LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

      She was about halfway through the park, past the reservoir, when a young man approached her. He had something in his hand, and she instinctively took a step back in case it was a weapon. It wasn’t. It was a pad and pen.

      “I’m sorry, aren’t you Charlotte Williams?”

      She nodded, slowed a little. Maybe she knew him?

      “I’m Dan Robinson from the New York Sentinel. I was wondering if you had a statement to make?”

      She was confused and immediately on her guard. There were a lot of crazy people in the city, and then there were reporters. One had to be careful. Her dad didn’t trust the press, and neither did she.

      “A statement about what?” She started walking again, quicker this time.

      “About your father’s arrest.” The reporter’s eyes were bright, and he could tell he had surprised her. Her step faltered.

      “I think you must be confusing me with someone else. My father is at work.”

      “He was at work. Now he is under arrest for embezzlement.”

      Charlotte felt and heard her phone ringing in her bag. She pulled it out. It was home. Then another call came in, from Emily. She answered the first one.

      Greta’s voice sounded shaken. “Charlotte, where are you?”

      “I’m on my way to Janet’s. Greta, there’s a reporter here who says Daddy has been arrested. What’s going on?”

      “Come home, Charlotte. Or go to Janet’s if you’re closer. Davis will come and pick you up.”

      Charlotte looked up at the skyline. She could see the Dakota.

      “I’m closer to Janet’s. Tell Davis I’ll be there in ten minutes. Is it true?”

      Greta sounded like she was in tears. “Yes, Charlotte, but we don’t know anything yet.” There was a pause. “Please hurry, Charlotte.”

      She hung up. Emily had long ago gone to voice mail, and as she looked, she saw text after text coming in, voice mails piling up, phone calls on top of phone calls. She looked up. The reporter was still there, a tape recorder in his hand now, stretched

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