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"Really? And who wishes to see Madame?" the butler asked. He spoke with his head pulled back a bit so that the underside of his nose was clearly visible. There was a small but distinct dimple at the tip. He had a nasal tone and tucked his lips in at the corners after he spoke.
"Jack Landry and his daughter, Gabriel," Daddy said.
"And I don't mean to be turned away," he added.
"Really? What is the nature of your visit, monsieur?"
"That's private."
"Really?"
"Yeah, really, really. You going to get her or am I going to get her?" Daddy asked.
The butler's eyes widened and those eyebrows were jerked even higher.
"One moment, please," he said, and closed the door.
"Snobby, rich. . . dirty . . ." Daddy mumbled. He looked around and nodded. "They think they own everything and everybody and can do whatever they please. Well, they ain't met Jack Landry head-on yet," he said.
"I think we should go home, Daddy," I said softly.
"Home? We ain't going nowhere till I get some satisfaction," he remarked. He shook the bells again. A moment later the butler opened the door, but this time standing beside him was Gladys Tate.
She looked formidable, towering, her shoulders back, her spine a steel rod. Her eyes were burning with indignation.
She looked like she had been interrupted doing something very important or was about to leave the house for an important appointment. She wore a polka-dot dark blue dress with a thin scarf. There was a matching polka-dot belt with a large bow at her waist.
This close up, confronting her, I realized how stunningly beautiful she was, but also how hard those slate-cold brown eyes could be. Steely faced, she stepped forward.
"How dare you have me summoned like this? What is it you want?" She threw me a glance, her mean look so sharp, I thought it could cut glass.
"I have business with you," Daddy said, undaunted.
"My husband handles the business."
"Not this business. This business is private," Dad
dy insisted.
"Really, monsieur, I don't think--"
"You're gonna hafta talk to me, madame, sooner or later. It be better sooner," Daddy said.
She shifted her eyes to me again. I could feel the curiosity twirling around in her brain, and her face softened.
"All right, Summers," she said to the butler. "I'll speak with these people." She said "people" as if we were lower than grasshoppers. "First room on the right," she ordered, and we entered the mansion.
I had never been inside a house this large and couldn't help but gape at everything: the mauve marble entryway, the great tapestries depicting grand plantation houses and grounds and Civil War scenes. Before us to the left was a square, polished mahogany stairway, and above us, from the high ceilings, dangled teardrop chandeliers with glittering brass necks. Beyond the entryway, the house seemed to go on forever. I saw pedestals with sculptures, and beside the tapestries, there was artwork covering every available space. It didn't look like a home so much as it looked like a government building or a museum.
We entered the room on the right. The first thing that caught my eye was the parasol roof. We stepped onto a rich beige carpet. The room had honey beige straw-cloth walls, blond beige woods, rosy beige leather on the French chairs.
Everything looked so clean and neat and new, I was afraid to touch anything. Gladys Tate stopped in the middle of the room and turned to Daddy. She ran her eyes from his head to his feet. He wore his old boots stained with mud. She looked like she was trying to decide where he could do the least damage. Finally she nodded at a small chair to the right.
"I'll give you five minutes," she said.
Daddy grunted and sat. He looked like he would bust the chair into pieces merely by leaning back. Gladys Tate sat on the settee, her back squarely against the cushion. She looked at me and then at Daddy.
"Well?"
