Charlotte was flipping toward the Turner Classic Movies network when the face of a handsome man appeared on the screen. “I am here tonight,” he said, “to tell you about the most amazing contest in the history of contests. But first, I’ve got a question. And here it is. Doyouwant to become a jetsetter?”
Charlotte paused, wineglass halfway to her lips.
“Is your story a love story?” asked the man. “An adventure story? Now is your chance totell your story…and become a jetsetter!”
Charlotte had a story all right—the kind of story that deserved a prize. She sipped, cozy on her lemon-colored sofa, watching images of European hotspots scroll past: the Colosseum, the Acropolis, a sun-drenched beach lined with navy umbrellas.
The winner of the Become a Jetsetter contest would receive first-class tickets to Athens, Greece, followed by a nine-day cruise to Barcelona, Spain. Hmm. A first-class flight was hardly a jet, but then again, Charlotte had only flown economy. She hadn’t been abroad since she was sixteen, and not one of her children had ever left the country. Charlotte was somewhat embarrassed to admit—even to herself—that museum visits and sightseeing didn’t really appeal. But suddenly she wanted nothing more than to walk through a European city again—to feel that thrill of a foreign and more glamorous place—a place whereshe herselfwas foreign and glamorous.
Charlotte allowed herself to remember her sixteenth summer. The heat, the thrill of being chosen, being passionately kissed. Why not enter the contest? She could almost hear Minnie whispering from the Great Beyond, saying, “Go for it! Go type up the story of your first love!”
Telling herself she didn’t have to show the pages to anyone, Charlotte changed into her nightgown and robe, refilled her glass, and sat before her Dell desktop computer. Next to the monitor was her faded wedding photo. Winston, he’d been tall. But he had never made her feel cherished. Their lovemaking had been perfunctory at best and, at times, desperately sad. (Once in a while, Charlotte would walk by a man who smelled of the previous night’s whiskey and she would wince, remembering her nighttime encounters with Winston.)
Marrying out of desperation had probably been Charlotte’s biggest error. The aftermath of her erotic summer had left her lonely and bereft; according to her mother, she was “spoiled goods.” So when Winston happened back into her life, still saw her as a shining girl, she jumped at the chance to begin again. Maybe she was making amends. Maybe a part of her had really loved him, once. She hadn’t been able to imagine any other path forward, and that was the truth. If Winston rose from the grave right now and just told her what to do, she’d probably do it.
Charlotte logged on to the contest website. My, it was bright. The pictures kept moving and flipping around, but Charlotte placed her cursor in the window under the command “Win first-class flights to Europe and an all-expenses-paid Mediterranean cruise! Tell your story HERE.”
Charlotte clicked and wrote:
It may be hard to believe, but once upon a time, I was unpeeled like a banana, my rich fruit eaten raw.
She stared at the words in shock. A banana! Where had that image come from? She erased the revolting sentence and started again:
My first lover was as strong as a bull. He impaled me with his
Her face was hot, her mouth open. She deleted the statement, shaking. Whatever in the world! What if some late-night dog walker happened by? Charlotte gathered her bathrobe at her neck. She tried to look as if she were paying bills online, or checking weather.com for approaching thunderstorms.
She took a deep breath, then typed without stopping, letting the memories come, chronicling her sixteenth summer without censure or shame. She wrote it all down, every blistering detail.
Periodically, she refreshed her drink with a teensy splash.
When Charlotte finished, the bottle was empty and her mouth was dry. What would her children think if they knew? What would herchurchfriends think? She’d be kicked out of Bible Study, and that was for sure. This story did not belong to the narrative Charlotte had created about herself, the one that led her from Paris to Savannah, from the ashes of widowhood to a sturdy, purposeful life. This story exposed her as the wanton woman she secretly feared she was. Weak! It made her seem weak, and this was horrible. Only Minnie knew this story, and she had kept Charlotte’s secret (as far as Charlotte knew) to her dying day.
Charlotte was paralyzed above her keyboard, still in control, still considered…if not perfect, then at least free of sin. Respectable. Someone her mother would admire. Oh, Charlotte was so tired of caring what Louisa would think! And yet she still yearned to impress her mother, still heard her disdainful, brittle voice, even though Louisa had been buried at Bonaventure for twenty years.
Charlotte ached to have her children around her, to believe she was still connected to them, still necessary. If she won the contest, they could fly to Europe! They could be together on a cruise ship for nine whole days! It would be like old times, but luxurious.
And then there was sex. Something had been happening to Charlotte. Where once she’d found it possible to ignore sexy thoughts, now she spent hours conjuring imaginary encounters. She gathered parts of the men she saw around the Club and at church: a pair of strong shoulders, a cleft chin, the way a fellow shopper at Publix let his hand graze hers in the string bean bin. Alone, she fit these pieces together and imagined being trapped in country houses, closets, furtive embraces in the rain. She reread the dirty parts of her romance novels, even tearing out juicy scenes to savor later.
Mightn’t a ship full of men have one man for Charlotte?
From the moment she had rushed, too late, to Minnie’s bedside, the question had remained in her mind: What now?
She bit her lip and clicked on the button that proclaimed:Submit.
CORD STARED AT THEchampagne in his refrigerator. Who would know if he had a glass, just one glass, to fortify himself for his marriage proposal? His company had paid for the rehab that had finally stuck, but he’d taken the day off. He had at least an hour to himself—more than enough time to have a glass or two, shower, and brush his teeth. He could almost feel the buoyant calm the booze would bring.
Cord took the bottle—someone had brought it over months ago—out of the refrigerator. It was cold, so cold. Ah, if only he could return to the halcyon days before he knew he was an alcoholic…before he understood that thepopof the cork and tickle of champagne bubbles were harbingers of painful dread he could scarcely survive.
Cord’s heart beat in his chest.
It’s too hard,said the lonely voice.Just drink it. Just drink it.
He twisted the wirecollerette,ripped off the foil, and pulled the cork free. He jammed his thumb over the bottle’s opening to save every drop.
He had time. He could drink it all and still shower and be ready. He could drink it allinthe shower, which briefly struck his lizard brain as a clean and streamlined plan.
Cord felt feverish, but maybe it was his close kitchen, more useful for arranging a selection of appetizers than for baking. He had never actually prepared an entire meal from scratch before, excepting the time he woke in the middle of the night, binge-watchedTop Chef,and found himself naked in the kitchen at dawn, various egg creations congealing before him. That was the first time he tried to stop with the Ambien.
