Page 44 of The Treasure House

“And I’ll tell them you’re a midnight molester.”

He ignored that. “But if you behave yourself like a perfect angel, you’ll have a good day, and no one will know you’re an extortionist. Or that I was a misguided romantic.”

“You mean molester.”

He gave her a spiky look. “One day only.”

“Including the dance. You remember that when they try and leave me at home tonight.”

“They’re not going to leave you at home. You really are the sourest kid.”

“I’m not. I’m just sick of being left out. If I’m included, I’m sweet as pie.”

“Sure, you are, pixie stick.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“I’ll stop calling you that when you stop calling me a molester.”

The whole house was in a flutter in the lead-up to Saturday. Dresses were pressed, shoes were shined, hair was set. Even the boys fancied themselves up. Marly could barely get into the bathroom to wash her face.

Priscilla was acting like she was the first lady or something. She was all haughty and hostessy, as if she owned the resort. For Pete’s sake, she’d only ever been there once before.

“It’s such a shame he doesn’t have brothers.” Sylvie sighed. She was wearing her pink gingham sundress and looking pretty as a picture. Marly caught Priscilla eyeing Sylvie with a touch of concern. But Cilla didn’t need to worry, she was striking in her green and white polka dots.

Marly thought they were idiots wearing fancy dresses when there was canoeing and tennis on offer. Personally, she’d opted for pedal pushers and a striped boat-necked shirt. There was no way she was missing out on the fun just to look fancy.

“Oh, Marly, put a skirt on at least!” Mom scolded. “It’s Saint-Cyr.”

“I know it’s Saint-Cyr. I want to go out in a canoe.”

Mom didn’t put up much of a fight. She was too excited, and who really cared what a kid wore? “Fine,” she said, sighing, “but put your hair up, will you? You look like a scarecrow.”

Mom herself had set her hair and was in her best suit, with its tight knee-length skirt, her white gloves immaculate and a silly little hat perched on her bouffant hair. Aunt Bet was also in a suit, looking hot and uncomfortable in her blazer and pumps.

They went in Mom’s wagon, even though the resort was all of two minutes away, because all the women were wearing stupid shoes and couldn’t walk down the hill. Marly was stuck between Sylvie and Priscilla’s poufy skirts while her brothers were crammed in the back of the station wagon, acting like a pack of wild dogs. Marly wished they could have just walked. It was a pretty walk down to the coast through the woods.

They passed the sign with its curly Welcome to Saint-Cyr greeting and the gravel driveway crunched under the wheels as Mom nervously drove them down to where the valet waited. And he was wearing a little jacket with shiny buttons, just like Aunt Bet had promised. The buttons were as big as half dollars and winked in the sun.

“What do you think I should tip him?” Mom whispered hurriedly to Aunt Betty.

Freddie de Marche was loitering on the porch of the hotel, waiting for them. He was in loose cords and a short-sleeved knit shirt, nowhere near as dressed up as Marly’s folks were, but far more elegant looking. His pale blue eyes were masked by a glamorous pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses, and he was smiling like a politician gearing up to kiss some babies.

“Good morning,” he welcomed them lazily. Everything about him had a lazy air. Marly wondered if all rich people were that languid. Maybe they didn’t drink enough coffee. Or they slept too much. Freddie had expensive-looking teeth, Marly thought, like he got them cleaned by a dentist every morning. “I’ve organized a table on the patio, if you’d like breakfast?”

“Oh, we’ve already had breakfast,” Aunt Betty said in a weird, breathy kind of voice.

“Mother, he’s organized a table,” Priscilla prodded.

“Perhaps coffee if no one’s hungry?” Freddie suggested. “The coffee here is excellent.”

“I’m hungry,” Marly volunteered. She wanted to know what fancy people ate for breakfast. She doubted it was shredded wheat, like her mom forced her to eat.

“I’m sure the boys are hungry. They’re always hungry,” Mom twittered. They followed Freddie de Marche as he led them through the foyer, leaving Marly to bring up the rear.

Saint-Cyr itself was everything Marly could have hoped for. It was what Mom would call perfectly exquisite. That was what she said when things were rich-looking. The foyer was polished black-and-white tile, with a staircase that split in two like the one in Gone with the Wind, and there were tall palms everywhere in copper tubs, and a giant vase of red and white gladiolus on the desk. The place smelled like lemony furniture polish and the ocean. Marly’s tennis shoes made a squeaking noise as she walked. That’s what happened when you waxed your floors too much—things got squeaky.

They passed through the French doors out onto the back porch, which apparently was the “patio” even though it didn’t look anything like a patio. It was actually just a deep veranda with white wicker furniture. Freddie led them to a long table under the awnings with a perfect view down to the bay.