Roxy’s Story (26 page)

“
Merci
,” I said, and wondered how much he actually knew about me and my situation. If he
did know all of it, he was very discreet. He talked about my stay as if it was nothing
more than a welcome vacation.

“I understand your mother is French and you’ve been to Paris but never the Riviera.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“Then it will be my pleasure to show you as much of its charm and beauty as possible
while you are here, but I won’t exhaust you with historical sites, museums, and endless
churches. That’s a promise,” he said. “I have never forced anyone to do anything I
wouldn’t want to do.”

“Then you’ve done something like this before?” I asked.

“Not for Mrs. Brittany. For other family friends.”

I nodded. Perhaps I shouldn’t ask too many questions, I thought. It all made me nervous
enough as it was. I would wait for him to volunteer any information.

As we drove to Mrs. Brittany’s villa, he pointed out the famous beaches of Nice. The
hotels along the
promenade had sections with lounges and umbrellas across from them. Every part of
it looked crowded. There were streams of people walking along the promenade. Motorboats
pulled water skiers and the more adventurous tourists who wanted to ride the parachutes.
There was a luxury ocean liner crossing the sea for some destination Norbert said
was probably in Italy, maybe Sicily. When we passed the port of Nice, I saw very large
private yachts. He recognized some owned by Arabian princes and major industrialists
and described what they were like inside, how many people had to be employed, and
how expensive they were to operate.

All around us, young and even middle-aged people wove in and out of traffic with their
motor scooters, almost all of them carrying two passengers. The risks they took to
edge past other vehicles were sometimes shocking.

“Grandmothers ride them, too, and are just as reckless, if not more so,” he said,
smiling when I commented on the close calls.

The hustle and bustle made it seem as if I had been dropped into a great ongoing celebration.
The wealth I saw not only in the yachts but also in the villas and grand hotels he
pointed out made it all seem surreal. It wasn’t that long ago that I was sleeping
in a slum and witnessing filth and poverty all around me. Now here I was in the playland
of the rich and famous. From what Norbert had told me, a day’s operating expenses
on one of those luxurious yachts could support a dozen homeless people for a year.
It
seemed unfair, even callous, that so few could live so well while so many suffered,
but when I asked myself where I would rather be, there was no doubt in my mind.

Everywhere along the ride, we had breathtaking views of the sea. I especially enjoyed
looking out on the bay of Villefranche-sur-Mer with Cap Ferrat on one side, a peninsula
Norbert described as particularly the home of the super-rich. He rattled off the names
of famous celebrities, fashion designers, and Middle Eastern monarchs who had private
villas there.

Not long after that, we entered the small French village of Beaulieu-sur-Mer, and
after passing through the main part of town, we veered off to the right and wound
our way down to Mrs. Brittany’s villa. There was a private gated entrance, but the
property itself, although beautifully maintained, was not even one-twentieth the size
of Mrs. Brittany’s estate on Long Island. Nevertheless, the landscaping was lush,
with its small palm trees, beautiful red and white bougainvillea, and rosebushes.
I saw the swimming pool off to the right as we came to a stop at one side of the villa
itself.

“Mrs. Brittany bought this nearly twenty years ago,” Norbert explained, “and just
recently had it refurbished and modernized. She didn’t change a thing about the outside,
but she redid the floors and updated every appliance. There are only three bedrooms,
but each has a loggia facing the sea. There is a small guesthouse off the right side.
Ian and Margery Dance live
there. They are the caretakers. Margery is your cook. They are lovely people from
London who have been with Mrs. Brittany almost from the very beginning here. They
speak fluent French, but they’ll be pleased to speak English, although British English
sometimes seems like a totally different language from American.”

As if they had heard themselves being introduced, they appeared to help with my luggage.
Ian was short and a little stout, with a robust jolly face that needed only a white
beard to have him play Santa Claus. His wife was a little taller, leaner, with hair
a shade grayer than his. She wore it pinned up, but it looked as if when it was down,
it would reach the middle of her back. They were both all smiles.

“They’re happy to have someone to care for,” Norbert whispered. “Margery will tell
you that an empty house invites ghosts.”

He stepped out and reached in to help me emerge.

“
Bonjour
, Ian, Margery,” he cried when I stepped out. They hurried over. “This is Mademoiselle
Roxy Wilcox. She can speak French, too,” he added, as if he wanted to warn them not
to say something behind my back in French.

“Welcome, dear,” Margery said.

“
Bienvenue
,” Ian said. “We’ve been here so long, we drift in and out of languages. Margery says
she’s dreaming in French these days.”

“Oh, I did not. He’s Mr. Exaggerator,” she declared. “A pound’s never quite a pound
if not a pound and a half. And don’t listen to his weather predictions, either. It’s
never going to rain, according to him.”

“You ignore the devil, and he gets bored and goes away,” Ian said in self-defense.

“Oh, don’t start talking your nonsense, Mr. Dance. Let’s get her things into the house.”

“Yes, sir, Madame Dance,” he replied.

“I’ll give her the tour,” Norbert said, and reached for my hand.

Was there a difference between the way a man held a woman’s hand and the way a father
held his daughter’s hand? Was it even something any woman could sense? When Norbert
took my hand, I didn’t feel anything other than that he wanted to lead me into the
house. In fact, I didn’t think he held me firmly enough to keep my hand from slipping
out of his unless I held his tighter.

I didn’t see any wedding ring on his finger, but of course, he could have a girlfriend,
maybe even be engaged. Or maybe women weren’t his choice. What I didn’t want to do
was start asking him personal questions and give him the impression that I was interested
in him. Despite his good looks, I was still too much in a daze to think about anything
romantic. Everything had happened so fast and continued to happen fast.

He took me around front so we could enter the villa by going up the stone steps, pausing
at the front balcony, where we had an unobstructed view of the Mediterranean. There
were two chaise longues and a table with six chairs. The table had an umbrella. Sprinkled
across the vista were sailboats, motorboats, and that luxury liner we had seen in
Nice moving slowly against the horizon. Now it looked still, more like a
piece on a movie set. In fact, I had arrived so fast and it all looked so unreal I
felt as if I really had wandered into a movie.

“There is a path that leads down to the shore,” Norbert said, “where there is a small
dock and where Mrs. Brittany’s boat is usually kept, but it’s being serviced at the
moment.”

“Beautiful view,” I said.

“Yes, one of the best in this area. Well, let me show you the house.”

We entered the villa. It was simply furnished with traditional French country antiques,
and the tiled and wooden floors looked brand spanking new. Ian and Margery were carrying
my luggage up the short, slightly winding stairway.

“Downstairs you have the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, an exercise room,
and the downstairs bathroom,” Norbert catalogued as he led me about.

The living and dining rooms were bright and airy, and the kitchen looked updated,
with beige granite counters. The exercise room had some weight equipment, a treadmill,
a large ball like the one Lance had shown me how to use, and a stationary bike.

“The three bedrooms are upstairs. You’ll have the guest bedroom on the right. Mrs.
Brittany’s room is in the middle, and there is a second guest bedroom on the left.
All have en suite bathrooms.”

“It’s very nice,” I said, gazing at the paintings of French villages and countryside
scattered on every available wall.

“Comfortable, cozy,” he said. “The pool is right out those sliding doors, where you
will find a patio, chairs and chaise longues, and umbrellas. Mrs. Brittany wanted
me to give you a day or so to settle in and then come around and take you perhaps
up to Èze first. It’s a small village with cobblestone walks, shops, and restaurants.
At the top is a garden, and the views are spectacular. We can have a nice lunch there.

“Next week, there is a concert at the Auditorium Rainier III in Monte Carlo. The Saint
Petersburg Philharmonic will be performing. Mrs. Brittany says you shouldn’t miss
it.”

“
Merci
,” I said. “Then I won’t.”

“Let me show you to your suite,” he said, and indicated that I should go first to
the stairway.

Margery was putting away my things. Ian was hanging up my clothes. It was half the
size of my suite at the estate but elegantly appointed, with patio doors that opened
to a private balcony. The bed was king-size but without a canopy or posts.

“It’s very beautiful,” I said, and walked onto the patio. Norbert followed and stood
just behind me as I looked out at the sea. “It will be easy to relax here,” I said,
mostly to myself.

“I’m sure. You are from New York?”

“Yes,” I said, turning to him. “Were you born in France?”

“Yes, Normandy. My parents moved to Monte Carlo when I was just twelve. Since I resided
in Monaco for more than ten years, I was able to apply for citizenship, but I wasn’t
approved until I began to
work for the royal family, so that is another reason I am grateful to my godmother.”

“Mrs. Brittany does have influence in many places,” I said.

“I don’t think she subscribes to the philosophy of ‘It doesn’t matter what you know
but who you know,’ however,” he said. “She still wants to see people earn what they
get.”

“As we say in the States, you have to make your bones with Mrs. Brittany.”

“ ‘Make your bones,’ ” he repeated, smiling. “I like that. Is there anything I can
get for you, do for you, at the moment?” he asked.

“I think I’m pretty much set,” I said. “
Merci
.”

“You shouldn’t eat your first dinner alone here,” he said. “With your permission,
I’ll return with someone to join you.”

“
Absolument, s’il vous plaît
,” I said. He was right. I didn’t want to be left alone so quickly.

“I’ll inform Margery,” he said. “She’s a very good cook. I’d advise you to get some
rest. Jet lag can be sneaky.” He started to leave the room and paused. “You’re sure
you’re up to company? We can wait until tomorrow night. It was a long journey for
you.”

“I’m fine. I did sleep some on the plane. Besides, I don’t know what time it is, and
I have a feeling I don’t want to know,” I said.

He laughed, made a slight bow, and went to tell Margery about dinner. I sat in the
chair next to the small table and just looked out at the sea. I couldn’t help but
feel like a fugitive. People were looking for
me now, and I had fled. I was hiding out. Not once during the meeting with Mrs. Brittany
and Mrs. Pratt or during my trip over here had I asked myself why I wasn’t returning
to my family. It was clear from what was happening that even if for only a short time,
Papa was sorry and wanted me found and brought home. Perhaps, with the way I felt
about myself now, I could have returned and gotten along with him. I might even have
done so well in school that I could think of going to college. In short, I could have
my family back. I did think of Emmie often. It would have been nice to be her big
sister again, but this time for real. Being with Sheena had brought that thought home
to me. Perhaps I was too quick in rejecting Mrs. Brittany’s offer to turn me out and
give me that kill fee so I could return to my family.

All the work I was doing, having my days so full, and developing my relationship with
Sheena had pretty much kept me from even dreaming of a reconciliation with my father,
but now that I was thousands of miles away, alone with nothing to do but amuse myself,
I had time to reconsider my choices and actions. I didn’t want this idle time. I hated
even thinking of regrets, but the thoughts and feelings I had successfully kept dormant
were sprouting around me like weeds determined to crowd out any bright flowers of
hope and happiness.

“Excuse me,” Margery said. She was standing in the patio doorway smiling sweetly.
“Would you like a cup of tea, a cold drink, a glass of wine, or something to eat?”

“Maybe a glass of white wine,” I said. “I’ll come down.” I started to rise.

“Oh, no need. I can bring it up here if you like. You might want to relax and maybe
take a nap. No matter how easy it was, it was still a long journey.”

“Yes,” I said, feeling tired now. “You might be right. Thank you, Margery.”

“
De rien
,” she said, and than laughed at herself. “Oh, for a moment, I forgot that you speak
English, too. Better start doing that before I can no longer converse with my relatives.”

She hurried off. I sat again.
Converse with your relatives,
I thought. Would I ever do that again? However, I didn’t miss that when I was living
at home. Why should I miss it now? And yet I wondered if I was going to have a great
empty place in my life, no matter how many luxurious and wonderful things I filled
it with.

Below, Margery had put on the radio. I heard a familiar French song and fell into
a melancholy, remembering my mother humming “La Vie en Rose” to herself and then,
when I was younger, singing an old French nursery rhyme to me as she did her housework
and I smeared finger paints over a canvas. My father used to say I was taking out
my aggression with those distorted images.