“Where is that?” I asked, getting out of bed. “You didn’t show it to me yesterday, or is that the same room for dining-etiquette instruction?”
“No, it is not. Why don’t you see if you can find it yourself?” she said. “Show some early initiative. Mrs. Brittany likes that in a girl. Besides, you know where it isn’t.”
“Excuse me?” I asked, pausing.
She sighed. “If you get lost, there’s staff all over the house, Roxy. Just go down and turn right this time.”
I could see she was definitely going to be a hurdle I would have to get over if I was to win over Mrs. Brittany, but I wasn’t in the mood to kiss up to her, now or ever. Was it my stubborn pride or my damned defiance, or was it because I had real backbone? I couldn’t be my father’s daughter without it, which was something he himself couldn’t appreciate or understand.
She picked up my dress and my shoes and brought them to the closet. “This is the first and last time I will do anything like this,” she muttered, as if she was trying to convince herself more than me.
I rose and looked out the window on the right. The view was magnificent. I could clearly see how much land Mrs. Brittany owned, and to the left, I could see the stables. Three horses were in a pen, all black and about the same size. Between the stabl
es and the mansion was an oval pool with a cabana. Someone was setting out lounges and opening the umbrellas at the tables. When I shifted a little, I could see farther to the left and caught a glimpse of two tennis courts.
“I didn’t realize how big this place is,” I said, more to myself than to her.
“There’s a lot you haven’t realized, Roxy,” she said, emerging from the closet. “You’re just beginning to make interesting discoveries. At least, I hope they are interesting to you.”
She had an impish smile. At the moment, she reminded me more of a commander of a prisoner-of-war camp than an executive assistant.
“I’m sure they will be interesting to me if they’re interesting to you, Mrs. Pratt.”
She mouthed a small laugh, looking like someone swallowing a bubble, and shook her head. “Fine. Don’t dilly-dally. Move along,” she said, and left my suite. The moment she walked out, I couldn’t help it. I did salute.
“Yes, ma’am,” I muttered, but I did rush to get ready. I ran a brush through my hair, but there was no lipstick for me. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to look like, but they couldn’t blame me for anything in that regard. I was practically kidnapped. When I went downstairs, I turned right and was greeted by a maid coming out of Mrs. Brittany’s office.
“Breakfast table?” I said, and she told me it was the last door on the left.
It was a light maple room with one side nearly all windows. There was a large armoire on the right filled with pretty blue and white china and a long wooden table a shade or two darker than the walls. Camelia and Portia were there already. They both had glasses of orange juice and coffee. Camelia was dressed smartly in a ready-to-wear Dior I had recently seen advertised, a coated-cotton blue jacket with a silk jersey T-shirt and soft lambskin baggy pants. She looked like the model in the magazine. Portia was in a sweatsuit not unlike mine.
“Roxy, right?” Portia asked when I entered.
“Yes.”
“That’s your place setting,” Camelia said, nodding toward the one across from her. Portia sat at the head of the table. Before I reached the seat, a curly-blond-haired man with very dark brown eyebrows came through the door that opened to the kitchen, carrying a tray with two plates of poached eggs, toast, and jam and two small bowls of mixed fresh fruit. He was a good two inches shorter than all three of us and wore a black leather vest over a white long-sleeved shirt and black slacks. A gold bracelet dangled on his left wrist, and he had a diamond stud earring in his right ear. He widened his smile, revealing piano-key-white capped teeth. His rust-brown eyes brightened at the sight of me.
“Is this our new princess, then?”
“Herself, Randy,” Camelia replied.
“Welcome, welcome, welcome,” Randy said, with just a slight shift in his hips. He served Camelia and Portia and then hurried over to pour me a glass of juice and a cup of coffee.
“Au lait?” he asked.
“S’il vous plaît,” I replied.
“Ooh, I like her,” Randy said. He poured some milk into the coffee. “Low-fat, you know,” he said, winking at Portia. “All the fat here is low.”
The girls laughed.
“Your breakfast will be just two shakes of a prostitute’s bum.”
He went back into the kitchen.
“What was that?” I asked, and they both laughed again.
“That was Randy Carr. He’s been with Mrs. Brittany for nearly ten years,” Camelia told me. “She stole him out of a restaurant in Key West. She’s very fond of him, so watch what you say about him.”