Prologue
When I first set eyes on Pamela Thompson, I thought she was a movie star. I was twelve, and I had shoulder-length hair the color of wheat. Most of the time, I kept it tied with the faded pink ribbon my mother had tied around it just before she dropped me off at the children's protection service and disappeared from my life. I wasn't quite two years old at the time, so I can't really remember her, but I often think of myself then as a top, spinning and spinning until I finally stopped and found myself lost in the child welfare system that had passed me from institution to institution until I wound up one morning staring wideeyed at this tall, glamorous woman with dazzling blue eyes and hair woven out of gold.
Her husband, Peter, tall and as distinguished as a president, stood beside her with his arms folded under his camelhair overcoat and smiled down at me. It was the middle of April, and we were in a suburban New York community, Monroe, but Peter was as tanned as someone in California or Florida. They were the most attractive couple I had ever met. Even the social worker, Mrs. Talbot, who didn't seem to think much of anyone, looked impressed.
What did two such glamorous-looking people want with me? I wondered.
"She has perfect posture, Peter. Look how she stands with her shoulders back," Pamela said.
"Perfect," he agreed, smiling and nodding as he gazed at me. His soft green eyes had a friendly twinkle in them. His hair was rust colored and was as shiny and healthy as his wife's.
Pamela squatted down beside me so her face was next to mine "Look at us side by side, Peter."
"I see it," he said, laughing. "Amazing"
"We have the same shaped nose and mouth, don't we?"
"Identical," he agreed. I thought he must have poor eyesight. I didn't look at all like her.
"What about her eyes?"
"Well," he said, "they're blue, but yours are a little bit more aqua."
"That's what it always says in my write-ups," Pamela told Mrs. Talbot. "Aqua eyes. Still," she said to Peter, "they're close."
"Close," he admitted.
She took my hand in hers and studied my fingers. "You can tell a great deal about someone's potential beauty by looking at her fingers. That's what Miss America told me last year, and I agree. These are beautiful fingers, Peter. The knuckles don't stick up. Brooke, you've been biting your nails, haven't you?" she asked me, and pursed her lips to indicate a no-no.
I looked at Mrs. Talbot. "I don't bite my nails," I said.
"Well, whoever cuts them doesn't do a very good job."
"She cuts her own nails, Mrs. Thompson. The girls don't have any sort of beauty care here," Mrs. Talbot said sternly.
Pamela smiled at her as though Mrs. Talbot didn't know what she was talking about, and then she sprang back to her full height. "We'll take her," she declared. "Won't we, Peter?"
"Absolutely," he said.
I felt as if I had been bought. I looked at Mrs. Talbot. She wore a very disapproving frown. "Someone will be out to interview you in a week or so, Mrs. Thompson," she said. "If you'll step back into my office and complete the paperwork . . ."
"A week or so! Peter?" she whined.
"Mrs. Talbot," Peter said, stepping up to her. "May I use your telephone, please?"
She stared at him.