Page 19 of The Stolen Queen

The man was almost too handsome, with a prominent nose, high cheekbones, and hair that was just beginning to gray. He started laughing, a genuine, hearty laugh that made everyone turn around and smile. At which point Helen returned from the bar with a couple glasses of wine and promptly introduced Charlotte to Mark Schrader, the evening’s playwright.

When the play won an Obie the next week, Mark reached out—he’d gotten her number from Helen—and insisted Charlotte owed him a drink. He was charming and not pushy, and soon enough they were meeting regularly for meals, and then it just seemed natural that she sleep over at his place. He was ten years younger than Charlotte, which at first she thought was risqué before realizing that it really didn’t matter, not at their age, anyway.

Mark had introduced her to the downtown theater scene, which featured fresh voices like Sam Shepard and avant-garde theater companies like Mabou Mines and the Wooster Group. Although there were times Charlotte was flummoxed by whatever was happening onstage, she’d learned to appreciate the effort. Her work was grounded in the past, and it was refreshing to get a sense of the future, of forward movement. Maybe that was why she and Mark were such a good fit. They came at life from very different starting points, which kept their interactions fresh and fulfilling. Even after a dozen years, they could still talk for hours about books or plays, politics or art. He never ceased to surprise her, or make her laugh.

“Okay, you may enter,” Mark finally said.

She pushed open the door to find him standing at the oven wearing an apron. A vase of fresh flowers sat on the kitchen table, which was already laid out with his mother’s fine china.

“Wow, you’re ambitious tonight,” she said. Mark was a great cook, but he usually went all out on Sundays, when his fellow professors at Columbia’s theater department dropped by, along with a handful of students. “Do I smell curry?”

“You do. I wanted to make your favorite dish.”

It was almost as if he’d known she’d had a tough day. But then again, there had been several times when she was struggling when he’d called her out of the blue, offering a sympathetic ear. They were in tune with each other, in that way.

“Really? To what do I owe this honor?” she asked.

“I figured we deserved a quiet night at home together.”

The way he answered made her suspicious. Then again, they’d had a difficult month, as his daughter, Lori, had unexpectedly shown up at their apartment from California and announced she was quitting college and would be acting instead. She was out tonight, with friends, and it was a relief to have the place to themselves. Mark wasprobably trying to make up for the imposition. “Did the photos arrive?” he asked.

“Yes, they did.”

“And what did Frederick say?”

She didn’t want to talk about Frederick’s reaction to her finding, or the shock of seeing the broad collar earlier that morning. Mark knew very little of her time in Egypt; Charlotte had learned the hard way that that particular time in her life was better left unspoken. “He said he’d think about it.”

Mark put the lid back on the pot of rice and came over to her. He was a good five inches taller than her and still lanky. She wrapped her hands around his waist as they kissed. “I’m sorry he’s not as enthusiastic as you would’ve liked,” he said.

“I imagine part of him doesn’t want me to go public with the information, as it negates his own work.”

“Sounds like Frederick. I hope he comes to his senses soon.”

“Me too.”

Charlotte went into their bedroom to change into jeans. The building was slightly run-down and filled with old-timers, but it’d been built during the 1920s and the ceilings were high, the windows large. Lori hadn’t spent much time here growing up. During school months, she was in Los Angeles, and come June, Mark rented a bungalow in Laurel Canyon and happily assumed the role of full-time dad for the summer. After Charlotte came into the picture, she would join them for a week or two before heading back to New York, mock-complaining about how unfair it was the two of them had summers off, while secretly delighted to be returning to her desk at the Met. It wasn’t that she felt left out, more that she didn’t want to interfere with their established dynamic as father and child.

And now Lori lived with them, full-time. It hadn’t been an easy adjustment.

Charlotte removed her earrings and placed them in the small saucer that sat on their bureau, next to several photos in silver frames. A few were of her and Mark, with several others of Lori as a young girl. One showed Lori as an infant, her head softly traced with hair. Charlotte adjusted it slightly, so it faced toward the door.

In the kitchen, she began dressing the salad, lost in thought.

“Charlotte, did you hear me?”

Mark was looking at her strangely. God, maybe the kids at work were right; maybe there was something off about her.

“Sorry, what were you saying?”

“I was saying that this was a special night, for a lot of reasons.”

She was about to ask what they were but was stopped by the sound of the front door opening.

“Dad? Where are you?”

“Back here, in the kitchen.” Mark threw Charlotte an apologetic look. She poured more wine into her glass in response.

Lori appeared in the doorway. Her long straight hair fell into her face, and her jeans were torn and ragged at the cuffs.