Page 27 of Scarlett and the Big Bad Billionaire
The woman didn’t seem to notice my nervous stammer. “Come in please. Welcome to Indigo Point. I’m Stephanie Felman, the housekeeper. Mrs. Hood is expecting you. She’s in the informal parlor.”
Of course she is.
As if a house with a name like Indigo Point could have any less thantwoparlors. As I followed Ms. Feldman through the gleaming corridors and up a staircase so dramatic it put Jay Gatsby to shame, the nerves in my belly danced like a 1920’s flapper from his era.
No wonder the Hood family had considered my mother beneath them. You’d have to be a Vanderbilt or Rockefellernotto be.
Mom was a simple woman from a firmly middle-class family in Anoka, Minnesota. Her dad had been a farmer, and her mom had worked in a sock factory. Though she’d graduated high school and gone to one year of college, my mother wasn’t what anyone would consider “sophisticated.”
To my father’s apparently wealthy society family, she must have seemed barely qualified to be the help, much less a suitable wife for the heir to a massive family fortune.
Mom had told me my father had come from “means”, but I’d pictured a nice four-bedroom house with a pool. Maybe she hadn’t known the extent of it.
Dad had certainly never mentioned to me that he’d grown up extremely wealthy. In fact, I remembered him speaking of rich people in disdainful tones.
This is bound to be a short visit.
My skin crawled in dread as I pictured the haughty look that would overtake my blue-blooded grandmother’s face when she met me. She’d probably be dripping in jewels and sitting in some kind of fancy gold-plated chair like a queen on her throne.
Stephanie finally stopped at one of the doors along an impossibly long hallway.
“Here we go,” she said and opened it. “Have a nice visit. I’ll bring along some refreshments for you two in a while.”
“Well, I may not be staying that long…”
My protest died off as I got a look inside the room. It was bright and cluttered—and noisy. A big screen TV on one wall showed a fit young blonde woman doing squats and chirping, “You can do it! Just four more,” in a cheery tone. Her teeth were so white they were almost blinding.
In the middle of the room, a tiny woman in 1980’s style workout clothing—spandex bodysuit, sneakers, and legwarmers—squatted along with the video.
Well, they weren’t full squats, but she bent her knees, moving slightly up and down as she pumped her arms over her head then out to the sides. The dumbbells she held were hot pink and labeled as one-pound weights.
For a minute I just stood there, paralyzed by shock and uncertainty. Judging from the white hair and thin, shrunken frame, the woman was at least in her mid-eighties if not her nineties.
I wasn’t sure what to do. If I spoke up and surprised her while she was already exerting herself, I might give her a heart attack.
She must have seen my reflection in the television because she whirled around and dropped her weights to the floor with a thunk.
“Scarlett,” she exclaimed, looking delighted.
“Hi. I’m sorry to disturb your exercise.”
Mrs. Hood started moving toward me, waving one hand in front of her as if swatting away a gnat.
“Not to worry. I was just trying to squeeze in my Denise Austin before you got here. I would have skipped a day, but Gray says it’s important to keep moving every day if I want to maintain my flexibility. I’m working on building some muscle so I can go out and stroll on the Bluff Walk like I used to. He also has me doing art therapy. Gray says it’s good for dexterity and peace of mind.”
Gray.The man who’d written to me.
He must have been her new “gentleman friend” or maybe some kind of caretaker—a doctor or physical therapist or something. I knew he wasn’t her husband because the information I’d gotten from Viridian indicated Mr. Hood had passed away about a year ago.
When my grandmother reached me, I stuck out my hand for a handshake. She moved right past it, embracing me. I was so surprised all I could manage was a stiff hug and an awkward pat on her arm.
She pulled back, beaming. “Look at you—my how you’ve grown and changed. But I still see that sweet little girl in your face. You’re even more beautiful now.”
“Uh… thank you. I… like your house.” Well, that was lame, but I was in shock.
This was not the haughty grand dame I’d expected. This woman was more Golden Girls than Cruella DeVille. And when I looked into her face, recognition bloomed inside me.
She had changed a bit, but I did remember her—the sparkly, blue eyes, the beauty mark on her left cheek, the mischievous smile that suggested pajama parties and blanket forts and late-night cookie jar raids.
