Queen of the Trailer Park (Rosie Maldonne's World Book 1) by Alice Quinn Page A

needed. All mine.
    When it came to writing out the check, I thought we had run into a problem. Gaston hesitated. He took me to one side and said, “How are you going to tow it, Rosie, my dear?”
    “Well, they’ll bring it to my site, won’t they?”
    Just as I said that, a shiver went right through me, thinking about Michel’s dead body waiting for me back home.
    “That’s fine for now, sure. But what about later? What if you have to change sites? You need a car, my sweet.”
    “A car?”
    “Yes, a car.”
    “You mean wheels?”
    “Yes, if that’s what you want to call it. Wheels!”
    “Oh no, Gaston. Don’t start again. As soon as I say yes to one thing, you go ahead and add on something else. Buying me a ride just wouldn’t be worth it, I’m telling you.”
    “And why not, my darling?”
    “Because I don’t have a license, my darling.”
    He cracked up. “Oh! Is that all? Well, that’s something we can arrange right away.”
    “Oh really, my darling? And how’s that?”
    “Well, you take the test, Rose. Take the test!”
    He went over to the sales desk to sign the check. As we weren’t leasing, the sales guy was extremely suspicious of us and wanted to phone the bank.
    I glanced at my watch. It was getting close to lunchtime, and I had a meeting at Sélect. I wondered how I was going to manage to get rid of Gaston for a couple of hours without looking impolite.
    I realized that after what he’d just done—bought me a huge new home—that I couldn’t not have lunch with him. So that was that. That’s how you buy someone’s freedom. That’s where being nice gets you. You end up stuck. You think you’re doing a good deed. You think you’re doing someone a favor and boom. You’re not free to do what you want any longer. It creeps up on you. Nobody forced anyone to do anything here, did they? It’s just how it goes. Being polite. Returning a favor. Being grateful.
    The showroom guy told us that there were a few modifications left to make, but that the Ambassador would be ready on Monday.
    “What time would you like to pick it up?”
    It was then that Gaston showed how much business sense he had. Without paying an extra cent—well, at least I think not—he managed to arrange for the sales guy to not only drop off the new trailer next to the station, but to take away the old one to the scrapyard.
    Good work, Gaston.
    We drove back down to the city center. I asked him, my heart racing, if he wanted to come have lunch with me at Sélect.
    After all, that Ismène Jourdain could say whatever it was she had to say in front of Gaston. What difference would it make whether there were two of us there or just me?
    To my great relief, Gaston said he couldn’t make it. He had a meeting in Sweden.
    Well, well, well, this Gaston fella sure was something else.
    He’d be away for a few days, unfortunately. He was so sorry he had to leave me in the lurch like that. He’d call me on Sunday evening or Monday morning—as soon as he was back in town. And on that note, he dropped me off just in front of the coffeehouse.
    It was strange, but as soon as he left, I felt really alone. Orphaned. Abandoned. Defenseless.
    We soon get used to being looked after. I had to pull myself together, fast.
    I took a deep breath and opened the door to Sélect.

26
    When I walked in, everyone was gawking at me, each person’s mouth in a huge, round O.
    “What’s up? Do you want my autograph?”
    I immediately got what it was all about. They’d seen me step out of the Jag. It’s not every day we see rides like that in this neighborhood.
    “Who’s that guy?” asked Tony, a hint of jealousy in his voice.
    I still wanted to be able to come down here and sing on Saturdays, so I stuck with my story. “No one. It’s my uncle.”
    “An uncle?” asked Mimi. “Or a sugar daddy?”
    “Right.”
    “If you’re here to work, I don’t need anyone right now,” barked Tony.
    “Oh, come on! Stop sulking. It’s not my fault if