Shy Charlotte’s Brand New Juju (Romantic Comedy) (2 page)

In response, Charlotte smiled and bugged her eyes out a bit,
thereby communicating:
I see that. Handle yourself with grace. We’ll laugh
about it later.
Then Gracie spoke to the pantless boy. “Hi, Maxwell. You’re
sure getting big.” She made an effort to shake him back toward the floor.

Maxwell hopped down and said, “I see you’re holding Rufus.”

“Her name isn’t Rufus, Maxwell,” Fiona interrupted. “You
know that perfectly well. Her name is Princess Tulip.”

“But she likes to be called Rufus.”

Gracie smiled at her cousin. “Okay. This one is Rufus. Got
it. And what does this one like to be called?” She pointed to the dog in
Hannah’s arms.

“Turd.”

And then the boy whisked himself off again. As he flew down
the hallway, his cape rippled and Charlotte caught sight of his two bare little
cheeks, hard as biscuits.

“Language!” Fiona called to him, but then she laughed,
turned to them, and wrinkled her nose. “Yes, Rufus and Turd. Whatever. We
choose our battles around here. And he’s just showing off for you. But beware.
Maddox is around here somewhere. He is also likely to leap out at you, and it’s
likely he won’t be wearing any clothes either.”

Charlotte placed her handbag on an enormous antique bench.
Everything in the house was oversized, comically so.  The walls here in the
entry soared three stories up, where massive timbers met drywall finished with
a Venetian glaze of terra cotta. The credenza on the side of the hallway towered
with a five-foot vase bursting with red and orange silk flowers. In the corner
of the foyer stood a life-size statue of a woman, nude, bent slightly and
holding a water jug. Fiona saw Charlotte eyeing it. “Kamal picked that out in
Greece. He kept saying, ‘I found a beautiful woman. She has a great set of
jugs. And I’m bringing her home.’  Of course, I knew he didn’t mean a
real
woman. I mean, he would never cheat…” Fiona stopped short. She bit at her lip
and looked down at the pink rhinestones on her shoes.

Charlotte’s face prickled.

“Your home is beautiful,” Gracie said, a little too quickly.

“Thank you, doll face.” Fiona said, smiling again. “Let me
show you around and then you can get unpacked.” She pranced along in front of them,
beckoning with one finger to follow. “I want to show you all of the things I
have planned for you this summer. It’s going to be amazing. Unforgettable.” She
turned to face them. “Spectacular. Once in a lifetime. A summer to remember.”

She led them down a great hallway. At its end stood the
dining room, which housed a massive table with a striped wood grain, resembling
the skin of a snake and stained a deep coffee color.  The chairs were enormous
and mismatched, but each looked to be handmade.

“This piece has been in Kamal’s family for generations. The
material is called Snakewood, which I know nothing about other than the fact
that it’s ridiculously rare and expensive. But isn’t it exquisite?
Breathtaking? Splendid?”

There weren’t any more words for it, so Charlotte just
nodded. The table’s top was freckled with brochures and guidebooks and maps. 

“Of course, you girls will be spending some time watching
the boys,” Fiona continued. “I mean, if you want. We have Consuela if you
decide you just want to go out and chase teenage boys all summer. But she can
busy herself with other things on those days when you want to walk with the
boys to the toy store, to the salon. Anytime you want...”

“How
is
your salon?” Gracie asked.

“Oh that’s right. You haven’t even seen it yet.” Fiona
turned to Charlotte. “I can’t believe you haven’t seen my salon.” Fiona’s mouth
turned down into a pout. “You never visit me.” Had her lips gotten bigger, too?
 

Charlotte answered, “I’ve seen photographs.”

“But they don’t do it justice.”

“I’m sure that is true,” Charlotte replied. “I can only
imagine how beautiful it must be.”

“Kamal’s design team did a fantastic job. Amazing. Fabulous.
Superb. But, really, it was a collaboration. He tried to steer me away from the
theme I wanted—the cheetah print and the jewels—but I got some in there
anyway.” She turned her head toward Hannah and Gracie and said, in a
conspiratorial whisper. “And I got a winged horse.” She bobbled her head up and
down. “A full-size Pegasus!”

Charlotte smiled and tried to avoid looking at the girls for
fear that one of them would laugh. Fiona’s obsession with mythical creatures
had been a bit of a family joke. Caleb thought Fiona was hilarious, if
completely childish, superficial and ridiculous.

“I can imagine that it’s a perfect reflection of you.”
Charlotte said, wishing suddenly that Caleb was there, if only to hear about
the wingy-dingy horse.

“We’ll go down and see my salon right away. I can promise
you that. And if one of you girls decide you would rather work with me down
there, that would be just fine, too. You can shampoo heads or sweep floors or
answer phones. Or whatever. I can create a job. Any job you want. And we will
give your mom some space to sort things out. To get her groove back. Or her
mojo or her juju – or whatever it is she’s missing. Whatever it is she needs.”
She put her arm around Gracie’s shoulders in a show of solidarity. “This summer
is all about your mother, girls. Your poor mother. We need to mend her broken
heart. Her poor twisted, broken, smashed up heart.”

Charlotte had known that she would need to swallow every
ounce of pride to come here. But it was going to be harder than she thought. The
worst part was that the only person who could possibly understand how hard this
was, the only person who would recognize each competitive jab and who would
have been able to make her laugh about it, was Caleb. And she wouldn’t be here
at all if it weren’t for him. And that woman in his office.

Charlotte shook her head to dislodge the memory. She led her
girls, following a sashaying Fiona down the hallway for The Grand Tour. Fiona’s
dress was too thin, and Charlotte could see that her tiny rear still had some
cellulite.  See, she wasn’t perfect after all. There were some things that
money couldn’t buy.

But not much, she thought, winding her way through the
castle where her sister would pity her for the next three months.

Charlotte sure hoped that woman had burned her ass on that
coffeepot.

Fiona’s wine glasses were the size of cereal bowls, perched
on spindly stems. The cabernet inside seemed too thick and dark. As Fiona
spoke, the wine sloshed about, occasionally sliding up the side and splashing
down again into the bottom during a particularly passionate part of Fiona’s
tale.  

 When Fiona stopped talking long enough to refill her glass,
Charlotte asked, “How much wine fits into this glass, exactly?”

“Exactly enough,” Fiona replied. “And if we find that it
isn’t, we’ll pour more. I did show you the wine room, did I not?”

“Oh, you did,” Charlotte answered.

“We could do nothing but drink wine for weeks. We wouldn’t
even need to go out!” She winked at her sister. “But you were never one to
drown your sorrows.”

“No. But I do enjoy a nice glass of wine from time to time.”

Charlotte paused for a moment to listen for the girls, to
whom she had just said goodnight. She knew they would be awake texting their
friends and sharing photos. Hannah had mentioned she might call her dad, maybe
do a web cam call so she could see him. And then she looked sheepish. Guilty.
Charlotte had drawn her lips upwards. “Wonderful,” she had said in as pleasant
a voice as she could manage.

Fiona’s wrap-around sweater matched the color of wine in her
glass. She drew it around herself.

“The evenings get chilly here, don’t they?” Charlotte asked.

“It’s different from where you live, I’m sure. In so many
ways. The sun goes down and it gets cold, almost instantly. And in the daytime,
it never really gets above seventy-five. It’s because you’re at, like, eight
thousand feet above sea level here.”

“I’m glad about the change, from Missouri. And not because
of the temperature.” Charlotte felt nervous suddenly. “Thanks for the
invitation, Fiona. It might be just what we need.” A time to rest. To read. To
escape. To not think about much of anything. To sort out what she wanted to do
about her blasted marriage.

Fiona gave her a sideways grin. “It is going to be so nice
to have you here. With Kamal traveling so much, I sort of rattle around in this
house, and I end up spending way too much time working. Or shopping.”

“You have a gorgeous home. And I’m eager to see your salon.
I’m sure it’s beautiful.” Charlotte drew her lips back into a smile, once
again, and then she swallowed. Where had she derailed? She had thought it was
Caleb’s affair, the looming divorce, but now, being here and comparing her life
to her sister’s life; her home to her sister’s home; her job to her sister’s
job; she realized it may have happened years before. 

Charlotte had been the straight-A student. The one voted
most likely to succeed. She was the one who always had a date. Who took Calculus
in college as an elective, just to challenge herself. She was the one who
always knew where she was going.

Fiona, on the other hand… Fiona was the one who snacked too
much and skipped class and did whatever she could to get C’s. The one who had
to finish high school at the alternative school where they ate Cheetos and
Skittles whenever they wanted and held math class at the bowling alley just to
entice kids to show up. Fiona was the one who dropped out of junior college
after the first semester. The one to whom people said, incredulously, “
You
are
Charlotte’s sister?”

And now here Charlotte was. A soon-to-be-single, unemployed
woman, sitting in Fiona’s multi-million dollar mansion, listening to her yammer
on about her booming day spa and salon.

Fiona took a pull at her wine. “Do you remember that pact we
made…when we were teenagers?” Fiona asked.

“Pact?” She knew she shouldn’t pretend not to know what
Fiona was talking about, but she couldn’t help it.

“You don’t remember? Really?”

“I don’t think so.” But of course, she remembered. They had
been teenagers, probably just older than her girls were now. They had written
it late one night, after one of Fiona’s crying jags. Fiona had insisted it be
signed in blood, so they pricked their fingertips with a straight pin from Mom’s
sewing room, and Fiona had squealed and found that she couldn’t sign her entire
name even though she was squeezing at her fingertip with all her might. So,
instead, they each left a tiny dot next to their ink-based signatures.

“Our Transformation Pact?” Fiona’s expression was solemn.
“The Great Transformation Pact of 1994?”

“Oh, I’m remembering vaguely now.”

“Did you know that this pact changed the entire direction of
my life?”

“Did it now?” She knew. Her sister had told her before.

“It did. Remember what it said? I could probably find it for
you if you really want to know.” Fiona rose from the table and crossed to the
sideboard in the dining room. She creaked open a door on its face and drew out
a large envelope.  

Charlotte sincerely hoped this wasn’t the pact. How
embarrassing that would be to see it again. She couldn’t remember the exact
words, but she remembered the way the pages looked. The crumpled white
college-ruled paper. Ink from a blue Bic pen. The words loopy, the i’s dotted
with bubbles and hearts.

The pact had actually been Charlotte’s idea, a means for cheering
up her little sister who was having a hard time getting the attention of a
particular boy. And so they had made a pact. It was filled with words such as “solemnly”
and “declare” and “promise” and “oath,” and it contained a series of ideas for
how they could each reach their true potential as girls. As women. She
remembered certain promises, such as “Be more confident. Stand tall!” and “Exercise
every day. It will make you feel amazing!” and “Don’t be so intimidated by boys,
especially Bobby Samuels, who is probably only so mean because he likes Fiona!”

Following the signing of this pact, Charlotte had promptly
moved on with her life in the same direction she had been going. But Fiona had
worn a Band-Aid around her finger for a week, hoping that someone would press
her for details about the pact. The pact that was so solemn, so paramount to
their lives forevermore that they had actually signed it in blood.

“I still have it,” Fiona said. “Still in that original
vanilla envelope.”

“Manila. It’s a manila envelope.” Charlotte took a sip of
her wine.

“Why do you always have to correct me?”

“Sorry, Fiona.” Charlotte looked down at the table. “I’m
sorry. It’s just… It’s a manila envelope.”

Fiona held up the package she had taken from the sideboard
and let it drop on the table. “Don’t be like that, Charlotte. I’ve done
something really nice for you. You’ll see. It’s all in this MANILA envelope.”

“Is this our pact? From when we were kids?”

“No. It’s a new one. For you. I made it for you. To turn
your life around.” And then she stopped pouting long enough to clap her hands
together and bounce on her heels.

***

Caleb ran his hands over his head. His hair was thinning. He
was sure it was. Charlotte would say that it wasn’t. On their web cam call,
just now, Hannah had said that it wasn’t, but he could feel it. Withering away.
He was losing it. He could tell even if no one else could.

He was at his prime, his professional pinnacle, though he
hoped to ride higher, of course. The first two books had a tepid response, at
best. But the last one, he had decided to make that one a bit more commercial,
and it had hit and stayed on the best sellers list. It was still there even as
the next was ready for release. He had just mailed off the galley proof, which
meant he had a little time off, before the official book launch later in the
summer.

For the first time in his life, he had a month or two to
relax at the same time that he had money. To travel. To enjoy nice things. To
escape the day-to-day stressors of life. He and Charlotte had worked so hard to
get to this point, and now that it was here, she was gone.

It meant nothing without her, for Charlotte had left him. Beautiful
Charlotte. His harlot, he would call her sometimes, in bed, when she whipped
her head up and let her loose strawberry blonde curls tumble down her shoulders,
her green eyes blazing. Such a peaceful strength, a kindness. So thoughtful to
their children. A Scottish lass, just like his own mother had been, so quiet
and yet capable, durable. She was the kind of woman who could sit on the sofa
with you all day as you worked and you could lie down and tuck your feet under
her thighs and she would place her hand on your ankles and smile and you could
soak in this rich, quiet, happiness all day. Days like this stayed on his skin,
like a scent. They fueled him. And now she was gone. And with her, his lovely
daughters. And with her, these kinds of days. Days when, as Charlotte had
phrased it, “There was nothing to do but each other.”

He clenched inside and then he had a thought that made him
brighten. There was that girl he knew, from when he was an undergrad. She had
dated Robert Suzuki or maybe Sam Peterson. Either way. He had heard from
someone or other that she had taken a position as a professor of art in the
same mountain town where Fiona lived. Maybe her college would want a visiting
professor. Maybe they would like him to teach a few weekend writing workshops
or host some critique sessions. It wouldn’t have to be a big deal. Just an
excuse to go down there, so it didn’t look like he was following her. Not that
he didn’t have a right to follow her. They were still married and she had taken
his girls. He would have to be very, very careful not to chase her off, but he
certainly wasn’t going to have all this free time and no Charlotte to spend it
with. Besides, he didn’t really know how to work without her. She had always
been there. She had always been home, whenever he needed her. And Marcus wanted
at least the outline of the next book by mid-September.

He grabbed for the phone.

***

Charlotte eyed the envelope in front of her. It had been
decorated in silver and pink Sharpie, the words “Charlotte MacDougall’s Grand Transformation
Pact” penned in glittery, twisting script.

She leaned forward. The wine made the room spin a little and
she felt strange in her stomach, like she was half-floating and half-heavy.

“It’s a bit personal,” Fiona said, biting on her lip. “I
wonder if I should leave the room while you read it over.”

“Personal?”

“Yes. I just don’t want you to feel embarrassed. You know,
with how things have gotten for you.” Fiona stood. “I really think I should
leave.”

Charlotte felt for a moment as though she might be sick. “What
is this, Fiona?”

“I just…well, I had some ideas. And I hope you won’t take
them the wrong way, but I just really think this could help you. But I know
what it says and… I don’t want to embarrass you. So I’m leaving. I’m going to
bed.”

Fiona filled Charlotte’s wine glass and then she shuffled
off, wrapping her sweater tight around her teensy waist and hugging herself,
though it wasn’t especially cold.  

Charlotte raised one leg on the oversized chair and rested
her wine glass on her knee. The chair made her feel like a child, sitting, as
she was, in her favorite striped pink pajamas.

She looked around, then, at the ceiling, in each corner of
the room, to ensure that there wasn’t some kind of surveillance. Was Fiona
sitting in a nook somewhere, munching Cheetos and Skittles and scrutinizing her
reaction? Taking notes on how to better help her poor, pathetic sister who once
thought she had the world by the tail?

Charlotte had a vision of herself just then, throwing up her
hands and dashing the envelope into the fireplace, letting the flames lick away
whatever fate her sister had outlined for her. Whatever embarrassing words were
inside. Standing then, with hands on hips and determining that she would make
her own transformation. That she needed no one.

She glanced toward the fireplace on the south wall. It was
still. Devoid even of ashes or the hint that it had once held a fire.

There was a candelabra in the center of the table. Fourteen
tiny flames there. But that would take a lot of burning, and what if the table
caught fire and she had to explain to Kamal’s family how she destroyed their
magnificent, exquisite, rare and expensive Snakewood table? And then maybe the
sprinklers would go off. Surely a house this size would be equipped with fire
mitigation. No. She would just need to open this damn thing. Get it over with.

She slid one finger under the envelope’s seal. Her nails
were chewed and ragged and the cuticles folded in on themselves. Instead of
long and pointy and dexterous, like her sister’s, they were pudgy and unkempt.
They looked like the fingers of a child. When had her fingers gotten chubby?

Inside the envelope was a thick sheaf of papers, bound
together with a small silver fastener at the top. There were several paper
clips and different colors of ink, everything coordinated in pink and silver.
She imagined Fiona driving her Range Rover to the office supply store and
clicking up and down the tiled floors in her tiny heels, hand-selecting the accessories
for this most important document.

As Charlotte scanned the front page, she was struck, first,
by the sheer volume of exclamatory punctuation. She and Caleb once joked that
Fiona spoke all day long in multiple exclamation marks—“Good morning!!! Did you
sleep well?!?!”—but to see them in print like this was really something.
Charlotte was more a period kind of person. Question marks, on occasion. She
saved the exclamation marks for, well…never.

The cover letter did look to be a bit embarrassing, so she
skimmed it. Her sister loves her…yadda yadda… can’t stand to see her like
this…blah blah…just a sad shred of her former self.

That didn’t feel good.

But! There’s hope! Fiona had a plan.  

Charlotte turned the page to reveal a typed document on heavier
bond.

I, Charlotte MacDougall, do solemnly vow that I will use
this incredible summer to regain my precious juju.