Breathless(3)

A soft knock on the open door broke her reverie and she looked up to see her aunt Eddy standing on the threshold. Like her nieces, Eddy Carmichael Fontaine was a dark-skinned, dark-eyed beauty and she wore her forty-plus years well.

Portia asked, “So are you ready for your grand affair?”

“I suppose. You know how much I dislike all this fuss. I would’ve been content to celebrate with a nice quiet supper, maybe a few musicians and a cake, but your uncle loves fanfare.”

“So you tolerate it.”

“Barely, but only because I love him so much.”

“Regan was spying on you two in the gazebo. Says she wants the kind of love you and Uncle Rhine share.”

“That’s not a bad goal. Although it took me a while to see it.”

Portia knew that when Aunt Eddy and Uncle Rhine first met, he’d still been passing as a White man. Eddy hadn’t wanted to fall in love with him because of the societal dangers tied to such unions. “But you did.”

“Yes, and sometimes, like with this anniversary business, I have to remind myself of that because only for him would I endure the torture of being fitted for a new gown.”

Portia never failed to be amused by her aunt’s aversion to dressmakers. “You have armoires stuffed with gowns yet you always say that.”

“Because it’s the truth. All the pin sticks, measurements, and having to stand still.” She waved a hand dismissively. “A woman should be able to go into a dress shop, find something to her liking and leave with it.”

“You can.” Ready-to-wear gowns were becoming quite popular.

“But they all seem to be made for someone taller and they’re never the right color. It’s as maddening as the fittings.” She sighed with exasperation and asked, “Is everything ready for the dinner tonight?”

“Yes, so no harassing the staff about what’s being done or not being done.” Her aunt and uncle had run the hotel as a team since its founding, but now Portia mostly held the reins. Although Eddy refused to relinquish control of the hotel’s kitchen, Portia had relieved her of all duties related to the preparation of the anniversary dinner. She’d initially balked of course, then reluctantly agreed.

“Is Janie still baking the cake? Does she have enough eggs, flour?”

“Aunt Eddy,” Portia chided. “Everything is being taken care of.”

“But I feel so useless.”

“I understand, but you aren’t allowed to do anything except get gussied up and enjoy the party.”

Eddy didn’t like it and it showed on her face. She finally sighed audibly in surrender. “Okay, I suppose.”

Portia almost felt sorry for her. Almost. Her aunt was the hardest-working woman she’d ever met and one of the reasons for the hotel’s great success. Not being able to direct this event was threatening to send her around the bend. “If you want to do something, you can go over to the Wilson place and check on your centerpieces.”

“I get to pick the flowers? Oh, be still my heart.”

Portia laughed. “Or I could send Regan.”

“Lord, no. She’d stick a bunch of saguaro on a plate and call it done. I’ll go.”

“Good.”

There was silence for a moment as they viewed each other, and then Eddy asked, “Have I told you how proud I am of all you’ve grown up to be?”

Emotion filled Portia’s throat. “Numerous times.”

“I’m glad Corinne sent you and Regan to me.”

“As are we.” Had she not, both Portia and Regan would’ve had their virginity sold for a pittance and grown to adulthood with little knowledge of the world beyond the walls of their mother’s shack. They most certainly wouldn’t have attended Oberlin to complete their education, nor would Portia have been given the opportunity to hone her bookkeeping skills at the San Francisco bank owned by Uncle Rhine’s half-brother, Andrew. Portia was grateful every day for being given a home by Eddy and Rhine.

“I’ll ride over and check on the flowers in a bit,” her aunt said.

“Okay, and no worrying allowed.”

With a roll of her eyes, Aunt Eddy departed.

By late afternoon, Portia was done with her ledgers. Realizing she’d missed lunch, she pushed her chair back from the desk and left the office for the kitchen. The hotel was spread out over five, white adobe, one-story buildings with red tiled roofs. One housed staff and the business offices. The others held guest rooms, the family quarters, dining spaces, and kitchens. All the buildings were connected by covered breezeways. As she stepped out into the sunshine to walk to the kitchen she was brought up short by the unexpected sight of a brown-skinned cowboy seated on the broad back of a beautiful blue roan stallion. She couldn’t make out the man’s features beneath the black felt hat, so shading her eyes against the bright sunlight, she asked, “May I help you?”

He pushed back the hat. “Is this the Fontaine place?”

“It is.”

For a moment he didn’t say anything else, simply stared down at her from his perch before fluidly dismounting to stand facing her. “Hello, Duchess.”

Portia froze. She scanned the unshaven features, trying to place him. Duchess? Only one person had ever called her that. Suddenly recognition solved the mystery. “Kent Randolph?”