The Charmers by Elizabeth Adler Page A

the aisles tripping over their enormous shoes and making the children laugh. Was I, I wondered, clutching Maman’s hand, about to become one of those dancing girls? Would I get to wear a sparkly tunic like theirs? Would I wear ostrich plumes in my hair that nodded with every step I took? Could I even dance?
    It turned out it didn’t matter if I could dance or sing. All I had to do was stand there, in the glare of the stage lights, in tights and silver shoes with high heels and a sequined tunic, my immature breasts covered with a fold of tulle, and smile at the unseen audience, who loved me.

 
    18
    Mirabella
    I put down Jerusha’s letter, more of a diary I thought, suddenly ashamed of intruding on another woman’s personal life, on her thoughts and emotions. Diaries were not meant for other eyes: they were the writer’s inner thoughts, wishes, memories, expressions of their fears and pleasures. I had no right to know Jerusha’s.
    I stuffed the thin pages back in the blue envelope. It was too small and I was afraid of crumpling them. Jerusha had written so carefully, she had put them in this envelope herself, never knowing who might read them. Yet, surely she had realized that one day, maybe long after she was gone, somebody would. Why else would she have told her story, especially after all the notoriety, when she had been accused of murdering her lover? Yet I could not bring myself to intrude on her thoughts now.
    Restless, I went outside into the garden, pacing the path that led to the pebbly little beach. To my right was the dual driveway that serviced both villas, mine and my neighbor’s, the oh so uncharming Dr. Chad Prescott, whose pink shorts I recalled too vividly for a woman who supposedly hated him. Well, disliked him, anyway, though he was undoubtedly good-looking and he had played a part in saving my life. At least in helping to fix me up after the accident, plus rushing to my aid and saving me from the villain with the gun, who later, even the Colonel had not been able to find, let alone identify. Had I even so much as thanked Chad for that? I could not remember, and taking the path that led to his villa, I decided to do so now.
    Despite the early hour, I found him outside his triple-size garage hosing down a British racing green Jaguar convertible—which means it seats two in front and with a squeeze, two in the tiny space in back, a myth I’ve never gone for. However, the thought was irrelevant since I did not believe this man would ever put any passengers in the back, maybe not even in front. It was obvious from his intent expression and the way he stroked his hand lovingly over the surface that this car was his toy and he was not a boy that shared.
    â€œHow about taking me for a ride?” I said, putting him on the spot and startling him at the same time. He had not heard me approach, he was so intent on what he was doing. I liked that: a man who can concentrate that hard would be good at whatever he did. I’d heard he was a brilliant surgeon but I’d bet he would have been a great car mechanic in another life.
    I watched as with an effort he brought himself back to the moment from wherever he had been lost. He took me in, feet planted firmly on his side of the drive, cute denim shorts a bit shorter than they should have been, long legs brown from the beach and early morning swims and late-afternoon cocktails on terraces, red hair floating out in an uncontainable cloud that perhaps I should have tied back with a bit of string, like Jerusha. And a white tee that, against my better judgement, I had bought secondhand—what they now call “vintage” in the local market—the one with the Rolling Stones’ tongue and lip logo.
    Bad move, I thought now, seeing him eyeing it with a condescending frown. I folded my arms over my breasts. I’d also forgotten to put on a bra—well, not forgotten, I’d chosen not to because I hadn’t