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"I know," I said. "But times are changing, and we might have to change a little to survive."
Mr. Dorfman nodded and looked at me so intently, I had to ask him if something was wrong.
"No, not wrong," he replied. "I was just recalling what you were like the first time we met and how much you have matured since," he said, and then he immediately turned crimson. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"No, that's all right," I said. "I don't mind. I appreciate it, in fact. Thank you, Mr. Dorfman."
All of these thoughts and some of the changes excited Philip. He was ready to charge ahead and do anything, but I decided we had to be more cautious. I did tell him to do some studies, which, I was glad to see, kept him very busy.
One of the things that surprised me was how quickly Betty Ann adjusted to hotel life and how happy she was about it. She did prove to be a very good hostess, although a bit too formal for some of the older people at times. She never missed a dinner and was even at the dining room door to greet guests for breakfast. She began to dress more appealingly and went to the beautician in the hotel salon to get advice about her hair. They also helped her with her makeup. With a more flattering hairstyle and clothing that accentuated the good qualities of her figure, she did begin to appear more attractive.
Gradually we all fell into our routines. Mother continued to host her now-famous dinner parties and was very pleased when the four of us—Jimmy and myself, Philip and Betty Ann—could attend. Summer moved to fall and fall to winter without any major problems or incidents. And then, late one afternoon, Mrs. Boston called me at the office.
"I just want to check," she began.
"Check? Check what, Mrs. Boston?"
"That you did give Clara Sue permission to take Christie for a ride in the truck," she said.
"What? What truck?" I asked, sitting forward.
"Oh, dear," she said. "I wanted to call you immediately, but Miss Clara Sue insisted she had stopped at the hotel first and you had said it was all right."
"What are you talking about, Mrs. Boston? I haven't seen Clara Sue for some time. What truck?" Panic began building within me, but I fought it back. I wouldn't jump to conclusions. I wouldn't lose control. Not yet.
"She was with a man, a truck driver. They came to the house in one of those big trucks, and Miss Clara Sue marched around looking at your home. Then, on the way out, she asked Christie if she wanted to go for a ride in her friend's truck. I think she called him Skipper. He had tattoos all over his arms.
"Christie was timid about it until Miss Clara Sue said you told her she could take her for a ride. Then she scooped her up, and they left."
"My God," I gasped. "I'll be right there." I hung up and sent one of the bellhops to get Jimmy. He met me at the house, where I heard Mrs. Boston go through the whole story once more.
"What's going on?" Jimmy asked when he arrived, and I told him quickly.
"I can't believe she had the audacity to do something like this. She's gone too far this time. Who does she think she is?"
He asked Mrs. Boston for a description of the truck.
"A tractor trailer?" Jimmy asked, amazed. "That shouldn't be too hard to find. When I get my hands on the both of them . . ." he said threateningly, and he rushed out.
"Jimmy, wait!" I cried, but he wasn't going to hesitate.
"I'm so sorry, Dawn. I thought—"
"It's not your fault, Mrs. Boston. She lied to you. It's good that you had your doubts and called right away," I said, comforting her. As long as I comforted her I kept myself from getting hysterical.
Why would Clara Sue take Christie? What possible reason could she have? Where had they gone? Was this her way of getting back at me for throwing the truth about her real father into her face?
I phoned Mother and Bronson to see if Clara Sue had gone to Buella Woods.
"I didn't even know she was in the area," Bronson said. "She and Laura Sue had an argument last week about this new boyfriend. Laura's taking a nap. As soon as she wakes I'll tell her what's happened. Call us as soon as you learn anything, and if we hear from her, call you."
"Thank you, Bronson," I said.
"I'm sorry. She's getting to be a serious problem," he added before hanging up.
Afterward I sat with Mrs. Boston and waited to hear from Jimmy. More than an hour passed, and we heard nothing. Mrs. Boston made us both tea, and we sat staring out the window.
"Maybe you should phone the police," Mrs. Boston mused aloud. "And tell them . . . what happened."
