It’s a change of address form from the United States Postal Service. Josh has filled in the blanks. Under “new address,” it now shows:
Charlotte Ann McNally
6 Bexter Drive
Brookline, MA
Josh is looking at me. Expectantly.
Dear Miss Manners. My boyfriend, who I crave and adore, has just asked me to marry him. Or maybe not. I’m a 47-year-old reporter and he’s a 49-year-old English professor, so you’d think we’d be able to communicate with some clarity, and that’s often true. But this time, I’m not sure I understand exactly what he’s talking about. Should I just say yes, and then clarify what it is I’m agreeing to? Marriage? Or living-as my newlywed mother would pronounce it-in sin? Or do I risk ruining the potentially most romantic moment of my life by asking for clarification first?
And, Miss Manners, how do I know if it’s the real thing?
“Charlie Mac! Duck!” Some unseen projectile swoops across the room, snags through my hair, then crashes into the pencil jar. Penny’s not far behind, waving her arms, running, her flip-flops slapping on the linoleum. “Did you see that? Daddy? Daddy? Did you see that? I can fly my plane! It flew, just like real!”
The balsa wood plane I brought Penny has come to a landing, precariously tilt-winged, on the kitchen’s Formica runway. Penny grabs it, pretending to fly it into her father. Apparently her daddy-time alarm signaled we’ve been alone too long.
Josh glances at me, then defends himself from Penny’s invading air force. My future is at stake. And a little girl flies an airplane into the room. I hate flying.
“Watch it, kiddo,” Josh says. “No airplanes in the house. That goes outside. Now.”
Penny puts one foot on her bare knee, standing stork-like, apparently considering her options. “You come out with me, daddo. Charlie Mac can… Can…Well how about if I fly it inside but I don’t let go? That’s perfectly okay, right?”
Nothing like an nine-year-old attempting to chaperone two adults. Penny’s in full swing now, holding the plane in one hand and piloting it through the room.
Josh comes around beside me, takes my hand and keeps hold as he wraps his arm around me. “I don’t want to push you, Charlie. But I’m not going to let go of this topic, either.”
I look up at him, as confused as I’ve ever been. I always know what to say. That’s my job. Now I’m as inarticulate as a newbie on a job interview. Do it, McNally. All you have to say is: are you asking me to marry you?
With a hoot and a roar of jet engine noise, Penny flies out the back door. The screen door slams, and we’re alone. And then my cell phone rings. And then my beeper goes off.
“Your master’s voice,” Josh says. “I know you must obey.” With a grin, he lifts me by the waist and perches me on the kitchen island, holding me there. He looks into my eyes. Challenging.
“Penny’s headed back to Victoria’s this afternoon. Do you, Charlotte Ann McNally, promise to come back here-tonight? Do you promise to think about me? Do you promise to consider what I’ve said?”
I’ll figure this out somehow.
“I do,” I reply.
Chapter Three
“Welcome back to bad news, Charlotte. So you got my beep? The Prada P.I. postponed our meeting. So now we have to wait to hear from her.” Franklin’s at his desk, holding two brown-and-tan logo-covered purses, one in each hand. He holds them out to me. “So meantime, here’s a quiz for you. Which one is the real thing and which is the copy?”
At first glance, it looks like both purses are Delleton-Marachelle hobo totes. If they’re real, they’re worth at least four thousand dollars each. I’m embarrassed to admit to myself that I’d love to have one. I’m working on dampening my lust to own a designer bag displaying those intertwined D-M initials. It’s actually Mom’s fault. She educated my little sister, Nora, and me using Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar like textbooks for a course in acquisition. What to Want: 101. I know it’s unworthy. But I’m guilty. I want it.
“You know how I feel about pop quizzes,” I say, throwing my tote bag onto the extra chair in our office. I glare at my desk. “And you know how I feel about mail piled on my desk.” I gather up the pile of letters, press releases and junk our current intern has unceremoniously delivered and deposit it on the floor. Swiveling into my chair, I put down my coffee and hold out my hand. “Let’s see those bags again. What’s the scoop? Is one a fake? Who do they belong to? Did you get them from the Prada P.I.? Today? I can’t believe she canceled the meeting.”
“Me, either. And no note about why she cancelled. Annoying. Someone in her office left a message on my voice mail, just saying ‘Katie Harkins will have to reschedule.’ I e-mailed her to set us up again, but I haven’t heard back. I also talked to the special agent in charge of the FBI’s counterfeit squad. Marren Lattimer? You know of him, right? He’s new?”
I nod. My FBI pals told me he’d just been transferred to the Boston office from down south someplace. The new special agent in charge. “SAC” they call it. Like “sack.” “So the new SAC’s interested? He’ll help us?” I ask.
“Yup. I explained what we’re looking for,” Franklin continues. “Lattimer says the bureau has started a whole operation targeting fakes-they’ve even named it. Operation Knockoff. Says he ‘blew the lid off’ a phony purse ring in Atlanta, so the ‘brass’ sent him here. We’ve got an appointment at headquarters tomorrow.”
Franklin picks up the bags again, offering them to me. “Anyway. Speaking of knockoffs. Which is real? Can you tell? And if so, how? Oh.”
He stops, looking toward our office doorway, and puts the bags back down. “Hello, Susannah.”
I can’t believe I didn’t smell the warning fragrance. A waft of her trademark Poison usually heralds the arrival of Susannah Smith-Bagley, the “news doctor” consultant Channel 3 management hired to “young up” the news. She actually says “young up.” I think she’s more about “the buzz” than “the news,” all platinum hair and collagened face, a package of pretense straight from the coast. Even her shoes. The platforms of her patent leather pumps rival that girl in the airport. Regine. The belt artfully twisted over Susannah’s bouclé jacket alternates chunky pearls and gold links. She might as well be wearing a T-shirt that says “I heart Chanel.” No one I know of hearts Susannah.
“Thanks for the teamwork in Baltimore, Charlie. Too bad there wasn’t a plane crash,” she says, eyeing me. A pause. A curl of her plump lip. “You haven’t been home yet, I see.”
Franklin risks giving me a surreptitious eye-roll as Susannah attempts to raise one waxed brow at my tote that’s occupying our extra chair. I grab the bag and stash it under my desk, balancing it atop my collection of backup shoes.
She descends into the throne, one silky leg swishing over the other. Queen bee and the drones.
“Anyway, you two. Just checking on your ‘It’s in the Bag’ story for November,” she says. “Do you love it?” She looks at us, back and forth, as if she’s expecting we’ll applaud yet another cliché of a title ripped from the news-consultant handbook. We don’t.
I smile noncommittally. Change direction. “Well, we were just looking at some purses, matter of fact. From the Prada P.I.? She’s the private investigator who scouts for the fakes. Franklin found her mentioned in some newspaper article and tracked her down. She’s been giving us the scoop via e-mail on the secret signs manufacturers use to designate the genuine article. And she’s arranging for us to visit the actual Delleton-Marachelle design studio in Georgia.”
“Well, in fact, I found her through a reporter pal who had used her as a source in Atlanta. Gave me her e-mail. And she didn’t-” Franklin begins.