Page 7

Charlotte

New York City, 1978

When Charlotte finally made it home that evening, she was greeted by the rich scent of Indian spices.

“I thought we were ordering in,” she called out to Mark as she tossed her keys on the small table in the foyer. “Are you cooking?”

“Wait, don’t come into the kitchen yet,” Mark answered.

Charlotte patiently stood on the other side of the swinging door that opened into the kitchen of the Central Park West apartment she shared with Mark. In many ways, it was still his apartment, or his parents’ apartment, more precisely. He’d grown up here, stayed on after his parents passed away, married and had a daughter, got divorced, and then roamed the oversized prewar rooms in mourning after his ex-wife and four-year-old child moved to Los Angeles. After all those upheavals, the place still had the same dining room table, rugs, and sofas as when he’d been a child. His ex-wife, Beverly, had redone the kitchen a sickly avocado green, but they’d separated before she could get her hands on the rest of the rooms, which was probably a good thing.

Charlotte had met Mark twelve years ago, when her friend Helen—who worked as a conservator at the museum—dragged her to an awful off-Broadway play in the West Village. At the time, Charlotte lived in a studio apartment on Charles Street, sleeping in a loft bed left behind by a former tenant and having her morning coffee on a small balcony that looked out on a surprisingly healthy magnolia tree, considering the backyard was hemmed in by brownstones. She’d only gone to the play because it was within walking distance, and she was looking forward to having a glass of wine with Helen after.

When a man walked up to Charlotte during intermission and asked what she thought of the play, she’d immediately replied “Ghastly.” Why that particular word came to mind was beyond her, as it wasn’t a word she’d ever used before. The play was about a bunch of shipwrecked intellectuals discussing obscure philosophies, and their elevated language had unintentionally slipped into her vocabulary.

The man was almost too handsome, with a prominent nose, high cheekbones, and hair that was just beginning to gray. He started laughing, a genuine, hearty laugh that made everyone turn around and smile. At which point Helen returned from the bar with a couple glasses of wine and promptly introduced Charlotte to Mark Schrader, the evening’s playwright.

When the play won an Obie the next week, Mark reached out—he’d gotten her number from Helen—and insisted Charlotte owed him a drink. He was charming and not pushy, and soon enough they were meeting regularly for meals, and then it just seemed natural that she sleep over at his place. He was ten years younger than Charlotte, which at first she thought was risqué before realizing that it really didn’t matter, not at their age, anyway.

Mark had introduced her to the downtown theater scene, which featured fresh voices like Sam Shepard and avant-garde theater companies like Mabou Mines and the Wooster Group. Although there were times Charlotte was flummoxed by whatever was happening onstage, she’d learned to appreciate the effort. Her work was grounded in the past, and it was refreshing to get a sense of the future, of forward movement. Maybe that was why she and Mark were such a good fit. They came at life from very different starting points, which kept their interactions fresh and fulfilling. Even after a dozen years, they could still talk for hours about books or plays, politics or art. He never ceased to surprise her, or make her laugh.

“Okay, you may enter,” Mark finally said.

She pushed open the door to find him standing at the oven wearing an apron. A vase of fresh flowers sat on the kitchen table, which was already laid out with his mother’s fine china.

“Wow, you’re ambitious tonight,” she said. Mark was a great cook, but he usually went all out on Sundays, when his fellow professors at Columbia’s theater department dropped by, along with a handful of students. “Do I smell curry?”

“You do. I wanted to make your favorite dish.”

It was almost as if he’d known she’d had a tough day. But then again, there had been several times when she was struggling when he’d called her out of the blue, offering a sympathetic ear. They were in tune with each other, in that way.

“Really? To what do I owe this honor?” she asked.

“I figured we deserved a quiet night at home together.”

The way he answered made her suspicious. Then again, they’d had a difficult month, as his daughter, Lori, had unexpectedly shown up at their apartment from California and announced she was quitting college and would be acting instead. She was out tonight, with friends, and it was a relief to have the place to themselves. Mark was probably trying to make up for the imposition. “Did the photos arrive?” he asked.

“Yes, they did.”

“And what did Frederick say?”

She didn’t want to talk about Frederick’s reaction to her finding, or the shock of seeing the broad collar earlier that morning. Mark knew very little of her time in Egypt; Charlotte had learned the hard way that that particular time in her life was better left unspoken. “He said he’d think about it.”

Mark put the lid back on the pot of rice and came over to her. He was a good five inches taller than her and still lanky. She wrapped her hands around his waist as they kissed. “I’m sorry he’s not as enthusiastic as you would’ve liked,” he said.

“I imagine part of him doesn’t want me to go public with the information, as it negates his own work.”

“Sounds like Frederick. I hope he comes to his senses soon.”

“Me too.”

Charlotte went into their bedroom to change into jeans. The building was slightly run-down and filled with old-timers, but it’d been built during the 1920s and the ceilings were high, the windows large. Lori hadn’t spent much time here growing up. During school months, she was in Los Angeles, and come June, Mark rented a bungalow in Laurel Canyon and happily assumed the role of full-time dad for the summer. After Charlotte came into the picture, she would join them for a week or two before heading back to New York, mock-complaining about how unfair it was the two of them had summers off, while secretly delighted to be returning to her desk at the Met. It wasn’t that she felt left out, more that she didn’t want to interfere with their established dynamic as father and child.

And now Lori lived with them, full-time. It hadn’t been an easy adjustment.

Charlotte removed her earrings and placed them in the small saucer that sat on their bureau, next to several photos in silver frames. A few were of her and Mark, with several others of Lori as a young girl. One showed Lori as an infant, her head softly traced with hair. Charlotte adjusted it slightly, so it faced toward the door.

In the kitchen, she began dressing the salad, lost in thought.

“Charlotte, did you hear me?”

Mark was looking at her strangely. God, maybe the kids at work were right; maybe there was something off about her.

“Sorry, what were you saying?”

“I was saying that this was a special night, for a lot of reasons.”

She was about to ask what they were but was stopped by the sound of the front door opening.

“Dad? Where are you?”

“Back here, in the kitchen.” Mark threw Charlotte an apologetic look. She poured more wine into her glass in response.

Lori appeared in the doorway. Her long straight hair fell into her face, and her jeans were torn and ragged at the cuffs.

“I thought you were out with friends,” said Mark.

“No.” Lori grabbed a wineglass and held it out to Charlotte, who poured out what was left in the bottle. “Thanks. I have some great news. I got an agent.”

Mark gave her a hug while Charlotte congratulated Lori. “Not bad for only being in New York for a month,” she said.

“Let me jump in the shower and, hey, is that Indian food? I’m starving. I’ll tell you all about it over dinner. I knew you’d be excited.”

She started down the hallway that led to the three bedrooms. One was their bedroom, a smaller one Mark’s study, and the last one, which had once been Lori’s bedroom, was now Charlotte’s study. However, these days Lori was crashing on the study’s pull-out sofa, staying up late and sleeping in even later, which left Charlotte toiling away at the dining room table whenever she brought work home with her. Mark had assured her it was only temporary, but so far Lori showed no interest in moving out.

Then again, Mark and Lori hadn’t lived together since Lori was a little girl, and Charlotte didn’t want to get in the way of their reunion, nor did she relish the idea of becoming the evil stepmother. She’d tried hard to make a connection since Lori arrived, inviting her for walks in the park or bringing home her favorite cookies, but Lori continued to treat Charlotte with polite disdain.

“Sorry about this,” said Mark once Lori had left the room. “I’ll explain that we’re having a quiet evening alone. She’ll understand.”

“No, don’t be silly. It’s great she has an agent. Maybe she’ll book a job, make some money of her own.” She left unsaid that the money could be used to pay rent on her own place.

“Dad!” Lori let out an anguished screech that rang across the length of the apartment.

“What is it?”

“There’s a cockroach in the bathtub. You have to kill it! Ewwww!”

Mark whipped off the apron and tossed it on the foyer table, where it landed with a strange clunk.

It was going to be a long night.

Charlotte picked up the apron, curious. It had an unusual heft to it. Something was in the front pocket.

She slid her hand inside and pulled out a black box.

Inside lay a ring. Not a diamond, but a yellow topaz, her favorite stone.

That explained his nerves, the home-cooked dinner: Mark had planned to ask Charlotte to marry him tonight.

Charlotte placed the ring in the apron pocket where she’d found it, put on her coat, and walked out the door.

The next morning, Charlotte stumbled into the kitchen after a restless sleep, eager to make coffee, but first she cleaned up the small pond of melted ice cream that had collected on the counter around an empty carton of mint chocolate chip. Nearby, a loaf of bread sat on a cutting board, going stale in the morning sun next to an open jar of peanut butter. Lori had enjoyed a midnight snack or two, apparently.

After finding the ring, Charlotte had circled the block a few times before returning home. As she’d walked, she tried to figure out what Mark was thinking by proposing to her now, after so long together. They often joked about having a “European partnership,” with no need to sanctify their love for each other in a church or some kind of ceremony in front of friends. What was the point? Charlotte had done it once and vowed never to again. Everything could change in a minute, even if you were careful. The fact that he was even considering such an act made Charlotte wonder if she’d read him all wrong.

She ran the coffee beans in the grinder, putting a towel over the top as she did so to try to muffle the sound. As the coffee machine began to drip, Lori appeared wearing a T-shirt and a pair of stained gray sweatpants.

“Sorry to wake you,” said Charlotte. “Do you want a cup of coffee?”

“Sure.”

The girl plopped into one of the chairs at the kitchen table.

“Did you sleep all right?” Charlotte asked, pouring out a cup.

“No. I swear the upstairs neighbor was running a marathon all night right above me.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“Hey, where did all my posters go? Did you throw them out?”

“No. The posters are in the storage unit in the basement.”

“Okay. Good.” She picked up her coffee and walked out of the room.

It looked as if Lori was planning on making her sleeping arrangements permanent. Charlotte cringed at the idea of the study’s rose-gray walls being jabbed with thumbtacks for Lori’s posters of the Doors and the Beach Boys. But she reminded herself that Lori had entered Mark’s life first; it was Charlotte who was the interloper.

Five minutes later, Mark appeared, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “Hey, again, I’m sorry about last night. I thought she was out for the evening.”

“Right, about that.” Charlotte took a deep breath. “When I picked up your apron, I noticed what was in the pocket.”

“Oh, God.” All signs of sleepiness disappeared. He sat down at the table and she joined him. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

She placed a hand on his arm. “I thought we agreed that marriage wasn’t for us?”

“We did. But I’m worried that we’re pulling apart, and part of me wants to make sure you’re in it for the long haul. That you’ll hang on through the tough times. And trust me, I don’t blame you for pulling away. When I finally convinced you to move in with me, I didn’t think we’d have a third party involved.”

She lifted her arm and brushed away the crumbs stuck to her skin. “A third party who doesn’t know how to clean up after herself.”

“I’ll talk to her.”

That wasn’t the point she was trying to make. “I’m sorry if you feel like you’re caught between us, but to be honest, getting engaged right now would not help one bit with the family dynamic.”

“Of course, of course. Pretend that you never saw it. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You’re getting sentimental in your old age.”

He gave her a mischievous smile. “Probably. I can’t help but notice that you said ‘getting engaged right now .’ Does that mean you might consider it later?”

She stiffened. “I don’t know what it means.”

“Sorry, I was trying to be funny.”

“Right.”

His eyes searched hers. “Charlotte, sometimes I have no idea what you’re thinking and it scares me.”

Part of her wanted to pull him to her, tell him that he was the man of her dreams and they didn’t need a ring to prove that. But the moment she considered the possibility, it was as if a deadbolt slid over her heart, pinning it deep inside her chest.

Instead, she reassured him with hollow words. That they were fine, that they’d be fine.

It was the best she could do.

“Meet me in Musical Instruments.”

Charlotte knew that her best friend, Helen, would drop everything with that directive. The Musical Instruments collection at the Met was up on the second floor, behind a set of double doors. Not the sort of gallery that folks randomly strolled into, which gave the two of them a modicum of privacy.

Charlotte’s favorite instrument was an Indian lute from the nineteenth century that extended out from the back of a brilliantly blue carved peacock, complete with real tail feathers, while Helen’s was a late seventeenth-century Italian harpsichord with a mermaid carved between the front legs and a lush landscape of a hunter and his dog painted on the underside of the lid.

Helen strolled in, still wearing her white conservator’s coat. She spent most of her day in the basement of the building restoring Old Masters, a painstaking job that required a deep knowledge of the sciences as well as an artistic eye, a rare combination. Helen was in her early fifties, and the two had been friends since she’d come over from the Gardner Museum in Boston fourteen years ago. Her parents had immigrated from Hong Kong when she was a baby, and she spoke with a Boston accent that thickened like chowder when she got riled up. “What’s the buzz?” she asked.

“Mark was planning to propose last night.”

“Wow. Have you ever discussed it?”

“No. I thought I’d made it very clear I wasn’t interested in marriage. But he had a ring hidden in a pocket of the apron he was wearing. While he was cooking my favorite meal.”

“That’s so sweet. I swear, you should consider it. He’s a good guy, he’s in love with you. Married life isn’t all that bad, you know.”

“Easy for you to say. You and Brian are the perfect couple.” Brian was a civil engineer, working for the city. Helen and Brian’s parents had been best friends back in Boston, and there was never any doubt they belonged together. Their children were off at college, one at Johns Hopkins and the other at Yale.

“What do you mean he was planning to propose?” asked Helen.

“Lori interrupted our quiet evening at home.”

“Kids have a tendency to do that.”

“Not yours, I’m guessing.”

Helen wandered over to an ebony oboe. “Sometimes I wish they would.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re such a serene, calm family, doing what’s expected of us. That’s what my parents hammered into me, and same with Brian’s. I hope we’re not doing them a disservice.”

“Enjoy it, trust me.”

“I think you have to keep in mind that Lori is Mark’s problem, not yours. She’s not your daughter.”

“Yes, I know.”

“She’s only eighteen, after all.”

“When I was her age, I was working hours a day at a dig in Egypt, not leaving ice cream out for someone else to clean up.”

“It’s a different time. But I get it.”

“I’m trying so hard to connect with her, but she wants nothing to do with me. No matter what I do, I still come off as the wicked stepmother.”

“Is there any other kind?”

Charlotte laughed. She’d complained enough for one day. “How’s the altarpiece going?”

Helen had spent months working on a series of panels from the 1400s. The gilded finish was covered with centuries of grime, which she’d painstakingly cleaned inch by inch with a Q-tip. Now it was Helen’s turn to complain. She moaned about the travails of replacing the bare sections with twenty-four-karat gold leaf, which was both expensive and difficult to work with.

“What about your lady pharaoh?” asked Helen as they wandered by an installation of lutes. “Have you spoken with Frederick yet?”

“I did. Yesterday.”

“Talk about burying the lede. What did he say?”

“He says I need to go to Egypt myself to find proof of my theory.”

Helen let out a hoot. “That’s great!”

“I just don’t see why I need to go. I know I’m right. Why waste the Met’s money?”

“Hold on.” Helen faced her. “You’re saying you’d refuse an all-expenses trip to Egypt? This is about that stupid curse, isn’t it?”

Charlotte knew she couldn’t hide the truth from Helen. “Of course it is.”

Twice, Charlotte had tried to return to Egypt, and both times she was certain Hathorkare’s curse had come back to haunt her, stemming from her time there as a young woman.

The first time Charlotte attempted the trip, early in her career at the Met, her mother passed away the day before she was supposed to leave. The second, sixteen years ago, a plane had crashed taking off from Idlewild Airport, just as Charlotte was waiting at the gate for her own flight. She’d watched in horror with her fellow passengers as the smoke and fire rose up from the marshland where it plummeted. Everyone on board had been killed, and Charlotte was convinced it was her own fault.

“I can’t risk it,” she said.

Helen stopped short. “So you think that you were responsible for your mother’s death, as well as all of those passengers’? The plane had a mechanical short circuit, and your mother had been ill for years, right? Those weren’t your fault.”

If only Charlotte could be as certain as Helen. But after the second attempt, she’d given up.

She carried the curse with her, and simply couldn’t risk it.