Chapter 36 “I’m Afraid Our Time Is Up”
“I’m Afraid Our Time Is Up”
Since marching out of Howard’s office as a soon-to-be free woman, it seemed to Charlotte that each day was better than the
one before.
Which was not to say that her life was utterly free of stress.
Despite her declarations about there being no room for negotiation, some back-and-forth between the lawyers had taken place.
However, after informing her father that she would release the photos to the press if no agreement was reached by Labor Day,
G.G. backed down. The legalities would take a little time, but half of the cash had already been deposited into Charlotte’s
account, and the paperwork for Denise’s trust was being reviewed by her attorney.
Things were tougher on the domestic front.
Upon learning of his parents’ impending divorce, Howie’s only response had been to ask if Charlotte having full custody meant
he could leave the military academy and move home. As far as Charlotte was concerned, the answer was yes. Howard disagreed
vehemently, so that would have to wait until the divorce was final. Denise was fine; England agreed with her. But Charlotte
was concerned about the younger children.
Laura was very clingy and whiny these days, and Andrew was sulky.
And though Charlotte was convinced that Howard had picked the most bourgeois monstrosity in Concordia just to spite her, she had decided to stay where she was for the time being.
Another big change was the last thing the kids needed right now.
Keeping the house meant learning how to maintain it—dealing with gardeners, insurance, tax bills, and repairmen.
Howard’s secretary had always handled it before; now it was Charlotte’s responsibility.
The learning curve was steep, forcing Charlotte to buy filing folders and ask Viv what to put in them.
There were other, more existential problems too. On the days when she allowed herself to dream of such things, Charlotte’s
imagination always brought her back to New York and a career as a professional artist. With those doors shut, what was she
to do with her life?
The answer appeared, as such answers often do, in the last place she expected.
“Well?” Charlotte asked her friends, spreading her arms wide, as if trying to embrace not only the exterior of the town house
they stood in front of but the entire block. “What do you think?”
Bitsy frowned. “You’re renting in Alexandria? I thought you planned to stay in Concordia for the time being.”
“It is nice,” Margaret said, craning her neck back to take in the full three and a half stories of red brick. “Tons of character.
But are you sure this is a good idea? You said you didn’t want to move the kids right now.”
“It’s an awfully busy street,” Viv said, turning her attention to a placard listing of the building’s occupants. “And aren’t
these offices? How can you rent an apartment here?”
“Because I’m not a renter,” Charlotte said, beaming and pulling a key from her pocket. “As of yesterday, the entire building
belongs to me. Come on. I want you to see the inside.”
Charlotte unlocked the door and waved the others into the foyer, which was really more of a long hallway. Three office doors
lined the wall on the right. A steep, narrow stairway, which presumably led to more offices, hugged the wall on the left.
Once everyone was inside, Charlotte closed the door.
“The tenants have thirty days to move out, so I can’t show you much more today. But I’ve hired an architect, and he’s got some wonderful ideas. To start, we’ll knock out the walls on the first floor, creating one big space,” she said, squeezing past her friends and moving to the staircase.
“Obviously, the stairs have to go. We’ll replace them with something wider, much more open and modern. We’re thinking about
stair treads of very thick glass, so the people climbing them would appear to be floating. We may even take out the ceiling
between the first two floors. A tall, soaring ceiling would be very dramatic, especially in such an old building. The architect
thinks installing beams will mitigate any structural issues, but we’ll have to see what the engineer says.”
“Well. Sounds like a plan,” Viv said when Charlotte finished. “But you may have left out one teeny, inconsequential detail.
After you rip out the walls, ceiling, and stairs, what are you going to do with it?”
“Sorry! I got so excited that I skipped that part.”
She took a breath, declaring her intention in a measured, confident tone, as if it were less an aspiration than a thing already
done.
“I am opening an art gallery.”
Margaret’s face lit up. “Charlotte, that’s a wonderful idea!”
“To show your paintings?” Bitsy asked.
“No,” Charlotte said. “I’ve finally come to terms with reality. Though I’m not a bad artist, I’m not a very good one either.”
“So you plan to sell other people’s paintings?” Viv asked.
“That’s the idea. I want to focus on the work of promising but unknown artists who need a champion.
Women in particular. I may not have the talent to create great art myself, but I know it when I see it.
That’s a talent of a different sort. And since I now have the means to give those talented female artists a leg up, why wouldn’t I?
” she said, turning her hands out to underscore the validity of her point.
“I can’t afford to lose money indefinitely, but thanks to the settlement, I won’t have to show a profit for a while.
We’ll see how it goes. But it seems like a pretty good way to spend a life, don’t you think? ”
Viv, who had been nodding while Charlotte was speaking, had a question.
“Do you know anything about running a gallery?”
“Oh, next to nothing!” Charlotte said, laughing and making her eyes go wide. “But why should that stop me? Just look at all
the skills I’ve picked up lately. With Margaret’s help, I have enough cooking skills to keep the kids from starving. Bitsy
showed me how to balance a checkbook. Viv helped me organize my files. I even learned to clean the house!”
Charlotte tilted her chin upward, striking a brief “ta-da” pose.
“Of course, I don’t actually intend to keep doing my own cleaning. With Howard and my psychiatrist both out of the picture,
I’ve decided that adjusting to my role is vastly overrated. I don’t care how much it costs,” she said. “I’m getting a housekeeper.
I’d have done it anyway, but between working and commuting and the kids, I really am going to need some help.”
“Send her over to my place when she’s done with yours,” Viv said.
“We’ve all learned a lot in the last few months,” Margaret said, then hesitated, frowning, as if reluctant to be the bearer
of bad news. “But running a business is a lot more complicated than making a meat loaf, don’t you think?”
“Believe me,” Charlotte said stoutly, “I’m under no illusions about how much I need to learn. Thankfully, I’ve got an adviser.
I’m taking the train to Philadelphia to talk with him at his gallery next week. Then he’ll come here to help me once the renovations
are done. I called him yesterday, after I got the keys. I think Nicky is almost as excited as I am.
“Before you even ask,” Charlotte said, reading the intrigue in Bitsy’s arched eyebrows, “Nicky is short for Nikolai. He’s
seventy years old, speaks better Russian than English, and has no more romantic interest in me than I do in him. We love art
but not each other.”
“Can’t blame a girl for being curious,” Bitsy said.
“I’m curious about something else,” Margaret said, glancing around at the cramped quarters and creaky staircase. “Why this
place? It’s got character and a good location, but you’re going to have to put so much money into the renovations. Couldn’t
you have bought another building that didn’t need quite so much work?”
Before Charlotte could explain, a key turned in the lock and the entry door opened. A white-bearded, stoop-shouldered man
in a brown tweed jacket stepped into the foyer. Charlotte’s eyes sparked with the same green fire they’d had on the day she
marched into Howard’s office and fanned the photos out on the conference table.
“Dr. Barry! I see you’re back from lunch.” Charlotte smiled, glancing at her diamond wristwatch. “Right on time, as always.
I was hoping we’d run into each other.”
The look on the doctor’s face suggested the feeling was not mutual. Charlotte turned toward the Bettys.
“Ladies, this is Dr. Ernest Barry. I believe you’ve heard me mention him.”
Three sets of eyes registered recognition, but no one spoke.
“Anyway,” Charlotte said, flapping her hand, “that’s how I came to buy the building. Last month I came to tell Dr. Barry I’d
found a new doctor, Dr. Louisa Bernstein—turns out there are women psychiatrists—and that his services were no longer required.
As I was leaving, it occurred to me that this building might make a wonderful gallery. I did some sleuthing, found the owner,
and made him an offer. And voilà!” Charlotte exclaimed, striking another pose. “Here we are!”
Dr. Barry let out a derisive-sounding snort. “I see that your new doctor doesn’t seem to be making any more progress with
you than I did. This infantile need for revenge against authority is yet further evidence of your neurosis.”
“Possibly,” Charlotte replied sweetly. “Then again, Dr. Barry, you’ve accused me of so many things—repression, depression, sublimation, regression, denial .
. . They can’t all be true, can they? And I do question your authority in this and so many areas.
” Charlotte took a step closer to the disgruntled doctor, fixing her eyes on his.
“One thing I do want you to know. No woman, including me, has ever been envious of the male organ.
“By the way, how is your search for a new premises going? Only twenty-nine days left. Tick, tick, tick,” she said, tapping the face of her watch. “Then our time really will be up.”
Charlotte stepped back again, her lips bowing into a slow smile.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m taking my friends out to lunch.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, the Bettys were sitting around a table at The Majestic café. Viv, who asked for a glass of water before
they were even seated, was too big to squeeze into a booth.
“This is getting ridiculous,” she grumbled when the waiter returned with water and menus. “Baby’s not due for five weeks,
but I can’t walk three blocks without getting winded.”
“You’ll love this place,” Charlotte informed them, opening her menu. “It’s one of the oldest restaurants in Alexandria. The
food is excellent, and so is the service.” She smiled at the waiter. “I’d like the chicken salad, please. And a glass of iced
tea. Ladies, what’s your pleasure? We’re celebrating, so this is my treat.”
Bitsy looked up with a hopeful expression.
“I don’t suppose the French onion soup is made with vegetable broth?” The waiter shook his head. “Then I’ll have the Caesar
salad. No anchovies, please.”
Margaret asked for a club sandwich with sliced tomatoes instead of fries. The waiter jotted down her order, then looked to
Viv, who was frowning deeply and studying the menu, apparently unable to make up her mind. After a minute, the waiter softly
cleared his throat.
“Viv?” Charlotte prompted. “Do you know what you’d like?”
“Yes. How about a ride to the hospital?” Viv closed her menu. “Sorry to break up the party, girls, but I’m in labor.”
* * *
Charlotte drove like a madwoman, weaving in and out of traffic and shouting, “Move it! Move it! Move it! Lady with a baby!”
at the other drivers. She got them to the hospital in record time. Margaret was clutching the door handle so tightly that
her knuckles were literally white, but the guttural noises coming from Viv’s mouth as they screeched around the final corner
made her grateful Charlotte had learned to drive on the mean streets of New York.
Bitsy bailed out even before the car came to a complete stop, then ran inside to commandeer a wheelchair. Charlotte jammed
on the brake and leapt from the car to help Margaret extricate an unwieldy Viv from the vehicle. Viv was groaning, wincing
so hard that her flushed red face resembled a shriveled apple.
“Don’t push!” Margaret shouted as they pulled Viv from the back seat. “Whatever you do, don’t push!”
Viv groaned again, indecipherably, but the look in her eyes told Margaret exactly what Viv thought of this unsolicited advice,
and that it had something to do with the horse she’d rode in on. Bitsy and a nurse with a wheelchair arrived on the scene.
A writhing Viv was piled into the chair. The nurse pointed to a nearby waiting room and whisked Viv away to the maternity
ward, breaking into a run when Viv shouted, “Hurry it up, will ya? This baby won’t wait!”
Viv’s little girl, whom she named Betty, was born twenty minutes later, even before Tony arrived from his Pentagon office.
She weighed just four and a half pounds and was placed in an incubator immediately after birth. The doctor declared her small
but healthy and said both she and Viv would be released from the hospital once Betty put on some weight.
As the three friends stood with their faces pressed against the window of the hospital nursery, gazing on Viv’s beautiful, tiny, absolutely perfect baby with a mixture of elation and awe, Margaret couldn’t stop smiling. Her sense that very good things were about to happen seemed spot-on.
In many ways, it was.