He got in beside me. He was a George Clooney–handsome man but with an aristocratic air about him that made him seem untouchable. He was immaculately dressed, with hair so accurately cut I doubted there was a strand too long or too short.
“How is my godmother?” he asked.
“Mrs. Brittany is your godmother?”
“Mais oui. My mother and her late husband were cousins, but even if not, she would have been my godmother. When she lived in Europe, they were all very close. She was there for me after my mother passed away. I owe her a great deal. She was instrumental in my getting a good education and the position I hold now in the Principality of Monaco. I can never do enough to repay her, but I can’t say this assignment is any burden. I look forward to making you comfortable and looking after any of your needs.”
“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 wi
th 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.