Secrets of the Morning

by V. C. Andrews

  "But for now," he said, snapping back, "I'm starving. Let's have breakfast."

  The rest of the day went by quickly. Michael left to do some shopping. The telephone rang twice, but I didn't answer it. When I had first arrived, Michael had pointed out that if I did, someone would know I was at the apartment and that would lead to questions.

  "And questions," he had said with raised eyebrows, "lead to answers we're not ready to give just yet."

  When he returned in the afternoon, he had an armful of packages wrapped in holiday paper.

  "What's a Christmas tree without gifts beneath it," he declared, setting them out.

  "Who are those gifts for, Michael? Do you expect some of your family?"

  "Family? No. These gifts are all for you," he said.

  "All for me? Oh Michael, you shouldn't have bought so much!" I exclaimed, gazing at the enormous pile.

  "Of course I should," he declared firmly. "Who else should I spend my money on, if not you. Certainly not my ungrateful family." He smiled impishly and reached into his jacket pocket to produce a small box wrapped in pink paper with a pink ribbon around it. "This," he said, "couldn't wait. It's a Thanksgiving present."

  "People don't give each other presents on Thanksgiving, Michael," I cried, laughing.

  "They don't?" He shrugged. "Well, I'll start a tradition and from now on, they will. For you," he said, extending his hand.

  I took the small box and opened it carefully, my fingers trembling with excitement. There, in a bed of cotton, was a beautiful gold locket on a gold chain. The outside of the locket had tiny diamonds shaped in the form of a heart.

  "Oh, Michael, it's beautiful."

  "Open it," he coaxed.

  I pressed the release and when the locket opened, I saw a bar of notes etched within. I played them quickly in my mind and smiled. It was the first phrase of one of his own love songs, "Forever, my love."

  "Oh Michael," I cried. Tears of happiness flooded my eyes. "It's the nicest gift anyone's ever given me. And it's so special."

  I threw my arms around him and smothered his face in kisses.

  "Whoa," he cried, holding me back. "We don't want to get ourselves all worked up right now. We've got to get ready to go to our quiet little dinner, remember?"

  My heart was so full of happiness, I thought it was sure to burst. I had packed some things in my suitcase in anticipation of Michael and I having a night like this. Trisha had gone with me to buy an uplift bra. My deepened cleavage and my surging bosom made me look years older. I couldn't help the blush that settled at the entrance to the valley between my breasts, but I thought that made me look even more enticing in my black V-neck, three-quarter-sleeve dress. The tiny diamonds on my locket sparkled on my chest.

  I brushed my hair until it was silky smooth and it lay obediently over my shoulders, shining softly. Then I put on a little rouge and lipstick and some eye liner. Satisfied that I looked more like the women Michael was used to having on his arm, I emerged from the bedroom to let him inspect me. He had just finished speaking to someone on the telephone and cradled the receiver. He turned and smiled with his dark eyes glimmering and his sensual lips opening in appreciation.

  "You are beautiful," he said. "Very beautiful. I can't wait until I can introduce you to society. Everyone will be envious of my discovery, and," he added, stepping closer, "my love."

  I beamed with pride. Michael helped me put on my coat and kissed me on the cheek.

  "Our taxi is already here," he said and we left the apartment.

  It was a long ride through the city. Michael wasn't exaggerating when he said he knew an out-of-the-way restaurant. The driver wound us around street after street until we finally arrived at a small Italian restaurant on the corner of a block. The restaurant was simply called Mom's. It was far from anything fancy—a small room with a very small bar and about a dozen tables, but to me it was the most romantic and wonderful restaurant I had ever been in.

  Michael sat us at a corner table in the darkest section of the small room. He was right about our not attracting attention. No one seemed to notice us or care once we had entered and taken our seats. But everything we ordered and ate was homemade and delicious. Michael ordered the most expensive wine and we drank nearly two bottles of it. He knew so much about wines and foods because of his traveling. He described some of the famous restaurants he had been to all over the world.

  The only thing I could tell him about was the food at Cutler's Cove Hotel. I described Nussbaum, the chef, and how special every dinner was at the hotel.

  "Grandmother Cutler, with my mother sometimes accompanying her, greets the guests at the door and then visits them at their tables, making them all feel at home."

  "She may be a tyrant," Michael said, "but it seems she knows what to do to make the hotel a success. She sounds like a very smart businesswoman. I wouldn't mind meeting her one day," he said.

  "You would hate her. She would make you feel lower than an ant just because you are only an entertainer. She respects only pure bloods, wealthy pure bloods," I said, practically spitting the words.

  I told Michael how she had tried to ruin my days at Bernhardt from the beginning by writing the letter of lies to Agnes.

  "Soon you will be free of all that," he said, placing his hand over mine and squeezing my fingers lovingly. "And people like her won't be able to hurt you anymore."

  "Oh Michael," I said, "I can't wait for that day." "Well," he said, a sly twinkle in his eyes, "it may be sooner than you think."

  "Michael," I cried, nearly jumping out of my seat, "what do you mean?"

  "I shouldn't tell you this," he replied, a small, tight smile on his lips, "but there is a strong possibility I might be able to get you a spot in the new Broadway show."

  "Michael!" I thought I would faint right then and there. I felt my heart begin to pound with excitement, making it so hard for me to breathe, I could feel my chest ache. Me, on Broadway? Already?

  "It's nothing definite," he warned. "It's just a possibility. We've got to work a lot more on your singing. Being on stage in a musical is a lot different than stepping out to sing a tune or two at your local high school concert."

  "Oh, I understand. Of course. But I'll work hard, very hard, Michael. I really will."

  "I know you will," he said, patting my hand again. "It's in your blood. Didn't I tell you that from the start?"

  After Michael paid the bill and we left the little restaurant, I didn't mind the long ride back to his apartment. I spent it in his arms, dreaming of the Broadway stage and of being with him from one glorious moment to another. Who would have thought that what Momma Longchamp had told me years and years ago would come true.

  I knew now she had been trying to forget the tragic events that had led to my abduction. It was as if I had been born a lie. She couldn't live with that or her own sense of guilt either and in time, she got herself to believe the story she had created about my being born at the dawning of day with the birds singing.

  "They put a song on your lips forever and ever," she told me. "Someday, people will hear you sing and they will know about the miracle that occurred when that beautiful songbird gave you its voice to celebrate your birth."

  That day was drawing closer and faster than you could have imagined, Momma, I thought, and with love in my heart, my voice would be more beautiful than even I could have imagined.

  The time that Michael and I had left together flew by more quickly than I wanted. When the morning of the final day came, I was reluctant to open my eyes to face it. Trisha and I had planned it all out. I was to take a cab to the bus station and meet her when she came off the bus from home. Then we would take a taxi back to the apartment house together so that Agnes would believe I had been with Trisha the entire vacation.

  After I dressed and packed, I stood with my suitcase and gazed sadly around Michael's apartment. The rays of bright sunlight on a clear, crisp day came pouring through the windows, lighting up our little Christmas tree, ma
king the glitter sparkle, the ferns almost kelly green. Even the holiday wrapping paper around the pile of gifts glittered in the pool of warm light.

  "It's been wonderful," Michael told me at the door. "Every single moment. But don't think of it as an end," he chastised as my eyes filled with tears at our parting. "Think of it as just the beginning." He kissed me and pressed me to him. My throat was so choked up, I couldn't speak.

  "Now get some rest, my little diva," he warned. "We have a great deal of work to do as soon as school resumes."

  "I will. I love you, Michael," I whispered. His eyes twinkled with joy and we parted.

  I was early at the station, so I sat on a bench and read a magazine until Trisha's bus arrived. She came bouncing down the steps of the bus, her long red scarf floating over her shoulders.

  "Tell me everything," she cried after we hugged. "What did you do? Where did you go? I bet he took you to fancy restaurants and shows every day."

  "No, we stayed in most of the time," I said and described how I had prepared Thanksgiving dinner. She looked very disappointed until I showed her my locket.

  "It's beautiful," she said, eyeing it enviously. "And it's so nice of him to have had something musical put in it. What are those notes?"

  "Oh," I said, realizing she might know Michael's song, "just notes. Nothing special."

  We found a cab outside the station and continued talking about our holiday until we arrived at the apartment house. Trisha wanted me to know everything she had done so I wouldn't be caught in any contradictions.

  "If Agnes asks," Trisha said, "we had ten people for Thanksgiving dinner and we had duck as well as turkey."

  "It sounds like it was a wonderful dinner," I said.

  Now it was my turn to be envious, to be envious of a happy, loving family gathered around a dinner table on the holidays.

  We were surprised to find Agnes standing in the corridor at the foot of the stairway when we entered. Obviously, she had been expecting us and had taken her position as soon as she heard us arrive, but one look at her face put a chill in my heart. She was dressed in black, her face pale, no lipstick, no rouge, nothing. Her hair was drawn back and tied in a bun. It was always difficult to tell whether Agnes was playing one of her roles or not. Right now, I thought she was playing a mourner.

  "You lied to me," she snapped before I could say hello. I glanced quickly at Trisha and then at Agnes. "Lied?"

  "Your mother called for you two days ago. She didn't know a thing about your going to Trisha's. Did you go without asking your family for permission? I felt so foolish," Agnes added before I could respond. She twisted her white, silk handkerchief in her hands. "I'm in charge, yes, but I depended upon you, trusted you. When you told me you had permission, I believed you. I should have known better; I should have expected it," she spit.

  "I expect a phone call from your grandmother any moment now," she said. She looked absolutely terrified of it.

  "She won't call," I assured her. "My mother simply forgot," I declared. "She must have been on some medication when we spoke last and she simply didn't recall. It happens often," I said and fixed my eyes firmly on Agnes, amazed at how easily the lies fell from my lips. I could see her considering the possibility.

  "Oh dear," she said; she loved high tragedy. "I don't know what to think. You don't expect a problem then?"

  "No." I shrugged. "It's happened before. Grandmother Cutler is used to it, too."

  "Oh, how sad," Agnes moaned. "Your mother is such a pretty woman. I can't believe she's so ill."

  "No one can," I said dryly, but Agnes missed my sarcasm.

  "Did you two have a nice holiday then?" she asked, looking from me to Trisha.

  "Yes, we did," Trisha said quickly.

  "Mrs. Liddy has made something special for everyone's return. Oh dear," she said, wringing the handkerchief in her hands again. "I was so worried," she muttered and started away.

  "She's getting worse," Trisha commented as we looked after her. "She got all dressed up in that old costume in preparation for some terrible scene. Every time a new thought or mood crosses her, she digs into her chest of old costumes and finds something to fit her temperament."

  "I feel sorry for her, but she didn't have to become Grandmother Cutler's spy. I don't like lying, but I had no choice," I said.

  Trisha nodded and we continued up the stairs to our room to put our things away. Of course, Trisha was fascinated to know what it had been like for me to have lived with a man in his apartment for so many days. She asked all sorts of questions and at least twice, I almost said something that would have given Michael away.

  "My mother always says that nights are for fantasy and romance, but when you wake up in the morning and the man beside you is still snoring, reality comes crashing down and pops the bubble," Trisha said. "Did that happen to you?"

  "Oh, no. Mornings were just as wonderful as the nights. I made us a big breakfast and we talked and talked with the same excitement. He has so much to say; he's been everywhere in the world."

  "Why does he travel so much?" she asked quickly. "Oh, it's his . . . his business."

  "What is his business?"

  "Something to do with importing," I said quickly.

  "You're so lucky," she said. "You're talented and pretty and now you have a mature love affair."

  "You're talented and pretty, too, Trisha, and I'm sure you will be in love very soon, too," I predicted. She thought about it and then shrugged with that happy little smile on her face.

  "Erik Richards called me three times over the holidays."

  "He did?"

  "We're going to dinner this coming weekend. At the Plaza! I think he's going to ask me to go steady," she said.

  "What are you going to do?"

  Going steady sounded so childish to me now, but I didn't want to say anything that would make Trisha feel bad. Michael and I were talking about a life together, a life of performing and loving. Wearing your boyfriend's high school ring around your neck seemed something girls years and years younger than me would do. But Trisha wasn't younger than me.

  "He is very good looking," she said. "I think I might just say yes," she concluded, her eyes sparkling with mischief. We laughed and hugged each other and went down to dinner.

  Mrs. Liddy had prepared a dinner that rivaled any Thanksgiving spread. Agnes, who was now dressed in a very youthful white dress that had large puffed sleeves and an embroidered collar and hem, with a string of pearls around her neck that would choke a horse, made one of her short, dramatic speeches telling us how thankful she was we were all back safely from our holidays.

  "And together again, a family united and ready to face anything the hard cruel world throws at us."

  We all looked at each other. It was definitely a speech from one of the melodramas she had performed in during her younger days. Trisha was positive the dress was a costume from that very play.

  But I didn't care. Nothing now, not Agnes's eccentricities, not Madame Steichen's temper, not even Grandmother Cutler's hateful actions could do anything to detract from my days of sunshine and happiness. I felt secure. I had been made invincible by the love between Michael and me. It was the fortress that would protect me from what Agnes called, "the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune," which, she always reminded us, was a quote from Shakespeare.

  But there were "slings and arrows" I hadn't anticipated, falling on my bubble of joy and romantic bliss just the way Trisha's mother had described they might. The weight of reality was far too heavy for fantasy to bear.

  It began the morning of the third day after our return from the Thanksgiving holiday. I woke up deathly sick and vomited for twenty minutes. Trisha was afraid I had caught the stomach flu and was about to inform Agnes and ask her to arrange for medical treatment when she asked me the question that dropped icicles down my spine and nailed my feet to the floor.

  "You haven't missed a period, have you?" I didn't have to reply. She saw the answer in my face. "Oh Dawn, how long h
as it been?"

  "Nearly six weeks," I cried out in dismay. "I just didn't think about it. I've been irregular most of my life."

  "Which is more reason to worry and be careful," Trisha said. "Didn't your mother ever talk to you about these things?"

  Which mother? I thought. Momma Longchamp always thought me too young to know about sex, and by the time I was old enough to know, she was too sick and worried about other things. I was sure my real mother would turn blue and go into a faint if I so much as brought up the subject. And she wasn't anyone to talk to anyway, I thought.

  I shook my head, the tears beginning to trickle down my cheeks.

  "Oh Trisha, I can't be pregnant. I just can't. Not now. I'm not," I said with determination. "It's just a stomach flu. You'll see." I nodded, forcing myself to believe it.

  Trisha squeezed my hand and smiled.

  "Maybe you're right; maybe it's just a little stomach flu," she said. "Let's not panic just yet."

  I nodded and bit down on my emotions. I had little appetite at breakfast, but that could have been because of my nervousness as much as it was my earlier nausea. I walked about with the weight of worry on my shoulders all day. I didn't have vocal music so Michael didn't see me and I didn't want him to see me when I looked and felt this way.

  I was very tired that night and went to sleep early. The next morning, I woke with the same spell of nausea and vomited again. I saw that Trisha was becoming increasingly worried and frightened for me, so I made it sound as if it hadn't been as bad as the day before.

  "I think it is the flu," I told her. "And I'm getting better."

  When Michael finally saw me in general music class, however, he said I looked a little peaked and tired, but I didn't say anything except I hadn't been sleeping well. Before he could ask why, there were other students around us, making it hard for us to talk.