Most Likely to Succeed
Pam Latimer dressed carefully and took great pains in applying her makeup. She wanted to look her best that night. However, dressed in a conservative navy-blue suit purchased from JCPenney at their end-of-season clearance sale, she felt matronly and unattractive.
"I should have bought a new outfit to wear tonight," she moaned with uncharacteristic self-pity. "Something young and stylish. At the very least, I could have had my nails done."
"I don't know why you're overly concerned with your appearance tonight," her husband, Freddie, commented. "It's not like you. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were expecting to see an old boyfriend at this class reunion."
"I want to look good because Christina Curtis is going to be there. She's my favorite author and the only one of the class of '79 to achieve real success in life."
"Is that so surprising? She was always popular in school, and if I remember, she was homecoming queen or prom queen or something like that."
"She was both. Plus, she was head cheerleader and voted most popular and most likely to succeed."
Freddie raised his eyebrows. He had no idea his wife was such an authority on Christina Curtis. Frankly, he doubted that when they were students at West Franklin High School Christina had ever bothered to befriend Pam, and he was fairly certain that the bestselling author would not remember the shy, quiet girl who now idolized her. Freddie hoped his wife would not take it too hard if the ever-popular Ms. Curtis failed to notice her at the class reunion.
After applying a final swipe of mascara, Pam turned her attention to her hair. She ran her comb through the wayward mousy brown, shoulder-length locks, wishing she had bought a bottle of Lady Clairol and touched up the strands of gray. As she checked her reflection in the bathroom vanity mirror, Pam was disheartened by what she saw.
Christina had been so beautiful in school; Pam had always secretly envied her good looks, her popularity and her outgoing personality. Her former classmate had also excelled in her studies and at all extracurricular activities from singing in the school chorus to being editor of the class newspaper. Pam, on the other hand, had been a plain, bookish girl who never went to college or sought a career beyond a low-paying secretarial job. Instead, she married her high school sweetheart, the only boy who had ever asked her out.
If pressed for the truth, Pam would have to admit that she had been happily married for the past twenty-three years. Freddie Latimer was a decent man, a faithful, loving husband and a wonderful father. Still, whenever Pam read any of Christina's bestselling romances, she always felt something was missing from her life. Where was the excitement in living in West Franklin? Where was the adventure in a nine-to-five office job at an insurance agency with only an occasional vacation to Cape Cod or the Berkshires to break up the day-to-day monotony? More importantly, where was the grand passion in her marriage to Freddie, a mild-mannered accountant?
Unlike Pam, Christina was one of the rich and famous. A wealthy woman in her own right, she owned both a beach house in Malibu and a penthouse in New York. She had been married four times: first to a wealthy publishing executive, next to an even wealthier investment banker, then to a handsome actor who was an international playboy and most recently to an Academy Award-winning screenwriter. All four of these marriages lasted fewer than five years before ending in divorce, and none of them produced any children.
"Aren't you ready yet?" Freddie called upstairs to his wife. "The cocktail hour started ten minutes ago. If we hurry, we might get there before they begin serving the salad."
Pam smiled. It was just like Freddie to be worried about being late for dinner. Her husband was so predictable! He woke every morning at 6:30, reported to work promptly at 8:00 and returned home every evening at 5:15, expecting his dinner to be on the table. His life—and consequently hers—were bound by routine.
"Pam? Come on, I'm hungry."
"I'll be right there."
Pam turned off the bathroom light, grabbed her handbag off the bed and headed down the stairs.
* * *
Inside the Oceanview Country Club, where the high school class reunion was held, enlarged yearbook photographs from the class of 1979 had been tacked on the walls. From several different directions, Christina's stunning face smiled at Pam from the past: sitting atop the royal float in the homecoming parade, starring as Marian Paroo in the junior class production of The Music Man, being crowned queen at the senior prom and delivering her valedictorian speech at graduation.
Freddie got two glasses of wine from the open bar and handed one to his wife who was walking toward their assigned table. He was dismayed to see that there were name cards at the place settings.
"Great!" he muttered. "There are assigned seats. I'll probably get stuck sitting next to some jerk I couldn't stand twenty-five years ago, only to discover he's an even bigger jerk now."
"Here's our table," Pam said with a mischievous grin.
"You look like the cat that swallowed the canary. What's up?"
"While you were getting our drinks, I did a little rearranging."
"Let me guess. You switched the name cards so that you could sit next to Christina Curtis."
"What's wrong with that? This is the first reunion she's agreed to attend. I want to be sure ...."
Pam stopped speaking midsentence when she saw several former classmates heading toward the table, followed by a waitress carrying a large tray of salad plates.
* * *
At first, Freddie was bored with the whole affair. So far, the other people at the table (along with their spouses) included Bob Carlson, the former high school star quarterback—stereotypically, all brawn and no brains—who now managed the Payless Shoe Source in the Powder Horn Mall; and Susie Van Dyke, daughter of the former superintendent of schools and one-time mayor of West Franklin. As the sole progeny of such an esteemed parent, Susie had always considered herself above her fellow students, somewhere on the level of Princess Diana, no doubt. With such disappointing dinner companions to converse with, Freddie decided to remain silent and concentrate on his bowl of French onion soup.
Eagerly awaiting Christina's arrival, Pam was too busy craning her neck toward the ballroom entrance to pay attention to the others at the table. After she finished her salad, she began to get nervous. What if Christina didn't show up? For years she had declined the invitations to the annual class reunions. What if she decided at the last minute to skip the twenty-fifth reunion as well?
No, Pam thought optimistically. She's probably just late.
Her former classmate was, after all, a celebrity. Didn't such people deliberately arrive fashionably late so that all eyes would be on them when they finally walked into the room? That was how it worked in Christina's books, anyway.
As the deejay played another Seventies hit from his limited music collection, the busboys cleared away the remains of the soup and salad course and the waitresses began bringing out the entrees. Freddie was delighted when former class clown Dustin ("Dusty") Bateman and his wife took the two empty seats to his right. Dusty, who now lived in Salem where his wife owned a gift shop, was always a welcome addition to the annual class reunion or to any other social gathering.
As Dusty entertained her husband with comical tales of life in "Witch City," Pam kept an eye on the ballroom entrance. It was not until the first dinner plates were being taken away by the busboys and waitresses were asking the diners for their dessert preferences that the gorgeous, richly bedecked Christina Curtis walked through the door—alone. Surprisingly, there was no applause, no gasping breaths from her former classmates. On the contrary, no one except Pam seemed to notice Christina was there. Everyone else was too busy finishing dinner, showing photographs of children—and, in some cases, grandchildren—getting drunk or making passes at old high school sweethearts.
Christina's eyes scanned the room, looking for an empty seat. Pam raised her hand and waved. The author smiled at her and headed toward the table.
"Is this seat taken?" she asked.
Years of living in California and New York had eradicated all signs of the former Yankee's New England accent.
"No. These seats have been reserved for you and your guest. See?" Pam replied, holding up the two name cards.
The others at the table were too immersed in their own conversations to properly acknowledge the latecomer, but Pam behaved like a one-woman welcome wagon.
"I'm so glad that you came here tonight," she gushed. "I wanted to tell you how much I love your books."
"Thank you."
"I always read about you in the papers and the magazines. In fact, several years ago I even started a scrapbook of all your clippings."
"I'm flattered."
Christina smiled, but Pam saw that there was a great deal of sadness in her eyes.
"Are you feeling all right?" she asked with concern.
Tears welled in Christina's lovely violet eyes and she replied, "Would you come to the ladies' room with me?"
The ladies' lounge—an elegantly decorated antechamber to the actual lavatory—was empty. Christina sat down on an overstuffed chaise lounge and took a lace handkerchief from out of her beaded evening bag to dry her tears.
"I'm sorry," the author sniffed. "I've been so miserable all week. I dreaded coming here tonight. I didn't want everyone to see how badly my life turned out."
"Badly? Why, you must be the envy of every woman in that room! I know I'd trade places with you in a heartbeat."
Christina let out a bitter laugh.
"Why would they envy me? An aging woman trying desperately to retain some semblance of her youthful good looks? A failure at four marriages? I have no one—not a husband, a child or even a close friend that I can talk to. If the truth be known, it's I who envy you. You've been married to one man for over twenty years, and you have three wonderful children."
Pam was both pleasantly surprised and flattered that Christina knew so much about her, especially in light of the fact that they had not been close while in school.
"I've never been west of Ohio or south of New Jersey, while you've traveled the world: London, Paris, Rome, Tokyo .... If you get tired of living in New York, you can fly to your home in California."
"My so-called homes are nothing more than buildings. There is no one there to ease my loneliness. I travel around the world to escape my empty life, to fill it with outlandish parties, vain pursuits and meaningless affairs."
"If nothing else," Pam declared, "you have your career. You're one of the bestselling authors in the world. Your success must give you some happiness in life, some sense of accomplishment."
"I admit that at one time it did. When I wrote my first book, I was overjoyed to see it published. I was even happier when it sold its first million copies and I was offered a fortune for the movie rights. But by the time my second book was published, the novelty of being an author had already begun to wear off. All those book signings, personal appearances and television talk show guest spots quickly began to bore me."
Pam was stunned by Christina's revelations.
"I would never have guessed that you were so unhappy. Your books are full of love, passion, romance and excitement."
"I'll let you in on a little secret. People who have a happy life live it. Those who don't often escape reality and live vicariously through fiction. If I had real romance in my life, I wouldn't have to fabricate it in the pages of my books. It's funny, but my success as a writer seems to have grown in direct proportion to the failures of my personal life."
Pam had no idea what to say or what comfort she could offer, so she wisely remained silent.
"I get so unhappy sometimes that I wish I could just end it all."
The color drained from Pam's face.
"You don't mean ...."
"No, no, of course, not!"
Christina tried to smile but only managed to produce an even sadder look on her face.
"I admit I did try to kill myself—three times actually. But I was never successful. I screwed up my suicide attempts just like I screwed up my life for the past twenty-five years."
"I wish I knew what to say, how to help you."
Christina patted the other woman's hand.
"You're a kind, caring person, Pam. I wish we'd been closer in high school. I could have used a good friend like you." Then Christina looked at her watch and exclaimed, "My goodness! It's 10:15 already. I'll bet your husband is wondering what has become of you."
"I'm sure Freddie's too busy laughing at Dusty Bateman's corny jokes to miss me."
"Why don't you go back to the table and rescue him? I want to freshen up."
"Are you sure? I don't mind waiting for you."
"You go back to your husband," Christina insisted. "I'll be out in a few minutes."
* * *
When Pam returned to the table, Dusty Bateman was still joking about life in Salem. Freddie, however, seemed to be losing interest.
"Sorry I've been gone so long," Pam whispered as she sat down next to her husband.
"Where were you?" he asked. "I was beginning to think you left without me."
"I was in the ladies' lounge having a heart-to-heart chat with Christina Curtis."
"So, she showed up, did she?" her husband asked, trying to stifle a yawn.
"Of course, she did. She was sitting right here at our table, for a few minutes at least."
"Oh, really? Where was I?"
"Laughing at Dusty's jokes."
"Oh, yeah. Well, isn't it about time we said our goodbyes and went home?"
"In a minute. I want to say goodnight to Christina when she comes back from the ladies' room."
They waited an hour, but there was no sign of Christina Curtis.
"She must have left already," Freddie suggested, noticing that the dining room was nearly empty.
"I'm sure she wouldn't have gone without a word to anyone," Pam protested.
"How do you know what she would or wouldn't do? This is the first time you've seen her in twenty-five years. Even in school, you didn't know her that well. Come on, honey, I'm exhausted. I want to get home and go to bed."
"All right, but let me check the ladies' room on the way out. She sounded so depressed. I want to make sure she's okay."
Christina was not in the lavatory or the ladies' lounge.
"You're right. She must have gone," Pam announced when she rejoined her husband in the lobby where the few remaining guests were saying goodnight to their former classmates and their spouses.
* * *
The following morning, a Sunday, Freddie slept until 9:00—a luxury he rarely enjoyed. He woke up fully rested, turned on the coffeepot and went outside to get the newspaper. It was not until he poured milk into his second cup—after he had already read the world news and sports—that Freddie saw an article in the local section: BESTSELLING AUTHOR AND WFHS GRAD FOUND DEAD. He read the article in its entirety not once but twice, while the cup of coffee in his hand grew cold.
At 9:45 Pam finally came downstairs.
"Sorry I overslept," she apologized. "I woke up earlier with a headache, so I took some Advil and went back to bed. Want me to make you some pancakes for breakfast?"
Silence.
"Freddie? Are you awake yet? Did you hear me? I asked if you wanted me to make you pancakes for breakfast."
"Sit down, honey," he replied solicitously. "I'll get you a cup of coffee."
"What? It isn't Mother's Day or my birthday, so what's the occasion?"
Her husband silently pushed the newspaper across the table.
"Oh, no," she said when she saw the headline. "I knew I shouldn't have left without seeing her last night. I knew she was depressed."
"Read the article."
After a few minutes of silence, Pam cried, "This isn't possible. There must be some mistake. It says here she died at her beach house in California, but she was with us last night."
"She wasn't with us last night, Pam. No one else at the table saw her."
"I didn't imagine her if that's what you're implying!"
"Not exactly. The article says she was unconscious when the paramedics found her and that she later died in the hospital shortly after 7:15—that's California time. It would have been shortly after 10:15 here in Massachusetts."
"That's what time I left her in the ladies' lounge. I remember because Christina looked at her watch and remarked that it was 10:15 already. You don't think I was talking to a ... a ghost?"
"Technically, she was still alive during the time you two were having your heart-to-heart conversation, so I don't think what you saw qualified as being a ghost."
Pam and Freddie sipped their cups of coffee, mulling over possible explanations; neither could come up with a logical one.
"It's a shame," Freddie finally said, giving up all hope of solving the mystery.
"What is?"
"She was such a talented and beautiful person, and she died of an accidental drug overdose. What a waste!"
"It wasn't an accident," his wife contended.
"That's what it says in the paper."
"She told me last night that she was desperately unhappy and wanted to end it all, that she had made three suicide attempts already but that she'd screwed them up. It's ironic, don't you think, that twenty-five years ago she was dubbed the most likely to succeed, and last night she finally succeeded in ending her life."
Freddie reached across the table and took his wife's hand. Pam smiled at him, realizing that success could not always be measured in dollars and cents and didn't always equal fame and fortune. True success, she thought, might be nothing more than the ability to withstand life's bitter disappointments and endure its harsh realities.
Feeling happier than she had in years, Pam got up from her chair and made pancakes for her husband and children.
Salem was voted "Most Likely to Succeed" at obedience school. (Go figure!)
