“She could at least speak to me occasionally,” complained Jory, “or look at me. She doesn’t even cozy up to Bart anymore.”
I looked at him with alarm. Could he know that only a short while ago Bart and Melodie had been lovers? I didn’t believe they were anymore, and that was the true explanation of Melodie’s miserable state. I tried to read his eyes, but he lowered his lids and pretended to be interested in decorating the tree again.
Long ago Chris and I had established a tradition of opening at least one gift on Christmas Eve. When night came, Chris and I sat alone in the best of our downstairs salons, toasting one another with champagne. We lifted our glasses high. “To all our tomorrows together,” he said with his warm eyes full of love and happiness. I repeated the same words before Chris handed me my “special” gift. I opened the small jewelry box to find a two-carat pear-shaped diamond suspended on a fine gold chain.
“Now, don’t object and say you don’t like jewelry,” Chris said hastily when I just stared at the object that glittered and refracted rainbow colors. “Our mother never wore anything like this. I really wanted to buy you opera-length pearls like the ones she used to wear, because I think they are both elegant and understated. But knowing you, I forgot the pearls and settled for this beautiful diamond. It’s tear-shaped, Cathy—for all the tears I would have cried inside if you had never let me love you.”
The way he said that put tears in my eyes and swelled my heart with the guilty sadness of being us, the special joy of being us; the complications of being us sometimes were just too overwhelming. Silently I handed him my “special” gift—a fine star-sapphire ring to fit his forefinger. He laughed, saying it was ostentatious but beautiful.
No sooner were those words out of his mouth than Jory, Melodie, and Bart joined us. Jory smiled to see the glow in our eyes. Bart frowned. Melodie sank into a deep-cushioned chair and seemed to disappear in the depths. Cindy came running in with bells that she shook merrily, her pants and sweater bright red. Finally Joel slunk into the room to stand in a corner with his arms folded over his chest, casting his own pall, like a somber judge overseeing wicked and dangerous children.
It was Jory who first responded to Cindy’s charm by raising his glass of champagne high and toasting. “Hail to the joys of Christmas Eve! May my mother and father always look at one another as they do this night, with love and tenderness, with compassion and understanding. May I find that kind of love in the eyes of my wife again . . . soon.”
He was directly challenging Melodie and in front of all of us. Sadly, his timing was bad for this kind of confrontation. She drew herself into a tighter knot and refused to meet his eyes; instead, she leaned forward to stare more intensely into the fire. The hope in Jory’s eyes faded. His shoulders sagged before he swiveled his chair so that he couldn’t see her. He put down his champagne and fixed his eyes on the fire just as intensely as his wife, as if to read what symbolism she was seeing. In a distant dim corner, Joel smiled.
Cindy tried to force gaiety. Bart, by attrition, gave in to the corroding gloominess that Melodie emitted like a gray fog. Truly our little family get-together in a gloriously festive room was a flop. Bart refused even to look at Melodie now that she was so grossly out of shape.
Soon he was pacing the room restlessly, glancing at all the gifts under the “family” tree. His eyes accidentally found Melodie staring at him hopefully, and only too quickly he looked away, as if embarrassed by her too overt pleading. In a few minutes Melodie excused herself, saying in a low voice that she didn’t feel well.
“Anything I can do?” Chris asked immediately, jumping up to assist her up the stairs. She plodded along heavily, flat footed. “I’m all right,” she snapped near one newel post. “I don’t need your help—or anyone’s!”
“And a merry Christmas was had by all,” intoned Bart, much in the manner of Joel, who still stood in the shadows, watching, always watching.
The moment Melodie was gone from the room, Jory slumped forward in his chair before he stated, too, that he was tired and not feeling too well. His next prolonged bout of coughing revealed that. “I’ve got just the medicine you need,” said Chris, jumping up and heading for the stairs. “You can’t go to bed yet, Jory. Stay a while longer. We have to celebrate. Before I dose you with something that might not be appropriate, I need to listen to your lungs.”
Bart leaned casually against the mantel, watching this caring scene between Jory and Chris as if jealous of their relationship. Chris came to me. “Perhaps it is better if we retire now, so we can be up at dawn to eat breakfast, open our presents, and then have naps before we start getting ready for the ball tomorrow night.”
“Oh, glory hallelujah!” cried Cindy, whirling around the room in a small dance. “People, hordes of people, all dressed in their best—I can hardly wait for tomorrow night! Laughter, how I long to hear it. Jokes and small talk, how my ears crave that. I’m so tired of being serious, looking at grim faces that don’t know how to smile, hearing sad talk. I hope all those old fuddy-duds bring along their college-aged sons—or any son as long as he’s over twelve. I’m that desperate!”
Bart wasn’t the only one of us to throw her disapproving looks, which Cindy ignored. “I’m gonna dance all night, I’m gonna dance all night,” she sang, whirling around by herself, pretending to have a partner, refusing to let her anticipations be diminished by anything anyone of us could say. “And then I’ll dance some more . . .”
Despite themselves, Chris and Jory were charmed with her actions, her bright, happy song. Chris smiled before he said, “There should be at least twenty young men here tomorrow night. Just try to contain yourself. Now, since Jory looks so beat, let’s head for bed. Tomorrow will be a long day.”
It seemed a good idea.
All of a sudden, falling into a chair, Cindy sagged as limp as Melodie had, looking sad and near tears. “I wish Lance could have stayed. I’d rather have him than any other.”
Bart threw her a furious look. “That particular young man will never enter this house again.” He turned to me next. “We don’t need Melodie at the party,” he went on with determination and continued anger, “not when she’s acting so miserable and sick. Let her sulk in her room tomorrow morning so we can enjoy opening our gifts. I think afternoon naps are a good idea, so tomorrow night we’ll look fresh from plenty of rest and bright and happy for my party.”
Jory had gone on ahead, entering the elevator by himself, as if to prove his independence. The rest of us seemed reluctant to part. As I sat there hearing the Christmas carols that Bart had put on the stereo to play, I thought of all his newly acquired fastidious habits.
As a boy he’d loved being not just dirty, but filthy. Now he took several showers a day, kept himself immaculately groomed. He couldn’t retire until he’d checked over “his house” from top to bottom, seeing that the doors were locked, the windows, too, and that the new kitten Trevor had as his pet hadn’t stained a carpet. (Trevor had been fired a dozen times by Bart, but still he stayed on, and Bart didn’t insist that he go.)
Even as I watched, Bart got up to fluff the throw pillows, smoothed wrinkles out of downy sofa cushions, picked up magazines and arranged them in neat piles. All the things the servants forgot to do, he did. Then he’d jump on Trevor in the morning and order the maids to do better—or out they’d go without severance pay. No wonder we couldn’t keep servants. Only Trevor remained loyal, ignoring the rudeness of Bart, whom he looked at with pity, although Bart didn’t know that.
All this was on my mind as I took note of Bart’s growing enthusiasm for tomorrow night’s party. I glanced toward the windows and saw the snow was still falling, and already two feet of snow were on the ground. “Bart . . . the roads are going to be icy tomorrow night, perhaps closed, and many of your guests might not be able to make it here for the traditional Foxworth ball.”
“Nonsense! I’ll fly them in if they call to cancel. A helicopter could land on the lawn.”
I
sighed, for some reason made uneasy by the strangely malicious look of Joel, who chose that time to leave the room.
“Your mother is right, Bart,” said Chris kindly, “so don’t feel disappointed if only a few are able to show up. I had a devil of a time reaching here a few hours ago, and it’s snowing harder now.”
It was as if Chris hadn’t said a word. Bart bade me good night, then strode toward the stairs. Shortly afterward, Chris, Cindy and I ascended the stairs.
While Chris went in to say a few words to Jory, I waited for Cindy to come from her bath. Another shower (at least two a day with shampoos) brought her fresh and bright from the bath, wearing the briefest little red nightie. “Momma, don’t you lecture me again. I just can’t take any more. When I first came to this house, I thought it like a fairy tale palace. Now I think of it as a gloomy fortress to keep us all prisoners. As soon as this ball is over, I’m leaving—and to hell with Bart! I love you and Daddy and Jory, but Melodie has turned into a boring pain in the neck and Bart will never change. He’ll always hate me, so I’m going to stop even trying to be nice to him.”
She slipped between the sheets, pulled the covers high, turned on her side away from me. “Good night, Momma. Please turn out the light when you leave. Don’t ask me to behave myself tomorrow night, for I intend to be the model of ladylike decorum. Wake me three hours before the ball begins.”
“In other words, you don’t even want to share Christmas morning with us?”
“Oh,” she said indifferently, “I guess I can wake up long enough to open my gifts . . . and watch the rest of you open yours. Then back to bed so I can be the belle of the ball tomorrow night.”
“I love you, Cindy,” I said as I switched off her lamp, and then bent to lift her hair and kiss the warm nape of her neck.
Flipping over, her slim young arms tightened around my neck as she sobbed, “Oh, Momma, you’re the best! I promise to be good from now on. I won’t let any boy so much as hold my hand. But let me escape this house and fly to New York and attend that New Year’s party my best friend is throwing in a grand hotel ballroom.”
Silently I nodded. “All right. If you want to enjoy yourself at the home of your friend, that’s fine, but please do your best not to rile Bart tomorrow. You know his problem, and he has worked hard to overcome all those disturbing ideas planted in his head when he was very young. Help him, Cindy. Let him realize he has a family backing him up.”
“I will, Momma, I promise I will.”
I closed the door and was soon saying good night to Jory. He was unusually quiet. “It’s going to be all right, darling. Just as soon as the baby is here, Melodie will see you again.”
“Will she?” he asked bitterly. “I doubt it. She’ll have the baby then to occupy her time and thoughts. She’ll need me even less than she does now.”
Half an hour later, Chris opened his arms to me, and eagerly I surrendered to the only love in my life that had lasted long enough to let me know I had a firm grip on happiness . . . despite everything that could have ruined what we had cultivated and grown in the shade.
* * *
The morning light crept eerily into my room, bringing me out of sleep even before the alarm sounded. Quickly I was up and staring out the windows. The snow had stopped. Thank God for that; Bart would be pleased. I hurried back to the bed to kiss Chris awake. “Merry Christmas, darling Doctor Christopher Sheffield,” I whispered in his ear.
“I’d rather you call me just darling,” he mumbled as he came awake and looked around in a disoriented way.
Determined that this day was going to be successful, I tugged him out of bed, and soon we were both dressed and heading for the breakfast room.
For two days men and women had been coming to the house, repeating what had been done in the summer, only this time the entire downstairs had been transformed into a Christmas fantasy.
I watched with a certain indifference as the workers from the caterer Bart had hired finally finished making our home look like a wonderland. Cindy stood at my side watching all they did to turn the rooms into extraordinarily festive rooms, full of color, candles, wreaths, garlands, a towering Christmas tree that outdid our family tree by ten feet.
All she saw soon had Cindy convinced she didn’t want to spend the better part of her day in bed. She forgot Lance and loneliness, for Christmas Day worked better magic than Christmas Eve.
“Look at that pie, Momma! It’s huge. Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie,” she sang, all of a sudden glowing with life. “Sorry I’ve acted ugly. I’ve been thinking, there’ll be boys here tonight, and lots of handsome rich men. Oh, maybe this house can give more than misery after all.”
“Of course it can,” Bart said as he came in to stand between us, his eyes shining as he surveyed all that had been done. He seemed thrilled by his expectations. “You just be sure and wear a decent dress, and don’t do anything outrageous.” Then he was following the workmen and giving directions, laughing often, even including Jory, Cindy, Melodie, and me, as if all were forgiven now that it was Christmas.
Day after day, like some dark, gloomy shadow, Joel had trailed behind Bart, his old voice cracking as he intoned words from the Bible. He said again this morning, fully dressed at six-thirty, “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God . . .”
“What the hell are you trying to say, old man?” shouted Bart.
Momentarily Joel’s watery eyes flared with anger, like a spark ready to ignite from a brisk, unexpected wind.
“You’re throwing away thousands of dollars hoping to impress someone—and no one will be impressed, for the others have money, too. Some live in finer homes. Foxworth Hall was the best of its kind in its day, but its day has come and gone.”
Bart turned on him with fury. “SHUT UP! You’re trying to spoil whatever happiness I reach for. Everything I do is a sin! You’re an old man and have done your share; now you try to spoil mine. This is my time to be young and fully enjoy my life. Keep your religious quotes to yourself!”
“Pride goeth before a fall.”
“Pride goeth before destruction,” corrected Bart, glaring at his great-uncle and giving me delicious satisfaction.
At last, at last, Bart was seeing Joel as a threat and not as the respectable father he’d sought all his life.
“Pride is the never-failing vice of fools,” extolled Joel, looking with disgust at all that had been done. “You have wasted money that would be better off given to charities.”
“Get out! Go to your room and polish your pride, Uncle! For obviously you have nothing in your heart but jealousy!”
Joel stumbled from the room, muttering to himself, “He’ll find out. Nothing is forgotten or forgiven here in the hills. I know. Who would know better than I? Bitter, bitter are the days of the Foxworths despite all their wealth.”
I stepped forward to hug Bart. “Don’t listen to him, Bart. You’ll have a wonderful party. Everyone will come now that the sun is shining and melting the snow. God is on your side this day, so rejoice and have the time of your life.”
The look in his eyes when I said that, oh, that grateful look. He stared at me, trying to say something—but the words couldn’t form. Finally he could do nothing but briefly embrace me; then he was striding away as if embarrassed. Such a wonderful-looking man, so wasted, I was thinking. There had to be someplace where Bart fitted.
Rooms that had been closed off since winter began were opened, the dustcovers removed and freshened so that no one would know we ever made an effort to conserve heat or money. Bathrooms and powder rooms were given special attention to make them both immaculate and attractive. Expensive soaps and lavish guest towels were put out. Every toiletry item that a guest might need was displayed. Special Christmas china and crystal were taken from the party cabinets, along with seasonal decorations too expensive for the caterer to supply.
We gathered around the Christmas tree about eleven o’clock. Bar
t was freshly shaven, splendidly well groomed, as was Jory. Only Melodie looked stale in her worn maternity dress that she wore day in and week out. Trying as always to ease tensions, I picked up the Christ child from the realistic manger and held the baby in my arms. “Bart, I haven’t seen this before. Did you buy this? If so, I’ve never seen a more beautifully carved set of Biblical figures.”
“It just arrived yesterday, and only today I unpacked it,” Bart answered. “I bought it in Italy last winter and had them ship it over.”
I gushed on, happy to see him so animated. “This Christ child looks like a real baby, when most don’t, and the virgin Mary is absolutely beautiful. Joseph looks so kind and understanding.”
“He’d have to be, wouldn’t he?” asked Jory, who was leaning forward to put more of his gifts under our family tree. “After all, it must have seemed a bit incredible for him to believe a virgin could be impregnated by an invisible, abstract God.”
“You’re not supposed to question,” answered Bart, his eyes lovingly caressing the almost life-sized figures he’d purchased. “You just blindly accept what is written.”
“Then why did you argue with Joel?”
“Jory . . . don’t push me too far. Joel is helping me find myself. He’s an old man who lived in sin when he was young and is redeeming himself in his old age through good deeds. I am a young man who wants to sin, feeling my traumatic childhood has already redeemed me.”
“I suggest a few orgies in some big city will have you running back here, as old and hypocritical acting as your great-uncle Joel,” answered Jory fearlessly. “I don’t like him. And you’d be wise to drive him out, Bart. Give him a few hundred thousand and say good-bye.”
Something yearning struggled in Bart’s eyes, as if he’d like to do exactly this. He leaned forward to stare into Jory’s eyes. “Why don’t you like him?”
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 142