Page 61 of The Lost Heiress
“Ana?” Ransom asked, confused.
“Yes, Ana,” Bass said. “Saoirse told me the two of you hung back together at the hotel the other week in LA. Now, I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t admit that I’ve had my head turned by a pretty girl a time or two when I shouldn’t have. But take it from me: getting involvedwith a member of your household staff, someone under your own employment—things can get messy. Not to mention, if it were ever to get out, it’s not a good look. Especially in an election year. And especially with a girl like that.”
Ransom’s first impulse was to flatly deny the allegation—it wasn’t, after all, true—but something about Bass’s words struck a nerve. Ana’s face flashed in his mind, and for some reason he could not name, he felt immediately protective of her.
“‘A girl like that’?” Ransom repeated.
“Now don’t get defensive,” Bass said. “I’ve met Ana—she’s lovely. And very pretty. But you must think of her, er, background and how things look. Besides, what do you really know about her? Where’s she from?”
“San Bernardino,” Ransom said flatly.
“You know what I mean,” Bass said. He served the ball, harder this time. “Is she legal? Are her parents?”
“You cannot be serious,” Ransom said, not moving from where he stood or attempting to hit the ball as it whizzed past him.
Bass looked irritated. “I could say the same thing,” he said. “Come now, are we going to play or sit here bickering like a couple of housewives?”
Ransom reluctantly retrieved the ball and tossed it back to him over the net.
“What I’m saying is be careful, that’s all,” Bass said. “Have you at least looked into this girl? Into her family?”
Bass served the ball, and Ransom knocked it back across the court with equal gusto, hitting it toward the opposite end of the court so that Bass had to scurry to reach it. Bass was winded and grunted as he knocked the ball out of bounds.
“Ana’s shared a great deal about her family with me, actually,” Ransom said. “I know her father picked oranges. Her mother was a homemaker. She grew up with five brothers and sisters.”
“That is not what I meant, and you know it,” Bass said, growing increasingly angry, as if Ransom were teasing him.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you meant,” Ransom said.
“Come now, Ransom, be reasonable,” Bass said. “Think about what you’re doing. This is wanton recklessness, and you cannot afford it.”
“Uncle,” Ransom said. His blood was thrumming in his temples, but it had nothing to do with exercise. “I’m fully capable of making up my own mind when it comes to who I date, and if I want your counsel on the matter, I will ask for it. Until then, I expect you to keep your opinions on the matter where they belong: to yourself.”
Bass was seething and red in the face. Still, he held up his hands and bit his tongue. “Have it your way, then,” Bass said, as if he were washing his hands of the matter. “But remember this: even wise men can be fools in love.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
June 1958
The morning after Astrid and RJ’s wedding, they flew to Rome. Florence had never been on an airplane before, and she gripped the armrests on either side of her chair as they waited for the coach passengers to board. It did not seem logical to her that something as big and substantial as this plane, and all these people, and their luggage (Astrid alone had packed three suitcases), would all soon be airborne. Surely that defied the laws of physics.
“Can I get you something to drink before takeoff?” the stewardess asked.
Florence pressed her lips together and shook her head. She thought if she opened her mouth, she might throw up.
“She’ll have a glass of champagne,” Astrid said from across the aisle. “And so will I. And my husband.” Astrid placed her hand proprietarily on RJ’s arm. “We’re newlyweds, you know,” Astrid cooed. “We just got married last night at the Beverly Hills Hotel. There were over four hundred guests. I’d wanted to invite more, but it was rather last minute.”
“The mayor was there,” RJ said. “Tell her, darling. And Bing Crosby sang a duet.”
“Yes, with Marilyn Monroe,” Astrid said. “Everyone said the dress she was wearing was pale pink, but I thought it was very pale—almost white, which was very inconsiderate, and you cannot convince me otherwise that she didn’t know exactly what she was doing. Everyone knows it’s gauche to wear white to a wedding.”
“No one can hold a candle to you, darling, even Marilyn,” RJ assured her.
The stewardess expressed her congratulations to the couple and then scurried back up front to prepare their drinks. Florence couldn’t help but feel as though she was relieved to have an excuse to get away from them.
“Here,” Astrid said when the stewardess was gone. She leaned across the aisle and pressed a pill into Florence’s sweaty palm. “Take this with your champagne.”
“What is it?” Florence asked.
