Madame Rosalind got to her lot and turned off the motor. She opened the door, and moved herself out, one fat leg after the other, a lurch and she was standing while the car seemingly lifted a little relieved of her weight.
She walked over to the passenger door after slamming hers shut, and carried the bags of groceries she’d got herself. “up now, down you go.”
Oscar looked at her, its large hazel eyes seemed to consider whether to obey before its legs swaggered clumsily. It stretched and meowed.
Madam Rosalind held the door open and the cat coggled at first, paw by paw, then it stopped looking down contemplatively. It landed silently on the ground, quite well, considering its age.
Oscar rubbed it’s back against Madam Rosalind’s leg, she giggled.
She closed the door straightened her pleated skirt and paused to consider the new car parked at the Principal’s lot, a new black Lexus jeep, she watched with neither jealousy nor gladness. To Mrs. Rosalind, this was another liability, on the principal’s salary mind you. She made a mental note to congratulate him at the next staff meeting. Just formality.
Mrs. Rosalind was raised so.
“come on. Oscar.” He called the cat who had gone behind a hedge of blooming well clipped jungle germanium to relieve itself. It came out with its black fur shimmering in the sun as it stretched again.
That gardener sure knows his work. The woman thought as she took in the whole view from the foot of palms, clipped grasses, around blooming oleander, cheerful pot marigold, a table top hedge of false olive that should be blooming with masses of white flowers swarming with insects.
It all gave the lawn an eclectic view. Madam Rosalind loved that.
Both cat and woman made their way to the wide patio.
The tired old cat curled on its bed the moment they got in. She served it plain yoghurt and robbed its shaggy head. It purred, then began to sip from its plate. She reached her CD player and punched the switch, Enya’s soft ethereal voice sang from the speakers as she walked to the kitchen to make lunch, humming along.
She had just washed pumpkin leaves and was about cutting them when her phone rang. She rinsed her hand and reached for it. It was a long call that involved calling figures and cashbooks references. It was her accountant at the plantation, asking for her consent to disburse money for maintenance of the machines. She had consented.
Madam Rosalind would make sure that those harvesters work overtime to meet the demands. Business was booming and she liked it so.
That evening she got bored, so she began cleaning up the portraits on the wall, heaven knows they’ve gathered dust in the two weeks of her absence.
This apartment was where her grandfather had once sat, drank and smoked. She looked at the painting of Sir Santiago, in black dove tail suit with a freemasonry apron strapped across his waist. She hummed as she cleaned—not because she really has any love for that poker faced man in that starched up stance that wielded the cane like a potential bayonet—it was the art, the history, and that was her specialty, her passion.
Madame Rosalind still looked forward to a day where this part of manor will be a historical center, not just some vacay living quarters, and that will of course earn more money to her coffers. That’s one of the reason she stressed that the integrity of the building be kept. She could only do so much as watch with hawk-eyes how the few staff members that lived here treated the facilities, and the porters too, who seem determined to hold the opinion that antiquated means valueless.
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SANTA MARIA HIGH (COMPLETED)
Paranormal...are you afraid of the dark? When Hope Mark lost her foster mother to cancer and had to move to a new school, she never thought much of SANTA MARIA HIGH. Other than the fact that the fact that the school was in the most beautiful Manor, with tall...
