“Really? Did she happen to include the English with the Americans or the French?”
“The Americans,” I said without hesitation. “Her favorite way to put it is that in America, we eat; in France, we dine.”
He looked a little annoyed, but then he smiled. “You’ve been lucky. You’re a few kilometers ahead of most of the girls who come to me. I congratulate you,” he added with a slight bow of his head. “Now, how would you end this today?” he asked. Randy had returned to take some of our dishes and the empty bottle of wine. He paused to see what I was going to say.
Again, I thought about Mama and the times when she and I had gone to lunch with one of her friends or one of the wives of the men Papa worked with at the firm.
“Merci, Mr. Whitehouse. I enjoyed our lunch very much, and I hope we’ll soon have the opportunity to do it again.”
He bowed his head in appreciation. “You make me feel like a vestigial organ,” he said.
I raced through my vocabulary and smiled when I remembered what that meant: an organ that had lost its purpose, its function.
“I’m sure that’s not true, Mr. Whitehouse. I’m confident that there is always something I can learn from someone like you.”
He beamed with such pleasure that his cheeks took on a rosy tint and his eyes twinkled like a newborn baby’s. “Beauty, culture, charm, and diplomacy, too. Mrs. Brittany has indeed struck gold,” he said.
He made me feel the best I had all day. I thanked him again and left.
I had twenty minutes to refresh myself. I could either go up to my suite or take a very short walk outside. My next assignment was to go to the library. There was a two-and-a-half-hour block set aside for that, and I was looking forward to it even less than I had looked forward to swimming. I’d better get some fresh air, I told myself, so I wouldn’t pass out in a stuffy classroom setting, and I headed out one of the patio doors to feel the warmth of the sun and smell the newly cut lawns. I always liked that scent. It made me feel fresh and alive, which was why I went to Central Park every chance I had.
I walked slowly, with my head down, until I remembered how Mrs. Pratt had chastised me for doing that and looking so insecure.
It was then that I first saw her—the young girl who would change everything for me here.
And maybe everything for me for the rest of my life.
8
She was walking toward the pool. She wore an ankle-length robe, and a maid was following her, carrying towels, a bucket with a bottle of something in it, and what looked like a book held tightly inside the crook of her right arm. For a moment, I thought the young woman was Portia, but then I saw that she was using a cane and limping as if her left leg was shorter than her right. Her shoulder-length black hair lay softly over the white robe. I stepped forward to get a better look at her when she reached the pool and the maid set down her things and helped her take off the robe. She wore a bikini and looked like she had a beautiful figure. The maid prepared one of the cushioned lounges for her, laying out the towels. She sat for a moment with her back to me before lying back and taking what looked like suntan lotion from the maid.
It was still spring in New York, so I didn’t imagine the pool was warm enough, unless, of course, it was heated. There was, however, a cloudless sky, and the sun was strong. I guessed that the UV index was high, and I recalled the short lecture Olga had given me about the skin damage the sun could do. After the girl covered herself in sun protection, she lay back and opened her book. The maid opened a bottle of what looked like rosé wine and poured her a glass. She unwrapped some crackers and set them out with some cheese before leaving to head back to the house.
I decided to walk over and see who she was. How come she hadn’t been introduced to me? Mrs. Pratt said that Camelia and Portia were the only other girls here. Was she one of Mrs. Brittany’s girls whom a client had hurt? Had Mrs. Brittany lied about that? Was that why she was not there to meet me and why her presence was being kept a big secret?
She turned as I approached and put her book down.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hello.”
“The pool can’t be warm enough, can it?” I said.
“Oh, it’s heated, but I don’t swim much, anyway,” she said, nodding toward her left leg.
I looked. It was clear to see that it was a flesh-colored prosthetic. I smiled, hiding my surprise and shock, and looked at her book. “Oh, I know that book. My high school English teacher gave it to me for extra credit. I read it, but I never handed in the book report,” I said.
She laughed. “You remember that?”
“It was only last month,” I said.
“Only last month? How old are you?”
“Nearly eighteen. Actually, ten days away now.”
Her smile brightened. “Oh, I love birthdays. Eighteen is a very special one, too.”
“Yes, especially for me,” I said dryly.