Free Girl With a Past by Sherri Leigh James

know,
I’ve got a photo album around here somewhere, shots taken at a
party shortly after I moved into the house.”
    Carol bellowed toward her assistant’s desk
who was still packing her tote to leave, “Barb, where’s that album
we used for the Fall Collection? Get it out will ya?” Her attention
returned to Steven and me. “Dave and your father Jeff were the poor
boys in the clique. I shouldn’t put it that way. Dave only wanted
to be part of the clique. The others never actually took to him.
Dave was driven, ambitious without limit. Obviously tired of being
poor. Hanging with rich people can do that to ya.”
    “My dad wasn’t ambitious?” Steven asked.
    “In a different way, in a
want-to-make-a-mark-on-the-world kind of way. And, frankly,
marrying your mother made money less of an issue.”
    Steven looked at Carol with surprise. “Were
all the rest of ‘em rich?”
    Barb handed a purple leather album to Carol.
The mostly black and white photos inside had yellowed with age.
    Carol opened to a page in the center. A
large colorful group shot showed smiling faces of my dad, five of
my uncles, Carol, and Lexi all jammed together on a worn sofa, all
eight hamming it up for the camera. Lexi and Carol were seated in
the middle, surrounded by young men three to a side. The girl’s
mini skirts showed off svelte legs. Their heads leaning together
contrasted Carol’s long dark hair with Lexi’s blonde cascading
tresses.
    On the far left, Jamie’s slender elegance
draped over a thick sofa arm. At the opposite end, Ron’s lanky
frame mimicked Jamie’s insouciant lounge. Next to Jamie, Dad
grinned, his strawberry blonde hair tousled and longer than I’d
ever seen it. Towards the center, Tom’s arm draped over the
shoulders of both girls. On the other side of Lexi, Dave did indeed
look less meticulously groomed, his hair long and as messy as
Dad’s. In contrast to the rest of the group, Elliott looked stiff
and uncomfortable. He never had learned not to try too hard.
    “Wow, amazing album Carol.” I looked at her
wondering who keeps an album of their druggie college days in her
office.
    Carol blushed, “I use the photos of that
time for inspiration.” She looked at me, challenging me to say
something more about her album.
    When I was quiet, she admitted she had built
her career on the elegant bohemian look adapted by the wealthy
hippies of San Francisco. There was something about the carefree
self confidence, the “coolness” of the young rich that still sold
like hotcakes to those less self assured.
    “May I have a copy of this photo?” I asked.
“Please.”
    Carol slipped the corners of the 8 x 10 from
the black guards that held it in the album. “Barb, copy this
please.” Carol stood, picked up her coat. “Can we go then? Before
rush hour?”
    “I want to know everything you can tell me
about the people in the photo,” I said.
    “I promise to tell all––in the car, on the
way.” Carol slipped a cropped sable jacket on over her jeans.
    Barb returned with the photo. I clutched it
to me. I was convinced someone in that photo knew where my mother
was.
     

 
     

CHAPTER
    11
     
     
     
     
    We loaded into Carol’s Jag; I sat next to
Carol so that I could pump her for info.
    “So we covered Jamie, and Dad’s next in the
photo, then there’s Tom and Elliott, were they both rich?”
    “Elliott, yes. He and Tom both came from
upper middle class backgrounds, prep school, professional parents,
fathers were doctors––surgeons maybe, I’m a little vague on those
details. But the one thing I know was that Tom came from an old
family, early San Francisco money. No longer lots of dough––but
enough.”
    I looked at Tom in the photo. He was
good-looking, only slightly shaggy light brown hair gently curling
around his ears, wearing cowboy boots. He was tall enough to keep
his arm on the girl’s shoulders and still slouch low in the
seat.
    Carol took a quick glance at the boy, Tom,
who sat next to