Page 38 of Jane Deyre

“Your timing is perfect, my dear,” she says. “I just finished bathing Pilote and blow drying his coat.” She lovingly gazes down at the feline. “My darling, be a good boy and wait for me here. I’m going to give Jane a little tour.”

She pushes herself off the bed. “Follow me, dear.” Silently, I trail her, eager to see more of her quarters. Of course, Pilote jumps off the bed, not wanting to be left behind. He accompanies us every step of the way. As if he wants to be my tour guide.

Our first stop: a chandelier-lit room with a mirrored vanity, dainty gold-leaf chair, and velvet settee. On top of the vanity there are crystal bowls overflowing with glittering jewels. And strewn on the surface are gold makeup cases and enameled brushes. It’s exactly how I’d imagine a big movie star’s dressing room to look. Straight out of a 1930s Preston Sturges movie. There’s also a single framed photo—a close-up of the blond woman I saw in the photo on the console downstairs. She’s mesmerizingly stunning. Her platinum hair falling in soft waves to her shoulders, her scarlet lips pouty and seductive, her azure eyes smoldering. She looks like a screen siren. I wonder who she is.

Edwina leads me away from the vanity to a door. She curls her fingers around the sparkling crystal knob and swings it open. I follow her into a walk-in closet twice the size of my bedroom.

I stand inside it in awe. My mouth agape. Taking in the rows of shimmering gowns that hang like jewels from padded hangers. Some enveloped in protective plastic. I spot the famous ruby-red gown—the one in the portrait—among them.

A melancholy expression washes over Edwina’s face as she takes stock of them and the jewel-toned shoes and bags swarming the built-in shelves. Perhaps a sad remembrance of things past. “I have no use for these gowns and accessories anymore. I’m donating a few to the Academy Museum of Motion Pictures and the rest will be auctioned off at my tribute. Raise money for my foundation.”

“Gone Baby, right?”

She cocks her head. “How did you know that, my dear?”

“Your godson mentioned it.”

She gives a small smile. “It’s a cause near and dear to me.”

Without elaborating, she leads me out of the closet to another room adjacent to her bedroom. The connecting door is partly open. I gasp at what I glimpse inside.

“Please, Jane, follow me.” She opens the door all the way and I do as she’s asked. Moving beside her, I stop and absorb the room.

Like the rest of the house, it’s frozen in time. Like out of a fairy tale. A sugarplum-pink and white vision. There’s a canopied crib, vintage rocker, and an armoire with hand-painted roses. My eyes gravitate to a matching bureau that’s filled with photos of a beautiful baby girl, many with a radiant younger Edwina.

Edwina rests her hand on my forearm as if she needs to steady herself. “This is Charlotte’s room.”

I make note of the use of present tense. As if Charlotte is sleeping in her crib or will be shortly.

I know a little bit of what happened. The story was as sensational and shocking as the Charles Lindbergh baby kidnapping decades before it. It rocked Hollywood. It rocked the world. I’m a bit speechless as she treads over to the bureau and lifts one of the framed photos. I join her. The photo is one with her holding her infant baby lovingly in her arms. The love in her younger self’s eyes so great I feel it too. And the ache in her older self’s eyes so great I feel her pain. A tear trickles out from the corner of one eye. What can be more painful than losing a child? Having one stolen from under you?

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

Her voice is watery. Still the use of present tense.

“Yes.”

Her glassy eyes stay fixed on the photo. “I can still remember the day this photo was taken. All that I was feeling. Charlotte’s tiny fingers reached out to me as though taking hold of my heart. As if it belonged to her. And it did.”

She goes on as if she knows I know what happened. “I have no one but myself to blame.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wasn’t home when she was taken. I should have been with her, but instead I went out for dinner with an um... er... colleague and my agent. Work came first when my child should have.”

The guilt and sorrow this woman is harboring must be unbearable. It’s hard to believe she’s confiding in me when I’ve known her for only twenty-four hours.

“Where was your husband?” I ask.

“Bertrand was in the guesthouse... working on his next book.”

“What about the nanny?” I assume she must have had one.

“Grace... she was conked out. In the rocker right next to her. She didn’t hear a thing. And her baby monitor wasn’t working.”

I wonder why not.

“And what about Ms. Fairfax?” Just saying her name leaves a bitter taste on my tongue.