“Kinga,” Charlie exclaimed in delight.
The girl looked up, dropping the bread she was buttering on the counter. “Charlie?” She hurried over to them, kissing Charlie warmly on each cheek in the traditional Hungarian manner. “What are you doing here?” she asked, smiling broadly. “Are you here for the trial? It doesn’t start for several days.” Then she glanced down at Charlie’s rounded stomach and exclaimed in surprise. “You’re pregnant? I didn’t know!”
Charlie shrugged. “It’s a long story. We got into some trouble and just got out of it. We’re lying low for a while. And yes, I’m pregnant. Also a long story. Kinga, this is my sister, Waverly.”
Kinga offered her hand, still a little buttery, and Waverly shook it. “Pleasure,” Waverly murmured, confused. How did Charlie know this girl?
“Kinga is the one I was telling you about, one of the women I helped in Serbia,” Charlie explained.
Waverly narrowed her eyes, trying to remember the details associated with that name. “Oh, the one who’s going to court.”
Kinga nodded, a look of apprehension flashing across her face. “Yes, soon.”
“Are the other women still here?” Charlie asked.
Kinga shook her head. “Only Simona with her daughter. All the others are back in their own countries now.”
Waverly glanced back toward the dining area as several women came clattering down the stairs and took seats around the table. Someone let the enormous dog in, and he wandered from person to person, sniffing and greeting each in turn. Kinga and Charlie were engaged in conversation, and Waverly looked around, wondering what to do with herself.
“Is there anything I can do to help with breakfast?” she asked, interrupting them. Kinga looked at the plate of toast she’d left on the counter. “We have to make more toast,” she said.
“Here, allow me.” Waverly took the bag of bread and set about toasting more slices. She smiled at the irony. If only her television audience could see her now, toasting white bread and slathering it with margarine. She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the margarine tub and put two more slices into the ancient toaster.
Vesna came into the kitchen and set out yogurt, cereal, and apples on the large center island. A few of the women and children gathered around the island, filling plates and returning to the dining room. Waverly kept busy and stayed out of the way. There appeared to be about seven or eight women living in the house and at least three or four children of varying ages. Waverly buttered another two slices of toast, turned to put them on the plate on the island, and then froze. A little girl, her back to Waverly, was feeding a piece of toast to the Great Dane. She was small, maybe four or five years old, and her curly hair swooped in dark whorls against her scalp. She was wearing a pink shirt and leopard-print leggings. Waverly caught her breath as the girl turned, laughing as the dog licked her hands and face. Somehow Waverly knew even before she saw the pale red birthmark in the shape of a strawberry high on the girl’s right cheek. This was the child she had been seeing in her dreams.
An olive-skinned young woman with short dark hair took the girl’s hand and led her near where Waverly stood gaping at them. The little girl turned and looked at Waverly with wide, dark eyes. She looked too serious for her age, her expression solemn.
“Charlie,” the woman said.
Charlie looked up from her conversation with Kinga. “Simona,” she exclaimed, hugging the woman. “And who’s this?” She bent down awkwardly, her belly sticking out between her and the little girl.
“This is Nadia, my daughter,” Simona replied in heavily accented English. She placed her hand on the girl’s head, looking proud. “My mother sends her here to live with me. It is safer for her to be here with me before the trial, and my mother is very sick. Cancer in her stomach.”
“I’m sorry about your mother, but very happy to meet Nadia.” Charlie smiled at Nadia.
“And you, you are pregnant?” Simona asked, gesturing to Charlie’s stomach.
“Yep, due in July,” Charlie said, placing her hands on the baby. She didn’t offer any other explanation, just turned and introduced Waverly to Simona.
“Hello,” Waverly murmured, unable to tear her eyes away from the little girl. She was astounded to see the girl from her dreams standing before her. No one seemed to notice her reaction, however, and after a few moments breakfast resumed as usual. Waverly took an apple and a small cup of yogurt and sat at a table but didn’t eat a bite. All she could do was stare at the little girl, her mind whirling.
Nadia ate a few spoonfuls of yogurt and then fed the rest to the dog, her eyes sparkling with mischief as he licked off her spoon. She laughed, the sound high and bright, and Waverly marveled at the child standing in front of her. How was it possible that she had been dreaming of this exact little girl for months? And what in the world did it mean?
CHAPTER 29
The next few days were busy with preparations for the trial. Kinga’s was first, but the judge had scheduled Simona’s only a few days later. The two women were growing increasingly anxious about facing their perpetrators in court.
Sandra Ling, a pencil-thin Asian American woman with crisp pressed business suits and a glossy pageboy haircut, came each afternoon to meet with Kinga, Simona, and Charlie. They sequestered themselves in the small front office where Sandra drilled them in the finer points of winning a court case.
Waverly spent the time trying to be useful and keeping herself occupied. She helped Vesna plant a large garden in the backyard and volunteered to prepare meals. If her hands were busy, her mind was less prone to wander toward Andrew and questions about the future. Why had he not come for her? What did his silence mean? He had not responded to her text on Beau’s phone. Her apprehension grew with each passing day.
Nadia was often at her heels. The first day Waverly had been reluctant to interact with the little girl, unsure how to reconcile the girl from her dream with the reality of Nadia’s presence. It was not her own daughter Waverly had been dreaming of, that much was certain. It was someone else’s daughter, a living, breathing child. Waverly had no idea what to make of it. Her dreams, like so much else in her life at present, seemed like a conundrum.
For most of the first afternoon she tried to ignore the girl, but every time she turned around, there was Nadia, watching her with those dark eyes, following her every move. She was quiet and sober, intent on Waverly’s actions, but when she caught Waverly’s eye her face lit up and she laughed, a high, sweet giggle that seemed to fill the room with joy. After a few hours of trying to pretend she didn’t see the child, Waverly gave in and motioned her over to where she was mixing up batter for muffins.
“Here, you can add the strawberries.” Waverly handed her a bowl filled with ripe chopped strawberries. Nadia grinned and started scooping up pieces of fruit and eating them as fast as she could, her eyes darting to Waverly’s face.
“Save some for the muffins,” Waverly admonished with a smile, even though Nadia didn’t speak any English. She pointed to the bowl of batter and then to the strawberries. Nadia understood and helped tip the remaining strawberries into the muffin batter. Her hands and mouth were pink and sticky with strawberry juice. Waverly handed her a wooden spoon, instructing, “Now you can help stir them in gently. Don’t overdo it, though. Nobody likes smashed strawberries.”
From that moment on, Nadia didn’t leave Waverly’s side except to go to bed at night. The second morning of their stay, Waverly taught the little girl how to plant squash, making a mound of dirt and pressing the seeds into the soil, not too deep, not too close together, as Vesna had shown her earlier. Waverly’s mother, Margaret, had loved to garden and had passed on some of her knowledge to her daughter, but it had been years since Waverly had grown anything more than a decorative pot of herbs in her studio kitchen windowsill, and even those she had not tended herself. Waverly wore a pair of bright orange rubber gloves to protect her hands. It wouldn’t do for the star of Simply Perfect to have dirt under her fing
ernails. Dirt didn’t film well.
Nadia squatted next to Waverly, her brow furrowed in concentration as she dropped seeds into the little wells of dirt with strong, brown little fingers. She spoke very little, just an occasional word in Bulgarian. Mostly she watched Waverly, trailing along behind her like a tiny shadow clad in bright pink.
Waverly liked the company. It kept her mind from her troubles. For lunch she taught Nadia how to make a cheesy potato casserole. They peeled potatoes together, giggling as the peels curled over their hands and fell to the floor. Then Waverly whipped up a batch of browned butter brownies, letting the little girl lick the spoon. It felt so simple and homey and right, working together in the rhythm of the kitchen. It reminded her of afternoons spent helping her mother prepare for a party. Waverly even let Nadia try on her Dior Grege 1947 lipstick, dotting it on the little girl’s full lower lip.
“Very glamorous,” Waverly told her, lifting her up to look at her reflection in the mirror. Nadia looked at herself, her eyes shining. She pointed to Waverly and then to her own reflection. “Krasiva,” she said. Waverly nodded. Although she had no idea what the Bulgarian word meant, she felt the girl’s delight.
Working in the beige-tiled kitchen of the safe house, Waverly felt as though something was coming full circle in a way she could not even articulate. She did not think about returning to America, although of course that would happen after the trial ended. She did not even think about the show. She tried unsuccessfully not to think about Andrew, but she missed him dreadfully, the ache like a stone lodged painfully in her throat. She just allowed herself to focus on the tasks before her, on the simple, homey pleasures of doing a job well. She baked and stirred and measured and imparted her kitchen wisdom to her tiny accomplice, doing the only things she knew to do to mend her broken heart. It had worked when she had lost her mother. She wanted it to work now when it seemed she might be losing her marriage as well. She thought of the text she’d sent to Andrew. She was stung by his silence. Perhaps he really did not care. She would not grovel, and so she did not attempt to contact him again.
A few afternoons later Charlie accepted a glass of cold homemade cherry juice from one of the other women at the safe house and headed across the sunny backyard with a sigh of relief. After a grueling day in court giving her testimony, she was relishing the simplicity of a late-afternoon cake-and-punch birthday celebration for one of the children living at the safe house. Dotted around the yard, the ladies of the house sat on blankets spread on the grass, cups of cherry juice in hand, enjoying the mild weather. They were waiting on the other half of the refreshments; Waverly’s simply perfect vanilla cupcakes were still cooling from the oven. The giant dog, Boris, was sprawled out in the sunshine, panting and happily surveying the tranquil scene.
Charlie wandered over to the newly planted garden plot and surveyed the orderly mounds and rows. The evenings were still cool in April, but the late-afternoon sun was almost too hot on the back of her neck. A neighbor was cutting grass, and the sharp, living scent drifted across the garden on a slight breeze. She took a sip of the cherry juice and glanced at her drink. Bright red cherries bobbed cheerfully in their own juice, laced with enough sugar to make her teeth ache. She held on to the cup, closing her eyes and enjoying a moment’s peace. She was immensely glad her testimony was over.
The actual trial was a blur. When she thought of her time testifying it came back to her in fragments. The smudged fingerprint on the glass of water provided for her as she testified. Her own voice echoing dully in the quiet courtroom, baldly outlining what she had seen that January night. Sandra’s eyes narrowing in on the defense attorney like a hawk as he tried to trap Charlie with carefully worded questions. Charlie concentrated on simply telling the truth, fixing her eyes on Kinga’s pinched, upturned face, on Simona sitting near Kinga, squeezing her hands together so tightly her knuckles turned bone white. Charlie focused on the questions, remembering Sandra’s admonishments to speak plainly, calmly, to tell the facts. At last her testimony was done.
Charlie sighed and opened her eyes. She had done her part, but in the end she knew it might not make any difference. The trial promised to be both lengthy and excruciating for Kinga. The Serbian legal system, Sandra had explained to them, did not favor the victims or make a court case against human traffickers easy to win. Kinga faced an uphill battle at every turn.
Still, Charlie reflected, she was glad she had testified. At least she had stood with Kinga and spoken the truth, spoken out against the injustice that had been done to the young woman. Her decision to testify was a stake in the ground, a declaration to the world and to herself that Charlie Talbot would not be bullied or cowed into submission any longer. Whatever the outcome of the trial, Charlie felt as though she had found herself. She had stopped running and turned to face her dragons. In doing so she found that she had faced her own fear and won.
She reached up and touched the medal of St. George beneath her blue cotton maternity shirt. “Thank you,” she murmured. She had no idea if St. George had any hand in her newfound valor, but she was grateful for the infusion of courage, whatever its source. She felt once more comfortable in her own skin. This was who she was meant to be, bold and strong, not cowering, not avoiding the truth no matter how hard it was.
From across the yard Kinga spotted Charlie and gave a little wave, coming over to join her. She held a cup of cherry juice and seemed fragile, as though if Charlie prodded her she would break.
“You okay?” Charlie asked quietly.
Kinga hesitated. “I just . . . keep thinking about what happens after,” she said, hunching her shoulders as though to protect herself. “Even if I win it isn’t really over. Sandra says I can go home after the trial, but I’m afraid to. My family knows what happened to me. And if I do win I’ll have put my cousin in jail. I’m afraid my family will hate me.” Behind her yellow frames her eyes filled with tears.
Charlie didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t just offer a blithe assurance, because Kinga was right. Sandra had told her privately that often families blamed the victims of trafficking unjustly, faulting them for being stupid enough to be trafficked, ashamed of them if they ever returned. There was no guarantee that Kinga’s family would see her homecoming as a happy event.
Charlie touched Kinga’s shoulder in sympathy. “I’m sorry,” she said, wishing she could somehow make it okay. No woman should have to endure the things she had endured. At her age, Kinga should be occupied with boyfriends and hipster bands and a real job in Berlin, not the finer points of the Serbian legal system or whether the man who had sold her into slavery would get off with a bribe or on a legal technicality. Not whether her family would blame her for the injustice and cruelty she had suffered. It wasn’t fair. Life so often wasn’t fair.
Simona came out from the house and saw them standing by the garden. She started toward them, but her cell phone rang. Charlie watched as she pulled the phone from her pocket, checked the number, and frowned. Darting a look around her, Simona answered the call, skirting the garden to the narrow strip of yard by the fence, putting distance between herself and the others. Curiosity piqued, Charlie strained to hear her conversation across the garden plot. The girls were not forbidden from having cell phones, but they were strictly forbidden to contact the outside world while at the safe house. Simona was flouting the rules by taking the call. Kinga was still talking, but Charlie stopped listening. All her attention was on Simona. She had an uneasy feeling that something was amiss. Simona’s trial against her traffickers was scheduled to start in a few days, and the young woman had been growing increasingly nervous and irritable as the date drew closer.
Simona was speaking Bulgarian, Charlie surmised from the snippets of the conversation she could catch, and she was not happy. Charlie caught the tone of her voice and her expression. Equal parts angry and afraid. Simona listened to the conversation on the other end of the line, her face tight. Her hands were balled into fists and her face was dark as a thundercloud
. A moment later she hung up the phone but didn’t rejoin the party.
“Everything okay?” Charlie called to her, cutting Kinga off in the middle of a sentence.
Simona shook her head as though chasing off an annoying fly. “Yes. It was nothing.”
Charlie watched her carefully, waiting to see if Simona would elaborate. “You sure?” she asked finally.
Kinga eyed them both curiously.
“Just a warning to be careful,” Simona said at last. She wouldn’t look at Charlie. She just stared out across the garden at the other women with a thoughtful, troubled expression on her face, then turned and went into the house.
“She likes you.”
Waverly whirled from the kitchen island, a spatula of pink frosting in her hand, surprised to find Simona standing beside her. She had not heard the other woman approach. Simona watched Nadia smear gobs of pink cream cheese frosting across the top of a vanilla cupcake. They were late in finishing the dessert for the afternoon birthday celebration, but the cupcakes were just now cool enough to frost. Nadia was helping Waverly decorate them for the party that was already in full swing in the backyard.
“She’s a lovely little girl,” Waverly observed. “So bright and such a quick learner.” She watched the child, her heart squeezing just a little at the thought of leaving. Charlie was done with her testimony for Kinga and would testify in a few days when Simona’s trial began. Then there would be no reason for them to stay at the safe house any longer. She’d grown very fond of Nadia over the last several days. She would miss her when they left.
Simona crossed her arms and nodded, not taking her eyes from her daughter. “You have children?” she asked.
Waverly shook her head. “No.” She didn’t elaborate. Even with the baby Charlie was carrying, the subject of her miscarriages was too painful for her to dwell on. She never forgot her babies, but she didn’t want to share them with the world. It was too personal, still too raw. Charlie had not told anyone other than Johan about their surrogacy arrangement, and Waverly was grateful for her sister’s discretion. She preferred to keep the matter private for now.
Becoming the Talbot Sisters Page 28