The Carlton Club (32 page)

He and Leslie knew, although they didn’t discuss it, that they couldn’t and wouldn’t continue much longer.

It was wrong. But when he was with Leslie it was good and right because she was good and she would never harm anyone. She didn’t want to hurt Lynne any more than he did.

“Maybe. Probably. But will I ever fall in love again? I don’t know. I may be too old.”

“Really! How old are you, Charlie?”

“I’m a year younger than Eric. To the day. November eleventh. We were both conceived on Valentine’s Day, the result of a special Valentine from our mothers to their soldier lovers.”

“Is Robert really Eric’s father?”

“Yes. Robert was just eighteen on that Valentine’s Day. Eric’s mother was a quite attractive and very wealthy twenty-three year old debutante. Robert didn’t know her very well, but they got together that night. The next morning Robert went to the war in Europe. Two months later when the families, both of which we steeped in wealth and blue-bloodedness, discovered that she was pregnant, they orchestrated a retroactive marriage so that Eric wouldn’t be a bastard. But, of course,” Charlie said smiling but with a slight sharpness in her voice, “Eric
is
a bastard. So am I.”

“Not so you’d notice,” James said quickly. “Was Robert surprised when he returned?”

“I think the mail caught up with him before he returned two years later. He liked his wife well enough to have another child with her. They remained married for almost thirty years,” Charlie said factually. Then her voice softened, and she said gently, “And, of course, Robert adored his little toddler son with the light brown hair and bright blue eyes just like his.”

“They do look like brothers. And they seem so close,” James said as he thought about his own father for the first time in years. James tried to remember a time when they were close. He couldn’t. All he could remember was hatred and disappointment.

“The closest. They are best friends. They care so much about each other.”

“And Eric’s mother?”

“She and Robert were divorced six or seven years ago.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Not really. Robert is much happier. He seems younger and freer.”

“You’ve know them a long time, haven’t you?”

“A long time,” Charlie repeated distantly. So many memories. “I met Eric when I was sixteen.”

Six months after the death of my mother, she thought but didn’t say.

Somehow Charlotte survived the months after her mother’s death. She paid the bills, carefully writing the checks in Louise Alcott’s elaborate script, and bought what food she ate with the money from the shoeboxes. She kept her clothes clean and ironed, went to school, maintained her excellent grades and pretended to her friends and teachers that she and her Aunt Louise were managing quite well.

Charlotte survived without help from anyone because she steadfastly refused to feel the pain. The pain of loneliness and loss and grief and even betrayal was replaced by numbness, an absence of feelings. Charlotte felt neither pain nor joy. She simply existed, plodding from day to day without thought or reflection.

For a week after receiving Mary’s letter, Charlotte allowed herself a wonderful fantasy. She would find her father. He would be handsome and loving and oh so happy to see his daughter. Maybe she would even have a half brother or sister. She would move to England. She would have a family.

She would run an ad in the London papers.
Looking for John (Max), who made love to a librarian named Mary (Charlotte) on Valentine’s Day in Philadelphia seventeen years ago. You have a daughter.

Reality crashed down around her before Charlotte ran the ad. His name probably wasn’t really John. He probably didn’t live in London, or even England, anymore. Why would he read an ad in the personal section, anyway? He might not want to have an illegitimate daughter. He might be a horrible man. A rapist. A murderer. Mary had thought he was wonderful, but Mary lived in a dream world, a world of fantasy.

This is a fantasy, Charlotte realized one day with horror. I am creating a fantasy about my father. I am beginning to believe it, to believe in a world that doesn’t exist.

Don’t do it, her mind screamed. Don’t become like your mother. Don’t lose touch with what is real.

Charlotte forced herself to forget about John just as she forced herself to feel no pain.

That summer Charlotte got a job as a lifeguard at the Oak Brook Country Club. Located in Philadelphia’s most elegant residential area, the club boasted an exclusive membership. All help, including lifeguards, was hired from outside the membership. Even though the teenage children of club members would have competed enthusiastically for the lifeguarding jobs, it simply wasn’t done. Children of club members didn’t work. At least, not at the club.

Charlotte Winter had a healthy wholesome look, the personnel manager at the club decided. Clearly not aristocratic—she wouldn’t compete with the members’ daughters—but quite acceptable. He hired her. He had hired the five lifeguards every summer for the past ten years. This was the first time he had hired a girl.

The Oak Brook Country Club was five miles from Charlotte’s house on Elm Street. She rode her bicycle to and from work, pedaling fast in the coolness of the early summer morning and pedaling more slowly in the humid evening heat.

There were four of them. They arrived together during Charlotte’s third week at the club. She watched them arrive, immediately struck by the casual, buoyant way they walked. Their nonchalant, self-assured, easy gaits sent clear messages of confidence and control. And why not? The world was theirs, a sumptuous buffet of experiences and pleasures. All they had to do was choose.

As they approached the pool area, the teenage girls who had been bored and languid for the past few weeks came to attention.

This is who they’ve been waiting for, Charlotte thought. She watched the four young men—four healthy, handsome fashion plates in light cotton slacks and designer polo shirts—survey their territory, smiling appreciatively at the girls. The girls smiled back with coy, carefully studied smiles and perfectly posed bodies. It was a ritual, Charlotte realized. It marked the beginning of summer at the Oak Brook Country Club.

One of the young men grabbed one of the girls and threw her, squealing with delight, into the pool.

Charlotte immediately, reflexively, stood up and blew her whistle. At first no one heard it above the laughing, squealing and splashing that followed as all the girls were thrown, willingly, into the aquamarine water.

Charlotte blew her whistle again and again.

Finally the pool area fell silent. Then all eyes were on her. Startled, amused eyes. One pair of light blue eyes approached her.

“Is something wrong, lifeguard?” he asked smiling.

“Pushing, shoving, throwing people into the pool. It’s not allowed,” Charlotte said looking down at him from her perch.

“Since when?” he asked mildly.

“Since always.”

“It’s never been enforced. Not here.”

“It will be enforced this summer. It’s too dangerous,” Charlotte said firmly, her heart pounding, her face suddenly warm.

“How will it be enforced?”

“I have the authority to prohibit people who break the rules from coming into the pool area. It’s all written down in the club’s policy manual,” Charlotte said, feeling the dampness of her palms and a cold wave of fear washing through her body.

He sensed her fear. And relented.

“OK. You’re the boss. It looks like we have one tough cookie on the lifeguard tower this year,” he said to the still mute group. Then he looked up at Charlotte. “I guess we’re going to have to have our fun somewhere else.”

Everyone laughed. Uneasy laughter. Then eager laughter. Maybe it would be more fun.

Maybe they would have to save their touching for more private places. Maybe the sexual tension created at poolside would find a more intimate release.

The light blue eyes looked back up at Charlotte, trying to learn a little about her. Charlotte’s golden-blond hair was tucked, completely hidden, under the too large safari hat, and her eyes were lost in the shadow of its brim. All he could see were her full lips and her flawless body in the emerald green tank suit issued by the club.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Charlotte. What’s yours?”

“Eric. And this is, ” Eric introduced the assembled group. Charlotte had been there three weeks. In that time, only the mothers with young children had introduced themselves. They asked if she would be giving swimming lessons and made certain that she would watch the wading pool area carefully. No one Charlotte’s age had made any attempt to speak to her.

Now Eric, even after their awkward initial exchange, was making introductions. Because, Charlotte realized gratefully, he is so well bred. His politeness is instinctive. He could treat her like a servant, like everyone else at the club did, but he didn’t.

By the time the introductions were over, the chatter and laughter in the pool area had returned. When Eric spoke to her again, no one else heard.

“Charlotte, huh?” he asked, peering up at her, trying unsuccessfully to see her face.

“Charlotte,” she repeated tentatively.

“I think I’m going to have to call you Charlie,” he said finally. Without waiting for her reply, Eric headed toward the men’s locker room to change into his swim trunks.

Over the next week, Eric and Charlie didn’t speak, but he waved pleasantly from his chaise longue by the pool. Sometimes, grinning at her, he pretended that he was about to toss someone in the water. But he didn’t.

Charlie learned a little about him that week. She learned that Eric and his three friends had just graduated from a prep school in New Hampshire and that Eric would be attending Harvard in the fall. Charlie decided that he didn’t have a steady girlfriend, that he was immensely charming and that his life had been unencumbered by even a moment of sadness or denial. Eric had everything, and he was probably even kind.

Charlie ran into him in the parking lot one evening as she was leaving.

“Hi, Eric,” she said smiling.

“Hi,” he answered politely, a little confused by the beautiful girl with the flowing blond hair, huge brown eyes, and the vaguely familiar voice and lips. “Charlie?”

“Charlie. Without the safari hat.”

“Wow,” he said effortlessly. It was part of his charm. He made people feel wonderful.

“Well,” Charlie said shrugging, suddenly uncomfortable. “See ya.”

“Wait. Charlie. Do you want to go have a Coke or something?” he asked, gesturing toward the club.

“Oh. Thanks. It’s getting dark and the light on my bicycle is broken. I should get going,” she said truthfully. She had stayed late after work for a lifeguards’ meeting. It was already dusk.

“Your bicycle? How far do you live?”

“About five miles,” she answered, uneasy at the tone in his voice when she mentioned her bicycle. He probably didn’t know anyone who didn’t have a car. Mary had never owned a car. She had never learned to drive.

“Even if you leave now, it’s going to be dark by the time you get home.”

“I know. I’d better go.”

“Wait. Why don’t we put your bicycle in my car? I’ll drive you home. We can have dinner if you haven’t eaten.”

Eric put Charlie’s bicycle into the trunk of his car, a cream-colored Mercedes with blue interior.

As they ate pizza and drank Coke, Eric entertained her with stories about prep school, previous club lifeguards and his friends. Charlie listened appreciatively, her gaze intent, focused, smiling. Her laugh flowed easily from deep within her, swept by a rush of joy she hadn’t felt for months. If ever. With Eric, Charlie felt alive again, no longer numb or empty.

When Eric asked her about her life, her family, Charlie just encouraged him to tell her more about himself.

Eric had never known anyone like Charlie. She was so natural, so unpretentious. She didn’t even know that with every gesture, every glance, every laugh, she was seducing him, making him fall in love with her.

It had never happened to Eric before.

It had never happened to either one of them.

At eleven-thirty, Eric suddenly became aware of the almost empty pizza parlor.

“Charlie, it’s eleven-thirty. I hope you won’t be in trouble.”

“No. I won’t be.”

At midnight, Eric parked in front of the tiny green house on Elm Street. He noticed immediately that the house was dark.

“I’m afraid they may be mad at you,” Eric said. “They didn’t even leave any lights on.”

“There is no one there,” Charlie said reluctantly.

“No one home? They leave you alone?” Eric asked incredulously as they walked up the walk toward the dark front porch.

Suddenly Charlie froze. She was unable to force herself to walk a step closer to the dark empty house. She had to be numb to do that, and tonight, with Eric, she no longer felt numb. She felt alive and happy.

Now, seeing the house and unprotected by the armor of numbness, the emotions that Charlie had denied since Mary died rushed into her, consuming her with dread and pain and loneliness. They leave you alone? Eric’s words thundered in her brain.

“Charlie?” Eric turned toward her, wondering why she had stopped.

The emotions erupted into a sob. Charlie couldn’t control the sob or the trembling that accompanied it. She covered her face with her hands and shook her head, unable to move, unable to stop crying, unable to even understand what had happened.

“Charlie!” Eric’s arms were around her. “What’s wrong?”

“There is no one,” she sobbed softly into his chest. “I live here by myself.”

“No one? Charlie, I don’t understand. Charlie. Tell me,” he urged, holding her tighter, trying to move her toward the house.

“I’m afraid to go in there,” she whispered almost frantically.

“OK. Let’s go sit in the car. Charlie, you need to tell me what’s wrong.”

She did tell him. Slowly and painfully, over the next hour, she told him everything.

“Why don’t you come home with me? We have plenty of room,” Eric said finally, holding her against him, not wanting to let her go.

“No. I feel better. It helps to have talked about it. I haven’t told this to anyone. I’m sorry. It’s not fair to have done this to you.”

“I’m glad you told me. It makes me feel closer to you, and I want to be as close to you as I can,” Eric whispered, pressing his lips against her silky golden hair.

“I should go in now,” Charlie said with bravado.

“I’ll go with you,” Eric said, half dreading seeing the inside of the house himself.

But with the lights on, the house was cheerful, not oppressive. It had once been a happy place to live, filled with Mary’s love for her daughter.

“You should go,” Charlie said.

“I can stay a little longer. I need to call my parents, though, anyway. Do you have a phone?” he asked.

Charlie nodded. She didn’t need a phone. Her school friends didn’t call often anymore. She never used it, but a phone was a lifeline to reality. She was afraid to sever it.

Robert answered the phone on the second ring. It was one in the morning. He was working, reviewing a brief, in his study.

“Father, I know it’s late.”

“Are you all right?” Robert had been worried.

“Yes. I’m fine. I’m with a friend who needs me. I still won’t be home for a while.”

“Is there something I can do?”