summer house one year. And you were only seventeen, so Lord alone knows what you could do now that you have more experience.”
Charlotte giggled. “Yes, that was a great summer.”
Greta looked firm. “For you, it was fun; for them, it was a disaster. Some people need to work, you know.”
Charlotte was unbowed. “Look, Greta, I didn’t make them do anything they didn’t want to do. They weren’t much older than I was. We were just having fun.”
“Hmm. Well, my point is that you’re not seventeen anymore, and people like Andy have responsibilities beyond protecting rich young women from sunburn and over-chlorinated swimming pools.”
Charlotte put up her hand. “OK, Greta, I get it. I hear you. No messing with Andy. You have my word.”
“That and a MetroCard will get me anywhere. Promise?” “I promise.”
Greta looked at her for a moment. “Are you looking forward to going back to Yale in the fall?”
Charlotte thought about it. “No, not really.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t find the studies very interesting, and because people are going to remember the whole stupid building thing. I wish I’d gone to Juilliard instead.”
“To study singing?”
The younger woman nodded. “I don’t think I would make the same decision now.”
Several years earlier, at the ludicrously expensive private school Charlotte had attended, the college counselors had been discouraging about Charlotte’s chances of a musical career. “The kids who go to Juilliard are going to be professional musicians,” they’d said. “You don’t have a classically trained voice. You’ve been gaining a traditional education. If you wanted to be a musician, you should have gone to a music school. No, Miss Williams, you should consider your voice a wonderful gift from God, something lovely to share with your future husband and children. Have you considered medicine? Or the law? A law degree could offer you freedom to follow multiple careers. Yale is an excellent school. Think about Yale.”
Embarrassed, Charlotte had shut down, taken the information about Yale, filled out the paperwork, and let the school handle the whole thing. Unsurprisingly, Yale had accepted her sight unseen, the historical relationship between the two schools as strong and preferential as ever.
“Have you been to see Janet yet?”
Charlotte smiled. “I’m going later this morning. We’re going to do a lesson and then have lunch.”
Janet was Charlotte’s voice coach and one of the limited number of people Charlotte felt truly comfortable with. You wouldn’t think to look at Janet, in her Stevie Nicks handkerchief hemlines and general love of the witchy look, her long gray hair defiantly undyed and untamed, that she was one of the leading music teachers on the East Coast, but she was. She guided many members of the Philharmonic, frequently held master classes for members of the Metropolitan, and taught the talented children of the wealthy. Charlotte loved her.
“In fact, I’d better go get dressed right now.” She turned back at the door. “I think there’s a leak in my shower. Do you think Andy could come and take a look?”
Greta opened her mouth to chastise her but then realized she was teasing. Charlotte headed upstairs, still giggling.
Greta sat for a while, thinking. She wasn’t sure what was going to become of Charlotte, to be honest. She had so much—looks, money, opportunity. But to Greta, Charlotte would always be the sobbing seven-year-old, calling for Mommy in the night, her father too anguished to hear. A few weeks after Jackie had been killed, a nanny had arrived, found by Greta, and Miss Millie and Greta had raised the girl between them. Jacob was a doting father, but he spent all his time at work. And something had changed in him when Jackie had died. Greta saw it; so did Davis. Miss Millie had been a wonderful nanny, though, very loving and firm, and Charlotte had recovered and eventually started to flourish. Seven years of relative peace had passed, but then one of Millie’s own children had needed her back in Louisiana, and she’d had to leave. Charlotte hadn’t ever really gotten over the loss, and Greta missed her colleague and friend, too. Early in Charlotte’s teen years, things had started to go badly, with boys and God knows what else. It was hardly surprising; there was no one there to set an example, although Greta had done what she could. Now Charlotte was a young woman, and there wasn’t much Greta could do to protect her anymore.
In fact, there wasn’t anything anyone could do.
Leaving the triplex an hour or so later, Charlotte decided to walk across the park instead of making Davis get out the car.
“Are you sure, Miss?” Davis looked concerned. “The park?
Alone?”
“Oh, for goodness sake, Davis. It’s Central Park in broad daylight, not Tompkins Square at two a.m. I’ve been taking care of myself in Paris for the last year. I even took the Metro alone, with only a fresh baguette to protect me.”
Davis wasn’t known for his lightheartedness. He went pale. “Your father wouldn’t like it, Miss. It won’t take me a minute to pull the car around.”
She shook her head, pressing the elevator button. “No, Davis. I’ll call you if I need a ride back from Janet’s, OK?” She knew she was making him anxious, but that wasn’t really her problem. Her dad could take care of himself, and so could she.
After the warmth of the apartment, the chill of the park was a shock. She greeted the doorman and pulled her Ungaro cashmere coat tightly around her. She’d forgotten how cold the city could get, especially once you stepped out of the protective canyons of the avenues. Joggers wearing earmuffs and gloves passed her, their breath clouding, their eyes focused, the tinny buzz of their iPods like passing insects. Charlotte had never enjoyed running—she was more of a yoga and Pilates girl, although mostly, she was a “naturally skinny and likes a big salad” kind of girl.
She found herself thinking about her mother. She wished she remembered more, but her memories consisted of brief scenes, scents, her mother bending down to kiss her good night when she and her father were going out, the smell of Chanel No. 5 and finely milled face powder. Clearly, Jackie had loved her, and she’d taken her everywhere. One of Charlotte’s favorite pictures was of herself as a toddler, backstage at some runway show, covered in makeup and surrounded by topless models, all of whom were smiling down at her like soft-hearted, long-lashed giraffes. She was grinning back, toothless and happy, and at the side of the frame sat Jackie, getting her hair done, her glance proud. In Paris during the last year, she’d been greeted as a prodigal child, welcomed to all the fashion houses, embraced and clucked over by designers whose names were permanently etched on the pages of Vogue. Stories of her mother were told with great affection, and photos were brought out that made Charlotte catch her breath. Many of them were pictures of her as a baby with Jackie. Some were of Jackie pregnant, candid shots of her helping other models get ready for shows she was too spherical to work. And in some, she could see her father, relaxed, smoking his cigars, watching his beautiful wife with hot eyes and a warm smile.
More than one designer told Charlotte she should be a model,
