Bart, the child of my revenge, was coming into his own. I held fast to my hopes—wanting a party that turned out well and gave him the assurance he needed that he had friends and was well liked. I held off my fears and told myself over and over again that it was Bart’s just due, and ours, too.
Maybe Bart would be satisfied tomorrow when the will was reread. Maybe, just maybe . . . I wanted the best for him, wanted fate to make up for so many things.
Behind me Chris moved in our dressing room, stepping into his tux trousers, stuffing in his shirttails, tying his own bow tie, then asking me to do it all over again. “Make the ends even.” Gladly I retied it for him. He brushed his beautiful blond hair that was just a bit darker in back than it had been when he was forty. Each decade both darkened the blond and brought a touch more of silver in both our heads of hair. Easily I could keep mine colored, but Chris refused to do that. Fair hair had a lot to do with the way I thought about myself. My face was still pretty. I was both mature and young-looking.
Chris’s reflection moved closer to my dressing table, hovering over my shoulders. His hands, so familiar to me now, moved to slip inside my bodice and cup my breasts before his lips pressed on my neck. “I love you. God knows what I would do if I didn’t have you.”
Why was he always saying that?
As if he expected one day I’d leave or die before he did. “Darling, you’d live, that’s what. You’re important to society, I’m not.”
“You’re the one who keeps me going,” he whispered in a hoarse voice. “Without you I wouldn’t know how to continue on—but without me, you’d go on and probably marry again.”
I saw his eyes, his blue eyes wistfully waiting.
“I’ve had three husbands and one lover, and that’s enough for any one woman. If I am so unlucky as to lose you first, I’ll sit day by day before a window, staring out and remembering how it used to be with you.”
His eyes turned softer, meeting and locking with mine as I went on. “You look so beautiful, Chris. You’ll make your sons envious.”
“Beautiful? Isn’t that an adjective used to describe females?”
“No. there’s a difference between handsome and beautiful. Some men can look handsome, but not radiate inner beauty—like you do. You, my love, are beautiful—inside and out.”
Again his blue eyes lit up. “Thank you very much. And may I say that I find you ten times as beautiful as you find me.”
“My sons will be jealous when they behold the beauty of my Christopher Doll.”
“Yes, of course,” he answered with a wry grin. “Your sons see much to envy in me.”
“Chris, you know Jory loves you. Someday Bart’s going to find out he loves you, too.”
“Someday my ship will come . . . ,” he sang lightly.
“It’s his ship too, Chris. Bart is at last coming into his own. And with that fortune in his control, rather than yours, he’ll relax, find himself, and turn to you as the best father he could have had.”
Reflectively he smiled, a small smile of sadness. “To be honest, darling, I’ll be happy when Bart has his money and I’m out of the picture. It’s no easy chore handling all that money, though I could have hired a money manager to do it for me. As trustee, I guess I wanted to prove myself to Bart, that I’m more than just a doctor, since that never seemed enough for him.”
What could I say? Nothing Chris did seemed to change the way Bart felt about him. Because of that one thing he couldn’t change—he was my brother—Bart would never accept him as his father.
“What are you thinking, my love, that’s ugly, and making you frown?”
“Nothing much,” I answered, then I stood. The silky white of my clinging Grecian-styled dress felt whispery and sensuous against my bare skin. My hair had a single long curl to drape over my shoulder, the rest of it piled high on the crown of my head. Holding it in place was a diamond hair clip, the only jewelry I wore but for my wedding rings.
In the middle of the bedroom we shared, Chris and I reached for each other. There we stood, wrapped in each other’s arms, holding fast to the only security we ever had that lasted: each other. All about us the house felt so quiet. We could have been lost and alone in eternity.
“All right, spill it out,” said Chris after long minutes passed. “I can always tell when you’re worried.”
“I wish things could be different between you and Bart, that’s all,” I replied in an offhand way, not wanting to spoil this evening.
“I feel my relationship with Jory and Cindy more than makes up for Bart’s antagonism. And, more importantly, I genuinely sense Bart does not hate me. There are times when I feel he wants to reach out to me, but there’s that shame, that knowledge of our true relationship that holds him as if bound by chains of steel. He wants guidance but is ashamed to ask for it. He wants a father, a real father. His psychiatrists have always told us that. He looks at me, finds me sadly lacking . . . so he looks elsewhere. First it was Malcolm, his great-grandfather, already dead in his grave. Then it was John Amos, and John failed him, too. Now he turns to Joel, fearfully suspecting that he, too, may have his flaws. Yes, I can tell at times he doesn’t really trust his great-uncle. And because he can think like this, Bart is not beyond saving, Cathy. We still have time to reach him—for we’re alive and he’s alive.”
“Yes, yes! I know, I know. While there’s life there’s always hope. Say it again, and then again. And if you say it often enough, maybe the day will come when Bart says to you, ‘Yes, I love you. Yes, you’ve done your best. Yes, you are the father I’ve been looking for all my life’—and wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
His head bowed into my hair. “Don’t sound so bitter. That day will come, Cathy. As surely as you and I love each other—and our three children—that day will come.”
I knew I’d do anything that was necessary to see that one day Bart would speak genuine words of love to his father! I’d live forever to see the day when Bart not only accepted Chris and said he loved him and admired him and thanked him, I’d also live to see him a real brother to Jory again . . . and a brother to Cindy.
Minutes later we were at the head of the stairs, starting to descend and join Jory and Melodie, whom we could see near the newel post at the bottom. Melodie wore a simple black gown that draped from black shoestring straps. Her only jewelry was a string of gleaming pearls.
Upon hearing the clatter of my high-heeled silver slippers on the marble, Bart stepped into view wearing his custom-tailored tux. My breath caught. He could have been his father when I’d seen him the first time.
His mustache—that small amount of fuzz first seen seven days ago—had grown thicker. He looked happy, and that was enough to make him look even more handsome. His dark eyes were full of admiration as he saw my dress, my hair, smelled my perfume. “Mother!” he cried, “you look stunning! You bought that lovely white dress especially for my party, didn’t you?” Laughing, I said yes, of course, I couldn’t wear anything old to a party such as this.
We all had compliments for each other, except Bart didn’t say anything at all to Chris, although I saw him surreptitiously glancing at him, as if Chris’s steadfast good looks kept taking him by surprise. Melodie and Jory, Chris and I, with Bart and Joel, formed a circle at the bottom of the stairs, all of us but Joel trying to talk at the same time. Then . . .
“Momma, Daddy!” called Cindy, running down the stairs toward us and holding up her long flame-red dress so she wouldn’t trip. I turned to stare at her disbelievingly.
I didn’t know where Cindy had found the shocking red dress she wore. It seemed the kind a hooker would wear to display her charms. I filled with such sickening dread of Bart’s reaction that all my former happiness flowed like stale wine down into my slippers and disappeared through the floor. The thing she wore clung like a coat of scarlet paint, the neckline plunged almost to her waist, and obviously she wore nothing underneath. The peaks of her jutting breasts were too obvious; and when she moved she jiggle
d embarrassingly. The clinging satin sheath was cut on the bias, and clung . . . oh, it did cling. There wasn’t a bulge or a ripple to betray an ounce of fat, only a superb young body she wanted to display.
“Cindy, go back to your room,” I whispered, “and put on that blue dress you promised to wear. You’re sixteen, not thirty.”
“Oh, Momma, don’t be so stodgy. Times have changed. Nudity is in, Momma, IN. And compared to some I could have chosen, this dress is modest, absolutely prudish.”
Just one glance at Bart told me he didn’t think Cindy’s gown was modest. He stood as if dumbstruck until this very moment, with his face flame red, his dark eyes bulging as he stared at her mincing around, because the skirt was so tight she could hardly move her legs.
Bart stared at us, looked again at Cindy. Bart’s rage was so furious he couldn’t speak. In those few seconds I had to think quickly of how to appease him. “Cindy, please, run back and change into something decent.”
Cindy had her eyes fixed on Bart. Obviously she was challenging him to do something to stop her. She seemed to be enjoying his reaction, his bulging eyes, his gaping lips that showed his indignation and shock. She made more of a show of herself by sashaying around like a prancing pony in heat, swishing those hips in an undulating, provocative way. Joel moved next to Bart, his watery blue eyes cold and scornful as he looked Cindy up and down, and then his eyes lifted to meet mine. See, see what you have raised, he said mutely.
“Cindy, do you hear your mother?” Chris bellowed. “Do as she says! Immediately!”
Appearing shocked, Cindy froze, staring at him with defiance as she flushed and stood her ground.
“Please, Cindy,” I added, “do as your father says. The other dress is very pretty and appropriate. What you have on is vulgar.”
“I am old enough to choose what I want to wear.” she said in a quivery voice, refusing to move. “Bart likes red, so I wear red!”
Melodie stared at Cindy, glanced helplessly up at me, and tried to smile. Jory appeared amused, as if this were all a joke.
Cindy had by this time finished her burlesque performance. She looked somewhat crestfallen as she paused before Jory, staring up at him expectantly. “You look absolutely divine, Jory—and you, too, Melodie.”
Obviously Jory didn’t know what to say or where to look, so he looked away, then looked back. A slow blush rose from the neckline of his tucked formal shirt. “And you look like . . . Marilyn Monroe . . .”
Bart’s dark head snapped around. His fiery gaze raked over Cindy again. His face flamed even redder so it seemed he might go up in smoke. He exploded, all control vanished. “You go straight back to your room and put on something decent! INSTANTLY! MOVE before you get what you deserve! I won’t have anyone in my home dressing like a whore!”
“Get lost, you creep!” she snapped back.
“WHAT DID YOU SAY?” he yelled.
“I said, GET LOST, CREEP! I will wear exactly what I have on!” I saw her tremble. But for once Bart was right.
“Cindy, why? You know that dress is wrong, and everyone is right to be shocked. Now, do what’s expected, go upstairs and change. Don’t create more distress than you already have—for you do look like a street prostitute, and certainly you must know that. Usually you have very good taste. Why did you select that thing?”
“Momma!” she wailed, “you’re making me feel bad!”
Bart stepped toward her, his expression very threatening. Instantly Melodie moved between them, spreading her slender white arms before she turned pleadingly to Bart. “Can’t you see she’s only doing this to annoy you? Stay calm, or else you will give Cindy exactly the satisfaction she wants.”
Turning, she said to Cindy in a cool but authoritative voice, “Cindy, you have achieved the shock effects you wanted. So why don’t you go back upstairs and put on that pretty blue dress you started to wear in the first place?”
Bart ignored both Chris and me as he strode to seize Cindy, but she pranced away out of his reach, turning to teasingly mock him for being slow and not as agile as she was, even hobbled as she was in that slim, straight, tight skirt. I could have slapped Cindy when I heard her say silkily, “Bart, darling, I was so sure you’d love this scarlet gown . . . since you think I’m a cheap, trashy thing, anyway, I’m just living up to your expectations—and playing the role you wrote for me.”
In one flashing bound he reached her. His open palm slammed against her cheek.
The pain in his hard slap rocked Cindy backward so that she sat down very hard on the second stair step. I heard the skirt of her red gown rip down the midback seam. Moving quickly, I hurried to help her up. Tears came to Cindy’s eyes.
Hurriedly standing, Cindy backed up the stairs, struggling to maintain dignity. “You are a creep, brother Bart. A weird pervert who doesn’t know what the real world is about. I bet you’re a virgin, or else gay!”
The rage on Bart’s face sent her scurrying up the stairs in a hurry. I moved to prevent Bart from following Cindy, but he was too quick.
Ruthlessly he shoved me aside, so I, too, almost fell. Crying like a chastised child, Cindy disappeared with Bart close at her heels.
In a distant hall, I faintly heard Bart shout, “How dare you try to embarrass me? You’re the trashy one I’ve had to protect from all the dirty stories I hear about you. I used to think they lied. Now you’ve proved yourself exactly what they said you were! As soon as this party is over, I don’t ever want to see you again!”
“AS IF I WANT TO SEE YOU!” she screamed. “I HATE YOU, BART! HATE YOU!”
I heard her scream, the wailing cries . . . I started to head up the stairs while Chris tried to restrain me. Tugging free, I had climbed five steps when Bart appeared with a satisfied smirk on his handsome but momentarily evil face. He whispered as he passed, “I just gave her what you never did—a thorough spanking. If she can sit for a week comfortably, she’s got at ass made of iron.”
I glanced backward in time to see Joel scowl at the use of that word.
Ignoring Joel for a change, smiling like the perfect host, Bart arranged us into a receiving line, and soon guests began to arrive. Bart introduced all of us to people I hadn’t known he knew. I was amazed at the style he showed, the poise, the ease with which he handled everyone and made them welcome. His college chums came flocking in, as if to see all that he’d told them about. If Cindy hadn’t put on that horrible dress, I could have really felt proud of Bart. As it was, I was baffled, believing Bart could be anything that suited his purpose.
Right now he was set on charming everyone. And he succeeded, even more than Jory, who obviously and wisely intended to take a backseat and allow Bart to shine. Melodie stayed close at her husband’s side, clinging to his hand, his arm, looking pale, unhappy. I was so absorbed in watching Bart perform that I was startled when someone tugged on my arm. It was Cindy, wearing the modest little blue silk sheath I’d chosen for her. She looked sweet-sixteen-and-never-been-kissed. I scolded, “Really, Cindy, you can’t blame Bart. This time you deserved a spanking.”
She choked out, “Damn him to hell! I’ll show him! I’ll dance ten times better than Melodie has ever danced! I’ll make every man at this party want me tonight, despite this deadly mousey gown you chose.”
“You don’t mean that, Cindy.”
Softening, she fell into my arms. “No, Momma, I don’t mean that.”
Bart saw Cindy with me, raked his eyes over her girlish gown, smiled sarcastically, and then came our way.
Cindy stood taller.
“Now, listen, Cindy. You’ll put on your costume when the time comes and forget anything happened between us. You’ll perform your part to perfection—okay?”
Playfully he pinched her cheek. So playfully his pinch left a deep red indentation on her face. She squealed and kicked out. Her high heel dug into his shin. He yelped and slapped her.
“Bart!” I hissed, “stop! Don’t you hurt her again! You’ve done enough for one night!”
/> Chris yanked Bart away from Cindy. “Now, I’ve had enough of this idiocy,” he said angrily, and Chris seldom angered. “You’ve invited to this party some of the most important people in Virginia—now show them you know how to behave.”
Pulling roughly away from Chris, Bart glared at him, then strode away, very fast, without a comment. I smiled at Chris, and with him beside me, we headed for the gardens. Jory and Melodie took Cindy and began introducing her to some of the young people who’d come with their parents. There were many there that Bart had met through Jory and Melodie, who had hordes of friends and fans.
I could only hope for the best.
Samson and Delilah
Golden globes everywhere lit up the night, and the moon rode high in a cloudless, starry sky. Out on the lawn were dozens of buffet tables butted together to form a huge U. On these tables food was placed in large silver dishes. A fountain sprayed imported champagne into the air, then trickled it into layered pools that ran into tiny spigots. On the middle table was a huge ice sculpture of Foxworth Hall.
Besides the main tables laden with all that money could buy were dozens of small round and square individual tables covered with brilliant cloths—green over rose, turquoise over violet, yellow over orange, and other striking combinations. The tablecloths were kept from blowing by heavy garlands of flowers festooned around them.
Although Chris and I had been introduced in the receiving line, it seemed to me most of Bart’s guests made it a point not to talk to us. I looked at Chris just as he looked at me. “What’s going on?” he asked in a low whisper.
“The older guests are not talking to Bart, either,” I answered. “Look, Chris, they’ve come just to drink, eat, and enjoy themselves, and they don’t give a damn about Bart, or any of us. They are just here so he can dine and wine them.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Chris replied. “Everyone makes it a point to speak to Jory and Melodie. Some are even talking to Joel. Doesn’t he look a fine and elegant gentleman tonight?”
The Flowers in the Attic Series: The Dollangangers: Flowers in the Attic, Petals on the Wind, If There Be Thorns, Seeds of Yesterday, and a New Excerpt! Page 127