Roxy's Story (The Forbidden 2)

Traveling, entertaining, socializing with the richest and most powerful people did insulate me and keep me from thinking about anything I had lost or sacrificed. I was exactly what I had told Paul: comfortable.

And then, one late afternoon, when my limousine had taken me to pick up a client after his dinner meeting, I looked out when the chauffeur opened the door for him and saw that the client was standing with my father. It was as if I had been shot through the heart with an arrow of ice. The look on his face seemed to shatter the very air between us. I pulled back, but it was too late. The client, a man not much younger than my father, got into the limousine. I didn’t look back when we drove off, but I could feel my father’s eyes on the back of my head. I was numb, speechless, and a terrible late-night date, as I would have been for any other client.

No matter what my client said or tried, I was unresponsive. Just the fact that he knew my father and had been standing there beside him brought my father into the limousine and into the remainder of the evening with him. When he spoke or looked at me, I could only hear and see my father. Finally, disappointed and disgusted, he cut the evening short. I knew this was my first serious failure, but I could do nothing about it.

The following morning, Mrs. Brittany came to my apartment. I was still in bed, feeling sick to my stomach and exhausted. I hadn’t managed an hour of sleep. Every time I had closed my eyes, I saw my father’s face, felt his surprise and his pain. I buried my face in my pillow to smother any sobs and instantly dry any tears. I didn’t even hear Mrs. Brittany enter my bedroom. She slammed the door, and I sat up quickly. One look at her face told me she had heard more than an earful from my client.

“What happened?” she demanded. “Why did you treat that man so poorly? What got into you?”

“When we stopped to pick him up at the restaurant, he was standing with my father.”

“Your father?”

“Yes, as it turns out, they’re associates. He was at a dinner meeting.”

She was quiet a moment, and then, nodding, she said, “I can understand it, but I can’t forgive it. You know I don’t tolerate failure. Ours is a business that depends on clients recommending the service because they’ve had an outstanding experience well worth the cost in their minds. Anything contrary hurts us all.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t imagine it happening again.”

“It won’t, or if it does, it won’t,” she said, making it clear.

She calmed down and decided to send me to Dubai on a week’s holiday with Camelia and Portia. I knew she wanted me to see what I would be missing if I failed her again. We were all showered with expensive gifts, deluxe travel arrangements, and luxurious resort accommodations. It was a good antidote to what I had experienced, because the three of us had so much fun teasing and flirting with rich young Arab men who we knew would become new clients. One gave me a diamond bracelet worth fifty thousand dollars. He had it hidden in a bowl of whipped cream at dinner. I had never laughed so much or felt more relaxed and lucky.

When I returned, I was back to my successful Brittany girl self. I thought that was the end of my regrets and conscience. I had once again locked away my family memories in a keyless safe, stuffed into the deepest corner of my mind.

And then my mother managed to get a message over the wall of security that Mrs. Brittany had built around me. A relatively new receptionist at the hotel stopped me one morning to ask if I knew a Mrs. Wilcox.

“I’m not sure this is for you,” he said. “I’m not even sure I’m supposed to ask, but from her description of the woman she wanted to contact, I thought immediately of you.”

“You’re not supposed to ask,” I

said. I was going to walk away, maybe even report him and get him fired, but I hesitated. Something stronger made me hesitate.

He held out a slip of paper and shrugged. “This is the message. Whoever it’s for isn’t going to be happy. I felt I should try, at least.”

I stared at it, fighting the urge to take it from him, but it was too strong. I practically ripped it out of his fingers and opened it.

The words pounded through my brain and stole away my breath. I felt a weakness in my legs and an emptiness inside that I hadn’t felt for years.

My father had died.

His funeral was in two days. The information was there.

I folded the paper.

“It isn’t for me,” I told the receptionist, and handed the paper back to him.

“Oh, that’s good. Sorry to bother you,” he said.

“It wasn’t any bother, but if I were you, I’d throw that out and forget about it.”

He nodded. “Sure.”

I gave him a stern glare and walked away. At least, I thought I did. My legs were on their own. I got into the elevator and took a deep breath.

The general was dead.

I had expected that when I heard this news later in my life, I would feel nothing but relief. I didn’t expect the cold, sick feeling of grief that crawled up from my stomach and surrounded my heart. I tried to ignore it. I ridiculed it, mumbling that now the beds wouldn’t be made right, the house would go into disarray, and my grandfather’s iconic picture would come down and be stuffed in a carton at the back of some closet. But nothing worked. My heart wouldn’t lighten, and my laughter was more like sobbing.