window, and it felt as if the sidewalk had melted away beneath her feet. Her knees trembled and she put a hand against the glass to steady herself.
The doll was gone.
The beautiful little inlaid table was still set with the miniature porcelain tea service, just as it had been the day before. But the tiny chair was scooted back, as if the doll had gotten up and walked away of her own accord.
The shock and disappointment were so staggering that Claire could do nothing but stare at the empty chair, her chest rising and falling as she gulped the hot air deep into her lungs.
The doll was gone.
The first clue that had surfaced in over seven years was gone.
The last link she had to her missing daughter…was gone.
After the night’s rain, the morning sky was a clear, fragile blue, the exact shade of a bowl Claire had made for Charlotte one Christmas. She kept the bowl on a table in the window of her apartment so that when the sun shone through, the glass became incandescent and warm to the touch, a living, breathing entity that seemed to glow with an inner soul. It was like having a piece of Claire with her always, and thinking about her sister now caused guilt to well in Charlotte’s chest as she stared out the window at the hot July morning.
Through the maze of buildings, she could see the shimmering glide of the Mississippi River, and she imagined herself on a fancy houseboat, sipping mint juleps beneath a striped umbrella as the current carried her out to sea. Away from New Orleans. Away from her family. Far, far away from what she had done last night.
That she imagined herself on a houseboat instead of a yacht was a testament, Charlotte supposed, to the lingering power of a childhood fantasy. When she was little, her mother used to drive them out to her cousin’s place in Metairie, and the houseboats moored along the lake had fascinated Charlotte. Back then she could think of no greater adventure than to live on the water and to wake up each morning with a new destination. It wasn’t until years later that she realized the houseboats rarely left their moorings, and that the view, breathtaking through it might be, was as static as the alley she saw out her own bedroom window.
The grass is always greener, her mother used to warn her, and as often as not, Lucille had been right. But for some reason Charlotte could never bring herself to admit it. Nor did she ever feel the need to temper her fantasies, no matter how many disillusionments she encountered.
Hitching the sheet over her breasts, she shifted her position at the window. When she turned a certain way, the river disappeared and she could see Alex’s reflection in the glass. He had his back to the window as he stood in front of the bureau, knotting his tie. Charlotte glanced over her shoulder and their gazes met briefly in the mirror before she looked away.
Tiny shivers whispered along her bare skin, and even now, with guilt and shame niggling at her conscience, she couldn’t say that she was entirely sorry for what had happened. She’d been attracted to Alex Girard for as long as she could remember. He was nearly a decade older, but age had never mattered to Charlotte. She’d always had a thing for mature men. What did matter was that he was still technically married to her sister.
“You’ve been standing at that window for ten damn minutes,” he said. “What are you looking at?”
“You can see the river from here.”
“Just enough so that they call it a view and charge twice as much rent.” He came over to stand behind her, casually resting his hand on her bare shoulder as he propped his other arm against the window frame.
He’d just come from the shower, and Charlotte could smell the soap on his skin and the starch in his shirt. She wanted to turn and bury her head against that snowy crispness, tug loose his tie and slide her hand up under his shirttail. His stomach beneath was flat and hard from the hours he spent at the gym.
The doll was gone.
The beautiful little inlaid table was still set with the miniature porcelain tea service, just as it had been the day before. But the tiny chair was scooted back, as if the doll had gotten up and walked away of her own accord.
The shock and disappointment were so staggering that Claire could do nothing but stare at the empty chair, her chest rising and falling as she gulped the hot air deep into her lungs.
The doll was gone.
The first clue that had surfaced in over seven years was gone.
The last link she had to her missing daughter…was gone.
After the night’s rain, the morning sky was a clear, fragile blue, the exact shade of a bowl Claire had made for Charlotte one Christmas. She kept the bowl on a table in the window of her apartment so that when the sun shone through, the glass became incandescent and warm to the touch, a living, breathing entity that seemed to glow with an inner soul. It was like having a piece of Claire with her always, and thinking about her sister now caused guilt to well in Charlotte’s chest as she stared out the window at the hot July morning.
Through the maze of buildings, she could see the shimmering glide of the Mississippi River, and she imagined herself on a fancy houseboat, sipping mint juleps beneath a striped umbrella as the current carried her out to sea. Away from New Orleans. Away from her family. Far, far away from what she had done last night.
That she imagined herself on a houseboat instead of a yacht was a testament, Charlotte supposed, to the lingering power of a childhood fantasy. When she was little, her mother used to drive them out to her cousin’s place in Metairie, and the houseboats moored along the lake had fascinated Charlotte. Back then she could think of no greater adventure than to live on the water and to wake up each morning with a new destination. It wasn’t until years later that she realized the houseboats rarely left their moorings, and that the view, breathtaking through it might be, was as static as the alley she saw out her own bedroom window.
The grass is always greener, her mother used to warn her, and as often as not, Lucille had been right. But for some reason Charlotte could never bring herself to admit it. Nor did she ever feel the need to temper her fantasies, no matter how many disillusionments she encountered.
Hitching the sheet over her breasts, she shifted her position at the window. When she turned a certain way, the river disappeared and she could see Alex’s reflection in the glass. He had his back to the window as he stood in front of the bureau, knotting his tie. Charlotte glanced over her shoulder and their gazes met briefly in the mirror before she looked away.
Tiny shivers whispered along her bare skin, and even now, with guilt and shame niggling at her conscience, she couldn’t say that she was entirely sorry for what had happened. She’d been attracted to Alex Girard for as long as she could remember. He was nearly a decade older, but age had never mattered to Charlotte. She’d always had a thing for mature men. What did matter was that he was still technically married to her sister.
“You’ve been standing at that window for ten damn minutes,” he said. “What are you looking at?”
“You can see the river from here.”
“Just enough so that they call it a view and charge twice as much rent.” He came over to stand behind her, casually resting his hand on her bare shoulder as he propped his other arm against the window frame.
He’d just come from the shower, and Charlotte could smell the soap on his skin and the starch in his shirt. She wanted to turn and bury her head against that snowy crispness, tug loose his tie and slide her hand up under his shirttail. His stomach beneath was flat and hard from the hours he spent at the gym.
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