Cutler 3 - Twilight's Child (29 page)

And she loved them. She had certainly inherited Michael's desire to be the center of attention. She craved society, wanted to perform in any way possible, be it playing her piano or singing or reciting something she had just learned. It didn't take much coaxing to get her to do any of it, just a request and applause.

The hotel had surely become a happy place for all of us. Thankfully, my fears about problems with Philip had diminished with every passing day. With his heavy involvement now in the hotel's business, and with the birth of his twins, Philip seemed to settle down to the life he had chosen and, like me, had accepted the cards fate had dealt. Whenever he and Betty Ann and Jimmy and I did anything together, he paid proper attention to Betty Ann, and although he looked at me longingly from time to time, he didn't disturb or frighten me with references to his undying love and his continual torment.

One warm summer day, however, when I was out in the gardens talking to Mrs. Caldwell, who had taken the twins out for a stroll, Philip came up beside me and whispered in my ear.

"You know why I am happy we had twins, don't you?" he said.

"Why?" I asked, expecting some sort of joke. He had a wide, soft smile on his face.

"Because it's as if there's one for you and one for Betty Ann. I know you and Jimmy have been trying to have another child and haven't been successful," he added quickly, before I could respond. "You would have been successful with me," he said. I felt the heat rise into my face. "Which one do you think would be ours?" he asked in all seriousness.

For a moment I couldn't speak, so he continued to talk as he gazed down at the twins.

"I often imagine Richard is our child. He reminds me of you. I don't know why; he just does."

I pulled him out of Mrs. Caldwell's range of hearing.

"Philip, that is a sick thing to say. Those children are yours and Betty Ann's. It would break her heart to think that you fantasize one of them to be mine."

"I can't help what I dream," he said.

"Well, you should try," I snapped, and I walked away from him, my heart pounding.

I think what terrified me the most was the way my inability to become pregnant had developed into community news. Of course, it was only natural for people to wonder why Jimmy and I hadn't had a child of our own since my miscarriage. In a community as small as Cutler's Cove it wasn't hard to imagine that most people knew there was no physical reason for me not to become pregnant. This old seaside town had its share of gossips, just like anywhere else. On more than one occasion, especially during our phone conversations, Mother confirmed that the topic was frequently on people's minds.

"Catherine Peabody asked me why you and James haven't attempted to have another child," Mother said. "Can you imagine the gall? I wanted to ask her what business was it of hers, but instead I told her bluntly that you and James were being sensible. I said you were both too young and too involved with your work to become bogged down with a brood of offspring."

"Tell them whatever you like, Mother," I said dryly. The topic was deadening to me. I felt beaten down, defeated, exhausted over worrying about it. I was at the point of giving up and accepting the fact that it would never happen anyway.

I think Jimmy was beginning to feel that way, too. Not that we stopped making love or thinking about it. He just stopped asking me how I was and if I had any symptoms. Actually, what the birth of the twins and my inability to become pregnant did was put Jimmy's mind back on Fern. I knew that he and Daddy Longchamp had kept up a correspondence about her. We continually invited Daddy Longchamp and his new wife Edwina to the hotel, but he always had one reason or another why he couldn't come. Finally, one day Jimmy decided we should visit him.

I had left the hotel early to go to sit on the bench in our newly constructed gazebo. The late-afternoon sun spread long, cool shadows over the lawns and gardens. In the distance the calm, silvery ocean glittered. I felt pensive and moody. All day I had been recalling things about Momma Longchamp and my childhood, a time that seemed more like a dream now.

"So there you are," Jimmy said, approaching. "I've been looking for you."

"I got lazy," I said, "and decided to come home earlier today."

"You should be taking more time off. This hotel can run itself. Anyway, that's why I was looking for you," he said. "I received a new packet of pictures from Daddy Longchamp today. Look at how big Gavin's getting," he said, handing me the photographs.

"He's getting handsome, too," I said, gazing down at the dark-haired, dark-eyed boy. He had Daddy Longchamp's lean, hard look, but a very nice smile.

"I should go to see my new brother," he said. "It's not right that he and I have never met."

"Of course you should go, Jimmy. But maybe you should go yourself," I said.

"What? Why?"

"I don't know . . . maybe Daddy Longchamp is still very uncomfortable about seeing me," I said. "That's probably why he doesn't come here. You can tell him I was just too busy at the hotel to leave at this time."

"You sure it's not the other way around?" Jimmy asked. "What do you mean?"

"You sure you're not uncomfortable about seeing him?" he pursued, his eyes narrow with suspicion.

"Jimmy, how can you say that? I wanted him to come to the hotel, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but maybe you always knew he wouldn't come," Jimmy said. "And you were never terribly upset when he didn't show up." He fixed his eyes on me, and I had to look down. It was as if Jimmy could look into my heart and see my fears.

"You were the one who talked me into forgiving him and going to see him," Jimmy reminded me. "And here you're the one who still hates him."

"Oh, Jimmy, I don't hate him. I'm just . . . just . . ." "What?" he insisted.

"Afraid," I said. "I can't help it. I don't know why I should be, but I am."

He stared at me, confused.

"What are you afraid of? Raking up the past?"

"Oh, Jimmy," I said, finally letting it all burst out of me, "he raised us as brother and sister, and here we are married. I'm afraid to look him in the face."

"But—but he knew the truth!" Jimmy exclaimed.

"Jimmy, all the time I lived with him and Momma Longchamp I never felt I wasn't their child. I think they got so they believed it themselves. Truth sometimes changes. Like a chameleon, it transforms itself to fit where it is at the time. Daddy Longchamp can't look at us and not remember us sharing a room, sharing our meager meals, even sharing some clothing. And when he looks at me and remembers the past he's most likely to feel bad, even though I won't want him to."

"But—"

"Jimmy, you go yourself. Just this first time," I pleaded. "I promise go the next time," I said.

He stared at me a moment and then shook his head.

"All right," he finally said. "I want to talk to Daddy about Fern anyway. He's been trying to find out about her, too. I can't understand why Mr. Updike has been unable to find out anything all this time, especially with the services of a professional detective."

"Jimmy," I said after taking a deep breath, "we don't have the detective working on it anymore."

"What? Why not?" he demanded, his face turning beet red.

"I told you, Jimmy. There are secrecy laws, and we just can't break them. Mr. Updike advised me to stop."

"As far as I can see, rich people break laws whenever they have the need to, and then they hire fancy lawyers like Mr. Updike to make it all right. Maybe we need a different lawyer for this," he suggested. "One who's not so law-abiding. Anyway, why didn't you tell me we didn't have a detective working on it anymore?"

"I didn't want to make you unhappy, Jimmy."

"That wasn't right, Dawn. You should have told me. Daddy's been thinking we had the detective working all this time, too." He shook his head. "It wasn't right."

"Jimmy, even if we do find her, it's going to be strange for her. She's almost ten by now," I reminded him. "And she's been living with another family under another name. Most likely they never told her she was adopted. We might do more harm than good at this point."

"I'm surprised at you, Dawn," he said, his eyes full of pain and anger. "If she was really your sister again, you would think differently, I'm sure." He turned and charged off, leaving me sitting in the gazebo.

My heart felt like a chunk of lead in my chest, and I felt the blood drain from my face. Jimmy had never before looked at me that angrily, nor had I ever hurt him that deeply. I was dumbfounded, shocked at myself. Why did I wait so long to tell him, and how could I make such a cold statement to him? It was as if Grandmother Cutler had put the words into my mouth.

I hurried after him and found that he had gone to the other side of the house and was just staring off at the horizon.

"Oh, Jimmy," I said, embracing him, "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hide anything from you, and I didn't mean to say those things. Of course we should find Fern. Of all people, I should remember how important it is to know who you really are. I don't know what came over me in there. I guess I'm just frustrated and unhappy about not getting pregnant. I know how much you want it."

"Don't you want it, too, Dawn?" he asked, his eyes shifting toward mine, searching, penetrating, digging for the truth.

"Yes, Jimmy, I do. I really do," I said with all my heart. He let out a deep breath.

"Okay," he said. "I'll go see Daddy by myself this time." "Jimmy, if you really want me to go. . ."

"No," he said. "You might be right about it. Anyway, I won't be there long."

"I'll miss you no matter how short the time you're away," I said.

He kissed me, but it was as if a tiny crack had started across the shiny veneer of our love and marriage. His kiss wasn't as long or as hard, and as soon as he had given it he hurried off to pack.

I went dead inside. I felt like a small bird left behind with winter rushing down over the hills.

12

JIMMY LEFT EARLY THE NEXT MORNING. IT WAS COMPLETELY overcast, with thick layers of soiled gray clouds hovering above and threatening rain. Even the ocean looked ashen and drab, its morning tide churning with a dreary monotony. The winds were rough, seizing and shaking the trees mercilessly. I embraced myself while we waited on the porch for Julius to pick up Jimmy and take him to the airport. Christie had already gone to school, and Jimmy had said good-bye to her. All that remained were our good-byes. We were both putting them off until the final moment.

At breakfast our conversation centered around the list of things Jimmy had left for me to check for him at the hotel.

"I don't like rushing off like this," he said, "but if I don't just up and do it, I know I'll postpone it again and again."

"Don't worry, Jimmy," I assured him, "I'll see to it that everything you want done is done."

He nodded. We had been avoiding each other's eyes all morning. I had had a restless and troubled sleep, still regretting some of the things I had said to him and my reluctance to join him on his visit to Daddy Longchamp and his new family. I wanted to wake Jimmy up and apologize again and again, but he was in a deep sleep. I finally fell asleep myself just before morning and didn't even hear him get up and get dressed. I woke when I heard Mrs. Boston getting Christie ready for school.

Now we stood together watching the limousine approach. "Well, okay," Jimmy said, lifting his suitcase, "I'll call you sometime tonight."

He leaned in to kiss me. I tried to hold on to his shoulders. I wanted to keep his lips on mine for as long as I could, but he pulled away as the limousine came to a stop in front of us.

"Jimmy!" I cried, my hand out toward him. He turned back as Julius took his bag to put into the trunk.

"What?" His eyes met mine, and I saw tears there, unshed but shining.

"Be careful," I said.

"I'll try. I'll call you," he repeated, and he got into the limousine. I stood there feeling numb and tiny as Julius got back into the limousine and drove him off. I didn't go into the house until the car was gone from my sight. My heart felt so empty, hollowed out, each thump echoing louder in the vacant chambers.

I ran back upstairs and flung myself on the bed, where I cried and cried like a hysterical schoolgirl. Mrs. Boston heard me and came to knock on the door.

"Are you all right, Dawn?" she asked.

"Yes, Mrs. Boston," I said, sitting up. "It's all right." I wiped my cheeks. "Don't worry."

"If you want anything, let me know," she said, her voice full of concern.

What I wanted, she couldn't provide, I thought. I wanted to heal the scars of years and years of painful living. I wanted to bury the sad and bitter memories still clinging tenaciously to the walls of my mind, clinging like spiteful bats, eager to take advantage of every dark moment to fly about and torment me. I wanted to gain new courage, to be able to face all of the ghosts and drive them back into the shadows where they belonged.

Jimmy had been so strong; his love for me was so great that he could overcome these old feelings and fears. I had seen the deep disappointment in his eyes when he gazed at me just before he left. In my heart I felt the ache that had made a home in his, and I knew I was dissatisfying him in a serious way, but it was as if there were invisible chains binding me to my fears and weaknesses. I needed a little more time to break them, just a little more, I thought.

I decided the only thing to do now was to bury myself in work so I could keep my mind off the sadness I felt with Jimmy gone. I filled my eyes with words and numbers to prevent them from seeing Jimmy's dark, sad eyes again and again. Every time I finished something, I leapt to find something else to do, no matter how minor or how unimportant. At times I thought I resembled poor Randolph, who had become obsessed with insignificant details. Now I could understand why that had happened to him, I thought. He was only trying to keep himself from facing ugly realities.

Unfortunately, however, before the morning was over I could stop looking for things to do in order to occupy myself. Something serious came my way, and Philip had gone to Virginia teach on business, so he couldn't be of any assistance. Mr. Stanley, who was in charge of the chambermaids, came knocking on my office door. He looked terribly flustered when he entered.

"What's wrong, Mr. Stanley?" I asked before he reached my desk.

"Mrs. Longchamp, something dreadful," he replied. "Mary White, one of our chambermaids, came to tell me that one of our guests has passed away in his room . . . Mr. Parker."

"Mr. Parker?" I knew him well. He was an elderly gentleman who had been coming to the hotel for twenty years at least. He was a very kind and distinguished man, a widower. Last year he had given Christie a hundred dollars for her birthday. "Are you sure he's—"

"I went up to the room myself and found him slumped in his chair by the window. I'm afraid it's true," Mr. Stanley said, fidgeting with his shirt collar.

"I see. All right. Keep the room closed, of course. Go speak with Mr. Dorfman and see how such things were handled in the past."

"I'm sorry," Mr. Stanley said, as if this was all somehow his fault. "I did tell Mary to keep it to herself for now," he added.

"Fine." I rose from my chair and walked out with him. "I'll be in my office," he said. I went directly to Mr. Dorfman's.

"How unfortunate," he said when I told him what Mr. Stanley had discovered. "However, it has happened before. When you cater to older people—"

"What do we do in situations like this?" I asked quickly.

"Well, I'll call for an ambulance, of course. It's best the other guests not know that he's actually passed away. I'll speak to the ambulance attendants myself when they arrive. They'll understand and cooperate. This is a resort community."

"Understand? Cooperate?" I shook my head in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"They will wheel him out with an oxygen mask on his face, and we'll say that he's having some trouble breathing and is being taken to the hospital," Mr. Dorfman explained.

"What? Why would we do that?"

"It's the way Mrs. Cutler handled similar situations in the past," he replied. "That way . . . the impact of his death doesn't lie like a shadow over the hotel and the other guests."

"I don't know," I said. "It seems very deceitful."

"I can only tell you what Mrs. Cutler has done in the past. I think if she were here," Mr. Dorfman said softly, "she would tell you poor Mr. Parker wouldn't mind. You do have a house full of guests, many of them elderly.

"Something like this can get them thinking—wrongly, of course—that they should examine every morsel of their food, where their rooms are located, what kind of ventilation they have . . . believe me, it can create a host of problems. All of a sudden every ache and pain, every skipped heartbeat will signal serious illness, and the doctors will be running in and out, not to mention Julius carting people over to the hospital for checkups.

"I hate to put it so coldly," he concluded, "but it's not good for the hotel's image. This is a place where people relax, enjoy, have only good times and bring out only good memories." He paused and took a deep breath. "I think I'm giving you Mrs. Cutler's speech verbatim," he added, amazed himself.

"Naturally," he continued, "I'll give Mr. Updike a call and keep him apprised of the situation. There are always legal considerations."

He sat there staring at me, just waiting for me to give him the go-ahead. Part of me wanted to be rebellious and contrary, just because we were handling it the way Grandmother Cutler would have handled it. I wanted to order him to call the mortician and have a hearse drawn up in front of the hotel. Somehow it would be like slapping Grandmother Cutler across her arrogant face.

But another part of me—the part that had been growing and developing—realized how immature and silly that would be. I would only hurt myself and the people I loved.

"All right, Mr. Dorfman," I said. "Carry on with this the way we have in the past."

He nodded and lifted the phone receiver. He had the ambulance come to the side entrance of the hotel. Some guests would see them take Mr. Parker out, of course, but it wouldn't be as big an event as it would if the ambulance was right in front and the attendants wheeled Mr. Parker through the lobby. Mr. Updike came by to make sure it all went according to plan.

Somehow it seemed appropriate that it continued to be a gray day with intermittent downpours of rain, yet I couldn't help but feel devious and underhanded when they wheeled the old man on a gurney through the hallways with an oxygen mask over his face. I especially felt this way when guests asked me what had happened and I told them Mr. Parker wasn't feeling well and we thought it best he be taken to the hospital for examination.

"They're only going to ask about him later on," I told Mr. Updike. "And of course, they will learn that he has died."

"Yes," he said, "but somehow the impact of his death is lessened when it occurs at a hospital rather than right here." He patted me on the shoulder. "You did very well, my dear." I could see it was on the tip of his tongue to say, "Mrs. Cutler would be very proud of you," but he saw the glint of anger in my eyes and simply muttered, "Very well."

The events surrounding Mr. Parker's death and removal had taken my mind off Jimmy's being gone, but when I finally returned to my office after it was all over I regretted that he wasn't at my side during the crisis. I realized how much I leaned on him, needed his strength and reassurance. I was tempted to try to reach him in Texas to tell him what had happened, but I thought it wouldn't be fair. Looking at the clock, I realized he must have just arrived and was involved with meeting his new brother. My problems could wait until later.

By late afternoon I sat back in my chair. A feeling of exhaustion washed over me. All of the mental turmoil had taken its toll. I felt drained. I was sure I would sleep well tonight, despite myself. Christie had returned from school, taken her piano lesson and gone to be with the twins. She asked to eat her dinner with them, and I agreed. I wasn't very hungry myself and thought I would just have some tea and toast later. I began to close up my books and reports to leave the office mild return to the house so I could dress to greet the guests at dinner. Tonight, because of what had occurred, that seemed to be more important than usual to do.

But just as I stood up I heard a gentle rapping at the door and called for whoever it was to enter. It was Betty Ann.

Betty Ann had gained weight with her pregnancy, of course, but it had filled her out and, I thought, made her more attractive. She hadn't lost much since giving birth. I thought she was still quite happy living at the hotel. She often had old college friends visit and had made friends with some of the more affluent members of Cutler's Cove, mainly because of the dinners Mother staged. In any case, what with caring for her twins, the work she did at the hotel and her social life, she appeared quite occupied and content. So I was surprised when she came in, closed the door softly behind her and proceeded to burst into tears.

This seems to be a day for sadness, I thought. It was as if the dreary sky, the rain and the gray world without had managed to seep into our lives through every crack and cranny in our walls of happiness. Every dark thought, every sorrowful and unhappy moment in our pasts was resurrected to bloom in this soil of depression. Melancholy would have its day today.

"What's wrong, Betty Ann?" I cried, coming to her quickly. She answered with louder and harder sobs. I guided her to the sofa and helped her to sit down. She had made her face puffy with so much crying.

"Oh, Dawn," she moaned through her sobs, "I can't stand it anymore. I've got to tell someone. I'm sorry."

"That's all right. There's no need to apologize. We're sisters," I said. "I don't mind your telling me your troubles. What happened? Is it something to do with the twins?" I asked.

"Oh, no, they're fine, thank goodness."

"Something with your family?" I pursued, already understanding how her socialite mother might be giving her trouble about her life at the hotel. On more than one occasion Betty Ann had remarked to me that her mother thought it was beneath her to greet guests and work as a hostess.

"No," she said. She took a deep breath and then blurted, "It's Philip."

"Philip? What about him?" I sat back. He was telling her things about me, I thought fearfully.

"Every night for the last week he's insisted on sleeping in another room. I don't know why. I haven't done anything to him. We haven't had an argument; he just . . . gets up and leaves."

"Gets up and leaves? You mean he gets into bed with you and then—"

"Yes," she said, wiping her eyes and breathing in deeply again, "he just gets up and disappears. At first I thought . . . he was seeing someone else . . . going someplace to meet some nasty chambermaid or someone like that. I was too frightened to move, to do anything, even to ask him where he had gone."

"I can't see Philip going to meet any of our chambermaids," I said.

"No, he's not doing anything like that." She brought the handkerchief she had been holding tightly in her hands to her nose and blew into it. "I got up and followed him last night. He's just . . . just going to another room."