“My lesson?” she cried, hearing the hurt she felt come through. “The only lesson I learned is not to let anyone take advantage of me ever again. Anyone, Mother.”

Helena’s pale blue eyes iced over, like a lake caught in a bitter chill.

“I can’t continue like this,” Charlotte cried. “I’ve made up my mind. I am going to California.”

“Ungrateful slut!” her mother called out, the vehemence of it forcing Charlotte to slam back against the kitchen counter. “You turn your back on me? After all I’ve been through for you?” She shook her head. “You were my punishment. I knew it from the first I saw your face. But did I turn my back on you. No!”

“Your punishment? Mother, how can my face be your punishment? I’m the one who suffered. Not you.”

“You know nothing!” Helena snapped back. She caught her breath, staring madly at her as though considering whether to stop now or to hold back. But fury had already broken the bounds of control. Helena took two steps forward, aggressively invading Charlotte’s personal space.

“You think you know so much?” she charged on. “You want to change your life, do you? Then you should know it all.” Her eyes narrowed and she pointed a finger at Charlotte with accusation.

Charlotte shrank back, instinctively knowing a hurt was coming.

“Your father he never married me. Because of you I had to leave my family, my homeland. I leave everything to come here and live alone. To have you. You! I come with nothing but lousy letter of introduction. It did nothing for me. Yes, I suffered!” She buried her face in her hands.

“Your face it was my punishment for my sin. Sin of having child out of sacrament of marriage.”

Charlotte’s mind whirled. She felt like she was riding a carousel, going round and round with macabre music playing in the background and the barker crying out, “Bastard. Bastard.”

“That is why I say no to surgery,” Helena moaned.

“May God’s will be done.”

“God’s will? What about your will? And mine?” Charlotte pushed away from the Formica. All further words tumbled and spilled unspoken from her mouth in a soft whimper. She turned to leave, stumbling away.

“If you go to California,” Helena called at her back, “you will never be welcomed here again. If you leave, you are not a Godowski!”

Charlotte stopped, tilted her head, then slowly met her mother’s unyielding gaze. She felt as squeezed dry as the sponge in her hand. “Apparently, I’m not a Godowski, anyway,” she replied in a low voice. “I don’t know who I am. But I assure you, Mother, I intend to find out.”

Charlotte arrived in Los Angeles two days later. As she stepped from the cab, bag in hand, she hoped no one passing her on the street could hear the pounding of her heart or see the trepidation blazing across her face. She quickly glanced at the dog-eared business card in her hand. Yes, this was the right address. The office of Freddy Walen, Talent Agent.

The ghost of the little girl she once was materialized in her mind, tugging at her thoughts, telling her this was much too much a dream for her to go after. Who do you think you are, anyway?

Charlotte chewed her lip as she craned her head far back to stare up the tall granite building. Well, wasn’t that the very question she had to answer? she asked herself. Scooting the little girl from her mind, she entered the building with long strides, marched through the plush marbled lobby and rode the elevator to the top floor where a shiny brass plate indicated the offices of Freddy Walen. A young woman with enormous breasts and lips gave her the once-over when she walked in.

“I’m here to see Mr. Walen. He’s expecting me.”

“Your name?”

Charlotte braced herself for a laugh or a rolled eye as she said her new name.

“Charlotte Godfrey.”

“You may go in now,” drawled the secretary without raising her eyes. “He’s expecting you.”

Be calm, Charlotte told herself, determined to gain control. You’re prepared. You can do this. She tucked down her jacket, lifted her chin, then passed the secretary, entering Walen’s office after a brisk three knocks on the door.

The room was determinedly masculine with its brown leather chairs and sofas and heavy, square-cornered dark wood desks and tables. A spectacular marlin arched over the sofa and golf clubs slouched beside it. Golf trophies were placed at prominent positions throughout the room. Freddy Walen was a man with an ego.

Charlotte scanned the black-framed photographs that filled the opposite wall. Some of the stars in the frames she knew. Some big names—mostly long forgotten names, either dead or has-beens. Had she not been an old movie buff, she’d never have recognized a few of them. There were a number of character actors with familiar faces but names she couldn’t remember. Nowhere was there a face of a young, hot actor.

Charlotte pursed her lips and, shifting her gaze, noticed other telling details: the worn leather, the dust bunnies in the corner, the dying dieffenbachia by the window. This looked more like an office of someone on the way down, not up. After all, it was hard to kill a dieffenbachia.

“Welcome to California, Miss Godfrey” came a voice from the corner.

Turning her head, she saw a barrel-chested man nearing fifty years of age, leaning casually against the wall studying her. He was handsome, in a polished, older sort of way, she thought. The kind of man who wore slip-on shoes, flowing, tailored slacks and cashmere sweaters that showed off his muscular chest and arms.

“Sit down.”

Charlotte startled at the brusque command. Play the part, she ordered herself, then strolled to the sofas with a practiced elegance that Grace Kelly would have envied. In her mind’s eye she could see what he saw: the too-wide lapels on her suit jacket and her out-of-date heels. She’d considered purchasing new shoes, but thought it best to eat instead. She walked, however, as if she were wearing couture. It’s not what you wear, but how you wear it, she remembered reading in a magazine one day.

The sofa sighed as she sat on the leather and carefully tucked her skirt beneath her thighs. Mustn’t perspire and stick to it.

A smile curved his lips, raising his black mustache, making her suspect that he’d guessed all this was an act and was playing along. He had dark blond hair interspersed with gray and wore it slicked back. It was his facial hair, however, that gave him such an intimidating appearance. His thick dark brows and mustache contrasted with his blond hair and accentuated the paleness of his blue eyes like bold punctuation marks. When he looked over his dominant nose to stare at her, Charlotte felt pinned.

“You’re tall, have a beautiful face and you’ve got nice teeth,” he said as an opener, striding across the room. He sat on the sofa directly opposite her, leaning far back into the cushions, spreading his arms out across the cushions in a position of command. “But your feet are big, and you walk like a man.” He flipped his palms up. “All in all, I’d say Harmon was right. You have potential.”

Charlotte’s mouth slipped open and her mind went blank except for the vision of her big feet.

“You’re from Chicago, right? Good theater there. Says in the letter that you did quite a bit of off-Broadway kind of stuff.”

“Yes, that’s right.” Sort of, she thought to herself, tightening her hands in her lap.

“Lessons, studio work?”

“Of course. I have my portfolio with me.” Charlotte bent at the waist to shuffle through her bag.

“Just set it on the table. I’ll get to that later.” He brought his hand to his face, stroking his jaw while he studied her. Then he asked her a few basic questions about roles she’d played, her range, her methods. Questions she’d prepared for on the long flight from Chicago to L.A. She answered carefully. Dr. Harmon and she had agreed that her plastic surgery would remain private. She didn’t want to be just another Hollywood makeover, or worse, a freak. Dr. Harmon had warned her that if the gossipmongers found out, they’d never take her seriously as an actress, they’d be so occupied searching for scars.

“Come, come, this isn’t the time for nervousness,” Freddy said, mistaking her hesitation for shyness. The corners of a smile emerged from under his mustache and his eyes sparked. “Your voice is good, too. Very sexy.”

She shifted, a slight movement that created distance. Was he trying to pick her up? Most men did when they met her these days. Young and old alike, they lit up like Christmas trees. Freddy Walen wasn’t looking at her breasts, however, or moving into her personal space. He looked at her the way Dr. Harmon had—clinically, professionally. He looked directly into her eyes.

“I’ve been told that before,” she replied coolly.

“I’ll just bet you have. And a lot more.” His smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. “But it doesn’t matter if the guy who bags your groceries, or your hometown boyfriend, or even your parish priest thinks you’re the greatest thing since white bread. In this town what matters is that the right person—a connected person—thinks you’re special and introduces you to other right people. It’s all who you know. And—” he leaned back in the cushions and crossed his legs; his eyes delivered a challenge “—it helps if you have talent.”

Charlotte leaned back in her sofa and met his gaze straight on, accepting the challenge. On this point, she felt supremely confident. “I have talent.”

Their gazes met and held.

He was keenly interested.

She was eager.

He had the resources.

She had the ability.

The tumblers clicked.

He stroked his chin for a moment, then picked up his phone and buzzed his secretary. “Has Melanie Ward found a new roommate yet? No? Tell you what. Call her now and tell her I’ve found one for her. Charlotte Godfrey. Yeah, the lady here. Give Mel the details and tell her I’ll drop her by soon. Good. Get right on it.”

Charlotte heard all this with widening eyes. Even if he didn’t sign her as a client, at least Dr. Harmon’s letter of introduction had secured her a place to stay.

“Got a nice place lined up for you,” Freddy Walen said, hanging up the phone. “It’s a small rental house up north. You’ll have to lease a car, but then again, welcome to L.A. Melanie’s a little loose in the attic but all right. She’s one of my clients. Been around for a long time. She might not be smart in the bookish kind of way, but she’s smart in things that you need to learn about. Things like publicity, promotion, who’s who in town. She’s not doing so well in her career right now.” He shrugged. “Things are slow for aging starlets. So she could use a roommate. Works out well for both of you.”

“I see. Thank you.” She cleared her throat, ashamed for the question she had to ask. “Excuse me, but how much is the rent?”

“Don’t worry about it. Jacob’s got you covered.”

“Dr. Harmon? Why…” This was the first time she’d heard of this arrangement. Pride kicked in. It would be the last. “No,” she said in a clipped voice. “That’s not right. He…”

“Look, honey, it’s done all the time.”

“Not by me, it isn’t,” she snapped, putting an end to all speculation about casting couches or whatever kind of lure he was using. “I’ll pay my own rent, thank you.”

Freddy’s eyes took on that amused gleam again and something else that she hadn’t quite figured out yet. “No problem,” he replied easily. Again that look. “It’s between you and Melanie, then.”

“Thank you, Mr. Walen,” she began, choosing her words. “If I could prevail upon you one more time. I—I need a job. Right away. Any job that’s decent and provides minimum wage. I’m trained as an accountant and I can get you excellent references. But, in the meantime, I can do just about anything. Secretarial, phones…”

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