swallowed hard and shook her head.
“Really? You’re so pretty. With the right makeup, you could pass for Charlize Theron. I met her once at a club—her skin is, like, perfect.”
A little overwhelmed, Jolie simply nodded. “Where are you from?”
“Here. I grew up in Virginia-Highland.”
“That’s nice,” Jolie said, referring to the area of Atlanta and to Carlotta’s circumstances. The woman was obviously from money. Old money.
“You?” Carlotta asked.
“I grew up in Dalton,” Jolie said.
North of Atlanta on Interstate 75, Dalton, Georgia was the carpet capital of the Southeast. Both of her parents had retired from flooring factories, and she wasn’t the least bit ashamed, although she was prepared for the woman to wash her hands of her.
Instead, Carlotta’s eyes lit up. “Do you know Deborah Norville?”
Jolie smiled. Newswoman Deborah Norville was Dalton’s other claim to fame. “I met her once at a charity walk, she seemed really nice.”
“Darn, I’d love to have her in my book.”
“Your book?”
Carlotta reached into her bag and pulled out a small, pink, leather-bound book. “I started when I was a teenager—I met Jane Fonda at a Braves game, and it changed my life.” She flipped through the book, showing Jolie the tabbed pages. “I record who I meet and where, and every category has its own alphabetized section: actors, athletes, singers and musicians, politicians, newspeople, businesspeople, and personalities.”
“Personalities?”
“You know—people you recognize, but you’re not really sure what they do…like Fergie, Duchess of York. Who, by the way, I would kill to meet.”
This woman would have loved Gary, Jolie thought. He could have introduced her to all kinds of celebrities. Jolie nodded toward the well-worn book. “So who’s the biggest celebrity you’ve met?”
“Hmm, it’s a toss-up between Antonio Banderas and Elton John, but since Elton has a home here, I guess I’d have to say Antonio. And maybe Bill Gates.”
“Wow. How did you meet Bill Gates?”
“At a party. Elton I saw at a restaurant. And I’ve met lots of celebrities at the Sunglass Hut right here in the mall.”
“No kidding?”
“Yeah, everybody famous needs sunglasses. Atlanta is a fabulous place to spot celebrities because there aren’t thatmany places for them to go, and they usually don’t have a paparazzi guard with them because it’s the South and most people don’t really care who they are as long as they wipe their feet.”
Jolie laughed, grateful for the woman’s entertaining banter. The waiter brought Carlotta’s Pellegrino and Jolie’s hot water, and while Jolie squeezed the lemon wedge into the steaming cup, Carlotta looked up and waved at someone behind Jolie. “Oh, here’s Hannah.”
Jolie turned in her seat to see a woman with short black-and-white-striped hair coming their way. She wore a white culinary smock, jeans, and black combat boots. A plain canvas bag slung over her shoulder hung almost to her knees. She smiled and swung into the seat adjacent to Jolie. “Hiya.”
Carlotta made introductions. Hannah Kizer was more reserved than Carlotta, but adventuresome, judging by her hair and the silver barbell through her tongue. Jolie was so fascinated, she could barely focus on what the woman was saying. When the waiter took her drink order, they placed their food orders, and Hannah excused herself to say hello to the chef.
“Is she a chef too?” Jolie asked, watching her walk through the swinging doors of the kitchen.
“She’s still a culinary student,” Carlotta said. “But she works for one of the best caterers in town, and she flat-out knows food.”
A minute later, Hannah came back and settled into her chair. “Sorry I was late—MARTA is running slow this morning.” She tapped short, neat nails on the table and Jolie caught a slight whiff of cigarette smoke.
“We were just getting to know each other,” Carlotta said. “Jolie works in
“Really? You’re so pretty. With the right makeup, you could pass for Charlize Theron. I met her once at a club—her skin is, like, perfect.”
A little overwhelmed, Jolie simply nodded. “Where are you from?”
“Here. I grew up in Virginia-Highland.”
“That’s nice,” Jolie said, referring to the area of Atlanta and to Carlotta’s circumstances. The woman was obviously from money. Old money.
“You?” Carlotta asked.
“I grew up in Dalton,” Jolie said.
North of Atlanta on Interstate 75, Dalton, Georgia was the carpet capital of the Southeast. Both of her parents had retired from flooring factories, and she wasn’t the least bit ashamed, although she was prepared for the woman to wash her hands of her.
Instead, Carlotta’s eyes lit up. “Do you know Deborah Norville?”
Jolie smiled. Newswoman Deborah Norville was Dalton’s other claim to fame. “I met her once at a charity walk, she seemed really nice.”
“Darn, I’d love to have her in my book.”
“Your book?”
Carlotta reached into her bag and pulled out a small, pink, leather-bound book. “I started when I was a teenager—I met Jane Fonda at a Braves game, and it changed my life.” She flipped through the book, showing Jolie the tabbed pages. “I record who I meet and where, and every category has its own alphabetized section: actors, athletes, singers and musicians, politicians, newspeople, businesspeople, and personalities.”
“Personalities?”
“You know—people you recognize, but you’re not really sure what they do…like Fergie, Duchess of York. Who, by the way, I would kill to meet.”
This woman would have loved Gary, Jolie thought. He could have introduced her to all kinds of celebrities. Jolie nodded toward the well-worn book. “So who’s the biggest celebrity you’ve met?”
“Hmm, it’s a toss-up between Antonio Banderas and Elton John, but since Elton has a home here, I guess I’d have to say Antonio. And maybe Bill Gates.”
“Wow. How did you meet Bill Gates?”
“At a party. Elton I saw at a restaurant. And I’ve met lots of celebrities at the Sunglass Hut right here in the mall.”
“No kidding?”
“Yeah, everybody famous needs sunglasses. Atlanta is a fabulous place to spot celebrities because there aren’t thatmany places for them to go, and they usually don’t have a paparazzi guard with them because it’s the South and most people don’t really care who they are as long as they wipe their feet.”
Jolie laughed, grateful for the woman’s entertaining banter. The waiter brought Carlotta’s Pellegrino and Jolie’s hot water, and while Jolie squeezed the lemon wedge into the steaming cup, Carlotta looked up and waved at someone behind Jolie. “Oh, here’s Hannah.”
Jolie turned in her seat to see a woman with short black-and-white-striped hair coming their way. She wore a white culinary smock, jeans, and black combat boots. A plain canvas bag slung over her shoulder hung almost to her knees. She smiled and swung into the seat adjacent to Jolie. “Hiya.”
Carlotta made introductions. Hannah Kizer was more reserved than Carlotta, but adventuresome, judging by her hair and the silver barbell through her tongue. Jolie was so fascinated, she could barely focus on what the woman was saying. When the waiter took her drink order, they placed their food orders, and Hannah excused herself to say hello to the chef.
“Is she a chef too?” Jolie asked, watching her walk through the swinging doors of the kitchen.
“She’s still a culinary student,” Carlotta said. “But she works for one of the best caterers in town, and she flat-out knows food.”
A minute later, Hannah came back and settled into her chair. “Sorry I was late—MARTA is running slow this morning.” She tapped short, neat nails on the table and Jolie caught a slight whiff of cigarette smoke.
“We were just getting to know each other,” Carlotta said. “Jolie works in
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