Secrets of the Morning

by V. C. Andrews

  "I did it mostly because you wanted me to," he said, putting a manly gruffness into his voice.

  "That makes me happy, Jimmy, to know you did something nice because of me," I said softly.

  "Uh, huh," he said quickly. "What about your new family? Are they going come to visit you?"

  "They say they are. Jimmy . . ."

  "Yes, Dawn?"

  "You're still my real family," I said. He was silent on the other end for a long moment.

  "I've got to hang up, Dawn. I've got to pack and do some things yet."

  "Be careful, Jimmy. And write me. Please!" I begged.

  "Of course, I'll write you. Just don't become a big star too fast and forget me," he teased.

  "I'll never do that, Jimmy. I promise."

  "Bye, Dawn."

  "Bye."

  "Dawn!" he cried.

  "Yes, Jimmy?"

  "I love you," he said quickly.

  I knew how hard it was for him to say it, to put into words feelings we had believed sinful.

  "I love you, too, Jimmy," I said and then I heard the phone click dead. I was about to cradle my receiver when I thought I heard another click. Had Agnes Morris been listening? Maybe Grandmother Cutler had employed her as a spy.

  It wasn't until I cradled my receiver and stood up that I realized tears were streaming down my cheeks. They dropped off my chin. I scrubbed my cheeks with my palms and walked slowly out of the sitting room and up the stairs.

  Trisha was in bed, reading a magazine when I entered. She dropped the magazine quickly and looked at me with eyes full of questions.

  "Who's Jimmy?" she asked.

  "The boy I believed was my brother for years and years and years," I said. Her lips gaped open.

  "You thought was your brother?" she asked. I nodded.

  "A boy who you thought was your brother? A grandmother who writes nasty letters about you? What kind of a family do you come from anyway?"

  I could see it was time to tell her some of my story. If I was going to have a friend, a true friend, I couldn't keep too many deep, dark secrets from her. I had to trust her, take my chances and trust her with my tale. I could only hope and pray she wouldn't betray me and spread my story all over the school, a story that would make me seem like something freakish to the others, especially people who didn't know me.

  "Will you promise not to tell anyone what I tell you?" I asked her.

  "Of course," she said, her eyes wide with excitement. "Cross my heart and hope to die," she said, drawing an X over her breasts. I nodded and sat down on my bed. She went to her knees and sat back on her legs, tossing her hair over her shoulder and folding her hands on her lap. She looked like she was holding her breath.

  My thoughts took wing to Jimmy and I recalled the way we would lie awake for hours and hours talking, lying beside each other in our pull-out sofa and whispering deep into the night. I lay back and looked up at the ceiling.

  "Shortly after I was born, I was kidnapped," I began and told her my story.

  For the longest time, Trisha didn't ask a question, didn't say a word. After a while she lay back in bed and folded her arms across her chest and listened. I think she was afraid to interrupt because she thought I might stop talking. After I told her all about Momma and Daddy Longchamp, Fern and Jimmy, and described how life was for us, I quickly skipped to my return to Cutler's Cove. I was too ashamed to tell her about my short romance with Philip when I was attending Emerson Peabody in Richmond and what had happened between us at the hotel afterward.

  "Clara Sue sounds horrible," Trisha finally said. "What a mean thing to do to Jimmy."

  "If I never see her again, it will be too soon," I replied. Trisha was quiet for a long moment and then she sat up and turned to me.

  "When you came out of the bathroom after Arthur had walked in on you, you said it had brought back bad memories. What bad memories? Something else at the hotel?" she asked perceptively.

  "I was almost raped when I took a shower," I said, deciding to make something up. "By a hotel handyman."

  "Oh, that's awful. What did you do?"

  "I fought him off and he ran away. The police are still looking for him." I turned away so Trisha couldn't see the lie in my eyes. All of a sudden, chills went up and down my spine and I was almost dizzy with fear over how she would react to my story. What had I done? New York was my one and only chance for a new life where no one knew about the strangeness of my past. Why had I confided these things that should be buried ten feet underground and never seen again? With my heart going as fast as a speeding train, I looked at Trisha, terrified that I might see loathing in her eyes.

  "You're so lucky!" she suddenly exclaimed.

  "What?" Had I heard right? "Lucky?"

  "You've had such an exciting life and nothing ever happens to me," she moaned. "I went to just one plain old public school in a small town, had only one real boyfriend, and hardly ever went anywhere. Oh, we've been to Palm Beach in Florida dozens of times, but that's no fun for me. I'm always trapped in some stuffy hotel and forced to dress and behave perfectly because so many rich and important people are always staring at each other and especially each other's children. If I have a hair out of place, my mother gets hysterical. We get our manners out of Emily Post. I can't even put an elbow on the table!"

  She jumped over to my bed and sprawled out beside me on her stomach.

  "But when I become a famous dancer, I'm going to be outrageous," she declared firmly. "I'm going to dress wildly, have dozens and dozens of glamorous boyfriends, all with shady reputations, smoke cigarettes in long pearl cigarette holders and be seen in elegant places. Wherever I go there will be reporters snapping pictures. And I won't get married until I'm . . . I'm almost thirty! And it will be someone so rich, his name will open doors and make people scurry about like wild rabbits. Doesn't that sound exciting?" she asked me.

  "Yes," I said not to hurt her feelings, but deep inside I was torn apart by my desires. I wanted to become a great singer, and I wanted to taste fame and experience the world—there was so much out there that I'd never seen or done. But, if I opened my secret heart and looked inside I knew I'd see my strongest hope. I wanted to have a family and love and cherish my children so they would never feel the way I did now. I couldn't wish that on anyone.

  Trisha turned over on her back. "Does Agnes know all this stuff that happened to you?"

  "She doesn't know anything but whatever lies Grandmother Cutler wrote her in that letter. I don't even know what the letter said—I'd love to get my hands on it."

  "We will," Trisha vowed.

  "How?"

  "When we know Agnes is out for a while and Mrs. Liddy is busy, we'll sneak into her room and search for it."

  "Oh, I don't know if I could ever do that," I said. Just the thought of it made my heart thump.

  "Leave it up to me," Trisha said. "O-o-o-o," she squealed, "this is the most excitement I've had in ages."

  "I'd rather not have any of it," I muttered, but she didn't hear me or care to.

  She made me go back and describe in more detail what it was like to move from one town to another, one school to another. We talked until we both confessed to being tired and finally put the lights out.

  I fell asleep quickly, exhausted from my trip and all that I had done since I had arrived; but sometime in the middle of the night, I awoke to the sound of rainfall: my first summer storm in New York City. The staccato beats on the roof overhead were military drums to take me into memories I had hoped to ignore, memories of my first night at Cutler's Cove when I found myself in a strange new world with my strange new family. How I had missed Momma and Daddy Longchamp, Fern and Jimmy.

  I got out of bed. Trisha was fast asleep, her breathing deep and regular. I moved carefully so as not to wake her, and I went out to go to the bathroom. On my way back to the room, I heard an odd sound. I listened and realized it was the sound of someone sobbing and it was coming from Arthur Garwood's room. I drew closer to his door and lis
tened.

  "Arthur?" I called. "Are you all right?" I waited. The crying stopped, but he didn't reply. I listened a bit longer and then returned to my room to wonder about this dark, brooding boy who shut himself up in his own body.

  3

  THE LETTER

  Summer that used to move like a caterpillar flew by and before I knew it, I was opening my eyes to greet a late August morning. My stay in New York and attendance at the Bernhardt School of Performing Arts had taken me on a roller coaster of emotions. The panic I had felt the first day of class didn't diminish immediately, even though Trisha had been right: everyone was friendly and encouraging, especially our teachers who were less formal than my public school teachers. In all my classes except math and science, we sat in a half circle facing the teacher who usually spoke to us in a conversational tone. My speech instructor even told his students to call him by his first name!

  And most of the students were different too. The chatter in the cafeteria or in the lounges was always about theater or movies or recitals. We didn't have a basketball or football team. Everything was centered around the arts. Usually, I sat and listened when the others talked about their favorite performers and productions. I was ashamed to admit that I had yet to go to a real play, especially to a play on Broadway. Of course, I told Trisha, who immediately arranged for us to go see a matinee.

  Nearly every day at school, some new announcement was posted on the general bulletin boards advertising auditions and opportunities, mainly for the seniors. I couldn't imagine myself asking someone to pay me for performing, not for a long time. Trisha felt the same way about herself, but we always stopped to read the bulletins, pretending we were planning on attending the auditions.

  I received many compliments and a great deal of support from my vocal teacher and fellow music students, but if anyone kept me from losing my head, it was my piano teacher, Madame Steichen. She had been a concert pianist in Austria and was famous. It was considered a great honor to be in her class, although for me it was quite frightening at first. I could see from the way my fellow students acted when they entered her classes that she would be quite different from our other teachers. She ran a general class in music and gave individualized lessons.

  Madame Steichen always dressed formally for class, dressed as if she were performing for an audience herself. She usually entered just before the beginning of the class and never tolerated anyone coming late. We were all seated and waiting and we could hear her shoes clicking down the corridor as she approached. When she entered, no one made a sound. Rarely did she smile.

  She was tall and thin, with long, graceful fingers that seemed to have minds of their own when she brought them to the piano keys. Never had I seen such intensity in anyone's eyes as I saw in her dark gray eyes when she demonstrated. I was very impressed and very excited about being one of her students.

  She always wore her hair pinned firmly back in a bun. She wore no makeup, not even a touch of lipstick to brighten her pale red lips. Sitting beside her on the piano stool, I saw the little brown age spots on her wrists and on her temples. Her skin was so thin, the tiny veins that ran over her eyelids were quite visible.

  Yet her frail body was deceptive. She was firm and strong in class and never hesitated to sting her pupils with caustic criticism whenever she thought it necessary. At least twice, she nearly had me in tears.

  "Why did you tell me you had piano lessons?" she demanded the first time I sat down to play the piano for her. "Did someone tell you I was tone deaf?"

  "No, Madame, but I did have lessons. I—"

  "Please," she said, cutting me off with a sweep of her hand. "Consider yourself just beginning. Forget everything and anything you were told. Do you understand me?" she demanded, her small, intense eyes pinning me to my desk.

  "Yes, Madame," I said quickly.

  "Good. Now, let us go back to the fundamentals," she said. For the rest of the day she treated me as if I had just been told, "This is a piano."

  Toward the end of the summer though, she paused at the conclusion of a lesson and stared at me for a long moment. My heart began to beat in anticipation of her telling me I should give up the piano. Instead, she brought her shoulders back, nodded, and looked down her nose at me to say something I considered spectacular.

  "You appear to have a natural instinct for music. In time I believe you can become of concert pianist class."

  Then she pivoted on her soft shoes and left me sitting there with my jaw dropped open. Of course, I rushed out to tell Trisha and we celebrated with a double fudge chocolate sundae at George's Luncheonette. We both felt so good about it that we even tried to get Arthur Garwood to come when we saw him walking over the school grounds. He stared at us as if we had asked him to jump off the George Washington Bridge. For a moment when he gazed only at me, I thought he was going to come, but then he shook his head, thanked us, and walked off quickly. All summer long he had kept to himself, but I sensed he wanted to talk to overcome his shyness and talk to me, especially if I were alone.

  Except for Trisha and a few other friends I had made in classes, I had no one else to share my happiness with. I could write Jimmy a letter, but I couldn't call him. I had begun to feel truly like an orphan. Cruel Fate had stolen away my family and left me with a family that didn't want me. It was as if I had no family at all, no past, no present, no future. Other girls my age could rattle on and on about their childhood, their brothers and sisters, grandparents and parents. They could talk about trips their families took together, their wonderful holiday dinners, funny things their little brothers and sisters said and did, but I had to sit with my mouth sewn shut.

  My real mother Laura Sue never came to New York to visit me as she had promised the day I left Cutler's Cove. However one night on the last Monday in August, she called to see how I was doing and to recite her excuses for neglecting me all summer long.

  "I haven't been well," she said, "since the day you left. First, I came down with this horrible summer cold. It nearly became pneumonia and then I developed an allergy that simply puzzled the doctors.

  "Oh yes, I had more than one doctor. Randolph brought in allergy specialists, one after the other, but I couldn't stop my eyes from watering and every once in a while, I broke into these spells of sneezing.

  "You can imagine how it has been. I have hardly been down in the hotel."

  "I'm sorry to hear it, Mother," I said. "Maybe if you came for a visit to New York, you would leave your allergy behind," I suggested.

  "Oh no, the allergy has left me as mysteriously as it came. I'm fine now, except I'm quite run-down and the doctors advise me to continue my bed rest awhile longer. I'm sorry; I so wanted to take you shopping in New York.

  "Are you having a good time? Enjoying the school?" she asked.

  "Yes," I said, wondering whether she really cared. I knew that if I said no or tried to describe problems she would immediately have a fainting spell and jump off the phone so fast my head would spin.

  "Good. Maybe in a month or so, I will be able to travel. In the meantime, I'll see to it that Randolph sends you some money so you can do some shopping with one of your friends, okay?

  "I'd send Randolph, but the hotel's been busier than ever and Grandmother Cutler is depending on him."

  "I'm sure," I said dryly, "she doesn't depend on anyone but herself."

  "You must not talk like that, Dawn," my mother chastised. "It won't do any of us any good. We must make the best of the situation. Please, don't bring up any controversy, not now, now that I've gotten up enough strength to talk to you."

  "Why does it take so much strength for you to talk to me, Mother? Is it because of the clouds of lies that hover above us?"

  "I have to go now, Dawn. I'm getting tired," she said quickly.

  "When will you tell me my father's name, Mother? When?" I demanded.

  "Oh dear. I can't talk like this over the phone. I'll speak to you again, soon," she said and hung up before I could say another unpleasan
t thing. Right after she did, I once again heard a second click. It sent a chilling ripple through my body. Agnes Morris did listen in on my phone calls, I thought. It enraged me and when I went upstairs, I told Trisha.

  "She's spying on me," I said. "I'm sure of it. And all because she believes the lies my grandmother wrote."

  "We've got to get a look at the letter," Trisha concluded. "Let's try tomorrow night when she goes to the theater with her friends. I'm sure she won't lock her bedroom door."

  "Oh, Trisha, I don't know. What if we're caught?" "We won't be. You want to see the letter, don't you?" she asked. "Well?" she pursued.

  "Yes," I said. I looked into her eyes. "I want to see that letter very much."

  The next night we sat in the sitting room and pretended to be interested in Agnes Morris's scrapbooks. It almost kept her from going out with her friends because she lingered so long to explain this picture and that and tell anecdotes about her performances and fellow actors. When Mr. Fairbanks, the clock, bonged out the hour, she realized she had to hurry to dress to meet her friends.

  After she left we went looking for Mrs. Liddy and found that she had gone into her room to listen to the radio. Trisha looked at me and nodded. She went to Agnes's door and discovered it was unlocked, just as she had expected. When she turned the knob, I thought a dozen butterflies had been frightened inside my chest. It felt like their wings were flapping against my heart. I hesitated.

  "What if she comes back while we're in there?" I asked.

  "She won't. She's gone to a show. Come on," Trisha whispered. I looked back at Mrs. Liddy's closed door. The music from the radio could still be heard, but she could still come out and see or hear us. That would be terrible, I thought. Then I thought about Grandmother Cutler and how she would glare at me with her gray-stone eyes shooting devilish electric sparks.

  "All right," I said and followed Trisha into Agnes's room. I hadn't seen past the curtain before. Trisha parted it and we entered.

  It did feel like I was walking onto a stage and entering a set. We found the bedroom dimly lit by a small Tiffany lamp on the desk to the left. Agnes had an antique white cast-iron bed with white pine night stands on either side. There were oversized pillows and a white down comforter with pink trim. The wall on the right held an enormous mirror. A long vanity table was covered with jars and tubes of makeup, cold cream and powders. In the left corner were bottles of perfume, so many it looked like a shelf in the cosmetic section of a department store. As we drew closer, I could see that a ring of small bulbs lined the mirror. It even smelled like back stage.