I'm Not Charlotte Lucas(2)

So I moved back in with my parents. Rent in this wine-country town was sky-high, and it made more sense to move into their house than it did to waste most of my meager assistant-bank-manager income on a studio apartment. But still.

Charlotte Lucas: one. Charlie: zero.

Mom’s voice carried upstairs. “Charlie! Can you come down here for a second, please? I’m making lunch.”

“Coming,” I hollered back. As much as I wished my Diet Coke contained enough nutrients to sustain me, that wasn’t the case.

“Thanks, hon.” Footsteps carried Mom away, and I paused my movie, freezing it on Charlotte Lucas’s face as she begged her best friend not to judge her. I pulled myself up, staring at the poor, lonely woman who married a ridiculous man simply to get away. At least I had more gumption than she did.

Chatter reached my ears before I’d fully descended the stairs, and I swung around the corner of my enclosed stairwell and into the kitchen, pausing before I accidentally rammed into our eighty-two-year-old neighbor, Vera. Her white hair was immaculately styled in a chic blunt bob, not a hair out of place.

I cast her a smile, reaching forward to hug her. Her oversized beige sweater engulfed me as thin arms wrapped around my waist. “How was Paris, Vera?” I asked.

She pulled back, shooting me a wink with one twinkling eye before lowering herself onto one of Mom’s plush kitchen chairs. “Paris was lovely. The food was très bon.” She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “But the view from the hotel could have been better.”

Said as only a woman who spent more time in international hotels than in her own home could.

I sat in the chair beside her. “Did you bring home any hot French guys for me?”

Vera tsked, expensive bracelets jingling on her bony wrist as she flicked my comment away. “You don’t need a French man, cheri. There are plenty of nice American men right here.”

I lifted my eyebrows. Then where were they? “But American men don’t have accents.”

Vera cast her gaze to the ceiling. She looked over my shoulder to where Mom was tossing a salad at the kitchen island. “This may be harder than I thought,” Vera said.

I glanced over my shoulder to find Mom shaking her head, peering into the salad bowl. She pushed her sleeves up her arms and tucked a lock of short brown hair behind her ear.

Suspicion slithered up my spine. “What’s going on?” I asked.

Vera gathered my hand and held it in both of hers, smiling warmly. “I have a proposition for you.” Her skin was saggy and soft, and she peered into my eyes as though she could read my soul. “I don’t want to hear an answer right away. I want you to think about it for a day or so and then give me a call with your answer. Understand, Charlotte?”

I nodded, unsure of what exactly Vera was trying to rope me into. Mom carried plates to the table and set them before us, placing another one at the seat on my other side. Vera waited for her to bring in the salad and sit beside me, as though I was going to need support from all angles.

Or maybe Mom was tasked with making sure I didn’t run away. They were beginning to frighten me. They were an old-woman brigade, prepared to pounce at any moment.

Vera spoke. “I have tickets to a charity ball Friday night, and I desperately need you to come.”

“Don’t men typically step in for this sort of thing?”

“I don’t need a date, darling. My grandson does.” She reached forward, squeezing my fingers, her voice lowering conspiratorially. “He recently broke up with his girlfriend.”

My eyebrows lifted. Her grandson? The jet-setting, uber-rich grandson who was always flying to Europe to meet Vera for lunch in the middle of her vacations? Who even knew where the man was flying from? He got around the world faster than gossip in a small town.

“He was going to skip the ball altogether, but I think he needs this.” Vera’s voice turned sympathetic. “He was devastated over this breakup, and he’s been wallowing—though I think it a mighty blessing, to be sure. I would prefer him to be single than still with that woman.”

I gave her a look that I hoped spoke to my lack of sympathy. “And a blind date is just what he needs to get him back on the horse?”

“Of course not,” Vera said, straightening. “The charity ball is acknowledging his work. I think that is what he needs to see the value of life again and awake from his stupor.”

“Why does he need a date to go watch his work get acknowledged?” I asked. “Why can’t he just go with you?”

“Because his ex-girlfriend will also be there. It’s her work too.” Vera leveled me with hard, unyielding eyes. “And the ex is bringing her new boyfriend.”

Mom rubbed my back before reaching farther and squeezing my shoulder. “Charlie is a kind girl. Of course she’ll do it.”

I whipped around, catching Mom’s wide eyes and nodding head. Her arm was still around my shoulder while Vera squeezed my hand. What were they trying to do? Overwhelm me into agreeing?

I was a kind person. I spent afternoons sipping tea with Vera and listening to her go on about her glory days as a model in New York City. I drove my aunt to her hair appointments once a week and waited an hour for her to finish them. I even did my mom’s grocery shopping and picked up Mariah’s online Target orders when Mom was overrun with high school events and PTA meetings.