Roxy's Story (The Forbidden 2)

“A kitchen is almost a vestigial organ for you,” he quipped.

“Is that so, Mr. Smart-Ass? For your information, I can cook if I want.”

He smiled skeptically.

“Maybe one night, I’ll make you a special dinner.”

“Looking forward to it. I love to be proven wrong when I benefit from that proof.”

We went down another short marble-floored hallway to a double-door bedroom. The centerpiece was my blazing-red bed shaped like a heart. The walls were papered with depictions of beautiful gardens. There was a mirror on the ceiling above the bed. The area rug was a tight-threaded crimson. The wood in the dresser, vanity table, and nightstands was rich cherry. My en suite bathroom was very large, with a Jacuzzi, a large shower, and a second bathtub.

“Flowers and hearts,” I said, looking at the bathroom. “Fleur du Coeur. Even here.”

“Mrs. Brittany takes her themes very seriously. Okay, let Laura get you unpacked,” he said, when my things were brought in followed by a middle-aged, slightly gray-haired woman in a maid’s uniform. “Laura’s here every day, of course. She’ll make your bed and change the linens, the towels. We send everything out to be washed, dry-cleaned, whatever. There’s a hamper in your bathroom. Laura will see to what has to be washed, and she’ll also see to your basic groceries.”

“So I don’t do anything here?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he replied with his charming smile. “C’mon, let me show you around the neighborhood and take you to lunch.”

We left the hotel, crossed the street, and went up a few blocks to a salon, where I was introduced to the beautician Mrs. Brittany had chosen for me. After that, we stopped at one of the boutiques to meet the owner, who happened to be a woman from Lyon, France. We spoke in French for a few minutes, and then Mr. Bob took me to a delightful little café that happened to have the same name as the last restaurant Paul Lamont had taken me to, the one in Villefranche-sur-Mer, La Mère Germaine. For a few moments, memories came rushing back.

The delightful, flirtatious conversations, the passion that quickly had developed between us, bringing with it those long, demanding kisses, and the soft caresses that caused the sexual energy in me to turn my heart into a drum—it all seemed like a cruel joke now. They had nearly convinced me that I could fall in love and have a relationship in which he and I could grow old together, build a life together, with children and grandchildren.

When I thought back to all of that now, I couldn’t help but wonder if it had happened by design, if the entire thing had been another lesson Mrs. Brittany had created to harden my heart and form the cynicism that would enable me to be the kind of woman I was about to become. Perhaps she wanted me to be disillusioned, to snuff out the last vestiges of illusions and romance.

What difference did the truth make? Even if she hadn’t planned it that way, it was the way it was now. Whatever had remained in me that was still a young girl, with the dreams and fantasies young girls have and need to remain hopeful, was washed away. I was Fleur du Coeur in every respect, out for myself. There would be no false illusions, no disappointments. There would be no trust, no deep affections, and no deeply meaningful words or embraces.

And I wouldn’t be pitied for th

at. I would tolerate no sympathy. My eyes would be dead to the sight of mothers and daughters, fathers and daughters, sisters, and families, especially on holidays. The only gifts under my Christmas tree, if I had one, would be gifts I had given myself, and I was determined never to shed a tear over that.

Maybe, in a very ironic and cold way, I had become more like my father and his father and brother. I would bury my emotions under the mountains of rules and regulations that now governed my life. I would take orders and fulfill missions. I would keep my body fine-tuned, my beauty exquisite. I would bring strategy, plans, and discipline to every assignment, and just as they could send thousands of young men and women into battle accepting the projected casualties, I would willingly die a little inside to plant my flag atop the hill of material comfort, luxury, and pleasure.

“You all right?” Mr. Bob asked as we sat at a table near the front window. He saw how silent I had become.

Outside, the sidewalks were filling with people off to lunch, many in suits and ties, designer dresses, and fashionable outfits. Some were the wealthy, who lived in the expensive apartments. Everyone had that look of success and contentment. There were no homeless in this neighborhood, no lost girls from the roach hotels.

I do belong here, I thought. I’ve always belonged here.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m fine. Why?”

“Just for a moment, you looked more like that young girl I saw across the restaurant that first day, the innocent beauty who looked lost.”

“She died a while back,” I said, and reached for the menu.

“Miss her?”

“No,” I snapped back at him.

“Don’t lie to yourself, Roxy. Don’t ever do that.”

There were tears in my eyes, but I choked them back. When I was in one of my rages, Mama used to tell me that the worst lies were the lies you told yourself because you couldn’t hide from them.

“Put on a false face,” she’d said. “Rage, run away, be wild, do whatever to try to forget, but in the end, you’ll remember. I can’t guarantee anything for you in life, ma chère, but I can wish that my children don’t have to lie to themselves.”

What would I ever do now to stop? I wondered.

I lowered my menu and looked at Mr. Bob. “Let’s just eat and stop talking. I’m hungry,” I said.