How Nancy Drew Saved My Life

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  “I remembered you ruining your other dress the night of the party and thought you might like a new one, in case you had a special occasion.”

  Then he reached down into the bottom of the wardrobe and came out with a pair of shoes, high-heeled black satin strappy things.

  “For dancing,” he said.

  “I’m going dancing?” I asked.

  “Well, no,” he admitted, “perhaps not tonight, unless of course you want to dance here. Originally, I’d planned on taking you out tonight. But now, with your father unexpectedly visiting, I think we might as well do it here.”

  “Do it?” I asked. “Do what?”

  He draped the dress over the back of the chair in front of the desk, placed the shoes gently on the floor. Then he picked up his jacket, from where it had been hastily discarded on the floor earlier, and reached into the inside pocket.

  When his hand was visible again, I saw there was a small box in it. A jeweler’s box.

  “I’d thought to ask you to marry me over dinner out tonight,” he said with a smile, “but now, with your father here, I thought it best I ask his permission first.”

  Oh!

  Whatever doubts I’d ever had were now gone. If he was willing to do this, then there was nothing sham about his love for me. This was nothing like what had happened with Buster.

  I reached a hand out for the box.

  He held it out of reach.

  “I think I’d best save this for tonight,” he said, “and do it properly. Will you say yes when I ask you, Charlotte?”

  “Yes,” I said simply, “I’ll say yes.”

  I floated through the remainder of the day on angel’s wings and when it was time to dress for dinner, I felt as though there were an invisible fairy there in the room with me, helping me with the complicated straps on the shoes, slipping the dress over my head, doing up the zipper, making sure every hair was in place. I looked at myself in the mirror. While it was still true that no one was ever going to ask me to model anything, unless it was my pretty dancer’s feet, I felt beautiful.

  I don’t remember my feet touching the stairs once as I sailed down to the dining room and dinner, although they must have. When I walked into the room, breathless, late for once in my life because I’d actually taken some care with my unruly hair and bothered to put on a bit of makeup, my father was already there, his back to me as he enjoyed a drink at the sideboard with Edgar. They were laughing, having obviously made fast friends.

  They turned at the sound of my high heels striking the wood floor and I saw my father had a suit on, a rare thing. I also saw for the first time the woman at his side.

  His traveling companion.

  She was tall, as tall as he was even without heels, with dark black skin, and wore a yellow dress, her hair braided in a complicated design on her head.

  She looked to be about…my age.

  “Charlotte,” my father said, looking awkward, “I’d like you to meet Sweet Maningue.”

  “Sweet?” I said dumbly.

  “It’s a nickname,” she said in a richly accented voice.

  She put her hand out and as I took it, I saw the diamond ring on her finger. It was large, square, sparkling like a huge crystal.

  “Are you two going to…?” I started.

  “Yes,” my father said, putting his arm around her. “This is what we came here to tell you.”

  Needless to say, hearing this news knocked my own news out of the water.

  The ensuing dinner passed in a haze. It was a good thing Edgar had given instructions that this was to be an adults-only dinner because it would surely have made me feel guilty had Annette been there and me so incapable of being attentive.

  It felt like another woman listened as my father explained that Sweet was a graduate student from Nairobi who’d been sent to him to do an internship.

  “We certainly didn’t plan on this,” he said, covering her hand with his, “and we did wait until the internship was over before acting on our feelings.”

  I tried to picture future family holidays: my father with his bride who would be my age, me with my husband who was my father’s age. Sweet and I could talk about pop music while our menfolk could trade Viagra stories.

  “Tell me you can be happy for us, Charlotte,” he said. “It’s important to us.”

  “It’s important to both of us,” Sweet added.

  It was weird. It actually seemed to matter to them, to both of them, what I thought. I couldn’t remember a time in my life when my father had openly cared what I thought about anything.

  Didn’t everyone deserve a shot at happiness? And didn’t he, being one of those everyone, deserve the same shot?

  It was as though he read my mind.

  “After your mother,” he addressed me, “I didn’t think I’d ever find a woman I could be happy with again. Hell, it took me twenty years.”

  I neglected to point out that twenty years ago, his future bride had probably been about three.

  So, okay. So maybe family gatherings would be a little weird in a Greek tragedy sort of way. But we’d find a way to handle it.

  “Yeah,” I said, realizing the truth as I spoke it, “you do deserve happiness.” I raised my glass. “Cheers.”

  Sweet smiled wide as she stretched across the table to kiss me on the cheek.

  “Hey,” I said, “just don’t expect me to call you Mom.”

  Edgar clapped his hands together in a “that’s settled” sort of way, smiling brightly as he placed a hand inside his jacket.

  I knew what he was reaching for.

  “No!” I screamed.

  Dad’s and Sweet’s heads zipped my way.

  “What?” they asked.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I just didn’t want anything to spoil your big moment. If anyone else has anything important to say, they should probably save it for after dessert.”

  My father looked at me closely.

  “You’re kind of an odd girl, aren’t you?” he said.

  I rolled my eyes, gave an embarrassed smile.

  “Yeah,” I admitted.

  “Yeah,” Edgar said softly, using rare slang. But I could see from his smile that he meant it lovingly, that he was proud I was willing to let someone else go first with happiness.

  After dinner and dessert—two desserts in one day; my life really was getting good!—we retired for drinks in the library. If my father thought it was odd that a busy ambassador should take the time to entertain the visitors of his daughter’s governess he didn’t let on. Perhaps it was that he was finally starting to see me in a more worthy light and thought I deserved such fine treatment. Or perhaps it was that he was so in love with Sweet, he couldn’t see anything else clearly.

  As well as Edgar had treated me over the last several weeks in the privacy of my bedroom, I myself was not used to being treated with such a public display of his regard for me. True, he had not touched me in their presence, nor had he said anything to indicate that he held me with more than a fond regard, but drinks in the library had not exactly been the norm in my stay there thus far.

  And drinking had not much been the norm in my previous life, the few times I’d imbibed with Gina and Britta notwithstanding, so the combination of the two glasses of wine over dinner plus the after-dinner sweet drink Edgar served were enough to go to my head.

  Edgar was asking my father and Sweet about the specifics of their wedding plans. Funny, I hadn’t thought to ask that myself—what kind of ceremony would they have? And where?—but they were obviously pleased now at Edgar’s asking.

  Sweet positively glittered as she said, “We will get married near the dig where we first met, of course.”

  Of course.

  She turned to me.

  “And we will want you there, Charlotte, of course.”

  Of course.

  I took a sip of my drink, thought about flying to Africa. Iceland was so cold, Africa would be so hot. Couldn’t I ever go anywhere where the temperature was tempe
rate?

  But it would be special, I realized. My father, the version of my father I was used to, could so easily have gotten married without me present and sent a postcard afterward. It was nice he wanted my approval, nice they both wanted me there.

  “Well,” I said, “of course I’d love to.” I looked over at Edgar. “But only if I can get the time off from work.”

  Edgar laughed. “Now, what kind of man would I be if I didn’t allow you time to attend your father’s wedding?”

  I pictured Sweet on her wedding day. What kind of dress would she wear? Whatever she wore, I realized, she would be stunning.

  But, wait a second: What kind of dress would I wear for my wedding? And when exactly would we be getting married? Edgar hadn’t said yet. Would it be before them? After them?

  Suddenly, I had an overwhelming urge to hear Edgar make the announcement at last. After all, I’d waited—what?—at least an hour and a half since my father and Sweet made their announcement. Surely it was my turn for happiness now.

  And it seemed that Edgar was eager for happiness now too, if the way his hand kept unconsciously reaching for the jeweler’s box in his jacket’s inside pocket was any indication. It was as though, ever since I’d screamed “No!” at him over dinner, when he’d reached for it the first time, he’d been waiting for me to give an indication that I was changing that no to yes, so he could formally, publicly ask me, and then I could really say yes.

  Feeling as if I was about to give the most important head nod of my life, I met his eyes, eyed his jacket pocket meaningfully, met his eyes again, and started to nod.

  Which was right when Mrs. Fairly ushered a breathless Robert Miller into the room. My eyes were glued on Edgar as he watched Robert enter. There was a wary look in his eyes, but he continued with his motion, slipping his hand inside the jacket.

  “Edgar!” Robert Miller said commandingly.

  It was a voice that wouldn’t be ignored and I turned to look at him.

  He was still the same man I’d met the night of the house party. He even had what looked to be the same suit on, making him look like an underpaid federal employee, making him look out of place here. Didn’t he own another suit?

  “Robert,” Edgar said evenly. “I’ll be with you in a moment. I was just about to—”

  “No!” Robert cried, that one-word utterance sounding somehow different than mine had earlier. Mine had been of the “no, not now, but definitely later” variety. His sounded more like the “no, not at all, not ever” variety. But how could he know what was about to happen? And, even if he did, why would he want to stop it?

  My father and Sweet looked on, confused, as Robert Miller quickly strode across the room, placing his hand firmly on Edgar’s reaching hand, stopping him, stopping the beautiful moment I’d been so sure was going to happen right then from happening.

  “I insist,” said Robert through gritted teeth. “You and I need to talk. Now.”

  “But surely,” Edgar said, “it can wait until after—”

  “No,” Robert cut him off. “It can’t.”

  If anyone had ever asked me before that moment if it were possible for Edgar Rawlings to be subservient to anyone, I would have said, no, that such a thing was impossible. But I saw now, as Edgar allowed himself to be led from the room with a “Won’t be but a few minutes and then we can continue” thrown over his shoulder, that I had been wrong.

  What other things had I been wrong about?

  I stood there, after Edgar and Robert left the room, wondering what was going on. I turned to my father for help, but there was no help there.

  “Charlotte, what’s going on?” he asked, concerned.

  Nope, no help there.

  Sweet moved toward me, put a comforting hand on my arm. Odd, but since I’d met her, despite that she was obviously the same age as me, she’d seemed more mature. Maybe it was because she was marrying my father.

  And then, as I stood there, dying with curiosity to know what the two men were talking about, the familiar saving refrain came to me: What Would Nancy Drew Do?

  If I knew one thing in this world, it was that Nancy Drew wouldn’t just stand around here, balefully, waiting for whatever blow fate was about to deliver. She’d go after the mystery, find out what the hell was going on.

  I shook off Sweet’s hand, not unkindly, and left the room. Walking on the toes of my shoes so as not to make too much sound on the floor, I made my way slowly down the corridor to Edgar’s office. When I got there, I paused, flattening myself against the wall in order to eavesdrop.

  In most quarters, eavesdropping was considered to be a despicable, sneaky thing to do. But Nancy Drew eavesdropped all the time and everyone thought the world of her. And, really, how else was a girl to learn what she needed to know?

  I could only hear a mumble, but from the deepness of that mumble, I knew it to be Edgar talking. How I wished I could hear the words!

  But then the other voice in the duet came in and that voice was angry, stern. I could hear it clearly.

  “You can’t do this, Edgar,” Robert Miller said, sounding somehow sad despite the sternness. “Bebe thinks you were going to ask her to marry you. If you don’t do it now, there’ll be an international incident.”

  I felt my heart catch. I’d been given to understand that he and Bebe had not been that close after all. Why should she think he was going to marry her?

  I waited breathlessly, waited to hear Edgar say that he wouldn’t marry Bebe, that he loved me.

  But those words didn’t come, because, once again, when he spoke it was all mumble to me.

  Then there was Robert Miller again, the now-hateful Robert Miller:

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said, “none of that. I’m sorry Miss Bell has to be hurt right now. But surely you can see it has to be that way?”

  Surely not, I thought. Surely, Edgar will tell him so.

  Silence, long silence. And then, finally, Edgar’s voice, loud and clear.

  “All right—” he bit off the words, each one a nail “—all right, Robert. We’ll do it your way.”

  I didn’t stay to hear any more. What was the point?

  I raced back down the corridor, the heels of my dancing shoes, the shoes I’d thought to one day dance with Edgar in, maybe even tonight, tattooing a mocking trail of laughter behind me as I flew.

  I heard the door of the office fling open behind me, heard Edgar desperately scream, “Charlotte!” But I didn’t stop.

  I don’t know what my father and Sweet thought when they saw me race by the library, would never know, didn’t care.

  I hit the front door hard, fumbling with the handle, unable to open it through the tears blinding me. But then I had it opened, finally, just as Edgar caught up to me from behind, put his hands on my shoulders, turning me toward him.

  “Charlotte, I can—”

  “Don’t. You. Dare.” I said it in a tone of voice that brooked no argument, even from him. And then using both my hands forcefully, I pushed him away.

  Then I was out the door, slamming it behind me.

  Having given no thought to what I was going to do, where I was going to go, I raced in the night down the driveway, my dancing shoes hitting the ice at a skid, sliding me along until I at last lost my balance, falling hard.

  “Crap!” I shouted, railing at the night sky. “Why does there have to be so much fucking ice in Iceland?”

  Then I laughed, laughed at the silliness that was me.

  And then I cried, cried at what an idiot I’d been, thinking I could come to this foreign place and my life would be different, thinking things would be different with Edgar than they’d been with Buster, thinking my story would somehow turn out to be a happy one.

  There was going to be no happy ending for me. I saw that now. But I also saw that I couldn’t just leave right then and there. Outside of practical considerations, like the fact that all I had with me were the clothes on my back and it was the middle of the night and my passport an
d things were back inside the house, there was the matter of Annette. I could not, would not leave her as I had done the Keating children. It was my duty, my responsibility to stay with her until the future was settled. I couldn’t let her wake in the morning and find me not there, never to be seen or heard from again.

  So I would go back inside the house, that house I now hated, I would find some flimsy excuse to explain away my bizarre behavior to my father and Sweet. I would bide my time just up until, and not a moment longer, I could make my escape, my conscience clear.

  chapter 11

  The next day dawned as dreary as a day could dawn.

  The night before, after doing what I’d promised myself I would do—make an excuse to my father and Sweet that they would somehow buy—I’d come up here to my bedroom. I was in the process of putting on my nightgown, having taken off the red dress, tearing the sleeve in my haste to get it off me, when the knock came at the door.

  I recognized that knock.

  I flung open the door, saw Edgar there, looking sadder than I’d ever seen him. For a moment, my heart went out to him instinctively, but then, angry with myself more than with anyone else, I pushed that tender feeling away.

  “What?” I demanded. “What do you want from me?”

  He moved to touch me, but I pulled out of reach.

  “Please, Charlotte, listen. I can—”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t want to listen. You listen. I’ll stay in this house, under your roof, but only until things are settled for Annette. You instruct Mrs. Fairly to find another governess for her. And, as soon she can find one, I’m out of here.”

  “Please, Charlotte, I need you.”

  That was a joke!

  I thought about the woman he was going to marry now, the woman who was not me.

  “Get out!” I said, no longer able to contain my feelings, not caring who heard me. At least I knew that Annette, the only one I was concerned for now, was a sound sleeper. I picked up the red dress, threw it at him. “Get out! I mean it! I don’t want you talking to me, I don’t want to talk to you. I’ll stay until the situation is settled for Annette. And not one day longer.”