Chapter 1: Charlotte CHAPTER 1 Charlotte CHARLOTTE HUGHES HAD BEEN BORN in a dying town, to parents who didn''t survive to see her second birthday. They''d perished in a car accident after their minivan had hit a patch of black ice and skidded off the road. Charlotte''s father had been pronounced dead on the scene. Her mother had died in the hospital later that night. Baby Charlotte, strapped into her car seat, had survived without a scratch, and had been sent to live with her father''s mother, her only surviving relative, who, clearly, had no interest in raising another child. Grandma managed Upland''s only bed-and-breakfast, and it was an exhausting, thankless job--but one Grandma always said she was lucky to have, given how many in town couldn''t find any work at all. In the winter, when the skiers who weren''t able to locate lodging closer to the mountain resorts booked rooms, Grandma worked from sunrise to late at night, doing laundry, cleaning, and cooking, and as soon as Charlotte was tall enough to push a broom or carry a load of dirty towels to the basement, she had to help her. There were floors to be swept and mopped, beds to be stripped and made, trash cans to be emptied, carpets to be vacuumed, and toilets to be scrubbed.
Even when they didn''t have guests, there was always cleaning. The big, old house seemed to generate its own dust and grow its own cobwebs. Little Charlotte would wake up at five in the morning to iron napkins and to bake scones and clear snow off the porch. She made beds and cleaned bathrooms. She learned to be invisible, to slip in and out of the rooms when the guests were gone, so quickly that they hardly noticed she was there. Her hands would chap and her skin would crack and she''d yawn her way through her school days. And, all around her, Upland was dying. When Grandma Hughes was a girl, Upland had been a thriving town, with a ski resort and two different fabric mills that stained the river with whatever dyes they were using that week: indigo, crimson, goldenrod yellow, or pine-tree green.
Then one of the mills had caught fire, and the other mill had closed, and the Great Depression and the two World Wars had come. Young men had gone off to fight and hadn''t returned; families packed up and moved to more prosperous communities. In 1965, the interstate highway, which went nowhere near Upland, was completed. Skiers used it to travel to the mountains that were close to the highway, and Upland was not. Two years after the interstate opened, Mount Upland was closed. For as long as Charlotte could remember, her hometown had been full of run-down houses and rusty trailers, roads with more potholes than asphalt, where the schools were ancient and the bridges were elderly and every third storefront had a faded "GOING OUT OF BUSINESS" or "EVERYTHING MUST GO" sign hung over its soap-covered windows. Every year, more and more people moved away, to bigger towns with better opportunities. Then, when Charlotte was twelve, Christopher Jarvis had come to town.
Famous Scientist to Establish New Labs in Upland, read the headline in the newspaper Charlotte saw on her grandmother''s desk. Famed scientist Christopher Jarvis, owner of Jarvis Industries, which holds patents on everything from dental tools to heartburn medications, is opening a new research and development facility in Upland. A spokesman for Dr. Jarvis said the renowned scientist and inventor has purchased the eighty acres of land that were formerly Ellenloe Farms, and plans to break ground on the labs next month, with an eye toward opening next year. "We''ll need everything from support staff, such as custodians and cooks, to researchers and security personnel," a spokeswoman for Jarvis Industries said. "Maybe we''ll get some more guests," Grandma had said, not looking especially hopeful. She spooned a clump of macaroni and cheese onto Charlotte''s plate, where it landed with a dispirited plop. Charlotte tried not to sigh.
She couldn''t remember her parents, not even a little bit, but somehow she thought that if her mother had survived, she''d buy name-brand mac and cheese, not the generic kind, and she''d make the sauce with milk instead of water. The next day, the school was buzzing with the news. Courtney Miller said her mom had already applied for a job as an administrative assistant, and Lisa Farley said her mom had gotten a call about working in the cafeteria. Ross Richardson said his dad had heard there was going to be a job fair at the community center, and Mrs. McTeague, who taught English literature, said she''d heard that the lab would bring more than five hundred new jobs to Upland. Charlotte took the long way home after school, wondering whether her grandmother would ever go to work for Jarvis Industries. Maybe they could sell the inn and move to a regular house, where they didn''t have to sleep in cramped bedrooms in the attic and worry about being quiet so the sound of their feet or their voices wouldn''t disturb their guests. Charlotte would be able to get a job babysitting, or she could be a lifeguard in the summertime, instead of making beds and scrubbing toilets for no money, not even an allowance.
She could get an iPhone, instead of the crummy knockoff with limited data that was all her grandmother could afford, and a pair of the clogs that all the girls were wearing that year. She could get new clothes and concert tickets and a car when she was old enough to drive. Maybe her grandmother wouldn''t have to work so hard, and maybe she''d stop being so grumpy with Charlotte when she wasn''t so exhausted, with her back and her knees hurting her all the time. Maybe everything would change. When Charlotte arrived at the inn that afternoon, she saw a shiny black car in the driveway, and a man in a suit and shoes as shiny and black as the car standing on the front porch. "I hope you''ll give our offer some serious thought," he said to Grandma Hughes, who didn''t answer. The man shrugged, climbing into the car and giving Charlotte a quick, two-fingered salute before driving away. Charlotte could tell from her grandmother''s tight-lipped expression that asking questions would only cause trouble, but she couldn''t keep quiet.
"Who was that man?" Charlotte asked, taking her place in front of the kitchen sink to start on the afternoon''s dishes. "What''d he want?" "He''s from the Jarvis company. They want to buy the place," her grandmother said. She''d pulled a bunch of celery out of the refrigerator and was going at it with a cleaver as if she were imagining it was the Jarvis representative''s head. "And you won''t sell?" Charlotte asked. Her heart was sinking. "This place belonged to my parents. And my father''s parents before them," said her grandmother.
"It should have gone to my son. It''ll be yours someday, I imagine." I don''t want it, thought Charlotte. "Wouldn''t it be easier just to sell it? You could probably retire!" " Easier doesn''t always mean better ." Her grandmother kept chopping, dicing the celery into tinier and tinier pieces. After a minute she muttered, "And it''s dirty money." "What do you mean?" "I''ve learned a few things about Jarvis Industries." Chop, chop, chop, went the heavy silver blade.
"All those pharmaceutical companies are bad news. Profiting off people''s illnesses. Making their pills so expensive that regular people can''t afford them. Getting rich, while sick people suffer and go without to afford their medication. Dirty money." Charlotte decided she didn''t care if Jarvis Industries'' money was dirty or clean. If they''d offered it to her, she''d have taken it, and if Charlotte inherited the inn and the Jarvis people still wanted it, she would sell it to them and never look back. Her grandmother pressed her lips together even more tightly.
"I''ve heard other things too," she said. "What kind of things?" asked Charlotte. Her grandmother set her cleaver down with a thump. She stomped across the kitchen, jerked open a drawer of the desk built into the wall, and pulled out a tabloid magazine printed on thin paper that felt flimsy, almost greasy. SECRETS OF JARVIS INDUSTRIES REVEALED! the headline screamed. Charlotte''s heart sank even further. "Grandma," she said. "That''s not a real newspaper.
" Her grandmother rattled the pages in Charlotte''s direction. "It''s paper. And it''s got news. That''s real enough for me." She pulled her reading glasses out of her brassiere, pushed them into place, and read out loud. "?''Hobie Beukes, sixty-seven, worked as a janitor at the Jarvis facility in Florida. One afternoon, he was lifting a dumpster, and the lid slipped off. Mr.
Beukes was horrified to see dozens of dead animals, mice and rats and even rabbits, inside.''?" Charlotte tried to keep from grimacing. "Grandma, they''ve got to test those drugs on something. Wouldn''t you rather have a lab rat suffering than a kid?" Her grandmother glared at Charlotte, then held up one knobby finger and continued to read. "?''?"But that wasn''t the worst," Mr. Beukes told the National Examiner . "Some of those animals had extra legs, or extra eyes. A few of the rats had extra paws, right in the middle of their chests and their bellies.
Not sewn on. Like they''d been born with them there."?''?" Charlotte shook her head. "If that''s really what''s going on, why hasn''t the regular media reported it? The big newspapers, or one of those TV shows that do investigations?" Her grandmother scoffed. "Who do you think buys ads during those TV shows? And in the p.