Shower Of Stars

by Nancy Herkness

  “Look at the inside, ma'am. It's like a sunset,” she said, showing Charlie the delicate pink-and-yellow interior.

  Everything was going smoothly, better than Charlie could have hoped. Then, just before they sat down to dinner, Sallyanne gave Charlie a spelling test she had gotten back from the teacher.

  “You got everything right and extra credit. That's wonderful!”

  “Mama says always do the extra credit, even if you're not sure you're right.”

  Charlie's respect for Sallyanne's mama was growing by leaps and bounds. She walked over to the refrigerator, pried off her favorite cat magnet and posted the test right in the middle of the metal door. “There. Now everyone will see how smart you are.”

  Sallyanne's face crumpled.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” Charlie said, kneeling to put her arms around the girl. “I didn't mean to make you cry. Would you like me to take it down?”

  “Mama used to put my tests on the refrigerator, ma'am,” a small muffled voice said from her shoulder.

  As Charlie felt the little body shaking with silent sobs, she had to blink hard against her own tears. She called back those ancient, awful memories she had pushed into the farthest corner of her mind, and knew what Sallyanne needed most was to be held, to be touched the way a mother would, to be reassured that someone still cared about her. So she held her and told her she was there for her.

  “I'm sorry, ma'am,” the little girl said when the sobs had subsided.

  “You don't ever have to apologize for being sad,” Charlie said. “It's called grieving, and you have to grieve for someone you've lost. If you don't, you can't go on with your life.”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  Charlie wiped tears from her own eyes, and said in an especially cheerful voice, “So who wants mac and cheese?”

  ***

  Their dinner consisted of macaroni and cheese and mashed potatoes, Sallyanne's favorites. When they were halfway done, Charlie broached the subject of the extended McGraw family. Through a conversation with one of the child's neighbors, Rhonda had ascertained that her father was dead, and there had been some estrangement from the mother's family. She had asked Charlie to try to find out more.

  “You know, I lived with aunts and uncles when I was growing up,” Charlie said, as she spooned out more mashed potatoes. “Do you have an aunt or an uncle? Or maybe a grandmother or grandfather?”

  “Granny passed on,” Sallyanne said, digging into the butter-laden pile. “I don't remember her very well.”

  “Did your mama ever mention playing with sisters or brothers when she was little?”

  The girl thought for a minute and shook her head again. “No. She said I had cousins, but they were in Alaska.”

  “Alaska! That's a long way away.”

  “That's why I never got to play with them,” Sallyanne explained.

  If she had cousins, she should have an aunt or uncle. “Do you know if McGraw was your mama's last name before she met your papa, or after?”

  “No, ma'am.”

  “Did your mama ever talk about your papa's family at all?”

  “No, ma'am. My papa was dead to us.”

  Charlie almost choked on her pasta. Sallyanne hadn't said her papa was dead. She had said he was dead to her. Those were two very different things. Maybe the neighbor hadn't paid attention to the wording? “So your mama didn't say your papa had passed on? She said he was dead to you?”

  “Yes, ma'am.” Sallyanne's fork stopped in midair. “Do you think my papa might not be dead?”

  The blue eyes were pleading, but Charlie had known too much disappointment in her own younger life to raise Sallyanne's hopes too high.

  “When you say a person is 'dead to you,' it sometimes means they've done something so awful you never want to see them again.”

  Sallyanne looked at her plate, “I guess I wouldn't want a papa like that.”

  “But if you do have a papa, maybe he's changed,” Charlie added because she couldn't bear the slump in the little girl's shoulders.

  “But he might not want me.” Sallyanne went back to her mashed potatoes.

  Charlie was feeling out of her depth. She needed to pass this information on to Rhonda immediately. She had a bad feeling about this absentee father. She had come to admire the way Sallyanne's mother had raised her daughter; therefore she trusted the woman's instincts about the father of her child.

  “Do you have a picture of your mama?” Charlie asked to redirect the girl's thoughts. “I'd really like to know what she looked like.”

  “Yes, ma'am,” the child said with great emphasis. “It's in one of the boxes Miz Rhonda brought over yesterday. I wasn't sure if I should take it out.”

  “Sweetheart, that's your room. You can put out anything you want in it.”

  “Thank you, Charlie.”

  Not ma'am. Charlie. That was progress.

  “You've finished all your homework, right?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “Then can I see the picture?”

  They went to the guest room, and Charlie helped Sallyanne open the box with her mother's picture in it. There were several framed photos, mostly of Sallyanne at various ages. “This is my mama,” she said with pride as she handed Charlie the largest frame.

  The head and shoulders portrait had been taken in a discount store studio. The woman in it was achingly young, probably in her mid-twenties, and had a soft, shy smile.

  Her hair was a darker blond than Sallyanne's, and her eyes were brown rather than blue, but the oval of her face, the wide eyes, and the tilt of her nose marked her as the little girl's mother. Charlie idly turned the frame over in her hands. On the cardboard back was a label from the studio that said “McGraw, Leah.” Beneath it, in careful script was written: “To Sallyanne, the best daughter in the whole wide world. Hugs and kisses, your loving Mama.” X's and O's surrounded Sallyanne's name.

  Charlie felt a gentle envy. She had dozens of photographs of her parents, but no written words of love from either of them. Of course, they hadn't expected to die, but then Leah McGraw hadn't expected to either.

  “Sweetheart, your mother was very beautiful. And you look just like her.”

  ***

  After tucking Sallyanne in, Charlie went to her office to work. The room seemed empty without Major sprawling on the rug by her chair. She was doing her best to edit the more personal moments out of her memory as well as out of the star-gazing article when the telephone rang.

  “Mike!” she said after she heard his hello. “Have you heard about the latest addition to my household?”

  “Indeed I have. Isabelle brought me into the loop. It's a fine thing you're doing.”

  “She's a complete delight.” I only wish her story wasn't so sad.

  “Isabelle also told me about your problem with a dress for the preview party.”

  “Yeah.” Charlie grimaced.

  “You need something from a designer. Trust me, I've been to a million of those parties.”

  “I can't afford a designer dress!”

  “You can if it's free. Pick me up tomorrow at 9 a.m. and we'll go see a friend of mine in Manhattan.”

  “Why would someone give me a dress for free?” Charlie asked suspiciously.

  “For the publicity.”

  “I'm not wearing the label on the outside.”

  Mike laughed. “Not to worry. Stephen will explain how it works. I'll see you at nine.”

  ***

  The entrance room to Stephen Askegaard's atelier was stark, done entirely in pale gray: walls, ceiling, and plush carpet. Three dresses hung from silver hangers under pools of light. A desk occupied by a very thin woman with black hair stood in another pool of light.

  “Mr. Phillips. How nice to see you,” the woman said, rising to an impressive height. “I'll get Stephen.”

  “How do they sell clothes here?” Charlie whispered to her neighbor, looking around. “There's almost nothing on display.”

  “Mike, what have
you brought me?” A young man with startlingly green eyes emerged from a concealed door. His blond hair was cut short in back and left long in front so it curved over one eye in a sort of modified pompadour. He was dressed entirely in black: T-shirt, jeans and sneakers.

  He and Mike exchanged greetings before he shifted his attention to Charlie. His eyes widened dramatically. Walking around her and looking her up and down, he breathed, “Oh yes!”

  “Hello, I'm Charlie Berglund,” she said, pointedly putting out her hand.

  “I'm sorry, I'm Stephen,” he said, shaking her hand with a disarming smile. “I was just carried away by the marvelous possibilities of dressing you.”

  It was impossible not to smile back.

  “Let's get started,” he said, leading them through the hidden door and down a hall. “I raced over to the Rose Center after you called so I know the setting. Now we have to choose the fabric.”

  They entered another gray room; this one had a platform in the middle and metal and plastic chairs scattered around the edges. Mirrors in various configurations covered three walls. Two young women—in black of course—hovered in the background.

  Stephen beckoned one forward. “This is Danielle,” he said. “She'll take you to the changing room and show you what to put on.”

  Charlie cast a pleading glance at Mike, but he had settled into one of the chairs and merely raised an eyebrow at her.

  The changing room was large and empty except for a small chest of drawers. Danielle slid open a drawer and pulled out a handful of flesh-toned spandex.

  “Please take off everything and put this on,” she instructed as she closed the door behind her.

  Charlie shook out the spandex and discovered it had long sleeves, a high zippered neck and ankle-length leggings. She obeyed orders and stripped down to her skin before pulling on the cat suit. Oddly, there was no mirror in the dressing room so she couldn't check to see how revealing her new outfit was.

  Danielle led her back to Stephen and Mike. Stephen took her hand and escorted her onto the platform as though she were visiting royalty. She was enjoying the attention until she caught sight of Mike's face. Something in his expression made her turn toward the mirrors.

  “Oh my god!” she exclaimed, crossing one arm over her chest and the other across her crotch. She looked virtually naked in the skin-tight suit.

  “Just think of me as your doctor,” Stephen said. “I'm only interested in your body in a professional sense. You're nothing more than a frame on which to hang my art.”

  “Well, if you put it that way,” Charlie said with heavy irony.

  Stephen gently took her wrists and moved her arms down to her sides. His smile was so warm and understanding Charlie let him do it. Suddenly, he was all business.

  “Bring me the dark blue velvet, the silver lame, the azure silk, the sky blue brocade and the mixed sequins.”

  Danielle and her clone disappeared through another door while Stephen stalked around Charlie, considering her from all angles. Her hands were beginning to creep upward again when the assistants returned, laden with bolts of gleaming cloth.

  For the next hour, Stephen wound, draped, wrapped and pinned more fabrics around her than she could keep track of. It was evident early on that Charlie was not expected to voice any opinions so she spent the time composing article proposals in her head.

  Her attention snapped back to the designer when she realized he was writing on her breast with a black magic marker.

  “What on earth?” she yelped, jumping back a foot.

  “I'm writing down your measurements,” he said, holding up a tape measure.

  “Do you have to write them on me?”

  He laughed. “It's quicker and easier.”

  “Oh, fine,” she muttered, raising her arm at his request. “Remind me never to go into modeling.”

  “You're a bit old for that,” Stephen said, jotting a number on her elbow.

  “Thanks a lot!”

  He wrapped the tape measure around her hips.

  “Just don't say it out loud,” Charlie begged.

  He chuckled. “I'm very discreet.”

  She squinted at the number he wrote on her hipbone and frowned. “By the way, I understand you're doing this for publicity. How does that work?”

  “Very, very subtly. You only offer the information when asked. The photographers from certain publications will want to know who designed your gown. You tell them 'Stephen Askegaard,' nothing more. If one of the lovely ladies at the party inquires who dresses you, just give them my name because of course they should already know who I am.” He smiled. “It's very simple.”

  “I wasn't sure how I was supposed to bring the topic up in casual conversation.”

  “Believe me, darling, you won't have to. The ladies will be begging you for my name.”

  The designer took some more measurements and then released Charlie to the dressing room. When she returned in her street clothes, he had a few final instructions.

  “Come four hours before the party. Don't bring anything but yourself. No makeup, no jewelry, no shoes, nothing. We will create the entire picture here.”

  “Whatever you say,” Charlie agreed. “I just want to go get some lunch.”

  Stephen took her hands in his. “You will look unforgettable. Trust me.”

  “He's not going to dress me like Cher, is he?” she asked Mike in the car.

  “No. Stephen is extremely talented and very, very subtle. Whatever he does, it will be tasteful and beautiful.”

  “Some people think Cher's clothes are tasteful and beautiful,” Charlie muttered as she paid the parking garage's exorbitant bill.

  ***

  Charlie forgot all about the dress when she got home. A Federal Express envelope stuffed with neatly filled-out and notarized adoption documents was sitting on her front porch. “That man is incredibly organized,” she told Major in awe. “Everything is here. How did he do it so fast?”

  Her eyes widened when she looked at his financial statements. He wasn't kidding when he said he'd made some good investments. Jack had certainly kept his end of the bargain. Charlie faxed the relevant documents to Rhonda Brown's office. The social worker was scheduled to meet Jack on Friday while Sallyanne was at school, and so was eager to read the prospective father's autobiography.

  If truth be told, Charlie was too.

  She started to take it out of the pile of papers, then paused. Oddly, she hadn't hesitated to glance at his financials but reading his autobiography seemed invasive. She pulled it out and laid it on her desk. She obviously needed to know what he had written. But he was so intensely private.

  She put it back in the pile.

  He could tell her what was in the document himself.

  Twelve

  “I got you a wedding present too,” Charlie said, handing Jack a flat gold box.

  They were sitting on her back porch where she had just served him lemonade and sandwiches. She wanted him in a good mood for what was going to be a rather personal discussion. They needed to coordinate stories for Rhonda Brown. A pleasure boat puttered through the channel, its motor merely grumbling, and a tangy edge of sea and salt drifted on the air. Major sat by Charlie and gazed hopefully at the food-laden table.

  Jack flipped open the lid of the box. She had framed one of the photos of the two of them cutting the wedding cake. The groom had his arms wrapped around her from behind, and was smiling with unholy glee while Charlie appeared to be on the verge of elbowing him in the groin. Jack laughed as he took in the scene. “A true Kodak moment. Thanks.” Closing the box, he said, “This isn't the same photo as the one on the table in your living room.”

  “No. The one in the living room is for public consumption.”

  In that one, scruffy young Warren Bixby had photographed them as they stood on the steps of the municipal building where the ceremony had been performed. Charlie's cream-colored dress and Jack's silver-gray suit contrasted vividly with the dark oak doors behind the
m. His arm was around her waist, and she still held her bouquet. Most extraordinary though was that they looked glowingly happy as they gazed at the camera. Warren was a magician as well as a photographer.

  Charlie watched Jack drape a cloth napkin over his thigh. She shifted her gaze upward and was mesmerized by the contrast of the tanned skin of his long fingers against the pale granola bread he held. Those fingers had contrasted in much the same way with the skin of her breasts…

  He turned and focused his eyes on her. “Join me in a sandwich?”

  “Um, no thanks, I had a big breakfast. I'll just have some chips,” she said, scrabbling in the big wooden bowl of organic sweet potato chips.

  “What's got you spooked?” he asked, putting down his sandwich.

  “Spooked? Nothing.” She took a deep breath. “We have to talk about some personal subjects. And I hate lying to Rhonda.”

  “It's a little late to develop scruples,” he said, tilting a glass of lemonade to his lips.

  Charlie tore her eyes away from the ripple in the muscles of his throat as he swallowed. “I've always had scruples. I just use tremendous self-discipline to overcome them,” she said with false flippancy.

  He chuckled. “Let's get our lies in line then.”

  With a supreme act of will, Charlie concentrated on the task at hand. They went over the spontaneous wedding story she had made up and got the details right. They discussed Jack's retirement story and nailed down the time frame. When they got to the topic of their philosophy on child-rearing, Jack picked up the pile of papers he had sent ahead.

  “I put all that in the autobiographical section.”

  “I didn't want to read that part without your permission.”

  “Those scruples again,” he said, but there was approval in his voice. He handed her three sheets of paper stapled together. “Go ahead and read it. You'll need to know it all for the interview.”

  She would rather have read it in private, but Charlie took the papers and settled back in her chair. The beginning was a very sanitized version of a boy's life. His mother and father had divorced when he was ten. He had one younger brother. Charlie was surprised to discover he hadn't finished high school; instead he had a high school equivalency diploma. She was aware of his lack of college education although one would never guess it from knowing him.