He looked up then. "I've already had my surname changed legally, Mother."
Dread filled me, and I didn't really need to ask, "What is your last name now?"
"Foxworth," he said, confirming my suspicion. "After all, I can't be a Winslow when my father was not your husband. And to keep Sheffield is deceitful. Paul wasn't my father, nor was your brother, thank God."
I shivered and turned icy with apprehension. This was the first step . . . turning himself into another Malcolm, what I'd feared most. "I wish you'd chosen Winslow for your surname, Bart. That would have pleased your dead father."
"Yes, I'm sure," he said dryly. "And I did consider that seriously. But in choosing Winslow, I would forfeit my legitimate right to the Foxworth name. It's a good name, Mother, a name respected by everyone except those villagers, who don't count anyway. I feel Foxworth Hall truly belongs to me without contamination, without guilt." His eyes took on a brilliant, happy glow. "You see, and Uncle Joel agrees, not everyone hates me and thinks I am less than Jory." He paused to watch my reaction. I tried to show nothing. He seemed disappointed. "Leave, Mother. I've got a long day of work ahead of me."
I risked his anger by lingering long enough to say, "While you're shut away in this office, Bart, I want you to keep remembering your family loves you very much, and all of us want what's best for you. If more money will make you feel better about yourself, then make yourself the richest man in the world. Just find happiness, that's all we want for you. Find your niche, just where you fit, that's the most important thing."
Closing his office door behind me, I was headed for the stairs when I almost bumped into Joel. A guilty look flashed momentarily through the blue of his watery eyes. I guessed he'd been listening to Bart and me. But hadn't I done the same thing
inadvertently? "I'm sorry I didn't see you in the shadows, Joel."
"I didn't mean to eavesdrop," he said with a peculiar look. "Those who expect to hear evil will not be disappointed," and away he scurried like an old church mouse, lean from lack of enough fuel to feed his appetite for making trouble. He made me feel guilty, ashamed. Suspicious, always so damned suspicious of anyone named Foxworth.
Not that I didn't have just cause.
Six days before the party, Jory and Melodie flew into a local airport. Chris and I were there to meet them with the kind of enthusiasm you saved for those you hadn't seen for years, and we'd parted less than ten days ago. Jory was immediately chagrined because Bart hadn't come along to welcome them to his fabulous new home.
"He's busy in the gardens, Jory, Melodie, and asked us to give you his apologies" (although he hadn't). Both looked at me as if they knew differently. Quickly I went into details of how Bart was
supervising hordes of workmen come to change our lawns into paradise, or something as near that as possible.
Jory smiled to hear of such an ostentatious party; he preferred small, intimate parties where everyone knew each other. He said pleasantly enough, "Nothing new under the sun. Bart's always too busy when it comes to me and my wife."
I stared up into his face so like that of my adolescent first husband, Julian, who had also been my dancing partner. The husband whose memory still hurt and filled me with that same old tormenting guilt. Guilt that I tried to erase by loving his son best. "Every time I see you you look more like your father."
We were seated side by side, as Melodie sat beside Chris, and occasionally said a few words to him. Jory laughed and put his arms about me, inclining his dark, handsome head to brush my cheek with his warm lips. "Mom . . . you say that each and every time you see me. When am I going to reach the zenith of being my father?"
Laughing, too, I released him and settled back to cross my legs and stare out at the beautiful countryside. The rolling hills, the misty mountains with the tops hidden in the clouds. Near Heaven, I kept thinking. I had to force my attention back to Jory, who had so many virtues Julian had never possessed, could never have possessed. Jory was more like Chris in personality than like Julian, although that, too, filled me with guilt, with shame, for it could have been different between Julian and I--but for Chris.
At the age of twenty-nine, Jory was a wonderfully handsome man, with long, strong, beautiful legs and firm, round buttocks that made all the women stare when he danced onto stage wearing tights. His thick hair was blue-black and curly, but not frizzy; his lips exceptionally red and sensuously shaped, his note a perfect slope with nostrils that could flare wide with anger or passion. He had a hot temper he'd learned to control a long time ago, mostly because of all the control it took for him to tolerate Bart. Jory's inner beauty radiated from him with an electric force, a
joie de vivre.
His beauty was more than mere handsomeness; he had the added strength of a certain spiritual quality and was like Chris in his cheerful, optimism, his faith that all that happened in his life had to be for the best.
Jory wore his success with grace, with touching humility and dignity, displaying none of the arrogance that had been Julian's even when he had performed poorly.
So far Melodie had said very little, as if she contained volumes of secrets she was dying to spill out, but for some reason was holding back, awaiting her opportunity to be center stage. Customarily my daughter-in-law and I were very good friends. Countless times she twisted around in the front seat to smile back at me happily. "Stop teasing," I
admonished. "What's this good news you have to tell us?"
Again came that taut look on her face as she flicked her eyes to Jory, making her appear a locked gold purse about to burst if she didn't tell us soon. "Is Cindy there yet?" she asked.
When I said no, Melodie turned again to face the windshield. Jory winked. "We're going to keep you in suspense a while longer, so everyone can enjoy our surprise to its full extent. Besides, right now Dad's so intent on seeing we reach that house safely that he couldn't give our secret the appreciation it needs."
After an hour's ride we were turning onto our private road, which spiraled up the mountain, with deep ravines or precipices always on one side, forcing Chris to drive even more carefully.
Once we were in the house and I'd shown them around downstairs, and they had exclaimed and oh'ed and ah'ed, Melodie came flying into my arms, ducking her head shyly down on my shoulder, for she was inches taller than I. "Go on, darling," encouraged Jory softly.
Quickly she released me and threw a proud smile at Jory, who smiled back at her reassuringly. Then she was spilling out the contents of that bulging gold purse.
"Cathy, I wanted to wait for Cindy and tell you all at once, but I'm so happy I'm bursting. I'm pregnant! You just don't know how thrilled I am when I've been wanting this baby ever since the first year Jory and I married. I'm a little over two months along. Our baby is due in early January."
Stunned, I could only stare at her before I glanced at Jory, who had told me many times he didn't want to begin a family until he'd had ten years at the top. Still, he stood there smiling and looking as proud as any man would at this instant, as if he were accepting this unexpected and unplanned child very well.
That was enough to make me overjoyed. "Oh, Melodie, Jory, I'm so thrilled for you both. A baby! I'm going to be a grandmother." Then I sobered. Did I want to be a grandmother? Chris was slapping Jory on the back as if he were the first man ever to impregnate his wife; then he was embracing Melodie and asking questions about how she felt and if she was experiencing morning sickness--just like the doctor he was.
Because he was seeing something I wasn't, I looked at her more closely. She had shadows beneath hollowed eyes, and was much too thin to be pregnant. However, there was nothing that could steal from Melodie her classical type of cool blond beauty. She moved with grace, appearing regal even when she just picked up a magazine and flipped through it--as she was doing now. I was baffled. "What's wrong, Melodie?"
"Nothing," she said, gone stiff for no apparent reason, telling me instead that everything was wrong.
My eyes met briefly with Jory's. He nodded, indicating he'd tell me later what was bothering Melodie.
All the way back to Foxworth Hall I'd been dreading the meeting between Bart and his older brother, fearing there would be an ugly scene to start everything out wrong. I strode to a window
overlooking a side lawn and saw that Bart was on the racket ball court, playing by himself with the same kind of intensity to win, as though he had a partner to batter down to defeat.
"Bart!" I called, opening a French door, "your brother and his wife are here."
"Be there in a sec," he called back, and continued to play.
"Where are all the workers?" asked Jory, looking around at the spacious gardens empty now of anyone but Bart. I explained most left about four, wanting to drive home before they were caught in the late evening traffic.
Finally Bart threw down his racket and sauntered our way, a broad, welcoming smile on his face. We all stepped onto a side terrace covered with multicolored flagstones and decorated with many live plants and pretty patio furniture with colorful umbrellas to shield us from the sun. Melodie seemed to pull in her breath and straighten her spine as she moved closer to Jory. She didn't need his protection this time. Bart's steps picked up until eventually he was running, and Jory was speeding to greet him My heart could have burst .. . brothers, at last! Like they had been when both were very young. They pounded each other on the back, ruffled each other's hair, and then Bart was pumping Jory's hand up and down, slapping him on the shoulder again, the way men often do. He turned to look Melodie over.
All his enthusiasm died. "Hi, Melodie," he said briefly, then went on to congratulate Jory for their successes on stage and the adulation they received. "Proud of you both," he said with a strange smile.
"We've got news for you, brother," said Jory. "You are now looking at the happiest husband and wife in the world, for we're going to be parents come January."
Bart gazed at Melodie, who avoided meeting his eyes. She half turned toward Jory, with the sun behind her turning her honey-blond hair fiery red near her scalp, making a golden haze of the outer strands, so it almost seemed she was sporting a golden halo. Madonna pure she stood in profile as if poised for flight. The grace of her long neck, the gentle slope of her small nose, the fullness of her pouting rosy lips gave her the kind of ethereal beauty that had helped to make her one of the most beautiful and admired ballerinas in America.
"Pregnancy becomes you, Melodie," Bart said softly, ignoring what Jory was telling him about cancelling one year of bookings so he could be with Melodie throughout her pregnancy and help after the baby was born in all kinds of husbandly ways.
Bart stared toward the French door where Joel stood silently watching our family reunion. I resented his being there; then, ashamed, I gestured him forward even as Bart called out, "Come, let me introduce you to my brother and his wife."
Advancing slowly, Joel shuffled along the flagstones, making each step whisper. Gravely he greeted Jory and Melodie after Bart's introduction, not extending his hand to be shaken. "I hear that you are a dancer," he said to Jory.
"Yes . . . I've worked all my life to be called that." Joel turned and left without another word to anyone. "Just who is that weird old man?" asked Jory.
"Mom, I thought you told us that both your maternal uncles died in accidents when they were very young." I shrugged and let Bart explain.
In no time at all, we had Jory and his wife established in a very rich-looking suite with heavy red velvet draperies, red carpet and dark paneled walls that made the suite exceedingly masculine. Melodie took a look around, wrinkling her nose a bit in distaste. "Rich . . . nice . . . really," she said with heavy effort.
Jory laughed. "Honey, we can't always expect white walls with blue carpet, can we? I like this room, Bart. It looks like your kind of bedroom--classy."
Bart wasn't listening to Jory. He still had his eyes glued on Melodie, who glided from one piece of furniture to another, running her long, graceful fingers over the slick, polished tops before she glanced into the adjacent sitting room and then went on into the magnificent bath with an old-fashioned walnut tub lined with pewter. She laughed to see the tub. "Oh, I'm going to enjoy that. Look at the depth--water right up to your chin if you want it that way."
"Fair women look so dramatic in dark settings,"
,
said Bart almost without realizing he'd spoken. No one said a word, not even Jory, who gave him a hard look.
In that bath was also a walk-in shower and a lovely dressing table of the same walnut with a threewinged gold-framed mirror, so the occupant seated on the velvet-covered stool could see herself from every angle.
We dined early and sat outside on a terrace in the twilight hours. Joel didn't join us, and for that I was grateful. Bart had little to say, but he couldn't keep his eyes off Melodie in her frail blue dress that molded to every delicate curve of thigh, hip, waist and bust. I felt a sinking sensation to see him studying her so closely, with desire written clearly in those dark, blistering eyes.
At the breakfast table on the terrace outside the dining room, the daisies were yellow. We had hope now. We could look at yellow and not fear we'd never see sunlight again.
Chris was laughing at something funny Jory had just reported, while Bart only smiled, still keeping his eyes on Melodie, who picked at her breakfast without appetite. "Everything I eat comes up sooner or later," she explained with a small look of embarrassment. "It's not the food, it's me. I'm supposed to eat slowly and not think about losing the meal . . . but that's all I'm thinking of." Just beyond her shoulder, in the shadows of a giant live palm planted in a huge clay pot, Joel had his gaze riveted also on Melodie, studying her profile. Then he was looking at Jory, narrowing his eyes again.
"Joel," I called, "step forward and join us for breakfast."
He advanced reluctantly, cautiously, whispering his soft-soled shoes over the flagstones, holding his arms crosswise over his chest, as if he wore an invisible coarse, brown, homespun monk's habit, and his hands were tucked neatly out of sight up the wide sleeves. He seemed a judge sent to weigh us in for Heaven's pearly gates. His voice was slight and polite as he greeted Jory and Melodie, nodding in answer to their questions that plied him for information on what it was like to live as a monk. "I couldn't bear life without women," said Jory, "without music and lots of different types of people all around. I get a little from this person, something else from another. It takes hundreds of friends to keep me happy. Already I'm missing those in our ballet company.
"It takes all kinds to make the world go round," said Joel, "and the Lord giveth before he taketh away." Then he ambled off, his head bowed low, as if he whispered prayers and fingered a rosary. "The Lord must have known what he was doing when he made each of us so different," I heard him murmur.
Jory swiveled about in his chair to stare after Joel. "So that's our great uncle, who we presumed died in a skiing accident. Mom, wouldn't it be odd if the other brother turned up as well?"
Jumping to his feet, Bart's face flamed furious. "Don't be ridiculous! Malcolm's eldest son died when his motorcycle went over a precipice, and they found his body and buried it. It's in the family cemetery that I've visited often. According to Uncle Joel, his father sent detectives looking for his lost second son, and that's one reason my uncle had to stay hidden in that monastery, until eventually he grew used to it and began to fear life on the outside." He flicked his eyes at me, as if to recognize the fact that we, too, as children, had grown accustomed to our imprisoned life, fearing the outside.
"He says when you are isolated for long periods, you begin to see people as they really are--as if distance gives you better perspective."
Chris and I met eyes. Yes, we knew about isolation. Standing, Chris gestured to Jory and offered to show him around. "Bart's planning horse stables, so he can have fox hunts like. Malcolm used to have. Perhaps one day we may even want to join in that kind of sport."
"Sport?" queried Melodie, rising gracefully and hurrying to catch up with Jory. "I don't call a pack of hungry hounds chasing a cute little harmless fox a true sport--it's barbaric, that's what!"
"That's the trouble with those in the ballet--too sensitive for the real world," Bart retorted before he stalked off in a different direction.
Later on in the afternoon, I found Chris in the foyer watching Jory work out before the mirrors, using a chair for a
barre.
The two men shared the kind of relationship I hoped would develop one day between Chris and Bart. Father and son, both admiring and respecting the other. My arms crossed over my breasts to hug myself. I was so happy to have all my family together, or at least it would be when Cindy arrived. And the expected baby would be more cement to bind us together .. .
Jory had warmed up enough and began to dance to
The Firebird
music. Whirling so fast he was a dazzling blur, whipping his legs, leaping into the air, bounding to land as light as a feather so you didn't hear his feet hit the floor. His muscles rippled as he
jeteed
again and again, spreading his legs so his outstretched arms allowed his fingertips to touch his toes. I filled with excitement, watching him perform, knowing he was showing off for our benefit.
"Would you look at those
fetes?"
said Chris when he caught sight of me. "Why, he clears the floor by twelve feet or more. I don't believe what I'm seeing!"
"Ten feet, not twelve," corrected Jory as he whirled by, spinning, spinning, covering the immense space of the foyer in mere seconds. Then he fell breathlessly down on a quilted floor mat put there so he'd have a place to rest without his body sweat fading the delicate and fancy chair coverings. "Damned hard floor if I fall . . ." he gasped as he lay back and rested on his elbows.
"And the spread of his legs when he leaps, it's unbelievable he can be so supple at his age."
"Dad, I'm only twenty-nine, not thirty-nine!" protested Jory, who had a thing about growing older and losing the spotlight to a younger
danseur. "
I've got at least eleven good years ahead before I begin to slide."
I knew exactly what he was thinking as he sprawled there on the mat, looking so much like Julian. It was as if I were twenty or so again. The muscles of all male dancers approaching forty began to harden and become brittle so that their once magnificent bodies weren't as attractive to the audience any longer. Off with the old, on with the new . . . the fear of all performers, although ballerinas with their layer of fat under their skin could hold on longer. Falling on the mat beside Jory, I sat crosslegged in my pink slacks.
"Jory, you are going to last longer than most
danseurs,
so stop worrying. It's a long and glamorous road you have to travel to reach forty, and who knows, maybe you'll be fifty before you retire."
"Yeah, sure," he said, tucking his hands behind his curly head and staring up at the distant ceiling. "Fourteenth in a long line of dancers has to be the lucky number, doesn't it?"
How many times had I heard him say he couldn't live without dancing? Since he was a small boy of two, I'd put his feet on the road to where he was now.
Down the stairs Melodie glided, looking beautiful and fresh from a recent bath and shampoo, seeming a fragile spring flower in her blue leotards. "Jory, my doctor said I could keep on with light practice, and I want to dance as long as possible to keep my muscles supple and long . . . so dance with me, lover. Dance and dance, and then let's dance some more."
Instantly Jory bounded to his feet and whirled to the foot of the stairs, where he fell upon one knee in the romantic position of a prince seeing the princess of his dreams. "My pleasure, my lady . . ." and swinging her off her feet, he whirled with her in his arms before he put her down with the skilled practice and grace that made her seem to have the weight of a feather. They whirled around, always dancing for the other, as once Julian and I had danced for the pure delight of being young, alive and able. Tears came to my eyes as I stood beside Chris and watched them.
Sensing my thoughts, Chris put his arm about my shoulder and drew me closer. "They're beautiful together, aren't they? Made for each other, I would say. If I squint my eyes and see them hazily, I see you dancing with Julian . . . only you were far prettier, Catherine, far prettier . . ."
Behind us Bart snorted.
Whipping around, I saw Joel had trailed behind Bart like a well-trained puppy and at his heel he stopped, his head low, his hands still tucked up those invisible brown homespun sleeves. "The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away," mumbled Joel again.
Why the devil did he keep saying that?
Uneasily I looked from Joel to Bart and found his admiring gaze again riveted on Melodie, who was in arabesque position, waiting for Jory to sweep her up in his arms. I didn't like what I saw in Bart's dark, envious look, the desire that burned hotter by the hour. The world was full of unmarried women--he didn't need Melodie, his brother's wife!
Wildly Bart applauded as their dance ended and both were gazing transfixed at each other, forgetting we were there. "You've got to dance like that at my birthday party! Jory, say that you and Melodie will."
Reluctantly Jory turned his head to smile at Bart. "Why, if you want me, of course, but not Mel. Her doctor will allow a little mild dancing and practicing, like we just did, but not that strenuous kind needed for a professional performance, and I know you'll want only the best."
"But I want Melodie, too," protested Bart. He smiled charmingly at his brother's wife. "Please, for my birthday, Melodie, just this one time . . . and you're not so far along anyone will notice your condition."
Appearing uncertain, Melodie stared at Bart. "I don't think I should," she said lamely. "I want our baby to be healthy. I can't risk losing it.
Bart tried to persuade her, and might have, but Jory put a brisk end to the debate. "Now, listen, Bart, I told our agent Mel's doctor didn't want her to perform, and if she does, he might get wind of it and we could be sued. Besides, she's very fatigued. The kind of easy fun dancing you just witnessed is not the kind we do when we're serious. A professional performance demands hours and hours of warm-ups and practice and rehearsal. Don't plead, it's embarrassing. When Cindy comes she can dance with me."