Free Family Storms by V.C. Andrews Page A

hospital.
    â€œFourteen full-time,” she said. “There’s a lot to do. You’ll see.”
    Neither of us had mentioned her yet, but I didn’t see how I could go much farther without bringing her up. “What about Kiera?”
    â€œWhat about her?”
    â€œDoes she know about me?”
    â€œShe knows about you.”
    â€œBut does she know I’m coming to live in her house?”
    â€œIt’s not her house,” Mrs. March said quickly and sharply. Then she smiled and added, “Don’t worry about it.”
    â€œBut she knows?” I asked.
    â€œNot yet,” Mrs. March said. “Right now, I’m not concerned about what she thinks or how she feels about anything.”
    Her answer shocked me. How could such a thing be kept secret from her daughter? What sort of a family was this, anyway?
    Maybe Mama and I, even during the struggle, had been more of a family after all.
    It wouldn’t be long before I knew.

6
Castle
    N othing I had seen in magazines, on television, or in a movie had prepared me for what I was about to see. I had thought castles were only in Europe and only kings and queens lived like this. We turned off a main road, went down a side road, and began to climb a hill. As we climbed, I realized there were no houses along the way.
    Mrs. March sensed my curiosity. “All this land is ours,” she said, “on both sides. That’s why there are no other houses on the road.”
    Eventually, we reached what I could only describe as a hidden entrance to the road on which the Marches’ house was located. There were no signs, mailboxes, or anything, just tall, full pine trees on both sides, so that when anyone drove in, he or she couldn’t see the March house just yet.
    â€œThis isn’t a public road,” she said. “My husband built it, and we maintain it.”
    They own their own road? How can anyone own his own road?
I wondered.
    We came to a tall, solid, light orange wall at least ten or twelve feet high. Now, just over the wall, I could see the top of the house and what looked like a tower. Just looking at the wall ahead of us wouldn’t tell anyone it opened, but when Grover pressed a button by the sun visor above him, the wall began to part. It revealed a beautiful cobblestone driveway that curved upward toward what I could only call a storybook house.
    â€œIs it a castle?” I asked breathlessly.
    Mrs. March laughed. “Donald thinks so. He was determined to build something different, so he built what’s called a Richardsonian Romanesque house. It has the round-topped arches over the windows and entryway and masonry walls with a pattern of ruby and white. And yes,” she said, laughing again, “that tower makes it look like a castle, but Donald will tell you a man’s home is supposed to be his castle.”
    As we approached and we could see beyond the high bushes and trees, the house seemed to unfold to my right and to my left.
    â€œIt’s so big.”
    â€œIt might be the biggest house in Southern California, for all I know. I forget, but I think Donald said it’s ninety thousand square feet. There are three floors if we count the rooms in the tower. We’ve been here nearly twenty years, but I’m still furnishing it. I suppose it will never be finished, but that’s what makes it fun to go shopping here and in Europe. There’s furniture from all over the world. Persian and Turkish rugs, French chandeliers, cabinets from England, settees and chairs from Spain, tapestries from both Franceand Spain. You can understand why we need so many employees.”
    She pointed to her left as we drew closer. “Over there, you’ll find the swimming pool and the tennis courts. You can’t tell, but part of the house is our multicar garage. The garage entrances are all around the side, so it makes the house look much bigger. Of course, there is an apartment over the