Petals on the Wind

by V. C. Andrews

  want every man who appeals to you, regardless of the

  consequences . . . but I would let you have whomever

  you wanted, as long as you always came back to me." "Christopher, you're jealous because I found

  someone to love before you did! And don't stand there

  and glare your icy blue eyes at me--for you've had

  plenty of affairs! I know you've slept with Yolanda

  Lange, and God knows how many others. And what

  did you tell them? You told them you loved them too!

  Well I don't love you now! I love Paul, and there's not

  one thing you can do to stop us from marrying each

  other!"

  He stood there, pale faced and quivering all

  over, and then he said in a hoarse whisper, "Yes there

  is. I could tell him about us . . . he wouldn't want you

  then." "You wouldn't tell him that. You're much too

  honorable, and besides, he already knows."

  For long, long moments we glared at each other

  . . . and then he ran from the room, slamming the door

  so hard behind him it put a long crack in the ceiling

  plaster.

  Only Carrie accompanied Paul and me to The

  Plantation House. "It's too bad Chris doesn't feel well.

  I hope he doesn't have the flu. . . . Everyone else does.

  '

  I didn't say anything, just sat and listened to

  Carrie chatter on and on about how much she loved

  Christmas and the way it made everything ordinary

  look so pretty.

  Paul slipped a two-carat diamond ring on my

  finger while a huge fire crackled the Yule log, and soft

  music played. I did my best to make it a joyous

  occasion, laughing, smiling, exchanging long,

  romantic looks while we sipped champagne and

  toasted each other and our long and happy future

  together. I danced with him under the giant crystal

  chandeliers and kept my eyes closed, picturing Chris

  home alone, sulking in his room and hating me. "We're going to be so happy, Paul," I whispered, standing on the toes of my high-heeled silver slippers. Yes, this was the way our life together would be. Easy. Sweet. Effortless. Just like the lilting, old-fashioned waltz we danced to. Because when you truly loved there were no problems that love couldn't

  overcome.

  Me. . . and my ideas.

  April's Fool

  . Drive. Dedication. Desire. Determination. The four D's of the ballet world we had to live by. If Madame Z. had been tough on us before Christmas, now she clamped down on us such a heavy schedule of practice all we did was work. She lectured on how perfect The Royal Ballet was, strictly classical--but we were to do everything in our own unique American way, classical

  . . but more beautiful and innovative. Julian was absolutely ruthless, even demonic. I began to really despise him! We were both wet with sweat and our hair hung in strings. My leotard was glued to my skin. Julian wore only a loin cloth. He yelled as if I were deaf, "Do it right this time, damn it! I don't want to be here all night!"

  "Stop yelling at me, Julian! I can hear perfectly well!"

  "Then do it right! First take three steps and then you kick, then jump for me to catch, and for God's sake this time lay back immediately! Don't stay upright and stiff, the moment I catch you fall backwards and go limp--if you can manage to do anything right or graceful today."

  That was my trouble. I didn't trust him now. I was afraid he was going to try to hurt me. "Julian, you yell at me as if I'm deliberately doing everything wrong!"

  "It seems to me you are! If you really wanted to do it right you could. All you have to do is take three steps, kick, then jump, and I lift and you fall back. Now see if you can get it right at least one time out of fifty tries!"

  "Do you think I like this? Look at my armpits," I said as I lifted my arms to show him. "See how raw they are, how you've rubbed the skin off? And tomorrow I'll be black and blue all over from the bruises you make with your hard grasps!"

  "Then do it right!" He raged not only with his voice, but with his jet eyes, and I was terribly afraid he was just waiting for the opportunity to let me fall--on purpose--for revenge. But I got up, and we did it again. And again I failed to fall back and fully trust him. This time he threw me to the floor where I lay panting, gasping, and wondering why the hell I kept this up.

  "You're gasping for breath?" he asked

  sarcastically, towering above me, his bare feet wide apart and straddling my legs. His bare chest glistened with perspiration that dripped down to fall on me. "I do all the hard work, and you lie there sprawled out and exhausted looking. What happened to you down there? Did you use all your energy making it with your doctor?"

  "Shut up! I'm tired from twelve hours of continuous practice, that's all!"

  "If you're tired, I'm ten times more so--so get up, and let's do it again--and get it right this time, goddamn you!"

  "Don't you swear at me! Get yourself another partner! You tripped me up and made me fall so my knee hurt for three days afterward--so how can I run and jump into your arms--you're mean enough to cripple me permanently!"

  "Even if I hated you, I wouldn't let you fall. And, Cathy, I don't hate you. Not yet."

  After practicing over and over again to the piano music, counting, timing, repeating the same series of steps, at last I got it right, and even Julian could smile and congratulate me. Then came the final dress rehearsal and the performance of Romeo and Juliet.

  It was the stunning sets and dazzling costumes that brought out the best in all of us when combined with a full orchestra. Now I could give to the role of Juliet all the little nuances that would make her real, and not some wooden stick that Yolanda appeared tonight, as she did her plies while her eyes seemed glassy, unfocused. Madame Z. came up to peer closely into her face, and then she sniffed Yolly's breath. "By God . you been smoking grass! No dancer of mine goes spaced out onto the stage and cheats my audience--get home and to bed. Catherine, get ready to play Juliet!"

  Yolanda staggered past me, then tried to give me a savage kick as she hissed, "Why did you have to come back? Why didn't you stay down there where you belong?"

  I didn't think of Yolanda and her threats as I stood on the flimsy balcony and gazed dreamily down into Julian's pale face that tilted upward to mine. He appeared so beautiful under the bluish lights, wearing white tights, with his dark hair gleaming, his jet eyes glittering along with the fake jewels on his medieval costume. He seemed to be my attic lover who would ever bound away from me, and never let me near enough to see the features of his face.

  The applause thundered as the curtain lowered. And behind it, out of breath Julian sprang up to hug me close. "You were sensational tonight! How do you manage to frustrate me right up until the moment of performance?" The curtain rose for our bows--then he kissed me full on the lips. "Bravo," they cried, for this was the sort of drama and passion all balletomanes craved.

  It was our night, the best yet, and drunk with success I dashed past photographers, and autograph hounds toward my dressing room, for there was a big bash afterward, a celebration before our company took off for London. Quickly I lathered on cold cream to take off the makeup, then I changed from my last act costume into a short formal of periwinkle blue. Madame Zolta rapped on my door and called out, "Catherine, a lady here says she has flown all the way from your home town to watch you dance. Come, open your door and we will hold up the party until you arrive."

  A tall attractive woman entered. Dark-haired, dark- eyed, her clothes were expensive and flattering to her figure. For some strange reason, it seemed I'd met her before, or she reminded me of someone. She looked me over from head to toe, and only then did she turn to stare around the small dressing room filled with plastic bags jammed with all the costumes I was taking with me to England, each labeled with
my name and the name of the ballet the costumes were designed for. I waited impatiently for her to have her say, then go, so I could get on to putting on my coat.

  "I don't think I know you," I said to hurry her up.

  She smiled crookedly, then sat down uninvited to cross her nicely shaped legs. Rhythmically she swung one foot in a high-heeled black pump back and forth.

  "Of course you don't know me, my dear child .. . but I know a great deal about you."

  There was something in her sweet and toosmooth tongue to warn me, and I stiffened, prepared for whatever she'd come to deliver--and it would be bad. I could tell from the mean look that hid beneath the false sweet one.

  "You're very pretty, maybe even beautiful." "Thank you."

  "You dance exceptionally well--that surprised me. Though of course you would have to dance well to be with this company which I've heard is fast becoming an important one."

  "Thank you again," I said, thinking she'd never come to the point.

  She took a long time before she spoke again, keeping me in suspense, on edge. I picked up my coat, trying to signal to her that I was trying to leave.

  "Nice fur coat," she commented. "I suppose my brother gave you that. I've heard he's throwing away his money like a drunken sailor. Giving all he's saved to three nobodies who came on a bus and took over his life." She laughed low and sarcastically, the way women of culture know how to laugh. "Now I know why, seeing you; though I've heard from others you were pretty enough to make any man foolish. Still, I had no idea a child such as you could look so voluptuous, so sensual and skinny all at the same time. You're a peculiar blend, Miss Dahl. All innocence and sophistication too. Such a brew must be heady intoxication for a man of my brother's type." She chortled. "There's nothing like the combination of youth, long blond hair, a beautiful face and full breasts to bring out the beast even in the best of men." She sighed, as if pitying me. "Yes, that's the trouble with being too young and beautiful. Men are made their worst selves. Paul's made an ass of himself before, you know. You're not his first little playmate; though he's never given one a fur coat before, and a diamond ring. Just as if he could possibly marry you."

  So this was Paul's sister, Amanda--the queer sister who knitted him sweaters and mailed them off Parcel Post, but refused to speak to him on the streets.

  Amanda got up and prowled around me. A cat on the stalk, ready to spring. Her perfume was Oriental, musky, heavy, as she moved in on what she must think a timid prey. "Such flawless skin you have," she said, reaching to stroke my cheek, "so firm, like porcelain. You won't keep that skin, or all that hair once you're thirty-five or so, and long before then he'll have tired of you. He likes his women young, very young. He likes them pretty, intelligent and talented. I have to acknowledge he has good taste, if not good sense. You see," she smiled again that hateful smile, "I really don't give a damn what he does as long as it stays within the limits of decency and doesn't reflect on my life."

  "Get out of here," I managed to say. "You don't know your brother at all. He's an honorable, generous man and in no way could he harm your life.'

  Pityingly she smiled.

  "My dear child, don't you realize you are ruining his career? Are you fool enough to think this affair has gone unnoticed? In a town the size of Clairmont everybody knows everything. Though Henny can't talk, the neighbors do have eyes and ears. Gossip, that's all I hear, gossip--throwing away his money on juvenile delinquents who take advantage of his good nature, and soon enough he'll be broke, and he won't have a medical practice left!" She was heating up now, and I feared any moment she'd rake my face with her long red nails.

  "Get out of here!" I ordered hotly. "I know all about you, Amanda, for gossip has reached my ears too! Your trouble is you think your brother owes you the rest of his life because you worked to help put him through college and medical school. But I used to keep his books, and he's paid you back, plus ten percent interest--so he doesn't owe you anything! You're a liar to try and make him seem small in my eyes--for you can't do that! I love him, and he loves me, and nothing you say can stop our marriage!"

  She laughed again, hard and mirthless, then her face turned hard, determined "Don't order me to do anything! When I'm ready to go, I'll leave--and that's when I've had my say! I flew up here just to see his newest little paramour, his dancing doll . . . and believe me you won't be his last. Why Julia used to tell me he--"

  I hotly interrupted, "Get out! Don't you dare say one word more about him! I know about Julia. He's told me. If she drove him to others, I don't blame him; she wasn't a real wife; she was a housekeeper, a cook--not a wife!"

  Merrily she laughed--God how she liked to laugh! She was enjoying this, someone competitive enough to fight back, someone she could claw. "Fool girl! That's the same old line every married man passes on to his newest conquest. Julia was one of the dearest, sweetest, kindest and most wonderful women who ever lived. She did everything she could to please him. Her one fault lay in the fact she couldn't give him all the sex he wanted, or the kind of sex he demanded, so yes, in a way, he did have to turn to others--like you. I'll admit most married men fool around, but they still don't do what he did!"

  I hated the spiteful witch now, really detested her. "What's he done that was so terrible? Julia drowned his three-year-old son--there's nothing on earth that would make me take the life of my child! I don't need revenge that much!"

  "I agree," she said, back to mild tone now. "That was an insane thing for Julia to do. Scotty was such a handsome, lovely boy--but Paul drove her to do what she did. I understand her reasoning. Scotty was the thing Paul loved most. When you seek to destroy someone emotionally, you kill what he loves best."

  Oh! The horror of her!

  "He wears a hair shirt, doesn't he?" she asked in a gloating way, her dark, pretty eyes glowing with satisfaction. "He tortures himself, blames himself, longs for his son, and then you came along, and he put a baby in you. Don't think the whole town doesn't know about your abortion! We know! We know everything!"

  "You lie!" I shrieked. "It wasn't an abortion! I had a D & C because my periods weren't regular!"

  "It's on the hospital records," she said to me smugly. "You miscarried a two-headed embryo with three legs--twins who didn't separate properly. You poor thing, don't you know a D & C is an abortion procedure?"

  Drowning, drowning, I was going under, black swirls of water all around . . . two headed? Three legs? Oh, God--the monster baby I so dreaded! But Paul hadn't touched me then, not Paul. "Don't cry," she soothed, and I yanked from the touch of her large hand that flashed with diamonds, "all men are beasts, and I guess he didn't tell you. But don't you see, you can't marry him. I'm doing this or your own good. You're beautiful, young, gifted, and to live in sin with a married man is a pure waste. Save yourself while you can."

  Tears blurred my vision. I rubbed at my eyes as a child would, feeling a child in a crazy adult world as I stared dully at her bland, smooth face. "Paul's not a married man. Paul's a widower. Julia's dead. She killed herself the day she drowned Scotty."

  Like a mother she patted my shoulder. "No, child, Julia is not dead. Julia lives in 'an institution where my brother put her after she drowned Scotty. She's still his legal wife, insane or not."

  She thrust into my slack hand several snapshots, pictures of a thin, pitiful-looking woman lying on a hospital bed, her face in profile in both. A woman ravaged by suffering. Her eyes wide open and staring blankly into space, and her dark hair lay like strings on the pillows. Yet I'd seen too many pictures of Julia not to recognize her, even as changed as she was.

  "By the way," said Paul's sister, leaving me with the snapshots, "I enjoyed the performance. You're a marvelous dancer. And that young man--he's spectacular. Take him. He's obviously in love with you." She left then. Left me in a daze of broken dreams and floundering in despair. How was I ever going to learn to swim in an ocean of deceit?

  Julian took me to the big bash which was being thrown in our honor. Hordes of pe
ople surrounded us, congratulated us, said so many flattering words. They meant nothing to me. All I could think was Paul had lied to me, lied to me, took me when he knew he was married--lies, I hated lies!

  Never had Julian been sweeter or more considerate. He held me close in one of those slow, old-fashioned dances, so close I could feel every hard muscle of his lean body, and the maleness of him pressed hard, hard. "I love you, Cathy," he whispered. "I want you so much I can't sleep at night. I want to hold you, make love to you. If you don't let me soon, I'll go mad." He buried his face in my piled up hair "I've never had anyone brand new, like you. Cathy, please, please love me, love me."

  His face swam before me. He seemed dreamgodlike, perfect, and yet, and yet. . . "Julian, what if I told you I wasn't brand new?"

  "But you are! I know you are!"

  "How can you tell?" I giggled drunkenly. "Is there something written on my face that says I am still a virgin?"

  "Yes," he said firmly. "Your eyes. Your eyes tell me you don't know what it's like to be loved."

  "Julian, I fear you don't know much."

  "You underestimate me, Cathy. You treat me like a little boy one minute, and the next like some hungry wolf who will eat you up. Let me make love to you, then you'll know no man has ever touched you before."

  I laughed. "All right--but one night only."

  "If you have me for one night, you will never, never want me to go," he warned, and his eyes glowed and sparkled, black as coal.

  "Julian . . . I don't love you."

  "But you will--after tonight."

  "Oh, Julian," I said with a long yawn, "I'm tired, and partially drunk--go away, leave me alone."

  "Not on your life, kiddo. You said yes, and I'm holding you to it. It's me tonight . . . and every night for the rest of your life--or mine."

  On a rainy Saturday morning, with all our luggage already piled into the taxies that would take our company to the airport, Julian and I stood in the city hall with our best friends to support us, and a judge said the words that would bind us together until "death you do part." When it came my turn to speak my vows, I hesitated, wanting to run away and fly to Paul. He would be crushed when he found out. Then there was Chris. But Chris would rather see me marry Julian than Paul; that's what he'd told me.