Gates of Paradise (Casteel 4)

"Why isn't Millie bringing it up?" I was anxious to find out if she had given my letter to Tony to mail. Mrs. Broadfield paused at the doorway and turned back.

"Millie was discharged last night," she said, and left before I could respond.

Discharged? But why? I had liked her and even thought she would be good company. She was so pleasant and kind. What could she have done to get herself fired so soon? The moment Tony looked in on me, I demanded to know.

"Tony, Mrs. Broadfield just told me you fired Millie. Why?"

He shook his head and pressed his lower lip up and under his upper.

"Incompetent. Made a mess of things from the day she arrived. I was hoping she would improve, but she just seemed to get worse and worse. Jillian wouldn't have countenanced her more than a day. You should have seen the fine help we used to have here, their professionalism, their--"

"But Tony, she was so nice," I said.

"Oh, she was nice enough, but nice isn't enough. I found out that her references weren't accurate, anyway. She couldn't get a position for some time and worked as a waitress, not as a maid. But don't fret, one of my people is already looking for someone new."

Mrs. Broadfield arrived with my tray and set it down.

"Well, I'm off," Tony said. "I'll let you have breakfast."

"Tony, wait! I gave her a letter to give to you last night to mail to Luke."

He smiled quizzically.

"Letter? She gave me no letter."

"But Tony--"

"I called her in around seven-thirty and gave her two weeks' severance pay, but she mentioned no letter."

"I don't understand."

"Why not? It's just as I said: she was incompetent. She probably had it in her apron and forgot it. Honestly, I don't know what it is with young people today; they seem so distracted all the time. No wonder it's so hard to get decent help."

"It was a letter to Luke!" I cried.

"Your eggs are getting cold," Mrs. Broadfield pointed out.

"I'm sorry," Tony replied. "Write another letter today, and I'll see to it myself this time, okay? I'll return this afternoon to take you on a short tour of this floor. That is, if Mrs. Broadfield approves," he added, looking her way. She didn't reply.

He left before I could say another word on the subject of my letter, and when I looked at Mrs. Broadfield, she wore her mask of annoyance.

"We have to get to your morning therapy, Annie, and then you have to rest or I can't see you taking any tour. Now, please eat your breakfast."

"I'm not hungry."

"You've got to eat to gain strength. Your therapy is just like a workout would be for an athlete, and just as he or she wouldn't be able to do well without food energy, neither will you. Only," she said, raising her shoulders and straightening her posture to emphasize her point, "instead of simply losing a tennis match or a football game, you will remain an invalid."

I lifted my fork and began to eat. Thank God for Rye Whiskey, I thought as I chewed and

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wallowed. He had a way of making the simplest foods extra tasty.

My morning therapy session began just like the one I had the day before, but there was something different this time. I was positive I felt Mrs. Broadfield's fingers on my thighs. There was a stinging sensation, like pins being poked through my skin, and I screamed.

"What?" she demanded, looking up impatiently. "I felt something . . . it stung."

"That's just your imagination," she said, and started again. Again I felt the sting.