Brooke (3 page)

I shrugged. It was all a foreign language to me. He laughed.

“Pamela has about the same level of interest. She's one of those women who just want the machine to keep producing but don't care to know anything about the machine, which is all right,” he added quickly. “I handle that part of our lives, and she . . . well, she's beautiful and makes me look good. Know what I mean?” he said with a wink.

Again, I had no idea, so I just smiled.

“Pamela is convinced you're going to be just as beautiful as she is. You know, she really did almost make it to the Miss America pageant,” he said.

“Really?”

“Uh-huh. First, she was prom queen, homecoming queen, Miss Aluminum Siding, something like that. Then, she was Miss Chesapeake Bay and a finalist for Miss Delaware, which would have taken her to the pageant. She lost out to the daughter of a very wealthy racehorse owner. The old fix was in there, I imagine,” he said.

We stopped at the dining room. You had to have servants to eat a meal there, I thought. The oval dark cherry-wood table looked big enough to seat all the children in the orphanage, the administrators, cooks, custodians, and even some visitors. It had a dozen settings with goblets and wine glasses and more silverware than I saw in our whole cafeteria. There was a large matching hutch filled with glasses and dishes on one side and serving
tables, highback chairs, a wall mirror, and two chandeliers as well.

“Dinner and all formal meals are served here, of course,” Peter said with a sweep of his hand. “Pamela supervises everything in the house,” he explained. “Her parents sent her to a finishing school, what some people call a charm school. She knows all there is to know about etiquette. You'll learn a lot from her. I swear,” he said with a laugh, “she should have been born into royalty. She could live in that world. Our den or family room, as some refer to it,” he continued, stopping at the next door on our right.

The furniture was black leather, and the television looked as big as some movie theater screens. Red velvet drapes were opened to reveal the pool and the cabana through large panel windows. A whole section of the room had its walls devoted to pictures of Pamela. I was drawn to them.

“There she is!” Peter cried. “Winning beauty contests, representing companies, riding in parades, meeting celebrities and important politicians, modeling designer clothes, which is how I met her.”

I gaped. My new mother knew all these famous people?

Peter came to stand beside me. “Impressive, huh?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I got lucky when she fell in love with me. She's a constant surprise. Pamela has her own kind of rare beauty, and she knows what beauty can do and
cannot do,” he said, nodding at me. “You're going to learn a lot of information that's practical for an attractive female,” he promised. The way he spoke made it seem as if Pamela and now I, which I didn't believe for a moment, were citizens of a different country or part of a different species because of our looks. “She can be innocent and childlike when she has to and sharp, seductive, sophisticated, and keen when she has to, and she knows when to be which. Few women I know do, and that includes the brainy ones who work at my firm, the Ms. this and the Ms. thats,” he said with some bitterness.

He seemed to become aware that he was getting too serious and smiled.

“That's a state-of-the-art digital sound system,” he pointed out, “with Surround Sound. Few people have it, the technology is so new. Comfortable room, huh?”

I was listening with half an ear, part of me still awed at the luxuriousness in this overwhelming house. He continued the tour, showing me the two downstairs baths, servants' quarters, the kitchen, which looked big enough to handle a restaurant full of people, and the library, his office at home, which was dark and baronial with hundreds of leather-bound books.

“I'm afraid I'm unreasonable when it comes to my office. I don't permit anyone in here without me being present. Too many important documents and private papers,” he explained. I saw a machine rolling out printed matter. “I get things faxed
directly here sometimes. Well, now let's go upstairs and see your room.”

I returned with him to the stairway and began to ascend. We heard what sounded like opera coming from a set of closed double doors at the end of the hallway.

“Pamela likes to listen to operettas while she's in her boudoir.” When I made a face, he laughed. “You'll see.”

We stopped at a tall door, and he glanced at me with that impish glitter in his eyes just before he opened it. This time, I couldn't swallow back my gasp.

The room, my room, was four times the size of what my room had been at the orphanage, and my bed was big enough to be a trampoline! It had four light pink posts and a headboard with a long-stemmed rose embossed on it. There was a milk-white desk with drawers and across the room a long counter with mirrors and a vanity table. The table was covered with brushes, containers of makeup, eyeliner, tubes of lipstick, a hair dryer, and an ivory box full of barrettes and hair ties.

All of my new clothes were put away in the dressers and large walk-in closet, and still there was room for lots and lots more. In the closet were mirrors and even a small table and chair.

On both sides of the bed were large windows draped in white and pink gingham curtains. My room looked out on a view of the countryside, and in the distance I could see a small lake.

Peter opened a cabinet across from the bed to
show me a small television set. He then opened the bottom cabinet to reveal the sound system.

“We'll get you some music this weekend,” he promised. “Pamela already has the next few days planned out, and shopping is a large part of it. So?” he said, standing there with his hands on his hips. “Are you happy?”

I shook my head. Happy just wasn't a big enough word. I turned around and then touched things to be sure they were all really there and this wasn't a dream.

“This is my room?” I finally had to ask.

He laughed. “Of course. Why don't you rest and then shower or bathe and dress for dinner, our first together. Pamela has had something special prepared. She's determined to spoil you rotten. She says a beautiful woman has to be spoiled. She must be right. After all, who can deny I have spoiled her?” he said.

There was a knock on the door, and we turned to see Joline.

“Mrs. Thompson sent me to see if Miss Brooke would like me to run her bath now,” she said.

Miss Brooke? I thought.

“See,” Peter said, “how Pamela is always thinking ahead. Well?”

“Well what?” I asked.

“Would you like Joline to run your bath now?”

“Run my bath?”

“Get it ready for you?” Peter explained.

I gazed at the large, round tub in the sparkling
bathroom. What was so hard about getting a bath ready?

“I can do that,” I said.

“Of course you can,” he said, “but from now on, someone else will do it for you. It's what Pamela wants. She wants you to be just like her.”

Something nudged me deep down inside where all my dreams and secret thoughts were kept. It was like a tiny alarm. An alarm I didn't quite understand.

I gazed at my new clothes, my expensive watch, my whole new world, so much more privileged and safe than the orphanage.

What could possibly be the danger here?

W
hen Pamela had sent Joline to run my bath, she didn't mean simply to turn on the water. She instructed her on just how much of each of the bath powders and oils to mix as well. I stood by, watching her measure it all out with the precision of a chemist.

“What is all that?” I asked.

“These are things Mrs. Thompson says will keep your skin soft and silky and keep you from aging.”

“Aging? I don't think I have to worry about aging. I'm not even thirteen,” I said.

She smiled at me as if I had said something very stupid and then turned on the water. After that, she set out big fluffy bath towels and my robe and slippers.

“Is there anything else you need?” she asked me.

“No,” I said. I couldn't imagine anything else to ask for.

“Have a nice bath,” she said, and left.

Have a nice bath? I looked at the tub. At the orphanage, we usually took quick showers, and whenever we took a bath, that was in and out, too. Other people always needed to use the bathroom. What was I supposed to do in a bath except wash and get out?

I took off my clothes and folded my T-shirt over my jeans neatly, placing them on the counter by the sinks. Even though my clothes were old and worn, it seemed I should treat them special just because they were now here in a bathroom fit for a princess. I had two sinks! Why would one room have two sinks in its bathroom, and what was that bowl next to the toilet?

The rich marble tiles felt cool beneath my naked feet. I shut off the water. Bubbles had risen so high they threatened to spill over the edge of the tub. I stepped in and lowered myself gingerly. I don't know how she did it, but Joline got the water just right for me, not too hot, not too cold. It did feel good, and I had to laugh at myself reflected in the mirrors around the tub. There I was with only my head emerging from the small sea of bubbles.

Instead of a wash cloth, there was a sponge on a handle dangling from the shower rack. I ran it over my legs and sat back to rest my head against the soft, cushioned pillow attached to the bathtub. The soapy water snapped and crackled around me.

Could it be that fairy tales do come true? How much happier was Cinderella?

“There you are, a perfect fit,” Pamela said as she
came into my bathroom. She had her hair tied under a small towel and wore a long red silk bathrobe with Japanese letters drawn across the front. There was what looked like layers of thin mud over her cheeks and forehead. “How does it feel?”

“Very nice,” I said, trying not to stare at her.

“Joline put in a little too much bubble bath, I see, but that's all right. We were born to indulge ourselves, you and I. Your indulgence was put on hold for a while, but that's over,” she declared with the confidence of a queen. “Peter says you like your new home.”

“It's a palace,” I said.

She laughed. “Why not? We're a pair of princesses, aren't we? Don't you want to try the jets?”

“Jets?”

She bent down and pushed a brass button at the foot of the tub, and suddenly the water began to circulate madly, streams of it striking me in the legs and back. I screamed with delight, and she laughed. The bubbles grew bigger and bigger until I had to wipe them aside to see her standing there. She pressed the button again, and the jets stopped.

“I'll have to be sure to tell Joline she used too much bubble bath so she gets it right tomorrow night,” she said.

“Tomorrow night?” Was I to take a bath like this every night?

“Of course. You have to cleanse the pores of your skin every day and rid them of the poisons. These gels and powders,” she continued, pointing to the
bottles and containers Joline had used, “are chosen with expert care. I have one of the best dermatologists in the country advising me on skin care. You're not going to get any of those ugly blemishes teenagers get,” she vowed with such vengeance that my heart rose and fell. “Not my daughter, not the daughter of Pamela Thompson.”

She pushed aside some of the bubbles and studied my hair.

“There's a lot of work to be done,” she remarked as her fingers tested the strands. “Your hair feels like straw when it should feel like silk, and it needs to be thickened. I'll give you your first shampoo.” She went to the counter to choose one. “We'll start with this,” she decided. “Get your head wet.”

I dipped myself down until my head went under water and then came up into her waiting hands. She poured the shampoo over me and began to scrub it in. I felt the ends of her long fingernails scratch at my scalp. A few times she hurt me, but I didn't complain. When she was done, she told me to dunk under the water again. I was surprised when her hands followed and continued to massage my scalp under the water, keeping me there until my lungs began to burn. I came up with a gasp.

She turned on a shower head attached to a short hose and rinsed me off. Then she returned to the counter to choose a conditioner. She worked that in and told me to let it set for a while.

“I've never really spent so long washing my hair before,” I confessed. It seemed like a lot of work, anyway, and I couldn't imagine why it was important
that your hair feel like silk instead of straw, but I didn't say that.

“You've got to do it every day from now on. You should try not to miss a day, even if you're sick. Beauty like ours can never be taken for granted, Brooke. Did you ever hear of antitoxins?”

I shook my head.

“Toxins age you, but there are antitoxins to battle them and keep us from getting old too fast. I intend never to look my age, even if I have to fight it with plastic surgery. I know what you're thinking,” she said before I uttered a sound. “You're thinking I already have had plastic surgery, right?”