The Craigslist Murders - Brenda Cullerton [19]
The family was in Barbados and her mother had offered her a swimming lesson. She was six. She could feel the burning sand beneath her toes as they ambled towards the promise of a cool blue sea. They were together so rarely that even though the sand burned, Charlotte refused to rush. When the pebbles on the shore cut into the soft soles of her feet and the waves loomed larger, she held more tightly to her mother’s hand and smiled.
“Just try and relax,” her mother had said, as she held Charlotte firmly beneath her small arms and together they bobbed on the crest of the waves. Charlotte wanted so much to give something to her mother; something that would make her proud.
It was just at the moment when her limbs began to unlock and she felt so light, so buoyant, she laughed out loud, that her mother let her go. And down she went, caught in the steel-like grip of cold, blue water. It had puzzled her, the strength of that watery grip, before the panic took hold and she opened her mouth to cry out. Later, on the beach, her throat stinging from retching up sea and sand, her mother had hugged her. “I told you to relax, dear,” she’d said with a grin. “That’s how you learn to float.” Charlotte had never put her head beneath the surface of the sea again.
Punching at the glass door as if to punch the memory back into its box, Charlotte entered the News Bar. After handing over her credit card to the cashier, she looked for a seat. Every computer was open. Heading towards the back of the room, she sat down, typed in the password for her latest hotmail account, and scrolled through endless junk mail. Yes! There it was. A message from 12ft.candy@gm.com:
Subj: Vuitton Luggage
Date: 10/3/2009
To: CoreenG.@hotmail.com
Dear Coreen:
The luggage was custom-made at Vuitton in Paris. My price is firm. If you’d like to come by and take a look, I’ll be here Friday at 4. I’m at 32 E. 65th St. Why don’t you call me? cell: #917-655-7542 Best, Amy
Charlotte felt just the tiniest clutch of hope tug at her heart. Noting down the number before deleting the message, she exited and rebooted. She’d follow up with Amy from a payphone later.
11
“Cavolfiore, Charlotte. My mother told me I was born in a cauliflower. Can you imagine this?” Anna was sliding off the red upholstered barstool when Charlotte’s hand shot out and propped her up by the elbow. “I never forgive myself for leaving them, do you know that? I still send money home.”
Charlotte took a slow sip of her glacially iced martini. They’d been the first to arrive three hours ago at the Temple Bar on Lafayette Street. And Anna had been talking ever since. Charlotte sat as still as a statue, afraid that the slightest movement might destroy the magic of the moment.
“I still have this little box on my night table,” Anna added, running her finger along the rim of her glass. “When I am depressed, I open that drawer and pick up the 500 lira piece that I landed with in New York. Fifty cents. It was all I had when my plane touched down, Charlotte.”
Removing her hand from Anna’s elbow, Charlotte nibbled a salted cashew. “Everyone thinks you’ve made millions, Anna. After so many years and so many famous clients.”
Anna choked and grinned. “I have nothing, Charlotte. Nothing. For twenty-five years, I have this golden angel on my shoulder. I think it is like this for everyone. There is a time in life when an angel looks over you. And then it is gone. But I am not jealous. Last week, I was visiting an old client in his apartment. Beauty was everywhere. On this one table, there was fifteen million dollars’ worth of priceless objects. Just one in your pocket and you would never have to work again.”
Charlotte grimaced. “How can you stand it, Anna? My clients don’t even know what they have. It infuriates me.”
Anna turned on her stool and caressed Charlotte’s cheek. “So what, cara? It is the memories I live on. Twelve years ago, I was the guest of an English lord. He had a passport