Priceless

Charlotte looked at him. “You’re babbling, Zeb. Calm down.”

He was quivering like a greyhound. “I can’t. She’s awesome. I love her.”

Charlotte frowned, indicating to a passing waitress that she needed service. The waitress ignored her. “Zeb, I went to preschool with her. Her real name is Stacy Fishbein.”

Zeb refused to be put off. “Well, good for her that she changed it, then. I’d change mine if I could.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“My parents. They think Zebediah is a cool name for a faggot. Fucking hippies. They’re so accepting, it’s really annoying.”

The waitress came over, finally. Charlotte smiled up at her.

“Did Nick make you wear that, or are those your own clothes?”

The waitress was wearing a peekaboo bra, with glitter on her nipples and short-shorts. She narrowed her eyes. “You’re a friend of Nick’s?”

“I’m a very good friend of Nick’s. You must be new, or you’d know me by sight and would already have brought me a Grey Goose and grapefruit, which is what I always have. I never pay, and neither does anyone with me.”

The waitress started to laugh. “You’re joking, right?”

The rest of the table went quiet. The waitress looked nervous. She looked over at Nick, who was watching her. He raised his eyebrows and made a gesture with his hand that made it clear she was to give Charlotte anything she wanted.

“Uh, I’ll get you your drink right away. Sorry.” She turned to go.

“Show me your tits.” James was being insolent, but Charlotte let it go. New staff need to be taught a lesson sometimes.

The waitress turned back. She was actually very pretty. “No. Fuck off.”

Pretty and feisty. That was hot, and James became more interested.

“No, really, take off your bra, and let me touch your tits. In fact, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll let me see it all. Otherwise, Charlotte will tell Nick you’re out of here.”

Charlotte sighed. This was too much. “No, I won’t, James. Get a grip. Go get us our drinks, OK?” The waitress hurried away.

James was annoyed. “I want the waitress, Charlotte.”

Charlotte shrugged. “Well, why not go about it the usual way, James? Talk to her for ten minutes, and tell her she’s pretty. It usually works for you, right? Of course, now you’ve got your asshole behavior to overcome, so it might take you half an hour.”

She was watching Taylor. He hadn’t seen her yet. Time to make a move.

She stood up, tousling her hair and smoothing her dress. “Come on, James, come dance with me.” She felt hollow inside, but she couldn’t let anyone see it.

James was sulking. He shook his head.

Charlotte smiled at him. “Come on. We’ll make it so hot the waitress won’t be able to help herself, and she’ll go down on you on the dance floor.”

James smiled. He really was a very simple creature. He stood up, elegant and tall, and took her hand.

The dance floor had been full not a moment before, but somehow it had had one of those sudden shifts, where half the people wander off for a drink. Everyone could see Charlotte and James as they walked on, and since most of the club knew who they were, there was lots of whispering.

Charlotte began to dance sinuously. She knew she looked good, and dancing always turned her on. She and James had actually done this many times before; it was how they’d hooked up. There was something about their chemistry that turned dancing into foreplay. She could feel Taylor watching her now and touched herself, shimmying the silk of her dress over her body until her nipples became hard, clearly visible through the thin fabric. James was moving very close to her, their hips pressed against each other, swinging and moving in time. James took her long hair in one hand and wound it around his wrist, pulling her head back so he could start licking her neck. His other hand curved around her breast, squeezing it and pulling on the already hard nipple until she felt herself growing aroused. The dance floor was clear now, and even the pole dancers were watching. Charlotte suddenly twisted away from James and turned her back on him, making him grab her hips and pull her against him, closing his eyes. Charlotte saw the waitress watching and beckoned her over.

“He’s all yours, love. Enjoy.” She kissed the girl on the mouth, just for fun, and wandered over to Taylor’s table.

Taylor watched her approach, his face hard to read. Stacy Star was an easier book.

“Charlotte Williams, the last time I saw you, you were playing with Legos. You grew up so nicely! My girlfriend wants to eat you all up, don’t you, honey?”

Honey nodded, sucking her finger. “You’re pretty.”

Charlotte smiled at her kindly. “You’re a moron. You should all go away now. I want to talk to Taylor. Go lick each other in the bathroom.”

Stacy started to get pissed off but then shrugged. “Why not? Come on, ladies, I need a touch-up, if you know what I mean.” She giggled, then quickly bent over and snorted two lines of coke that had been hidden behind her drink. Rubbing some on her gums, she stood and swayed a little, pulling the other girls with her.

Charlotte sat down, sweeping the rest of the coke onto the floor with the back of her hand. Taylor started to protest but didn’t bother. Coke was cheap.

“What’s up, Charlotte? Long time no see, baby.”

“It’s only been a year, Taylor. What happened to Phillipa?”

He shrugged. “She started dating a commodities trader with a house in the Bahamas.”

“So now you’re seeing Stacy Fishbein?”

“She doesn’t use that name anymore. I want to work in the music business, you know. She knows people. She’s a hot commodity right now, and she likes me. Why not?” Charlotte said nothing. Taylor lit a cigarette, another new habit. “I graduated, sweetness, and not all of us have Daddy to buy us out of trouble. I have to work, have to get a career going.”

“Really? I would have thought that was optional.”

He shook his head. “No, I want to work.”

She was surprised. He really didn’t need to. His family was almost as wealthy as hers. She looked at him again. Blond hair to his shoulders, stubble, a face like a model, he still made her ache inside.

And yet. It passed. She felt the attraction suddenly ebbing and thanked whatever higher power had decided to set her free.

As if he could read her mind, Taylor spoke again. “You still make me hot, Charlotte. Come home with us. Stacy throws a mean party, if you know what I mean. I know you like it. We used to ball all night, remember?”

“I remember. But no thanks, Taylor. It’s not worth re-lighting that fire, if you’ll pardon the phrase.”

His smile faded as she walked away. But hers just grew bigger and bigger.

Chapter FOUR

Her father had waited up for her, of course. She dropped her house keys on the hall table and paused, listening.

“The lovely girl, the lovely day … “

She smiled. Her father had a great voice, a secret she kept for him, and singing together was one of their private pleasures. This was a song he’d made up for her as a little girl.

“A perfect time to run and play … “

Charlotte’s voice was not a secret. Singing “Happy Birthday” at the age of five, she had silenced a room. People really listened when she sang, and at first it made her shy and frightened. But when Millie, her beloved nanny, had told her father she really had talent, her father had encouraged her, sent her to the best teachers, and, most of all, loved to listen to her. Her voice was deep, smooth, with the barest hint of a rasp.

“Daddy’s here, won’t go away … “

Charlotte followed the sound of his voice, finding him, as expected, standing by the fire in his study.

“And in his arms you’ll always stay. “

They finished the line together, laughing, and Jacob Williams held out his arms. She stepped into his embrace, resting her head on his shoulder, the cashmere of his jacket feeling just as wonderful as it always did. No cigar smoke anymore—she’d made him quit.

He kissed the top of her smooth head and stepped to the sideboard. “Drink?” He topped up his scotch glass, the ice cubes tumbling together.

Charlotte nodded. “A little.”

“Scotch?”

“Brandy.”

He nodded, reaching for the bottle.

She curled up on the sofa, the glass warming in her hands, and smiled broadly at him. At home, she could just be herself.

“So, Daddy, what’s new on the Street?”

He laughed. “Like you have any interest at all.”

She pretended to be offended, kicking her shoes off onto the floor. “Of course I’m interested. Just because I don’t understand it doesn’t mean it’s not interesting. I don’t really get Greek philosophy, but I like to listen to people talk about it.”

“You do?” His look was quizzical. “Bullshit.”

She laughed.

“But since you asked, there was a nice pop in the market today, and quite a few people got very rich.

” “What made that happen?”

He looked into his glass. “I was in a good mood, I sold, I bought, and lo and behold, the market rose.”

“Goodness, what power you wield. Can you do something about world peace? Or, better still, the price of couture?”

He shook his head. “Those things are beyond me. But you don’t need to worry about the price of couture. You got wealthier today by about three million dollars.”

Charlotte paused, about to sip her brandy. “Really? I didn’t even feel as if I was working.”

“You weren’t. I didn’t even have anything to do with it. Your mother set up a fund for you before she died that I can’t even touch. But today it did well, all on its ownsome.”

“Huh, who knew?”

“Colloquialisms, Charlotte? I didn’t send you to Paris to forget to speak English. I sent you there to learn French.”

She ignored him. “What else? Are you seeing anyone?”

He frowned, hard and quick. “No, of course not.”

She frowned back at him, mockingly. “Why not? You’re not too old.”

“I should damn well think not.”

“And you’re still very good-looking.”

“You’re biased.”

“Maybe.” But it was true. Jacob was still handsome. Tall, healthy and fit, superbly dressed, and one of the most powerful men on Wall Street. He’d been featured on the covers of Time and BusinessWeek and in the party pages of Vanity Fair. He attended functions with a variety of actresses and models, some as young as his daughter, but that wasn’t what Charlotte meant. He knew what she meant.

Sighing, he looked her in the eye. “Charlotte, when you are older, you will understand. I believe there are only one or two people in the world with whom one can have a true connection. When you’ve been fortunate enough to find and marry one of those people, you are reluctant to settle for less. One can have lovers, those are easily found, but true love rarely strikes twice.”

Charlotte snorted. “God, Dad, you sound like a Hallmark ad. Why don’t you try going out with women who are closer in age to you than they are to me? Someone you’ll have stuff in common with?”

Jacob stood. “Lord, child, you used ‘stuff’ in a sentence and then ended it with a preposition. I can’t continue this conversation.” But he was smiling.

Charlotte put down her glass and reached for his hand. Jacob pulled her up, held her in the curve of his arm, and started to dance.

She grinned up at him as they moved slowly into the hall, dancing gravely.

“The lovely girl … the lovely day … ”

They stopped at the bottom of the stairs, Jacob dipping Charlotte low as they finished the song together. Then he pushed her toward the stairs.

“Go to bed, little one. Get your beauty sleep, not that you need to be any prettier, Lord knows.”

He watched until she was out of sight, then closed his eyes, trying to hold the image. Decisively, he turned and headed back to the study. It was morning in Tokyo, and there really is no rest for the wicked.

Chapter FIVE

Jacob was long gone when Charlotte came down to breakfast the next day. Sipping her latte, she wandered around the apartment.

“Looking for me, Charlotte?” Greta surprised her. She’d caught Charlotte watching the young man she’d seen the day before, who was deliciously bent over, repairing something in the kitchen. “Admiring my new appliances?”

“Is that what you call him?” Charlotte kept her voice low, but Greta raised hers.

“Watch out, Andy, the mistress of the house is after you.”

He straightened, turning around to regard his audience. Broad grin. White teeth. Dark skin.

“You know my heart belongs to you, Greta.”

“I know, but she’s new in town.”

Charlotte protested. “I’m not really new, I’m just back again.”

He shrugged. “Maybe you missed the memo. Young and pretty is out, older and wiser is in.” He grinned at Greta and turned back to work.

Greta walked out, crooking her finger at Charlotte as she did so. They went into the conservatory, with its curving glass walls overlooking Central Park. It was winter still, and the warmth of the room and the tangle of exotic plants felt surreal against the background of ashen trees below.

“Now, listen here, Charlotte.” Greta had been with the Williams family since before Charlotte was born, and she had become another mother to Charlotte after her own had died. “You keep your hands off Andy. He’s a man, like any other, and likely to get his head turned by you, but he’s happily married, with two small children, and you have no interest in any of that. Leave him alone.”

Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “I have no idea what you mean, Greta.”

The older woman snorted. “Please. I’ve seen the kind of trouble you can cause. Burning down a building was comparatively civilized for you.”

Charlotte was offended. “Greta, you’re exaggerating.”

“I am not. We went through three pool boys at the summer house one year. And you were only seventeen, so Lord alone knows what you could do now that you have more experience.”

Charlotte giggled. “Yes, that was a great summer.”

Greta looked firm. “For you, it was fun; for them, it was a disaster. Some people need to work, you know.”

Charlotte was unbowed. “Look, Greta, I didn’t make them do anything they didn’t want to do. They weren’t much older than I was. We were just having fun.”

“Hmm. Well, my point is that you’re not seventeen anymore, and people like Andy have responsibilities beyond protecting rich young women from sunburn and over-chlorinated swimming pools.”

Charlotte put up her hand. “OK, Greta, I get it. I hear you. No messing with Andy. You have my word.”

“That and a MetroCard will get me anywhere. Promise?” “I promise.”

Greta looked at her for a moment. “Are you looking forward to going back to Yale in the fall?”

Charlotte thought about it. “No, not really.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t find the studies very interesting, and because people are going to remember the whole stupid building thing. I wish I’d gone to Juilliard instead.”

“To study singing?”

The younger woman nodded. “I don’t think I would make the same decision now.”

Several years earlier, at the ludicrously expensive private school Charlotte had attended, the college counselors had been discouraging about Charlotte’s chances of a musical career. “The kids who go to Juilliard are going to be professional musicians,” they’d said. “You don’t have a classically trained voice. You’ve been gaining a traditional education. If you wanted to be a musician, you should have gone to a music school. No, Miss Williams, you should consider your voice a wonderful gift from God, something lovely to share with your future husband and children. Have you considered medicine? Or the law? A law degree could offer you freedom to follow multiple careers. Yale is an excellent school. Think about Yale.”

Embarrassed, Charlotte had shut down, taken the information about Yale, filled out the paperwork, and let the school handle the whole thing. Unsurprisingly, Yale had accepted her sight unseen, the historical relationship between the two schools as strong and preferential as ever.

“Have you been to see Janet yet?”

Charlotte smiled. “I’m going later this morning. We’re going to do a lesson and then have lunch.”

Janet was Charlotte’s voice coach and one of the limited number of people Charlotte felt truly comfortable with. You wouldn’t think to look at Janet, in her Stevie Nicks handkerchief hemlines and general love of the witchy look, her long gray hair defiantly undyed and untamed, that she was one of the leading music teachers on the East Coast, but she was. She guided many members of the Philharmonic, frequently held master classes for members of the Metropolitan, and taught the talented children of the wealthy. Charlotte loved her.

“In fact, I’d better go get dressed right now.” She turned back at the door. “I think there’s a leak in my shower. Do you think Andy could come and take a look?”

Greta opened her mouth to chastise her but then realized she was teasing. Charlotte headed upstairs, still giggling.

Greta sat for a while, thinking. She wasn’t sure what was going to become of Charlotte, to be honest. She had so much—looks, money, opportunity. But to Greta, Charlotte would always be the sobbing seven-year-old, calling for Mommy in the night, her father too anguished to hear. A few weeks after Jackie had been killed, a nanny had arrived, found by Greta, and Miss Millie and Greta had raised the girl between them. Jacob was a doting father, but he spent all his time at work. And something had changed in him when Jackie had died. Greta saw it; so did Davis. Miss Millie had been a wonderful nanny, though, very loving and firm, and Charlotte had recovered and eventually started to flourish. Seven years of relative peace had passed, but then one of Millie’s own children had needed her back in Louisiana, and she’d had to leave. Charlotte hadn’t ever really gotten over the loss, and Greta missed her colleague and friend, too. Early in Charlotte’s teen years, things had started to go badly, with boys and God knows what else. It was hardly surprising; there was no one there to set an example, although Greta had done what she could. Now Charlotte was a young woman, and there wasn’t much Greta could do to protect her anymore.

In fact, there wasn’t anything anyone could do.

Chapter SIX

Leaving the triplex an hour or so later, Charlotte decided to walk across the park instead of making Davis get out the car.

“Are you sure, Miss?” Davis looked concerned. “The park?

Alone?”

“Oh, for goodness sake, Davis. It’s Central Park in broad daylight, not Tompkins Square at two a.m. I’ve been taking care of myself in Paris for the last year. I even took the Metro alone, with only a fresh baguette to protect me.”

Davis wasn’t known for his lightheartedness. He went pale. “Your father wouldn’t like it, Miss. It won’t take me a minute to pull the car around.”

She shook her head, pressing the elevator button. “No, Davis. I’ll call you if I need a ride back from Janet’s, OK?” She knew she was making him anxious, but that wasn’t really her problem. Her dad could take care of himself, and so could she.

After the warmth of the apartment, the chill of the park was a shock. She greeted the doorman and pulled her Ungaro cashmere coat tightly around her. She’d forgotten how cold the city could get, especially once you stepped out of the protective canyons of the avenues. Joggers wearing earmuffs and gloves passed her, their breath clouding, their eyes focused, the tinny buzz of their iPods like passing insects. Charlotte had never enjoyed running—she was more of a yoga and Pilates girl, although mostly, she was a “naturally skinny and likes a big salad” kind of girl.

She found herself thinking about her mother. She wished she remembered more, but her memories consisted of brief scenes, scents, her mother bending down to kiss her good night when she and her father were going out, the smell of Chanel No. 5 and finely milled face powder. Clearly, Jackie had loved her, and she’d taken her everywhere. One of Charlotte’s favorite pictures was of herself as a toddler, backstage at some runway show, covered in makeup and surrounded by topless models, all of whom were smiling down at her like soft-hearted, long-lashed giraffes. She was grinning back, toothless and happy, and at the side of the frame sat Jackie, getting her hair done, her glance proud. In Paris during the last year, she’d been greeted as a prodigal child, welcomed to all the fashion houses, embraced and clucked over by designers whose names were permanently etched on the pages of Vogue. Stories of her mother were told with great affection, and photos were brought out that made Charlotte catch her breath. Many of them were pictures of her as a baby with Jackie. Some were of Jackie pregnant, candid shots of her helping other models get ready for shows she was too spherical to work. And in some, she could see her father, relaxed, smoking his cigars, watching his beautiful wife with hot eyes and a warm smile.

More than one designer told Charlotte she should be a model, but the aging models who’d held her at those long-ago runway shows shook their heads at the idea. “No,” they’d said firmly. Finish college first. Get an education. Your mother would have insisted, and she would have been right.” One woman, Nadia, who’d parlayed a successful modeling career into an even more successful career as a booker, said she wouldn’t even represent her if she asked.

“Non, non, non. Your mother was my dear friend, and she would curse me from her grave if I even suggested such a thing. Modeling is a cruel business, ma chérie, and she would keep you from it. She had fun, because she loved clothes and designers and other models, but it isn’t the way it used to be. It is a big business now, and there is too much money at stake for friendships to be worth very much.” She’d made a very French noise of disgust. “And besides, the models these days are all children, girls who didn’t even get their periods yet, girls who should be climbing trees and kissing boys and running away.” She had turned to look out at Paris and sighed. “If Jackie were here, she would be fat and happy, and you would have a dozen brothers and sisters, chou chou.”

Now, walking through the park her mother had also loved, Charlotte thought about this. Her memories of Jackie couldn’t be trusted, they were melded with the information she’d gathered from the press, from books, from documentaries. There was one about the fashion of the ‘80s that had an interview with her mother, and she must have watched it a hundred times. It was long before she was born, and Jackie only talked about one particular designer, but Charlotte could recite every word, anticipate every head movement, every smile.

She kicked along through the leaves on the bridle track, wondering if her mother really would have wanted more children. She’d wished for a sister all her life, and when she was little, she’d hoped her daddy would remarry, maybe even someone who already had children, maybe several children. The big apartment was lonely and too quiet. Once she was older, she had turned her attention to friends from school whose families she could temporarily join. But those families were almost as cold as hers, sometimes worse. Sisters and brothers rarely played together, shuttled from one after-school activity to another by one nanny or another. Parents worked or shopped or spent time with the needy poor or the neurotic rich, and hanging out with the children was something you paid other children’s mothers to do. It was no wonder she and her teenage friends were such a tight bunch; they just needed someone to play with.

From thinking of her mother, her mind turned naturally to Miss Millie, who had stepped in shortly after her mother died. Dark-skinned, fine-featured, sharp-tongued, Millie Pearl had been an incredibly important part of Charlotte’s life. Whenever she stopped short of doing the truly stupid thing, when she refused that hard drug, when she didn’t get into the car full of drunken frat boys—that was Millie’s influence. She’d taught the young woman to value what was inside, to think for herself, to judge people by what they did, not what they wore. And she’d loved the girl deeply, hugging her frequently, brushing her long hair every night, and singing to her, making her feel special and safe and surrounded by a warm structure that supported her growth like a trellis in a garden. Charlotte had missed her very much when she left and had been desolate and depressed for several weeks. Then she’d sadly reached the conclusion that people you love were prone to suddenly leaving, and she’d polished herself a hard, shiny shell and kept it on from that time forward.