Portia and Mr. Whitehouse held their breath because I didn’t sound amused.
“You’ll have to forgive Mr. Farmingham, Roxy. He’s been around animals too long,” Mrs. Brittany said.
“Maybe because he’s in high finance,” I suggested, thinking about how my father described some of his clients.
There was a thick moment or two of silence, and then Decker Farmingham roared.
“I like this girl!” he cried. He pulled back and turned fully to me. “I’ll give you my test. If you could take nine hundred thousand euros or a million dollars tonight, which would you take?”
I saw Portia smile. She was confident that I would not know the answer, but she did not know my father was in finance.
“With the exchange rate as it is right now, I’d take euros, of course, but I wish you would have offered Norwegian kroner as well.”
His eyes widened. He turned to Mrs. Brittany. “How about I have a first go at this and take her to Nilo da Fonseca’s party in Rio in July?”
“She won’t be ready that soon,” Mrs. Brittany said.
“Oh, I—”
“You just made the point with racehorses, Decker. You don’t want to do anything prematurely, do you?” she asked, her eyes like cold steel. “I think I know best when one of my girls is ready and when she is not.”
He nodded and put up his hands. “Who am I to challenge success?” he said. “Well, do keep me in mind when she is ready.” He smiled at me, and we all began to eat our salad.
I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, watching every bite I took, how I used my dinnerware, sipped my wine, used my napkin, and waited to swallow what I had in my mouth before I spoke. Before the main course was to be served, Randy brought out a bottle of red wine. I was surprised but happy to see that it was a familiar California pinot noir. My father used to tease my mother, comparing it to some of the better French pinot grapes in Burgundy. A California wine had won a major tasting contest against some of the best French wines, in fact.
Once again, I was given the task of approving the wine. It was as good as I recalled, and I said so. The main dish was a pork tenderloin with a reduction sauce. It was better than any I had eaten at home or at the finer restaurants Papa occasionally took us to in New York. Everyone thought it was delicious, and Gordon Leceister, Mrs. Brittany’s chef, was brought out to be congratulated. Mr. Farmingham threatened to steal him away.
“I’ll pay you twice as much as she pays you,” he told him.
Mrs. Brittany sat silently, looking forward.
Gordon glanced at her and smiled. “Yes, but I hardly have time to spend the money I make here,” he said.
“You practiced that response,” Decker Farmingham accused, pointing his forefinger. He turned to me. “What do you think, Roxy? Doesn’t it sound like they prepared for me? Rehearsed every answer?”
This was surely my lucky day. My mother’s favorite movie was Casablanca, probably because of all the French background and material in it. We had watched it together at least a dozen times. My father thought it was too soapy and romantic and usually read or left the room.
“I think he stole Sam the piano player’s line from Casablanca,” I said. “You know, when Signor Ferrari tries to steal him away from Rick’s Café.”
No one spoke.
Decker Farmingham stared at me a moment and then nodded. “S
he’s right,” he said. “I remember that now. If you don’t make it here, Roxy, you’ll come work for me in one capacity or another.”
“If she doesn’t make it here, you’ll forget you ever met her, Decker,” Mrs. Brittany said between clenched teeth. “It would be wrong to suggest anything otherwise and build her hopes.” Her angry reaction almost shook the chandeliers above us.
He took one look at her and raised his pudgy hands. “Just kidding, just kidding!” he cried. “Of course. Don’t send me to the gallows just yet.”
Portia and Mr. Whitehouse laughed, hoping to lift the heavy cloud off our discussion, but the look Mrs. Brittany gave me frightened me. Somehow I had displeased her by being too perfect at the dinner table. She had been upset with me before we entered the dining room. I understood that she still wasn’t happy that her granddaughter wanted to pal around with me. Now this had happened.
I began to wonder if I would last another day, and I began to consider what I would do with the five-thousand-dollar kill fee. I would have to wait a few more days for my eighteenth birthday, but after that, I wouldn’t have to come up with lies and excuses for why I was on my own. I’d have enough money to buy some decent clothes and go somewhere to start anew, maybe some college town where I could learn to work in a restaurant and perhaps take some GED courses and get my high school diploma. No matter what happened here, I told myself, I was determined that I was still going to be better off than I was two minutes before Mr. Bob looked across that restaurant and feasted his eyes on me.
After dinner, everyone but me was to go to the living room to have an after-dinner cordial. I was sent up to my suite to do some of the reading Professor Marx had assigned. Because of the little tiff at the dinner table between him and Mrs. Brittany, Mr. Farmingham said as formal a good-bye to me as he could manage, but I thought I saw him wink before he turned away. I was sure I would be a topic of conversation.
Portia walked out with me. “I’ll be going early in the morning,” she said. “You did well, much better than I did at my first dinner here. I wouldn’t worry too much about the looks Mrs. Brittany can give you from time to time. She’s foremost a good businesswoman. If she thinks you’ll earn money, she’ll overlook a lot more than she claims she would, but don’t test her too much just yet. You’ve got to, as they say, make your bones first.”
“Thanks for the advice. Will I ever see you again?”