Cloudburst (Storms 2)

“Oh?”

“Very little when it comes to the rich and beautiful gets by her,” he said, sounding a little bitter about it. “Where’s your room?”

“Up there,” I said, pointing to my bedroom windows. “Second floor. Third floor is mostly guest rooms, and there’s an attic full of things that will probably never be used, at least by the Marches.”

He looked to the left at the tennis courts. “You’re high enough to see over the tops of trees. I bet you see the ocean.”

“Yes. One side of my bedroom looks out over the outside pool and cabana. It was Alena March’s room,” I added.

“The little girl who died?”

“Yes.”

He nodded and looked up at the house again and then toward the tennis courts. “I’ve been in great European chateaus. We stayed in some very expensive hotels in Rome and Paris. One time, we were in Vienna for three days and stayed at a hotel that had its own little park . . . Im Palais Schwarzenberg. But I think this beats it all. It’s the biggest private residence I’ve seen for someone who was not part of a royal family. I wonder if there’s anything like it in the whole state.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said. “I haven’t been farther than Disneyland. Jordan and Mr. March have been talking about taking me on a European holiday, but it hasn’t happened yet.”

He looked at me as if he was finally seeing me for who I was, the ward of a rich family. I was sure it was triggering dozens of questions, questions my girlfriends and any other boy I had been with had asked and were still asking. With most, I was reluctant to answer, but for reasons I had not quite yet understood, I felt like telling Ryder everything and anything he wanted to know.

“You call her Jordan, but you call him Mr. March?”

“Yes. I used to call them both Mr. and Mrs. March.”

“I suppose that’s progress. How long have you been living here?”

“Three years.”

“I know it would sound crazy to most people for me to ask, but are you really happy here?”

“It’s not crazy,” I said.

“You didn’t answer.” He smiled at my silence. “You feel guilty when you’re happy, is that it?”

“Let’s go in,” I said instead of replying. “I’ll show you around, and you’ll meet the Marches. Mr. March is supposed to be back,” I added.

“Oh? Where did he go?”

“He’s often away on business. He runs a major public relations firm and has clients all over the United States and in Europe.”

I led him to the front door and took a deep breath before opening it.

“You act like you’re going underwater,” he said.

I glanced at him and nodded. “It does feel that way sometimes.”

We entered.

As if she had been waiting anxiously just inside the door of her office-den, Jordan came hurrying down the hallway and calling to us. She was wearing one of her more expensive designer suits, a charcoal skirt and a jacket, and had her hair pinned up. She looked as if she had just stepped out of an executive office. I was sure Ryder was wondering if she was in any way involved in Donald March’s business affairs. Sometimes I thought she dressed like a businesswoman just to pretend she did something more important. She did wear clothes like this whenever she went to a charity club or committee meeting and sometimes used Mr. March’s secretarial services for her personal business.

“There you are,” she said. “Donald arrived just over an hour ago. Come in, please. I’m Jordan March,” she said to Ryder.

“Ryder Garfield,” he replied. He looked at her hand, and then he took it and gave her what I thought was a rather exaggerated smile, his eyes wide. He looked around. “You must have quite an electric bill.”

Jordan laughed. “We have quite an everything bill. I know you two want to explore, but just come in for a few minutes,” she urged, indicating one of the sitting rooms, as she called them. Ryder looked at me with a gleeful gleam in his eyes. It made my heart go pitter-patter to think what might come out of his mouth at any moment. We followed her.

I was interested in how Ryder would react to everything he saw here.

Even though he was from a very well-to-do, famous family and apparently had seen many amazing things already in his life, I was curious to see what would impress him. Most of the girls I had brought here were so amazed that they couldn’t help gushing compliments about the large paintings, the oversized chandeliers, and the rich European furniture, tables from Spain, settees and chairs from France, and wall mirrors from England. I don’t think I ever stopped being overwhelmed, but perhaps because I saw so much unhappiness beneath the surface, I had become a little indifferent to it all.