Shy Charlotte’s Brand New Juju (Romantic Comedy) (6 page)

The revolving door at the entry released her into a lobby
that felt brighter even than the outdoors. The air felt cool against her skin
and was perfumed not with the lemony disinfectant she associated with such
facilities, but with a pleasing combination of lavender and rosemary. On the
south side sat a lounge with eight televisions and a trio of overstuffed black
leather chairs. Over her head, two stories up, was a running track, which
seemed to be suspended from the ceiling. And straight in front of her stood a
reception desk, comprised of glittery onyx panels and flanked by sliding walls
trimmed in chrome.  How fancy. Maybe she would apply for a job here.

The man behind the desk had black hair, combed tall. Up,
then back. He wore a tank top with the name of the club in black and silver,
and every last bit of him was shiny and smooth. His face was freshly shaven;
his neck, chest, and arms were hairless and clean. Charlotte wasn’t sure she
had ever seen a man so moisturized.   

“Yes?” he prompted. His teeth were white and perfectly
rectangular.

 “I’m here to sign up for a few sessions.”

“A few sessions of…? We have everything. And then some.”

What did that mean?
Charlotte wondered. Then she
said, “Personal training. My sister set it up.”

“Oh.” He chuckled. “You’re Charlotte.”

Her face flushed hot. “I am.”

The man lowered his eyes. “I have your paperwork right here.
Or right back in the office, rather. Give me a minute.” He slid aside one of
the chrome panels behind him and disappeared. So much for finding employment
here, she thought. Everyone knew her life story. The pathetic tale of betrayal
and damaged goods. The novelist’s wife. Maybe they would all read Caleb’s next steamy
novel to see if there was any character who screwed around on his wife, so they
could say, “Hey! I
knew
that wife!” The novel would go on and on, she
was sure, about how it wasn’t his first affair, but his dolt of a wife was
easily tricked.

The man re-emerged and she decided to refer to him as Slicky
because, one, he hadn’t introduced himself and, two, because he looked to be so
slick, so slippery. Charlotte often found herself making up names and
concocting stories about the people she met. It was a habit that began when she
was a child, too shy to introduce herself and to engage with others, and it
continued into adulthood because, well, not much had changed. She was capable
of creating entire make-believe worlds about people, quickly and easily. She
decided that Slicky was a personal trainer to the stars. Also, a Calvin Klein underwear
model.

“You’ll be meeting with Leopold Sokolowski,” Slicky said,
reading from a file. His eyebrows lifted. “Five times a week, it says here.
Could that be right?”

“I don’t know. But, if my sister said so, then, yes.”

He met her eyes then. His brows were arched and his eyes a
clean shade of aqua. Like the water near those white-sand beaches she had seen in
advertisements and magazines.

“I’m my sister’s project for the summer. Apparently, I’m Leopold’s
project, too.”

Slicky smiled and put his hand on hers. His touch was soft
and warm, which Charlotte found faintly surprising. She had expected his hand
to be cold, like steel.

“You’ll be in good hands. Some say, the best,” he said.

“That’s what I hear.” Slicky’s touch had unnerved her
slightly. “Are you talking about my sister’s hands or this…trainer guy?”

He laughed. “Both, I guess.” Then he paused and leveled his
eyes at her.  “And I wouldn’t refer to him as a ‘trainer guy.’ He’s one of the
world’s pre-eminent athletes.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Or he was,
in his day.” Then in a brighter, louder tone, “He was a sprinter
and
alpine
skier on the Poland National Team. His name is pronounced Le-AW-pawlt. Emphasis
on the second syllable. Not the first. Please don’t mispronounce it. Say it
after me. Le-AW-pawlt.”

“Le-AW-pawlt.” She felt like a child.

“Sorry, it’s just…he gets very, very crabby about it.  He
doesn’t care for the Americanized version. He doesn’t much care for the
Americanized version of too many things. You’ll see. I’m just warning you, so
you know what to expect and you don’t come to me and complain that he was an
asshole to you.”

Charlotte bit her bottom lip.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong. He is an asshole, but he gets
results.”

Should he be using that kind of word in here? To her? She
looked around and realized they were alone. Maybe he was just trying to help
her out.

He lowered his voice again. “Actually, he makes me say that.
His bark is worse than his bite. Especially at first. And he is really working
on the Americanized things…expressions and such, so help him out.”  Slicky
winked then and resumed his normal speaking tone. “You’ll be meeting with him
five days a week for two hours. His first appointment of the day.” Slicky
squinched his eyes. “Your sister must have really wanted this. It cost her a bloody
fortune. Also, I hope she bought you a giant bottle of ibuprofen. You are going
to hurt like a…”

She raised an eyebrow at him, and he stopped. Then he said, “All
I’m saying is I’m glad I’m not working out with Leopold five days a week, Miss
Amari.”  

“No, no, I’m a MacDougall. My sister is the Amari…by
marriage.”

“And are you married, Miss MacDougall?”

She bobbed her head up and down, and then shook it side to
side. He winked at her again. Surely he knew the story. How could he not know
the story? Was he playing a game with her? Or was he interested in her?

“I just need to know for the paperwork. Leopold requires some
very special paperwork.”

Of course he wasn’t interested. She was overfed, apparently.
And invisible. She had given the best years of her life to a man who didn’t
want them. Who didn’t care about them.

“I’m, um, I’m separated.”

“Ah, okay then. “He checked a box on a canary yellow form.
She peered over the desk to get a closer look, but he had already slid her
paperwork back in the file folder.

“Now I just need to take your photo.”

“Oh. Why?”

“Leopold needs photos. He has his reasons. His methods.”

“Oh.” She flashed a smirk while he pressed a button on his
keyboard, and the camera atop his monitor made a clicking sound.

Slicky looked at his screen and tilted his head to the side.
“Would you like to see the photo? Make sure it meets your approval?”

“Not really.”

“Okay then.” He shrugged. “Now I’ll give you a personal tour
of our facility.” And then Slicky came from behind the desk and offered his
arm. She hesitated for a moment, to ensure this was what he intended and then
she placed her hand in the crease of his elbow and tried not to squeeze at his
enormous bicep. “This way, please,” he said.

***

Caleb was, at this moment, driving straight down the street
his wife had driven just two days before. He was seeing the same imposing peak
straight ahead, with its jagged, snow peaked crests and valleys. But he was not
imagining himself driving into a film of his new life, as Charlotte had. He was
not creating a new personal theme song, as Hannah had. Instead, he was growling
along to the Rolling Stones.
Can’t get no… BAH-Nah-NAAAH…

Caleb particularly enjoyed punching the guitar riffs,
letting them pop out of his throat in great grumbling bursts.
BAH-Nah-NAAH.

He had to admit there were a handful of advantages to taking
a road trip by oneself, without Charlotte and the girls. He could stop for
tacos wherever he wanted, and he could fart as he pleased. But there were no
Easy Cheese hearts. No one pouring him cups of tea from his Thermos. No one to
press her hand flat against his lower back when it began to ache.  

Should he stop by the college first, to get settled in? To meet
the administrators, the other faculty, this Rachael Whitmore person, who had
made all of these arrangements on such short notice? Or should he go by and
surprise his wife? See his darling girls?

He suddenly could not decide. No matter which order he did
things, Charlotte was going to get the surprise of her life. And she didn’t much
like surprises. He got an image, suddenly, of her coming at him, wild-eyed,
with a pair of box cutters. But that was ridiculous. Charlotte was one of the
most placid, serene, loving women he had ever met. It’s what made him fall for
her, the first moment she came to his office, so many years ago, with her wide,
wondering eyes and her long silken curls. She was so calm and so quiet, with a
quick wit that seemed to surprise even her, and a sexiness that was natural and
instinctive and warm. Instantly, he felt like they had always been together,
and they had been together ever since. Charlotte. His private, young harlot.  He
would stop by to see her first. But what if she didn’t want him here?

***

Charlotte charged out of the health club with hope in her
heart. She hadn’t eaten all day, and she felt great. Well, she could go for a
Big Mac, but she
wouldn’t.
She would wait and see what kind of grassy
foods Fiona had on her menu. A whole smattering of fruits and tubers, she
imagined. A bounty of healthy goodness.

And tomorrow, she would go out, again, by herself, and she
would get a job. Then, she would start her painting class. She
had
once
loved to paint, she decided. The quiet scratch of the brush. The earthy scent
of the paints.

Charlotte always felt energized after spending a chunk of
the day alone. Electrified and empowered and a mite bit unstoppable. When had
she stopped spending time by herself? With helping Caleb during the day and all
the errands and noise of family life, she had forgotten how much she loved her
time alone.  

Caleb understood this. He was probably the only person she
could have married, especially so young, because he was even more introverted than
her.  And yet, there were the fantasies, which she could never tell anyone
about. That, one day, there would be a firm rap at the door and when she opened
it, a uniformed man with a pinched face would say, “I am very sorry to tell you
that your husband has disappeared,” and, after she grieved for a time, she
would be able to start again.

That probably wasn’t a good sign.

But, while alarming, she had always chalked up this fantasy
to being a natural side effect of marrying so young. Of marrying the only man
she had ever slept with. Of course she wondered what else was out there.
Who
else was out there.

Besides, it wasn’t like it was a
wish.
It was just a
fleeting thought she had now and then. All married mothers probably had it from
time to time, but it wasn’t something you shared over coffee cake at your
friend’s house.
Do you ever dream that your husband would somehow vanish, so
you could start over?
But when she had walked in on Caleb and that woman, a
small and private part of her had said, resoundingly: “Free. Free at last.”

Charlotte’s chest lifted as she crossed the street. She
wondered where she might go next. She felt like she was fifteen again, starting
over. She could work at a flower shop or a bakery or a travel agency. She could
storm into the corporate world, all pencil skirts and high, clicky heels. Or
she could be a cheery barista, handing over steaming paper cups and a day’s
worth of exuberance.

She could start dating slick underwear models who worked the
front desk at health clubs. She could do anything, anything at all for the next
ninety days. There was no trace or tie to her past here, beyond Fiona and the
tales she had spun. And Fiona’s friends wanted to help her. They were on her
side. She could trust them.

Trust.
The word brought to mind a seminar she had
taken with Caleb.  A marriage retreat, deep in the Adirondacks. They had
arrived two days before the seminar began, and they had made crazy love by a
stream smack in the middle of a hike. But then the seminar began and they began
to argue like they never had before. It was as though the seminar exposed
things that were wrong with their marriage, which neither had ever considered a
problem before.

One of the first exercises had been a game of faith and trust,
in which you were to fall backward, into the arms of the person behind you. All
you had to do was to let yourself go. Caleb went stiff as a board and, whoof,
dropped straight backward into Charlotte’s embrace. But, when it was her turn, she
found she couldn’t do it. At just the last moment, she would step her right leg
back to catch herself, every time.

The facilitator had been a bearded man with a breathy way of
speaking. He had a petite wife who came across as fairly well medicated, and he
had made Charlotte try again and again. Each time, Caleb would mutter, “You
trust me. I know you do. Just let yourself fall.” And the facilitator (she
secretly called him Hairy McNabbit) and his wife (the Stoned Little Rabbit)
looked back and forth and shared knowing smiles as if to say that they had seen
their kind hundreds of times.

By the end, Caleb was yelling at her under his breath, his
eyes large and rimmed with red. Finally, he simply pretended that she
had
done it, so the rest of the couples would stop watching them. So they could
move on. But he hadn’t even looked at her for the rest of the evening. And she
realized then, and perhaps so did Caleb, that the only person Charlotte
trusted, the only person she felt she could always fall back on, was herself. It
wasn’t Caleb’s fault. It just was.

***

Caleb was reconsidering. He had planned to drive straight to
Fiona’s house. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that
perhaps he needed to take more time to determine the course of action that
would give him the best chance of success. Fools rush in and all of that. So he
decided to get settled in first. To get some flowers and maybe some chocolates
for Charlotte and a shower for himself.