But it’s thewayshe’s said it.
A slyness to it. A sense of pride.
And most important: that she’s said it so directly to Salem.
I’m stunned in a way I wouldn’t have expected, not after the last two weeks. I’ve listened to every word Jess has ever said about her mother, and maybe more important, I’ve watched, too. I’ve seen every tight line in Jess’s brow when Tegan has said something hopeful about this very meeting, every shadow that’s passed over her face when she’s had even a split second of letting herself wonder how it would go. I knew that Jess’s memories of her mother, her anger at her, her doubts about her, were real. Deeply felt and fully justified.
But maybe I’d started to think too much about the Charlotte Caulfield Jess was a little more willing to talk about over the last two days. The woman who wanted someone to fall in love with her, the woman who liked romantic movies. The woman who dreamed of living on a nice houseboat someday.
If that woman still exists, I don’t see her here.
I see a woman staring across the table as though her two kids who she hasn’t seen in ten years aren’t in the room at all.
A woman who has the look of having spotted a rival.
I don’t know when I moved closer to Jess. But I’m nearly beside her now, close enough that her shoulder blade grazes one side of my chest as she breathes. I look down at her, and she must sense it, turning and lifting her head to meet my gaze. I don’t dare say a word, but I try to tell her with my eyes that I’ll get her out of here now, if she wants me to.
She shakes her head once, almost imperceptibly.
Wait, she’s saying.
So I do. Still, I move a little closer.
At the table, Tegan is looking between Salem and Charlotte, and I’m pretty sure every internal gear she has is turning. After a few seconds, she makes a move—small but telling. She turns slightly in her chair. Away from Charlotte, and toward Salem. It’s permission, or an invitation.
She’s saying with her body that it’s Salem’s conversation for now.
“We did gather that,” Salem says, hardly missing a beat. “We met Dennis Kirtenour recently.”
“What an interesting man,” Charlotte says, then shrugs. “I mean, his ideas about treating cancer patients leave something to be desired, don’t you think?”
Salem purses her lips. Annoyed to be asked a question by this woman.
“Is that why Baltimore marked him?”
Charlotte doesn’t respond. She only smiles, and I immediately, instinctively hate it. I think it must be the worst smile I’ve ever seen in my life, and it only takes me a few seconds to figure out why.
It’s because it reminds me of Curtis MacSherry’s smile. But this time, that Cheshire-cat expression is on lips that look so similar to those of the woman who’s standing next to me. The woman whose real smiles—small and honest and cautious smiles—I’ve worked so hard for.
I set my hand low on Jess’s back. I do it slow, so no one can see me move.
“Maybe you’ll tell me he had some kind of Robin Hood phase at the end of his life,” Salem says. “Steal from the rich. Give to the . . . ?” She trails off, prompting.
But Charlotte still doesn’t answer. One thing’s for sure: If Lynton Baltimore were still alive and getting into trouble, he could count on this woman never betraying him.
“We know, for example, that you and Baltimore took some time to provide funds for his son.”
Charlotte’s placid smile transforms into something more earnest, her eyes lighting.
“Oh! Did you see my portrait?”
Salem blinks. “We did.”
Suddenly, Charlotte shifts her attention our way. She looks right at Jess, as though she expects her to react with delighted commiseration.Wow, yes, I saw that portrait; it looked exactly likeme.
Jess only stiffens—I can feel it low in her back—and stays determinedly silent.
For a few seconds, the two hold each other’s gaze, and I can tell, Charlotte expects Jess to break. To respond in some way.
