Porter Island Chapter Three (standard:action, 1381 words) [3/3] show all parts
Author: Brian Cross	Added: May 07 2024	Views/Reads: 298/142	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Betty McCloud is coaxed out of retirement to deal with an island of unruly inhabitants. It's her biggest assignment yet, and she's not getting any younger.

Chapter Three 

Not wanting to encounter Shonda Stapleton so early in the morning, a
time when she might actually explode, Betty took breakfast in her room, 
availing herself of the assortment laid out on the kitchen table. The 
itinerary for the day, she noted, had been included in a folder on a 
counter opposite the food. 

Nine am. Introduction with Mike Anthony. Ten am. Aptitude Test, mental.
Eleven am. Aptitude Test, physical. Twelve am. Lunch. Thirteen-thirty, 
Results, plus briefing if standards have been met. Fourteen-thirty, 
introduction to colleagues. 

Fine, Betty thought, all apart from the last bit. She'd had all the
introductions to Shonda Stapleton she could stomach, and they hadn't 
even left the building yet. 

So, rearing to go at Mike Anthony and establish what their roles really
were, Betty answered the tap on her door promptly at nine and followed 
the official to Anthony's office. 

“Betty ...” Anthony got to his feet and extended an arm across the desk
for a handshake, which Betty slapped away. 

“Cut the cordial crap, Mike, unless you want your arm ripped off,” Betty
bristled, a hand raking through her shoulder-length curly black hair. 

“Whoa, hold on, Betty, just cool down.” Anthony stepped back, an
appeasing hand held out. “I don't know what's got you in such a foul 
temper, but ...” 

“One word,” Betty hissed through gritted teeth, “Stapleton.” Anthony
shook his head, confused or at least acting that way. I thought you 
understood the outline I gave you.” 

“The outline, yes.” Betty moved around the desk, behind it now and
facing him. “But not the add-ons that Stapleton was implying from her 
little visit last night.” 

“Add-ons?” Anthony edged forward, tentatively resting a hand on Betty's
wide shoulder. “Look, there seems to have been some misunderstanding. 
Please, sit down, and I'll run through it again.” 

Betty glared at Anthony's hand on her shoulder and then at him, sneered
but backed off, throwing herself albeit reluctantly into the chair 
opposite him. Reaching across the desk, she clasped her hands together. 
“According to Stapleton, the roles are reversed. She's controlling the 
operation, and I'm her run-around—her lap dog in more ways than one.” 

“My, my.” Anthony leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers
beneath his chin. “Shonda's really got to you, hasn't she.” Not a 
question but a statement. “Look,” Anthony changed his pose, leaned 
forward, and locked his fingers together much the same as Betty. “You 
have control over the operation. Shonda knows in no way is she to 
interfere with your handling of it. You know as well as I do that she 
doesn't fit frontline ops. Her part is to be convincing as a heiress 
and to communicate with us about how the situation is progressing. 
You'll have enough on your plate without that. That's it ... that's all 
there is.” Anthony sat back and fixed his gaze firmly on Betty. “That, 
I suppose, is the part she's blown up. But I emphasize, no matter how 
she reads it, in no way does that put her in charge of the operation.” 

Anthony sighed, watching Betty closely for signs of her reaction. “You
should know Shonda well enough by now not to be goaded by her actions. 
You need to be careful not to let this boil over, and you'll have to 
stop calling her “Stapleton,” Mrs Stapleton or Madam will be your 
choices.” 

Betty lowered her head and glanced at Anthony from beneath her dark
brows. “Bugs me to admit it, but you're right. Bugs me, too, to have to 
concede to her gracious ways in public. She's bad enough under normal 
circumstances, let alone—” 

“Which is why she's ideal for the part of heiress ...” 



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