“We’ve been working on this all morning,” Mrs. Pratt said.
I nodded. “So I leave . . .”
“Immediately, if you choose to do what I’m asking,” Mrs. Brittany replied.
I looked from her to Mrs. Pratt. Neither broke into a smile or even changed expression.
“Just like that? Just get up and walk out of here, dressed the way I am?”
Mrs. Brittany finally smiled. “You came with nothing and easily left whatever you had,” she said.
“I had nothing, but can’t I at least say good-bye to Sheena?”
“I told you I’d rather you not,” she said. “Let me handle that.”
She rose.
“The car’s waiting,” Mrs. Pratt told her.
What a strange feeling it was to know that you could go off and take nothing with you and that you could literally disappear from anyone you cared about or who cared about you. It made me feel light, airy, invisible. I stood, looked at Mrs. Pratt, and started out.
“Head up,” Mrs. Pratt snapped.
“Don’t dare feel sorry for yourself, Roxy Wilcox,” Mrs. Brittany said. “You’re not being shipped to San Quentin. You’re going to be in the lap of luxury at the height of the season on the Riviera.”
She walked along with me.
“Norbert will see to it that you attend some wonderful concerts and events in Monte Carlo. I have a friend who will be sailing his yacht into Villefranche-sur-Mer in about a month. We might join him for a luxurious weekend.”
I looked from side to side and into rooms as we headed for the front entrance. With both of them on either side of me now, I felt as if I was being escorted off the premises, and they were making sure that I could speak to no one and no one could speak to me. The stretch limousine was right outside. Jeffries had completed whatever packing needed to be done. He closed the trunk, and the chauffeur got out quickly to open the door for me.
For one frightening moment, I wondered if this was all a ruse and I wasn’t going off to the French Riviera but being carried off to some other form of disposal so I would never be a threat to Mrs. Brittany and her powerful, rich organization again. Maybe she could see the thought pass across my eyes. She took hold of me at both elbows and turned me around.
“This is more of a test than I had envisioned for you, Roxy, but if you can come through this and continue to grow and develop, I am sure you will be one of my top Brittany girls. You know I don’t say such things lightly.”
“Yes,” I said.
For a second, I thought she would actually kiss me on the cheek, but she let me go and stood back.
“Please tell Sheena I didn’t want to leave without saying good-bye, at least.”
“I said I’d handle it. Don’t worry.”
“We’ll see you soon,” Mrs. Pratt added. “Remember, keep a very low profile. We don’t expect anyone to connect the dots over there, but American tourists will be there. Don’t speak to any strangers, ever.”
I felt like saying, “Yes, Mommy,” but kept my lips sealed.
“Since you will be in France, you might have the temptation to contact your mother’s family. That would be very, very foolish,” she added. I looked at Mrs. Brittany to see if she had the same thought.
“I definitely won’t do that, Mrs. Brittany. You have my word.”
“I expect you to keep it. I am hoping that you have what it takes to be on your own like this, Roxy. Don’t disappoint us. Don’t disappoint yourself,” Mrs. Brittany told me just before the door was closed.
I looked out at the two of them. Neither waved as we pulled away. They wore identical looks of concern and skepticism. I had the feeling they had debated doing this, with Mrs. Pratt probably taking the view that it would much easier just to turn me loose and forget me. I’ll prove her wrong, I thought.
As we turned down the long driveway, I looked toward the east side of the mansion and Sheena’s room. I imagined that she was going through some of her clothing, planning what she would wear on our next night out together, which, I realized, was supposed to be tonight. How would Mrs. Brittany explain this, and would she make it clear how much I hated leaving her? I hoped Mrs. Brittany realized that Sheena might see this as another betrayal.
I felt a real tear on my cheek. It shocked me until I realized that I was crying inside for Sheena as much as for myself.
We drove on. I sat back. The description Mrs. Brittany had given me of her villa and what awaited me should make me happy, I thought. After all, she was continuing her investment and faith in me.
But when I analyzed what this was about, I realized that I was still running away from my father.
Would that ever end?
13
Everyone, from the chauffeur to the pilots and the flight attendant on Mrs. Brittany’s private jet, was overly solicitous. I had the sense that anyone who represented Mrs. Brittany would be treated as if she were Mrs. Brittany. My comfort was foremost. I learned that the food that had been brought onto the plane had been prepared by Gordon Leceister. Even my silk pajamas and robe were there for me when I wanted to sleep. The plane had every amenity someone would enjoy in the first-class cabins of the best airlines. I doubted that anyone involved, however, knew anything more about me than that I was Mrs. Brittany’s guest. In minutes, it seemed, we were on our way, and I hadn’t had to show anyone a passport or go through any security check. I began to wonder who had more power in this world, the president of the United States or Mrs. Brittany. She snapped her fingers, and I was being whisked off to southern France.
Because of the time difference, I arrived at midday. Her friend Norbert Davies was waiting at the airport to rush me away to Mrs. Brittany’s villa the moment the plane landed. My luggage was quickly transferred to the limousine, which had been brought right up to the airplane.
“Bienvenue,” Norbert said as soon as I stepped off. He was a tall, dark-complexioned man with ebony hair but surprisingly blue eyes. I didn’t think he was more than thirty or maybe thirty-five. He wore a light, silver gray Armani suit with gold cuff links and one of the more expensive Rolex watches. He looked as if he had just done a GQ cover.
“Enchanté,” I said.
“Please.” He indicated the inside of the limousine. “We are having some unusually warm weather,” he told me as an explanation for why he wanted me in the air-conditioned vehicle as quickly as possible. “The whole Côte d’Azur is smoldering, with temperatures in the forties.”
“Forties? That’s not hot.”
“Celsius,” he said, smiling. “You’re here now, and when in Rome . . .”
“Exactement,” I said, realizing that, of course, Europe was on Celsius, not Fahrenheit. “D’accord.”
He got in beside me. He was a George Clooney–handsome man but with an aristocratic air about him that made him seem untouchable. He was immaculately dressed, with hair so accurately cut I doubted there was a strand too long or too short.
“How is my godmother?” he asked.
“Mrs. Brittany is your godmother?”
“Mais oui. My mother and her late husband were cousins, but even if not, she would have been my godmother. When she lived in Europe, they were all very close. She was there for me after my mother passed away. I owe her a great deal. She was instrumental in my getting a good education and the position I hold now in the Principality of Monaco. I can never do enough to repay her, but I can’t say this assignment is any burden. I look forward to making you comfortable and looking after any of your needs.”
“Merci,” I said, and wondered how much he actually knew about me and my situation. If he did know all of it, he was very discreet. He talked about my stay as if it was nothing more than a welcome vacation.
“I understand your mother is French and you’ve been to Paris but never the Riviera.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“Then it will be my pleasure to show you as much of its charm and beauty as possible while you are here, but I won’t exhaust you wi
th historical sites, museums, and endless churches. That’s a promise,” he said. “I have never forced anyone to do anything I wouldn’t want to do.”
“Then you’ve done something like this before?” I asked.
“Not for Mrs. Brittany. For other family friends.”
I nodded. Perhaps I shouldn’t ask too many questions, I thought. It all made me nervous enough as it was. I would wait for him to volunteer any information.
As we drove to Mrs. Brittany’s villa, he pointed out the famous beaches of Nice. The hotels along the promenade had sections with lounges and umbrellas across from them. Every part of it looked crowded. There were streams of people walking along the promenade. Motorboats pulled water skiers and the more adventurous tourists who wanted to ride the parachutes. There was a luxury ocean liner crossing the sea for some destination Norbert said was probably in Italy, maybe Sicily. When we passed the port of Nice, I saw very large private yachts. He recognized some owned by Arabian princes and major industrialists and described what they were like inside, how many people had to be employed, and how expensive they were to operate.
All around us, young and even middle-aged people wove in and out of traffic with their motor scooters, almost all of them carrying two passengers. The risks they took to edge past other vehicles were sometimes shocking.
“Grandmothers ride them, too, and are just as reckless, if not more so,” he said, smiling when I commented on the close calls.
The hustle and bustle made it seem as if I had been dropped into a great ongoing celebration. The wealth I saw not only in the yachts but also in the villas and grand hotels he pointed out made it all seem surreal. It wasn’t that long ago that I was sleeping in a slum and witnessing filth and poverty all around me. Now here I was in the playland of the rich and famous. From what Norbert had told me, a day’s operating expenses on one of those luxurious yachts could support a dozen homeless people for a year. It seemed unfair, even callous, that so few could live so well while so many suffered, but when I asked myself where I would rather be, there was no doubt in my mind.
Everywhere along the ride, we had breathtaking views of the sea. I especially enjoyed looking out on the bay of Villefranche-sur-Mer with Cap Ferrat on one side, a peninsula Norbert described as particularly the home of the super-rich. He rattled off the names of famous celebrities, fashion designers, and Middle Eastern monarchs who had private villas there.
Not long after that, we entered the small French village of Beaulieu-sur-Mer, and after passing through the main part of town, we veered off to the right and wound our way down to Mrs. Brittany’s villa. There was a private gated entrance, but the property itself, although beautifully maintained, was not even one-twentieth the size of Mrs. Brittany’s estate on Long Island. Nevertheless, the landscaping was lush, with its small palm trees, beautiful red and white bougainvillea, and rosebushes. I saw the swimming pool off to the right as we came to a stop at one side of the villa itself.
“Mrs. Brittany bought this nearly twenty years ago,” Norbert explained, “and just recently had it refurbished and modernized. She didn’t change a thing about the outside, but she redid the floors and updated every appliance. There are only three bedrooms, but each has a loggia facing the sea. There is a small guesthouse off the right side. Ian and Margery Dance live there. They are the caretakers. Margery is your cook. They are lovely people from London who have been with Mrs. Brittany almost from the very beginning here. They speak fluent French, but they’ll be pleased to speak English, although British English sometimes seems like a totally different language from American.”
As if they had heard themselves being introduced, they appeared to help with my luggage. Ian was short and a little stout, with a robust jolly face that needed only a white beard to have him play Santa Claus. His wife was a little taller, leaner, with hair a shade grayer than his. She wore it pinned up, but it looked as if when it was down, it would reach the middle of her back. They were both all smiles.
“They’re happy to have someone to care for,” Norbert whispered. “Margery will tell you that an empty house invites ghosts.”
He stepped out and reached in to help me emerge.
“Bonjour, Ian, Margery,” he cried when I stepped out. They hurried over. “This is Mademoiselle Roxy Wilcox. She can speak French, too,” he added, as if he wanted to warn them not to say something behind my back in French.
“Welcome, dear,” Margery said.
“Bienvenue,” Ian said. “We’ve been here so long, we drift in and out of languages. Margery says she’s dreaming in French these days.”
“Oh, I did not. He’s Mr. Exaggerator,” she declared. “A pound’s never quite a pound if not a pound and a half. And don’t listen to his weather predictions, either. It’s never going to rain, according to him.”
“You ignore the devil, and he gets bored and goes away,” Ian said in self-defense.
“Oh, don’t start talking your nonsense, Mr. Dance. Let’s get her things into the house.”
“Yes, sir, Madame Dance,” he replied.
“I’ll give her the tour,” Norbert said, and reached for my hand.
Was there a difference between the way a man held a woman’s hand and the way a father held his daughter’s hand? Was it even something any woman could sense? When Norbert took my hand, I didn’t feel anything other than that he wanted to lead me into the house. In fact, I didn’t think he held me firmly enough to keep my hand from slipping out of his unless I held his tighter.
I didn’t see any wedding ring on his finger, but of course, he could have a girlfriend, maybe even be engaged. Or maybe women weren’t his choice. What I didn’t want to do was start asking him personal questions and give him the impression that I was interested in him. Despite his good looks, I was still too much in a daze to think about anything romantic. Everything had happened so fast and continued to happen fast.
He took me around front so we could enter the villa by going up the stone steps, pausing at the front balcony, where we had an unobstructed view of the Mediterranean. There were two chaise longues and a table with six chairs. The table had an umbrella. Sprinkled across the vista were sailboats, motorboats, and that luxury liner we had seen in Nice moving slowly against the horizon. Now it looked still, more like a piece on a movie set. In fact, I had arrived so fast and it all looked so unreal I felt as if I really had wandered into a movie.
“There is a path that leads down to the shore,” Norbert said, “where there is a small dock and where Mrs. Brittany’s boat is usually kept, but it’s being serviced at the moment.”
“Beautiful view,” I said.
“Yes, one of the best in this area. Well, let me show you the house.”
We entered the villa. It was simply furnished with traditional French country antiques, and the tiled and wooden floors looked brand spanking new. Ian and Margery were carrying my luggage up the short, slightly winding stairway.
“Downstairs you have the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, an exercise room, and the downstairs bathroom,” Norbert catalogued as he led me about.
The living and dining rooms were bright and airy, and the kitchen looked updated, with beige granite counters. The exercise room had some weight equipment, a treadmill, a large ball like the one Lance had shown me how to use, and a stationary bike.
“The three bedrooms are upstairs. You’ll have the guest bedroom on the right. Mrs. Brittany’s room is in the middle, and there is a second guest bedroom on the left. All have en suite bathrooms.”
“It’s very nice,” I said, gazing at the paintings of French villages and countryside scattered on every available wall.
“Comfortable, cozy,” he said. “The pool is right out those sliding doors, where you will find a patio, chairs and chaise longues, and umbrellas. Mrs. Brittany wanted me to give you a day or so to settle in and then come around and take you perhaps up to Èze first. It’s a small village with cobblestone walks, shops, and restaurants. At the top is a garden, an
d the views are spectacular. We can have a nice lunch there.
“Next week, there is a concert at the Auditorium Rainier III in Monte Carlo. The Saint Petersburg Philharmonic will be performing. Mrs. Brittany says you shouldn’t miss it.”
“Merci,” I said. “Then I won’t.”
“Let me show you to your suite,” he said, and indicated that I should go first to the stairway.
Margery was putting away my things. Ian was hanging up my clothes. It was half the size of my suite at the estate but elegantly appointed, with patio doors that opened to a private balcony. The bed was king-size but without a canopy or posts.
“It’s very beautiful,” I said, and walked onto the patio. Norbert followed and stood just behind me as I looked out at the sea. “It will be easy to relax here,” I said, mostly to myself.
“I’m sure. You are from New York?”
“Yes,” I said, turning to him. “Were you born in France?”
“Yes, Normandy. My parents moved to Monte Carlo when I was just twelve. Since I resided in Monaco for more than ten years, I was able to apply for citizenship, but I wasn’t approved until I began to work for the royal family, so that is another reason I am grateful to my godmother.”
“Mrs. Brittany does have influence in many places,” I said.
“I don’t think she subscribes to the philosophy of ‘It doesn’t matter what you know but who you know,’ however,” he said. “She still wants to see people earn what they get.”
“As we say in the States, you have to make your bones with Mrs. Brittany.”
“ ‘Make your bones,’ ” he repeated, smiling. “I like that. Is there anything I can get for you, do for you, at the moment?” he asked.
“I think I’m pretty much set,” I said. “Merci.”
“You shouldn’t eat your first dinner alone here,” he said. “With your permission, I’ll return with someone to join you.”
“Absolument, s’il vous plaît,” I said. He was right. I didn’t want to be left alone so quickly.
“I’ll inform Margery,” he said. “She’s a very good cook. I’d advise you to get some rest. Jet lag can be sneaky.” He started to leave the room and paused. “You’re sure you’re up to company? We can wait until tomorrow night. It was a long journey for you.”