Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [78]
“Who—”
The phone rang and Kate lifted her finger.
“Hello?” said a voice.
Lydia gazed in surprise at the telephone—of course, she was still holding the receiver.
“Hello?” she replied.
“Am I speaking to Mrs. Lancaster?”
The voice was deep and pleasant and totally unknown to her.
“Yes, this is Lydia Lancaster.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Lancaster. This is Fitzgerald Mc-Bain.”
“Mr. McBain! Good heavens … well, how nice.” Lydia was surprised. “Of course, we’ve come to know Morgan very well, he often drops in to see us.”
“He told me about that, Mrs. Lancaster, and I’d like to thank you and your family for your hospitality. It means a lot, when you travel as much as Morgan, to be rescued from the loneliness of hotels and restaurants and taken into someone’s home.”
“Not at all. And needless to say we were all terribly grateful for your help to Venetia and her sisters.”
Lydia glanced at Kate and Venetia’s expectant faces as they hovered at her shoulder. So this was the call, was it?
“Fitz McBain?” mouthed Kate.
Lydia nodded, listening.
“It’s Fitz!” Kate hugged Venetia excitedly. “He’s going to offer you the job personally!”
“I see. Yes, I’m quite sure she’d be safe with you. And, yes, Morgan is right, she’s a splendid cook—and an imaginative one. I’m quite sure you’d be pleased with her. That sounds remarkably generous. Yes, she would have my permission, Mr. McBain, but perhaps you’d better talk to Venetia yourself. Of course, thank you, that sounds wonderful. Good-bye, Mr. McBain.”
Lydia handed the receiver to Venetia. “Fitz McBain has called personally to offer you the job on his yacht for the rest of the season—if you want it.”
Venetia was smiling as she said, “Hello, Mr. McBain.”
“Venetia, I’ve been hearing about you long distance for some time. It seems that we are now to meet—that is, if you would like the job?” The deep voice had a relaxed, easy accent—American southern that had crossed international barriers somewhere along the way. It was attractive.
“It sounds too good to be true,” Venetia replied.
“Don’t you believe it. Work is still work, though you may find yourself with time on your hands now and again. I don’t manage to get down here as often as I’d like. Morgan suggested I call to overcome any idea you might have that this was a put-up job. You can take my word for it that it’s not. Our present chef has been offered a post in New York and he feels it’s important to his career to accept. I’m not one to hold any man back from his ambitions, and I’ve said he can go. So, will you come to us, Venetia?”
“I’d love to—and I promise to do my best. I am quite good.”
“Morgan tells me you are more than that, and so does Mrs. Lancaster, but we’ll see.”
“Mr. McBain …”
“Yes?”
“I wrote thanking you for all you did for me—us—when my mother died. I just wanted to say thank you again.”
“I have your letter, Venetia. I was happy to help. Now”—his voice became brisker—“let us know how soon you can be here and someone in my office will take care of the travel details. Good-bye, Venetia. My regards to your sisters.”
Venetia put down the receiver, turning to face Kate and Lydia, both gazing at her expectantly.
“What,” she said, beaming, “do you suppose the chef on a luxury yacht is expected to wear?”
12
Paris’s new models fluttered down the runway as vivid as a flock of tropical birds in the briefest little frocks—mere slivers of silk chemise cut dead straight to the hip with the shortest, flirtiest puffball skirts of ruffled tulle in magenta, fuchsia, shocking pink, violet, and sapphire. Paris had dreamed up the dresses yesterday afternoon, inspired by the whipcord bodies and eager youthful beauty of Berthe’s daughter Naomi and her dancer friends.
Berthe’s idea had turned out to be a brilliant one; not only had it saved her show, it had added a new physical dimension. Naomi was a dark, slender sprite with Oriental eyes and long legs who would look wonderful in a sack but looked stunning in Paris’s clothes. Her friends all had the quality of elegance that ballet