When We Fall (22 page)

C
harlotte stood in the middle of the empty ballroom at the Wincourt Country Club marveling at the results of her handiwork. So she hadn't polished the floors or set the tables. But she had picked out every plate, fork, knife, spoon, napkin, tablecloth, and chair. She'd even given the busboy a quick tutorial on how to spray the floral centerpieces to keep them hydrated and glistening. It was this attention to detail that had landed her the coveted position of cochair of the gala in the first place.

Of course the
co
part was something of a joke. Charlie hadn't lifted a finger in the way of plans and preparations, nor had she expected him to. His job—and it was an important one—was to open his wallet and keep it open leading up to and throughout the evening. He'd agreed to said role, and he hadn't even balked when she'd asked him to purchase a fifth table of ten bearing a hefty price tag of five hundred dollars a seat. That would bring their grand total to twenty-five thousand dollars in guests alone. Not to mention
the items they'd bid on in the silent and live auctions or the impromptu “anonymous” donation she'd ask Charlie to give as a match for whatever was raised. Of course, everyone would know who'd given the money, but it was so much classier to at least affect obscurity.

Somewhere over the course of the week, between pounding the pavement to gather last-minute contributions and sating herself with a bottle of wine while reading over the final program, Charlotte had decided this would be her last hurrah. It was actually possible to overstay your welcome as chair, even if you were doing a bang-up job year in and year out. She hadn't reached that point yet, but she wanted to go out on top. Kind of like
Seinfeld
or
Sex and the City
. Charlotte knew it was better to leave them wanting more, rather than be pushed out like Sabrina had been. Her ego was far too frail for that, and unlike Sabrina, she had neither the capability nor the inclination to live in denial.

She checked her watch. It was six thirty. Within the next thirty minutes, upward of four hundred men and women bedecked in the finest suits and the fanciest dresses would be crowding into the cavernous space where Charlotte was now standing alone, appraising her reflection in a mirror-covered wall. She knew she looked beautiful, which was a rare feeling for her. But when she had someone else to do her makeup and hair in the expert fashion she so desired and when she'd practically starved herself for the better part of three weeks so she could squeeze into a size four, emerald green, strapless taffeta Oscar de la Renta gown, even she had to admit she was breathtaking.

Eduardo at the Frederic Fekkai salon in Greenwich had
swept her glossy brown hair, which had been freshly highlighted with blended streaks of deep red, into an effortless chignon with a few well-tamed, loose wisps to frame her face. And then his colleague Greta—who, Eduardo had told her, had worked with the likes of Gwyneth Paltrow, Kate Hudson, and Cameron Diaz—had painted her face in the way she imagined an artist would create a masterpiece. Ten small strokes here, five targeted dabs there, a series of brushes, and a dot, dot, dot on her lips until she'd glanced at her likeness out of the corner of her eye and nodded her head in approval.

She'd choreographed the day as a cruise director would devise a schedule of activities for her passengers. Running a tight ship was paramount to the success of any sizable fête, and Charlotte would be damned if even one little thing went wrong, though inevitably it would. That was what damage control was for. And she was ready, armed with everything from first aid kits to needles and thread, not to mention the number for the closest hospital programmed into her cell phone in the event that 911 simply wasn't good enough. It was all part of the master plan, down to the half hour of solitude she'd left herself to contemplate the evening ahead.

What she hadn't premeditated was her discovery of the night before. Now, standing alone in the dimly lit silence, she laughed bitterly at the irony. How long and far had she searched to uncover this very piece of information? How many hours had she spent agonizing, torturing herself, vacillating between certainty and questioning whether she'd gone absolutely mad?

She'd thought about acting on it immediately. But confron-
tation wasn't her strong suit. It never had been. Still, fueled with the two glasses of champagne she'd had on the limo ride over, and the cocktail hour in her immediate future, there was no telling what she might do or say.

She inhaled deeply and then exhaled, desperate to release the ugliness that was stirring inside her like a tornado gaining speed with every twirl and swirl. It felt both infuriating and exhilarating at the same time. Charlotte refused to be made the fool. She thought back to a period in her life before she'd met Charlie, when things had been so simple. When the idea of charting your course and figuring out what mark you wanted to leave in the world was as easy as saying it out loud. Or writing it down on some bucket list you'd scribbled while drinking a glass of cheap white wine over Indian takeout in your teeny-tiny apartment barely big enough to maneuver around in. Naturally she hadn't appreciated any of that at the time. The ability to come and go as she pleased without having to answer to anyone. The opportunity to watch what she wanted on television and to eat what she wanted for dinner without the nuisance of other opinions. The sheer bliss of spreading out across the whole bed, even if it was only full-sized, because why not? There was no one else there to snore or kick or wake up to in the morning with a perma-scowl on their unshaven face. Sometimes she wondered if that was what life was all about. Never feeling content in the present until the present was the past. And always assuming, hoping, even praying that there was something better, something more fulfilling on the horizon.

Charlotte sat down and kicked off her shoes—four-inch-high black silk Manolo Blahniks with a silver buckle
encrusted with sparkling green gemstones to match her dress. Charlie would arrive any minute, she guessed. She'd asked him to meet her there so she could finalize some last-minute details on her own. Soon after, the other guests would arrive. She'd plaster a smile on her face to belie the surge of fury that was rousing in the pit of her stomach. She'd give her speech, stressing all of the important points she'd rehearsed. People would laugh. A few might even dab at a crocodile tear in the corner of a dry eye. The others would be plugged into their smartphones, following a sporting event or answering e-mails that couldn't wait the length of her ten-minute monologue, which everyone there knew was really a ten-minute pitch for the exceptional Wincourt school district, which—what do you know?—happened to need their money. She leaned against the back of her chair and took everything in. For tonight, this was her reality. Tomorrow, things would be different. Very, very different.

•   •   •

By
the time the clock struck nine, the gala was in full swing. Charlotte had air-kissed and schmoozed. She'd chugged three more glasses of champagne in quick succession, but only after delivering an articulate and persuasive speech with eight hundred eyes focused solely on her. She'd also managed to avoid Allison, who'd been trying to grab her attention ever since realizing her artwork was not on display. “Just a minute,” Charlotte had said, holding up a dismissive index finger on each occasion that Allison had approached her in her body-hugging nude gown embellished with the most subtle but intricate beading. Of course she looked gorgeous. That was to be expected. She even had Dempsey on her arm,
the most flattering accessory of all. Charlotte wondered, for a passing moment, how all this would affect him. And then she dismissed the thought. Dempsey and Allison weren't married. They didn't have a child together. He would be fine. If anyone was the victim, it was her. There was no mistake to be made about that.

“Charlotte, is everything okay?” Charlie tugged on her arm, pulling her away from the bar. “You might want to slow down on those.”

“I'm fine.” She looked past him. Eye contact wasn't an option at this point. It was all she'd been able to manage to remain civil for the last two hours. “And I'm perfectly capable of monitoring my own alcohol intake.”

“I'm not saying—”

“There you are!” Sabrina squealed, running toward her as fast as her Jimmy Choos would carry her. Charlie cleared his throat to indicate that she'd interrupted him, but predictably Sabrina didn't notice. And if she did, she certainly didn't care. For once, Charlotte was thankful for Sabrina's insolence. “I've been trying to track you down all night!”

“Sorry, I've been crazed with attending to every last detail.” Charlotte rolled her eyes as she watched Charlie's follow Allison and Dempsey around the dance floor.

“You don't have to tell me how it is.” Sabrina put her hand on Charlotte's arm. “I've been in your shoes. Five times.”

“I know.” Charlotte nodded. “I can't believe you kept coming back for more!” It was always easier to nourish Sabrina's ego rather than to placate her or, God forbid, point out that this night wasn't about her anymore.

“I must have been a glutton for punishment, because it
wasn't easy. That's for sure.” She exhaled, as if her past efforts were still burdensome. “But you're doing a good job too.” She smiled, and Charlotte did a quick translation.
I could have done it better.

“Well, thank you. That means a lot coming from you.” Charlotte glanced over Sabrina's shoulder to see that Allison was making her way toward them. “Sorry to be rude, but I just have to run over and check on the items for the live auction. I'll only be a minute.”

“Charlotte, wait . . . ,” Charlie called after her, but she scurried away as quickly as possible, swallowing her entire glass of champagne on the way. It wasn't until she'd reached the auction area that she realized Allison was right behind her.

“Hey.” Allison touched her on the shoulder and she jumped. “Are you okay?”

“I wish everyone would stop asking me that,” Charlotte snapped. She couldn't help herself.

“Okay.” Allison smiled, but Charlotte could see the concern on her face. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“You've done plenty already.”

“Speaking of which”—Allison spoke slowly and carefully, as if she was handling a volatile child—“I noticed that my painting isn't on display.”

“Yeah, sorry. It just didn't work out.” Charlotte turned her back to Allison and started tidying up the silent-auction area.

“What do you mean it didn't work out?”

“Exactly what I said.”

“Charlotte, I'm going to need a little more of an explanation.
I worked very hard on that piece. It was an enormous emotional investment, as I'm sure you can imagine.”

“Well, I'm glad it was cathartic for you, but—for our purposes—it wasn't right. It was an executive decision.” Charlotte moved down the line of items, returning pens to their clipboards and pretending to check the lists of bids, while Allison trailed her.

“Who's the executive?” She was clearly confused and annoyed, justifiably so. There'd been nothing wrong with her painting. It had been perfect. And, more important, it would have raised a lot of money for the Wincourt school system. But for once, Charlotte didn't care about that. Even if it had garnered a million dollars, she wouldn't have used it.

“I am. I am the executive. And it was my decision not to include it. Now, if you'll let me get back to what I'm doing here, I'd really appreciate it, okay?” She started to walk away again, but this time Allison grabbed her by the arm.

“No, it's not okay. I want to know what's going on here, Charlotte. There's obviously something wrong.”

“Not now, Allison. This is neither the time nor the place.”

“Yes, now.”

“Excuse me?” Charlotte spun her head around, and suddenly, staring Allison directly in the face, she couldn't hold back any longer. Not for another week. Not for another day. Not for another minute or even another second. “Did you think I wouldn't find out about you and Charlie?” Charlotte's tone was fierce and increasing in volume as she pursued Allison with pointed finger, forcing Allison to retreat, one step at a time. “Huh?
Did you?
”

“Charlotte, I don't know what you're talking about.” Allison shook her head fearfully.

“Bullshit.” She practically spit the word at Allison. “You're a slut. And a husband stealer!” Charlotte was now yelling so loud that the guests on their half of the room had quieted down and the band had stopped playing, noticing that a crowd was gathering. “You thought you could just prance into this town and into our lives with your pathetic little ‘poor me, poor widow' act. But it was all a ruse. You're a master manipulator—I'll give you that. Pretending to be my friend. Pretending you needed help fixing things around the house. I should have seen through you from the start.”

“Charlotte,
please
. Can we walk outside and talk about this?” Allison's tone was hushed as she eyed the door.

“No, we cannot!”
Charlotte stomped her foot.

“I don't know where this is coming from, but if we could just talk rationally—”

“Rationally?”
Charlotte cut her off. The entire room had fallen silent and all eyes and ears were on them. It was now or never. She cleared her throat and pulled herself together as best she could. “I read your letter, Allison.”

“My letter?”

“Yes, your letter. You know—the one in your journal? The
love
letter to my husband!” A collective gasp rippled throughout the throng of guests.

“What the hell is going on here?” Charlotte looked up to find Charlie standing by Allison's side with a hardened expression shrouding his face.