Three Times a Charm

by Jean Stone

  Sarah didn’t know what to say. She watched as this man, this stranger who, curiously, did not seem like a stranger, unbuttoned his coat, set his elbows on his knees, and looked at her as if waiting for an answer.

  She could tell him to get out of their shop. She could tell him to stop bothering her, that her life was quite fine, thank you very much, that she liked living as a recluse from the Cherokee, the renegade spirit in her stronger than the will of the white woman who might or might not have been her mother. She could have said and done these things, but instead she shook her head. “I was told she died while giving birth to me. Only later did I learn that she was white.”

  Sutter nodded. “As I said earlier, I am an attorney. Your mother sent me to find you.”

  It grew warm in the showroom, though the afternoon sun had yet to stretch itself across the glossy wood floor. Sarah moved toward Andrew’s desk. She sat there, across from Sutter. She did not want to sit in the navy chair beside him; she did not want to get that friendly. She did not trust him yet. “So this woman who you claim is my mother sent you to find me because…”

  “Because she’d like to meet you.”

  Sarah stared at him and wondered how she should respond, how she could respond when suddenly her mouth was dry and her head began to throb. She tugged the silver clip from her hair and let the cascade float down her back. “Does she live in Los Angeles?” she asked in a voice that sounded too meek to be hers. “Is that why you were going there?”

  He played with his leather gloves for a moment, as if trying to piece together his answer. Then he said, “Your mother lives in New York City. As I do.”

  Sarah scowled. “Please stop calling her ‘my mother.’ I don’t even know the woman. I don’t even know you.”

  He laughed a short, auspicious laugh. “You might not think you know me, but I remember you. When I left for college you were still a little girl. You had a little doll you carried with you everywhere.”

  He would not have known about the doll her father had named Duchess, would he? He would not have known the way she was made of buffalo grass, with button eyes and a button mouth and long black hair made of yarn, the doll who sported lots of “silver” jewelry that Glisi had made of aluminum foil. He would not have known about the doll if he hadn’t really known her.

  Would he?

  “I was named after the gold mine,” he said abruptly.

  She nodded; she’d already figured that. Many of the Cherokee had earned a living wage at Sutter’s Gold Mine.

  “After I finished law school,” he continued, “I went back to the reservation. But you were gone by then. You had left for college. And then I started working for your mother. I’ve worked for her all these years.”

  “You work for her? What does she do?” Sarah knew that each question might bring more information than she wanted to know. She knew this and yet she could not help herself.

  “She’s retired now. But she used to be in the film industry. She still has interests that I see to in L.A.”

  “But she lives in New York.”

  “Yes.”

  She drew in another breath, then the questions came out as a string of accusations, hostile fire on the man, the messenger: How had her mother and her father met? Why had she abandoned her? Did she have other children?

  All he said was that her mother never had married, never had other kids. “But she’s an interesting woman, Sarah. All else aside, I think you’d like her.”

  She studied the black eyes. She looked for a lie but could not see one there. “What’s her name?” Sarah asked.

  In the flash of an instant, Sutter said, “Laura. Her name is Laura Carrington.”

  Sarah sat quietly, digesting his words. Laura Carrington. Surely he didn’t mean Laura Carrington, the Hollywood movie star, the woman that every man in the fifties and sixties wanted as his own, the woman that every little girl dreamed she one day would be.

  “Wouldn’t you know,” Jo said, as she came through the front door, juggling brown bags from the luncheonette. “They were out of grilled cheese, so I got veggie burgers with the soup. I hope that’s all right.”

  Sarah looked at Jo, then back at Sutter. “I think we’ll take ours outside to the park.”

  12

  Your mother was filming on location in northern California,” Sutter said, after Sarah had spread a wool blanket across the snowy bench in the gazebo and they’d sat down. “Your father was an extra in the movie. That was how they met.”

  His words became crystal clouds each time he spoke; Sarah could feel the cold and dampness seep through her wool coat. Still, she needed the crisp air to keep her thoughts clear. The soup had cooled off quickly, but sipping at it gave her purpose while Sutter continued.

  “What was the movie?” she asked suddenly.

  “Gold Dust.”

  Sarah nodded as if she’d seen it, which she had not. She’d always avoided films that depicted Native Americans in stereotypical roles. She took a bite of her veggie burger and slowly chewed.

  “She came to the reservation whenever she could,” Sutter went on. “Sometimes she and your father met in San Francisco, though it was difficult to be in public because her face was so recognizable. When she learned she was pregnant, she and your father wanted to get married. When she told the studio heads, they were furious. ‘Laura Carrington cannot marry an Indian,’ they said. ‘It would be box-office suicide. Millions will be lost.’ ”

  Sarah had heard the stories of what society was like in the fifties and the sixties. She’d heard the stories, yet had always had a hard time grasping the rigid standards, the restrictions. Cherokee had always been so open about babies, so accepting of their births, and so welcoming of their spirits.

  Sutter took a drink of soup, then slowly, carefully continued. “They demanded Laura have an abortion; she refused. They threatened to sue. They threatened to make her life, your father’s life, and, most especially, your life a living hell.”

  The veggie burger, like the soup, took on the chill from the air. Sarah rewrapped the white deli paper around it, then put it back into the bag. She tucked her hands under her legs. She exhaled a long rush of air.

  “The studio hid Laura out until you were born,” he said. “The only concession they allowed her was to relinquish you to your father and his mother. They were sworn to secrecy. I expect that your father’s sister asked if your mother was white. After all, if she’d been Cherokee, the others would have known who and where she was.”

  The secrecy might not have been easy, but Sarah knew Cherokee always kept their promises, never went back on their word.

  “So,” she said, “it’s true, I guess.”

  He nodded. “She’s always known who you are, Sarah. She saw you in Boston once, back in the early nineties. In a shop in Quincy Market.” He waited.

  “That’s how you knew about my jewelry,” Sarah said. “Not because you saw a bracelet…”

  “She saw you. She approached you.”

  And suddenly Sarah remembered a woman who wore large sunglasses and a floppy felt hat. She remembered she had spoken softly. “You’re an artist,” she’d said.

  Sarah had said yes.

  “I admire your work.” Then the woman removed her glasses and stared into Sarah’s eyes. “You are so beautiful, my Sarah.”

  Sarah had tried to smile but had not known what to say. The woman replaced her sunglasses but did not turn away, as if Sarah were a piece of jewelry in one of the glass cases in the store, as if she needed to examine her for perfection or for flaws. “Excuse me,” Sarah had said uncomfortably, and slipped into the back room.

  Later that day she’d seen the woman again, not once, not twice, but three more times, as Sarah darted in and out of Crate & Barrel, the jelly-bean store, the fine leather shop. She had thought about calling security. Instead, she’d left, gone home to western Massachusetts, deciding there was no need to show her face in Boston again. Confrontation had always been difficult for Sara
h. She much preferred a passive life, a noncombative life, half-breed that she was, never good enough.

  “Oh,” she said again now. The sunglasses, the hat, had belonged to Laura Carrington, the woman who claimed to be her mother. Sarah struggled to recall a clear photo image of the woman, but she could not.

  “Will you come to New York and meet her?” Sutter asked.

  She looked at him and laughed. She didn’t know why she laughed, but the sound had slipped out there, frozen in the air, before she could take it back. She shook her head. “Meet her?” she asked, then added, “No, I won’t meet her, Sutter. No way.”

  She didn’t know why she felt so strongly, only that she did. No explanation necessary, she decided.

  She picked up the bag from the luncheonette. “I’ll let you know if I ever change my mind.” Then she crossed the town green back to Second Chances, thinking of the irony of how everyone wanted Sarah in New York City, when all she really wanted was to stay here in West Hope.

  13

  Jo was on the phone when Sarah went back into the shop. She had to talk about this to someone. Lily would be too giddy and Elaine would be too gaga and Jo was the reasonable alternative. Besides, Jo was the most likely, the most trustworthy, the one who wouldn’t spill the news until Sarah said it was all right.

  She sat down in a navy chair, waited for Jo to get off the phone, and tried not to dwell on how much better things would be if only Jason were at home. She could talk to him about it, couldn’t she? He’d never known the details of her life, only that she was Cherokee, only that she was an orphan who’d decided not to return to the reservation because she’d found her place elsewhere, had rooted herself in New England, where she was at peace with the seasons, with herself.

  Once he had asked if living on the reservation was as awful as he’d learned in high-school history, if they’d been terribly poor. Jason, of course, had been raised with wealth, so his concept of a poverty level was much different than hers. She’d said the reservation was fine, that the white men did not understand they did not aspire to be like them. The Cherokee she’d grown up with often laughed among themselves when they saw how the white men felt so guilty and talked of how tough the Indians—Native Americans—had it, when in fact they were content. On the reservation, they knew that those white men and women of today were not the ones who had displaced the Cherokee, who had driven their Cherokee ancestors along their Trail of Tears. Their white ancestors, not they, had done it. Sarah, like most of those of her tribe, wanted no one’s pity, let alone commiseration from those who could never truly understand. And Jason could never understand, any more than he—or any man—could know what it was like to bear a child.

  Jo hung up and said, “Wow. That was the editor of a bridal magazine. She asked us to be contributing editors to their new spin-off edition for second-time brides. Do you think they’ve stolen our idea?”

  Sarah laughed. “I think if they have, it can only help our business. Get this stuff out in the open. Applaud any bride and groom who want to try doing this again.” She swept her hand around the room, waving at the yards and yards of satin and tulle that decorated the windows and the walls. “Eleghhhance, my darlings, is where it totally is at.” She was imitating Lily, though she didn’t know what had ignited such a need to laugh.

  Jo walked around her desk and sat down next to Sarah. “You say that so well,” she said. “Have you been taking lessons?”

  Sarah smiled and shook her head.

  “So what’s up?” Jo asked. “This guy Sutter Jones. Is everything okay?”

  She picked at the hem of her wool coat. “Sure. He knows some of my people. Or he thinks he does.” Why was it so hard to talk about this? Why was this cavalier-sounding attitude the best effort Sarah could muster?

  “From California? From the reservation?”

  Sarah laughed again. “From a long time ago. A very long time ago.”

  Then the phone rang again. Jo groaned, reached over, and answered it while Sarah wondered why she kept laughing, why she kept joking, and why it was so difficult to express her deepest-entrenched feelings, even to one of her best friends. Was it that she’d become too accustomed to holding things in, afraid that if she didn’t…what? The world would end?

  It wasn’t as if she held on to secrets that might hurt other people, the way Andrew had done.

  “Yes,” Jo was saying. “Yes, certainly…Well, no, we don’t ordinarily recommend that the groom’s former in-laws attend the wedding…. They’d been married how long?…Well, whatever the bride and groom decide, we can accommodate their wishes…. No, I’m sorry, but we can’t give out information on the weddings we’re planning. We offer our customers total privacy.” She looked at Sarah and gestured a thumbs-down.

  Sarah was relieved that the subject would now change. When Jo hung up she said, “That sounded absurd.”

  “Supposedly it was the bride’s sister. She said she’d get back to us.”

  “Sounds like it was an ex-wife.” At least it wasn’t Laura Carrington, Sarah suddenly thought. She fiddled with the button on her coat. Would the woman—her mother?—do that? Would she spy on Sarah again or call the shop and pretend she wanted a second wedding? If that were to happen, what would Sarah do?

  “Sarah?” Jo asked. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look kind of pale.”

  “Ha-ha,” Sarah said. “Is this a paleface joke?” She stood up and unbuttoned her coat. It was definitely time to get back to work.

  Jo laughed too, then the phone rang again. This time they both groaned.

  Jo said hello, and Sarah started toward the studio. Then Jo raised her eyebrows and said, “I’m sorry. But Andrew is out for the day.” She signaled to Sarah and mouthed, It’s a woman, with a slight smile of concern. “May I take a message?” She paused.

  Sarah paused.

  Jo put her hand up to her throat. “Excuse me? Irene?” She frowned; she looked at Sarah. “Yes, this is Jo. How is Rio?” She listened. She began shaking her head. “Irene? Please, slow down. I can’t understand you….” More listening. More head-shaking. She glanced at Andrew’s desk, where his small gray cell phone sat. “No,” she said, “Andrew doesn’t have his phone with him….” She paused again. “What?” she asked. “What? Oh. No. Oh, Irene…” She stood up, ran her hand through her hair. “Irene? Irene?” She waited another moment, then hung up the phone. “It’s John Benson,” she said. “Apparently he’s gone.”

  “Gone?” Sarah asked. “Gone as in, Elvis has left the building, or gone as in…deceased?”

  Jo scowled. “I have no idea,” she said. “I only know Irene is still in Rio, and she is quite hysterical.”

  Shopping with Elaine had been fun. Andrew was both amused and bemused by the changes in Elaine since she’d had her makeover. Beneath the woman’s former layers of polyester and overgelled hair was a bright, energetic lady who had found a mission: a productive career, an enthusiastic player in the game of her own life.

  He had watched as she’d ordered deep-pit grills and warming ovens and steam tables with knowledge that had seemed to surprise even her.

  They decided on a late lunch in downtown Springfield. Elaine promised she only wanted to make two more stops before heading back to West Hope—a party store for decorations for Cassie’s celebration the next afternoon, and a restaurant that Elaine had heard was going out of business. She thought it might be a good place to pick up some cutlery and glassware at a bargain.

  “I’m proud of you, kid,” Andrew said after he ordered a burger with a side Caesar salad. Elaine asked for a small, thin-crust cheese pizza.

  “Me too,” she said, not with ego but with innocence. “I love my life these days, Andrew. I actually look forward to getting up in the morning.”

  He nodded. “I know the feeling.” Would it hurt anything if he told Elaine? She had, after all, been his confidante, kept his secrets, when he’d needed her to. Though he’d grown up an only child, Andrew felt he recognized a big sister when he
saw one. It didn’t matter that they were almost the same age. Elaine had practical experience with living from day to day. She had been raised in a home where everyone was present and involved with one another’s lives. She’d provided the same life for her three kids, despite her divorce. Andrew hadn’t had that kind of luck. His parents never were quite sure what to do with a kid; his ex-wife, Patty, hadn’t bothered with him very much either. Cassie had been the focus, the purpose, the meaning of his life for so long now that he’d forgotten what little he’d ever thought he’d known about love. He rested his arms on the table and leaned forward. “Elaine,” he asked, “can you keep a secret?”

  “Very funny,” she answered. “But I thought you were done with those.”

  “This is a new one. I think you might like it.”

  Her eyes brightened. “Jo?” she asked.

  The burger arrived along with his disappointment. “She told you?”

  Elaine laughed. “No one had to, Andrew. It’s pretty obvious.”

  “Do the others know?”

  “We haven’t discussed it, but neither Sarah nor Lily are, well, blind.”

  He bit into his burger without cutting it in half. He chewed, swallowed, smiled. “And so?”

  “And so what?” She lifted a pizza slice and grinned back at him. “And so do I think it’s the neatest thing that’s happened so far in this New Year?”

  He nodded again.

  “No,” she replied, and continued eating.

  Well, Andrew supposed he’d asked for it. What made him think any of them would be happy for him after all his deceit and the hurt feelings that he’d caused?

  Then Elaine laughed again. “I think it’s the second-neatest thing. I think the neatest thing is that I went to see Martin on New Year’s Eve and we are sort of back together. Not engaged or anything like that. But we’ve decided to take it slow and see what develops. Of course, I’m busy now too, what with the new business.”

  At some point during Elaine’s monologue, Andrew had raised his burger to his mouth again. He had not, however, taken another bite, and instead remained sitting still, holding the sandwich in midair, stopped by the shocker that she’d just divulged.