As she entered the foyer with Mitch at her heels, she was struck by the soaring ceiling with its exposed beams, the airy rattan furnishings interspersed with potted palms—and the sheer number of females. They were everywhere: draped over the rattan chairs, clustered around a prominently displayed bulletin board, flitting up and down the stairs. From somewhere in the distance came the tinny sounds of a radio playing “Anything Goes,” while the rhythmic thumping of footsteps overhead indicated that the next Ginger Rogers or Eleanor Powell hopeful was hard at work. “Good afternoon,” Frankie addressed the sea of feminine faces regarding her with frank curiosity. Or was it still morning in California? After all, she was on Pacific Standard Time now. A fine first impression that would make, if her future housemates thought she couldn’t even tell time! “I’m Frances Foster. I’d like to see somebody about a room.” A pert, freckle-faced redhead jerked a thumb in the direction of a carved double door at one end of the room.
