Casteel 05 Web of Dreams

by V. C. Andrews

  "What does this have to do with dolls?" I asked.

  "Everything. Imagine a doll that has your face and is your doll! Everyone will want one--mothers, daughters, sisters, aunts; even men will come to want male dolls made in their images eventually.

  "And we will be the first to do it here in America so a Tatterton doll will become the thing to have, something special, precious, a personalized collectible. Brilliant!" he exclaimed again, this time pounding his knees with his fists.

  I had to admit Tony's fervor took my breath away and the idea did sound very good. "But how does this involve me?" I asked, remembering what had drawn me deeper into the room and the conversation. Tony gazed at Momma, his smile deepening, and she smiled back and then turned to me.

  "Tony wants you to be the model for the very first doll and he wants to do the doll himself," she said.

  "Me?" I gazed from one to the other. Mamma's face was locked in her soft, happy smile. Tony's eyes were fixed on me, already with an artist's intensity. "Why me?"

  "For one thing," Tony began, "I want to make the first set of dolls for young girls. Not little girls," he added quickly, "young girls, teenage girls. That's going to be the biggest market of all for the portrait dolls, I think. Little girls are not old enough to appreciate the extra-special artwork involved, but most importantly, they don't dote on their own image and worry about how they look as much as teenage girls do."

  "But I still don't understand. Why me, of all people?" I asked. Tony shook his head.

  "Isn't it wonderful, Jillian, that she has such modesty?"

  Momma looked at me with a twinkle in her eyes as if she understood I was being coy. She had told me often that men like it when beautiful women pretend to be modest. It gives them an opportunity to heap compliments on them without shame or fear of being too flattering, and the woman could draw compliment after compliment by denying and blushing and looking as though she needed the adulation.

  But I wasn't doing any of that. I really couldn't understand why Tony wanted me to be a model for a special doll. There were many girls my age, girls who were far more beautiful and who were trained to be models. With his money and investments, he could hire the best in the country, if he wanted to. Why me?

  "Tony thinks you are special, Leigh, and so do I," Momma said.

  "You already have a doll's face," Tony explained. I shook my head. "Yes, you do, Leigh. You can cling to modesty if you like, but why should I go searching for the right look, the right girl, when I have the perfect look and the perfect girl living right under my roof?

  "I'm going to have the best photographer in town take pictures of your face, many pictures until we decide on the perfect one, and then, I'll have that, picture placed beside the first doll, whose face will be yours, too. Then all my rich customers will

  understand what a portrait doll is and want one for themselves. Your picture will be featured in all my store windows . . . everywhere," he said.

  The idea made my heart beat fast. What would my girlfriends say, the "special club"? I knew they would all be jealous, but Tony was probably right-- each would want a doll made of herself. I sat back and thought about it seriously for the first time--a doll with my face.

  "I'm so proud that Tony wants the first doll to be you," Momma said. I gazed at her for a moment. Why didn't Tony want to use Momma's face? She still looked so young and she had a perfect face, a face everyone agreed was beautiful.

  What puzzled me too was that Momma wasn't jealous. She looked happy about it.

  Then I thought, Momma would never agree to do such a thing anyway. She would hate to have to sit for hours and hours while Tony painted her. Or, was there more to it?

  "What do I have to do?" I asked.

  Tony laughed.

  "Just be yourself, nothing more, your entire self."

  "My entire self?"

  "The doll has to be perfect," Tony said. "In every aspect. It's not going to be just another doll, molded and reproduced in some assembly line. It's a work of art. That's the point. Think of it as a miniature statue, only made like a child's doll."

  "What does all that mean?" I asked, my voice coming out breathless, almost a whisper. Tony looked at Momma, his smile wilting. Her eyes quickly turned from soft, happy eyes to angry eyes.

  "It means you will be a model, Leigh. Why are you acting so stupid all of a sudden? A model, an artist's model. You'll pose."

  "But don't artists' models usually pose . . . in the nude?"

  I asked, fearfully.

  Tony laughed as if I had said the silliest thing.

  "Of course they do," he replied nonchalantly. "What of it? It's art, and as I said, this doll is going to be a miniature statue."

  I tried to swallow. Stand in a room somewhere naked while Tony painted a picture of me, a picture anyone could see?

  "It's not like Tony's a complete stranger," Momma said shaking her head and smiling. "He's family now. I wouldn't want anyone else to do it but him," she added.

  "And don't think it all won't be done in a very professional manner," Tony added. "Just because I am president of my company now doesn't mean I didn't begin as an artist myself. All of the Tattertons do. I was working as a Tatterton artist when my father died and then I had to take over the administrative aspects of the business.

  "But this is too important and too delicate to assign to just another artisan at my factory, and, as Tinian says, we wouldn't want any stranger copying your image."

  When I didn't reply and there was a long moment of silence, Tony continued.

  "Let rue explain the process so you can understand what has to be done. First, I'll draw a picture of you. Then I'll paint it in, trying to capture skin tones. After that, work in clay, sculpting a model to get all the dimensions, and once that is done I'll have it cast and duplicated.

  "Well," he said, filling the silence again, "talk it over with Jillian. I have to make some phone calls and see what's been going on in my absence and then look in on Troy. Don't worry about anything," he added. "You'll do fine and become quite famous in the process." He got up, kissed Momma and then left us alone.

  The moment he left, Momma sat back in her chair, looking more matriarchal than ever.

  "Really Leigh, I'm surprised and disappointed in you. You saw how excited, how electrified Tony is with this new idea and how big and important it will be to the Tatterton Toys empire, and he wants to make you the center of it all, yet you sat there looking ungrateful, indifferent, whining, 'What do I have to do?' like some immature child."

  " But Momma, pose naked?"

  "What of it? You heard him--this is art. Look in any museum. Did the man who modeled for Michelangelo's David wear clothes, or the women who posed to be Venus?

  "When he came in here all excited and proposed the idea to me, I thought you would be thrilled and flattered. I thought you had matured enough not to be giggly and silly about serious art. Believe me," she said, "if I were only young enough, your age, and a man like Tony came along and offered me such an opportunity, do you think I would hesitate one moment as you did? Absolutely not."

  "But why can't you be the model, Momma? You're so beautiful and young looking."

  Like lightning Momma's face changed, growing hard arid cold. "Tony explained that he wants this to be for girls your age," she snapped. "Can you imagine my photograph next to a Tatterton portrait doll in the window, a doll made for teenagers? I'm young looking, Leigh, but I don't look like a teenager, do I? Well . . . do I?" I shook my head, weakly, unsure whether to agree or disagree.

  "Maybe you can paint me and do the sculpture," I said quickly. "You're an artist."

  "I don't have that kind of time, Leigh. I have social obligations, very important ones. Plus, I do fantasy artwork.

  "You won't even have to go anywhere to have it done," she continued. "It's all going to be done here at Farthy, and it will give you something else to do this summer. Tony has decided to set up a small studio in the cottage so you and he won't be disturb
ed."

  "The cottage?"

  "Isn't that a good idea?"

  I nodded.

  "All right then. I'll tell him you want to do it," she said standing. "Isn't it exciting? I can't wait for it to be finished," she said and left me.

  I ran to my rooms to take off my bathing suit, shower, and dress for dinner I felt dazed and confused, my mind filled with contradictions and tugged this way and that by different emotions. I couldn't help but be excited about the idea of my portrait in Tatterton store windows beside a precious doll that was created in my likeness, making me seem like some goddess. My guess was that most of my friends, especially members of the "special club," would have jumped at this opportunity.

  But Tony was Momma's new husband, young and handsome, and to stand for hours before him stark naked!

  I stripped off my bathing suit and preened before my full-length mirror gazing at myself, studying my every curve. The veins around my emerging breasts were close to the surface, stretching and growing every day. Would Tony concentrate on such detail? There was a tiny birthmark just under my right breast, would that be on the doll as well? I was sure the doll would be dressed in the store windows, but anyone could strip it and gaze upon its torso. Wasn't it like undressing in the storefront window or on a stage for everyone to see?

  How did women become professional artists' models? Did they just sit there or stand there thinking of other things and pretending it wasn't going on?

  I put on my robe and went back to the mirror to imagine I was about to pose for Tony. I conjured him before me, paint brush in hand. He had his palette set up, the canvas prepared. Now he turned his intense blue eyes on me and smiled. He gestured with the brush and I began to untie my robe. My heart pounded, raced, even with this fantasy. I began to pull the material away from my body and then, .

  "LEIGH!" I heard Troy shout from my sitting room and I pulled my robe closed. He came running in, more exuberant than I had seen him in weeks. "Tony told me; Tony told me! He's making a doll of you, a Tatterton doll, and someday I might even have one on my shelf?"

  "Oh Troy," I said, "you don't want to have a little girl's doll, do you?"

  "It's not a little girl's doll," he said firmly. "It's a Tatterton toy doll and that's special, isn't it?" He nodded, expecting my agreement.

  "I suppose it is," 1 said and he smiled.

  "But Tony says I can't come see him make the doll with you. He can't be disturbed," he said sadly. "But I can be one of the first to see it when it's made.

  "It will be the best doll in the world!" he proclaimed. And then after a moment's thought he said, "I'm going to tell Rye Whiskey." He rushed out of my bedroom again.

  I turned back to the mirror and my own image again. Could I do it? Would I do it? Momma thought I should, but Momma wanted me to do anything to keep Tony occupied and spare her from his constant demands and need for attention.

  What would Daddy say? I wondered.

  He wouldn't like it; he couldn't like it, not Waddy. How I wished he were home already so I could ask him. But he wasn't home, he was still busy in Europe with his business and with . . Mildred Pierce.

  Mildred Pierce, I thought angrily. He let someone steal away his attention and love, let someone keep him from me longer and maybe even forever.

  I untied my robe and let the garment fall to my feet. I would be a Tatterton doll. I might even give Daddy one on his new wedding day.

  thirteen ME . . . A MODEL?

  . Tony spent the next week with his marketing people planning out the production and sale of portrait dolls. Every evening at dinner he had something new and exciting to tell us about the project. Momma was more interested in this than she had been in anything else Tony did. I felt myself being swept up in the tide of excitement that rushed over us. Finally, one evening he announced that the cottage had been prepared and he was ready to begin after breakfast the following morning. I felt heat rush to my cheeks and my heart flutter. Momma smiled broadly and Tony proposed a toast to the project.

  "And to Leigh," he said gazing at me with his cerulean eyes burning brightly. "The first Tatterton model."

  "To Leigh," Momma said and followed it with a thin laugh. They drank their wine quickly, like two conspirators who had embarked on a venture from which they had sworn they would never turn back.

  "What do I have to wear? How should I brush my hair?" I asked, sounding a bit frantic.

  "Just be yourself," Tony said. "Don't do anything special. You're special enough," he added. When I looked at Momma, I saw she was gazing at him with a soft, but contented smile on her face. I knew why she was so happy Tony was engrossed in this enterprise. While he was, he wasn't making any demands upon her.

  But I couldn't fall asleep that night, thinking about what it was going to be like posing for Tony. I wanted to talk to Momma about it some more, but she went to a bridge game and when she returned, she made it clear that she was exhausted and had to go right to sleep. Tony looked as disappointed as I did about that.

  After breakfast the next morning, he and I set out for the cottage. He had decided to walk through the maze. It was a beautiful, warm morning, the fluffy, cotton-ball clouds just gliding lazily across the turquoise sky.

  "It's a wonderful day to begin something new and significant," he said. He seemed so energized, so full of enthusiasm, that I felt foolish still having butterflies in my stomach. He saw how pensive and nervous I was. "Relax. This will be easy and once we get into it, you'll actually enjoy it. I know; I've worked with many models before."

  "You have?"--

  "Of course. I took many art courses at college and had special training here at Earthy." He leaned toward me and lowered his voice as if he were telling secrets. "I began when I was eleven."

  "Eleven?" At eleven he was drawing and painting nude people?

  "Uh-huh. So you see, you're with a man of great experience."

  He smiled and we entered the maze. Tony moved through it with assurance, never hesitating at any turn, never questioning any choice.

  "To other people," he explained, "all these hedges look alike, but growing up with them as I have, I notice subtle differences. These corridors are as different to me as night and day. After a while, it will become the same for you," he assured me.

  The cottage looked the same from the outside, except all the shades had been drawn in all the windows. Inside, Tony had set up his easel and paints, pencils and pens. He had brought in a long, metal worktable. Materials for the sculpture were there, as well as all sorts of carving tools. The furniture had been moved about so as to provide as much free space as possible. There were two large pole lamps, one on each side of the easel, their bulbs directed toward the small couch.

  "We'll begin with having you sit there," he said pointing to the couch. "Relax and think of pleasant thoughts. It will take me a few moments to set everything up," he added. He began to organize his materials. I sat on the couch and watched him as he worked, seeing in his face the same creative purpose and concentration I had often seen in little Troy's face.

  I was wearing a plain white, short-sleeve cotton blouse and a light blue skirt. My bangs were cut short, but the rest of my hair was long enough to reach the middle of my shoulder blades and lay softly against my neck and shoulders. I hadn't put on any lipstick.

  "Okay," Tony said turning to me. "I'm going to begin with your face. Just gaze at me with a slight smile on your face. I don't want the doll to have the wide, clownish smile some toy dolls have. I want this doll to reflect your natural beauty, your soft and lovely expression."

  I didn't know what to say. Was all that true? Was I soft and lovely? Surely, if Tony wanted me for such an important project, he must see these things in me and not be simply flattering me to make me feel good.

  He took a long look at me, drinking me in. I fixed my eyes on him as he had instructed and saw the way he measured the features of my face and planned his first lines. I did begin to feel as if I were part of something artistic and soon los
t the trembling and quickened heartbeat. Tony looked at me, drew, looked at me, nodded to himself, and drew. I tried to keep perfectly still, but it was hard not to fidget.

  "You can move about a little," he said smiling. "I don't want to turn you into stone," he added. "Loosen up until you feel comfortable." I did loosen up. "Feeling better?"

  "Yes."

  "I knew you would. We'll work for a while and take breaks. I have the kitchen stocked with great food for lunch," he said enthusiastically.

  "How long will we work every day?"

  "We'll work awhile in the morning, have a leisurely lunch, and then work a few hours in the afternoon. Whenever you get tired, just holler and we'll take a break."

  I was surprised at how quickly the first hour went by. Tony looked at his watch and announced it had and then invited me to look at what he had done. I got up and gazed at the canvas. He had outlined my face, drawn in the lines and shaped my lips, eyes and nose. He had just begun to do my hair and neck. Of course, it was too early to make any judgments, but I decided quickly that he did have talent.

  "It's nothing yet," he said, "but I think I'm getting a good start."

  "Oh yes, it's very good."

  "It's a wonderful experience, doing something artistic," he said staring at the canvas, his eyes dark and intent. "It gives you a sense of accomplishment when you bring something to life out of a blank canvas. This drawing is like the first stages in the making of a baby . . seeds in my imagination merge with reality and take form, just the way a man's seed attaches itself to a woman's egg and begins the creation of a newborn baby. You and I," he said turning to me, "we're giving birth to something beautiful here, together," he added, his voice in a whisper.

  I didn't know what to say. The way he looked at me, his eyes small but bright as coals, his voice so soft, made me tremble inside. He quickly changed expression back to that tight, amused smile and then laughed.

  "You look terrified. I'm only speaking in metaphors, making comparisons," he said and then he tilted his head a bit. "Tell me, Leigh, did you have a boyfriend while you were at Winterhaven?"