Cutler 3 - Twilight's Child (6 page)

"Mr. Dorfman, I . . ."

"I can tell you that you have some very fine, very qualified people working for you, Dawn," Mr. Dorfman said quickly. "Everyone's very efficient. Mrs. Cutler did run a tight ship in that respect. If she didn't make a big profit one year, it was because of the economy, and not because of her business practices or the practices of her subordinates. It was a waste not, want not philosophy. My job is to help you keep to it," he concluded. And then, as if to add a challenge, he sat back and said, "Why, when Mrs. Cutler married Mr. Cutler and became an executive in this hotel, she wasn't much older than you are."

"Yes, but she had Mr. Cutler," I fired back. He shook his head and twisted his fingers around his pen nervously.

"I don't think I'm speaking ill of the dead when I tell you your father, Randolph's father, was not much of a hotel administrator. My father was the comptroller here then, so I speak from firsthand knowledge. This hotel didn't really become anything significant until Mrs. Cutler became actively involved.

"So," he said, eager to leave the topic, "I'll always be available to you. If I'm not here and you need me for anything, anything at all, you have my home phone number at the top of the packet of papers I just gave you."

I rose from my chair in a daze, thanked Mr. Dorfman and slowly walked out, moving like a somnambulist down the corridor. Where was I going? It suddenly occurred to me that it was time for me to take over Grandmother Cutler's office.

I paused before her doorway almost as if I had to knock. Then I opened it slowly and stood just inside for a long moment, my heart pounding as if I anticipated her miraculous resurrection. I could almost see her standing firm and tall with her steel-blue hair cut and styled to perfection. She was standing behind her desk as always, her shoulders pulled back firmly in the bright blue cotton jacket she wore over her frilly blouse. She turned her cold gray eyes on me, and in my imagination I even heard her chastisement: "What are you doing here? How dare you enter my office without knocking first?"

I gazed around. The dark-paneled office still had its lilac scent, everything about it still suggesting Grandmother Cutler, reflecting her austere personality, from the hardwood floors to the tightly woven dark blue oval rug in front of the aqua chintz settee. Her dark oak desk was just the way she had last left it: the pens in their holders, papers neatly piled to one side, a small bowl of hard candies in one corner and the black telephone in another. Her memo pad was open at the center of the desk.

Firm and resolute, I finally stepped forward and went to the partially opened curtains and pulled the cord to open them wide. Sunlight burst into the office, washing away the shadows that covered her high-back, blood-red, nail-head leather chair, the bookcases and standing lamp. Particles of dust danced in the air. Then I stepped back and looked up at the portrait of Grandfather Cutler, the man who I had learned was my true father.

It appeared the portrait had been painted in this very office with him at this very desk. Right now he seemed to be leering down at me, his head slightly tilted forward, his light blue eyes fixed on me. As I crossed to the other side of the room the portrait gave the illusion of his gaze following me. I thought that even though the artist might have been instructed to capture a strong, authoritative and distinguished look, he had also managed to replicate some lightness and charm in the way he had drawn and painted my father's lips.

What sort of a man could he have been? I wondered. How could my father have been a conniver, deceitful and lustful? What had made him decide to rape my mother, if it was indeed a rape? What sort of morality did he have if he could make love to his son's wife? Obviously he had had some pangs of conscience, for he had tried to atone for his act by giving me this inheritance and making a full confession after his death. And he had been compassionate enough to worry about how it would all affect Grandmother Cutler and so left instructions for none of it to be revealed until she had passed away, too.

As I gazed into my father's eyes—eyes strikingly like my own—I wondered what, if anything—beside some physical attributes—I had inherited from this man. Would I now become as ambitious as he was? Would I live up to the responsibilities placed on my shoulders and develop into a good administrator? Did I have his charm when it came to pleasing guests? Had he been fair with the help and liked by them, and would I be? I realized I had developed a great hunger for knowledge about him and hoped I could get those members of the staff who had worked under him and were still here to talk to me about him. I certainly didn't expect Mother to tell me anything worthwhile, and as for Randolph . . . well, from what I understood and saw, Randolph couldn't be counted upon for anything these days.

I went around the desk and sat in Grandmother Cutler's chair. Looking over the large desk from this point of view, I began to see things in a more natural and realistic perspective. It was as if sitting in her chair and taking her position imbued me with the confidence I would need to carry on. The office wasn't as large as it had always seemed to be to me. I could do a great deal to brighten it up, I thought. I would replace the rug and the furniture. Then I would hang up some bright paintings.

I sat back. I could almost feel Grandmother Cutler seething behind me and grinding her teeth. Maybe I can do this, I thought. Maybe I can.

Then I realized what time it was and jumped up to see about Christie. But as I was passing through the lobby Patty, one of the older chambermaids, stopped me.

"I think you had better go down to the laundry," she advised, and she nodded as if she were slipping me some secret.

"Something broken?" It was on the tip of my tongue to ask her to see Mr. Dorfman, but she shook her head vigorously.

"Someone ought to go down there," she repeated, and she left me standing in confusion. I asked Mrs. Boston to go up and see about Christie while I went downstairs to the basement of the hotel, where the laundry was situated.

At first I thought no one was there, but when I turned into the room where all the washing machines were housed I spotted Randolph off in a corner by a table used for the folding of linen and towels. He had dozens of measuring cups lined up on each side of the table, and he was using a measuring spoon—the kind used to measure flour or sugar in a kitchen—only he was using it to scoop soap powder into the cups. He had two different brands of soap powder in big vats beside him.

"Randolph," I said, approaching, "what are you doing?" He didn't turn around. He kept scooping the soap powder carefully.

"Randolph?" I put my hand on his arm, and he looked at me, his eyes bloodshot and wild.

"I'm right about this," he said. "I suspected it, and I'm right." He turned back to the soap powder.

"Right about what, Randolph?" I asked.

He stopped and smiled maddeningly.

"This brand on my right is more concentrated. It takes less powder per pound of laundry, even though it costs more, understand? What this means is we can save a lot of money by buying the more expensive brand. I told Mother this once. I told her. She just shook her head, didn't listen, was too busy with something else . . . whatever," he said, waving in the air, "but I was right." He gazed at me, his eyes brightening even more and hit smile even more maddening. "I was right."

"Will we really save all that much, Randolph? I mean, is it worth it for you to go through all this?"

"What?" He swung his shining blue eyes my way, totally devoid of any expression. He behaved as if he didn't know who I was. It sent icicles sliding down my spine. "I'm sorry," he said. "I've got to finish this study. I'll talk to you later, okay? Thank you, thank you," he muttered, and he went back to scooping the powder carefully and exactly into the measuring cups.

I watched him for a moment and then hurried out and upstairs. Mother had to know about this, I thought.

As I stepped onto the second-floor landing I was surprised to hear the sound of my mother's laughter. I approached slowly, for I also heard the distinct sound of a man's voice. I knocked softly on her outer door and then entered.

"Yes?" Mother called, her voice filled with annoyance. I peered in and saw her sitting on the settee, a most handsome and distinguished-looking man seated in the wing-back chair across from her, his legs crossed comfortably.

Mother was dressed in one of her bright blue angora sweaters and a matching cotton skirt. She had her hair brushed down softly over her shoulders and wore long, dangling diamond earrings and a matching bracelet. She had returned to wearing makeup as well and looked as bright and happy as I had ever seen her.

"Oh, Dawn, I'd like you to meet Mr. Bronson Alcott, a dear, dear old friend of mine," she said, beaming. The flood of color in her lovely face made her even more beautiful.

"So this is the young lady I've heard so much about," Bronson Alcott said, turning his attention to me.

He was a tall, sleek-figured man with a light brown mustache under a perfectly straight Roman nose. He had his hair cut short and neat, the chestnut-brown strands glimmering under the light of the Tiffany lamp. A smile formed around his bright, laughing aquamarine eyes.

"Hello," I said.

"Bronson is the president of the Cutler's Cove National Bank," Mother explained. "The bank that holds the mortgage on this hotel," she added pointedly.

"Oh." I turned to him again. For a banker his skin was remarkably tanned. He wore an amused smile, as if he were about to wink at me. He kept his long, graceful hands crossed over each other on his knee. Even though he looked like a man in his mid-forties, I thought he could easily be older.

"I'm very happy to finally get the opportunity to meet you, Dawn," he said. His voice was deep and resonant, which complemented his perpetually sexy smile. Mother looked mesmerized by his every word, his every gesture. He stood up and extended his hand. I took it and felt myself blush at how intensely he drank me in, gazing at me quickly from head to foot. He didn't release my hand quickly.

"Is this an engagement ring?" he asked, still keeping my fingers firmly in his.

"Yes," Mother said dryly. "It is."

"Congratulations. Who's the lucky young man?" he asked.

"No one you would know, Bronson," Mother replied before I could.

He tilted his head, his smile softening.

"Someone from out of town?" he pursued.

"I'll say he's out of town," Mother said, beginning to buff her nails. "He's in the army."

"His name is James Gary Longchamp," I said, eyeing Mother with daggers.

I saw that Bronson wasn't going to sit down until I did. He was the quintessential Southern gentleman who easily made every woman feel a little like Scarlett O'Hara. Reluctantly I sat beside Mother on the settee, and he returned to his wing chair.

"So when is the wedding?" Bronson asked.

"Soon after Jimmy—I mean James—is discharged," I replied, again flashing defiance at Mother. She uttered a short, nervous laugh and continued buffing her nails.

"I told her, tried to explain to her how she shouldn't rush into anything, how she would now be the center of attention for every distinguished, available bachelor in Virginia, but she insists on pushing ahead with this childhood romance," Mother complained.

"Let's not be too harsh, Laura Sue," Bronson said, his eyes twinkling. "You and I once had a childhood romance."

Mother blushed. "That was different, Bronson, entirely different."

"Your mother broke my heart you know, I've never really forgiven her. But," he added, nodding, "I suspect mine was not the only heart broken in those days. She had a trail of beaux that stretched from here to Boston."

Mother brightened, and her laugh became lighter.

"It's not hard to imagine you doing the same thing, Dawn," Bronson said, turning back to me. His gaze lingered, and out of the corner of my eye I could see Mother growing green with envy.

"I'm not interested in breaking hearts right now, Mr. Alcott," I said.

"Oh, please, call me Bronson. I have hopes that we shall become good friends as well as business associates," he said, this time winking. "Which reminds me," he added, pulling up on a long gold watch fob and snapping his gold pocket watch open. He gazed at it and turned back to Mother. "I should be on my way. I have played hooky from my responsibilities at the bank long enough." He stood up and turned back to me. "Perhaps I can hope that you and your mother will pay a visit to Beulla Woods," he said.

"That's the Alcott estate," Mother explained quickly. "It's a magnificent home just northwest of Cutler's Cove."

The way she said it and gazed at Bronson when she did gave me the impression she had been there many, many times and could find it in the dark.

"Yes, maybe all of us can go one day," I said, emphasizing "all." Bronson held his smile, but Mother smiled coyly. He reached out for my hand and brought it to his lips.

"Good-bye. It was a pleasure meeting you," he said, holding me in his gaze so long, I felt my heart begin to flutter. He seemed to want to memorize every aspect of my face. Finally he turned to Mother. "Laura Sue."

She rose, and they embraced, Bronson planting a kiss on her cheek, but a kiss that found his lips so close to hers, I was sure they grazed in passing. Mother glanced at me quickly and then released one of her nervous little laughs. Bronson bowed and left us. When I looked back at Mother I saw her face was flushed. She looked as though her heart was pounding harder than mine.