Free Family Storms by V.C. Andrews Page B

garage. That’s where Mrs. Duval and her husband, Alberto, live. There’s another maid’s apartment for Mrs. Caro at the rear of the house. Everyone else comes to work from his or her own home. We have another entrance for servants and deliveries at the west end of the property.
    â€œThere are security cameras everywhere. Donald loves his toys. He has a movie theater in the house, with the most up-to-date equipment. There’s a full gym and a small indoor swimming pool, which will come in handy for your therapy, I bet. The house has an intercom system, of course. Just think of all the fun you’ll have discovering new things in it when you’re up and about.”
    As we drew closer, I looked out at the beautiful gardens and fountains, the statues and benches, the rolling lawns and trees. No wonder so many people had to work there, I thought. There was so much to take care of. How could anyone be so rich?
    As soon as we pulled up to the front, a short, stout, dark-brown-haired woman came rushing out. She wore a dark blue one-piece dress with a skirt that flapped about her ankles as she hurried down the stairs. Her hair was clipped into a tight bun. Right behind her was a tall,gray-haired man with a dark brown mustache sprinkled with gray hairs. He wore a plaid shirt and jeans.
    â€œThat’s Mrs. Duval and her husband, Alberto,” Mrs. March told me.
    Grover got out quickly and opened Mrs. March’s door. He went around to get my wheelchair and my things, some of which he handed to Mrs. Duval. He and Alberto unfolded the wheelchair and brought it to my door.
    â€œCareful with her,” Mrs. March told them.
    Grover looked for a graceful way to get me out and then simply decided to put his right arm under me and embrace me with his left. He lifted me out easily and gently lowered me to the wheelchair that Alberto held.
    â€œThis is Sasha,” Mrs. March said.
    â€œ
Hola,
Sasha,” Mrs. Duval said. “Hello and welcome.”
    â€œ
Sí,
welcome,” Alberto said.
    He and Grover lifted me and the chair and carried me up the stone steps to the entrance. Mrs. Duval and Mrs. March followed us. At the grand door, they waited for her instructions.
    â€œTake her in and to the elevator,” Mrs. March told them. “We’re bringing her right up to her suite.”
    Elevator? Suite?
Had I heard right? This did sound more like a hotel than a house.
    They hurried to do so.
    The entryway had a floor of golden marble, and there were small statues of ivory-white angels in niches on both sides of the darker marble walls. Above us was a large chandelier shaped like an opened hand, and ahead of us was a curved stairway with steps that matched the marble in theentrance. The banister was made of marble, too. Every-where I looked, I saw paintings and tapestries on the walls and pedestals with small statues.
    Alberto wheeled me to the right, but before we went too far, a smaller, younger-looking lady with a pillbox chef’s cap came hurrying down the long hallway. She didn’t look much taller than five foot one or two, and her apron’s hem was down to her ankles, making it look as if it was meant for a much taller person.
    â€œThis is Mrs. Caro,” Mrs. March announced before she reached us. “Mrs. Caro, meet Sasha.”
    â€œHello, dear,” Mrs. Caro said in an accent I recognized as Irish only because Daddy had an Irish friend he had brought around from time to time. “My, what a pretty little girl,” she told Mrs. March. “I’m fixing a nice lunch for you, dear.”
    â€œWe’ll let you know when she’s settled in, Mrs. Caro. For today and perhaps tomorrow, we’ll let her rest. Then we’ll see about taking her out.”
    â€œOh, of course, Mrs. March. I’ll prepare some fresh lemonade,” she said, and then asked, “You like lemonade?”
    â€œYes, thank you.”
    She smiled as if she rarely heard those