"No!" Bart snarled, frowning now and losing all his charm. "She can't dance like Melodie."
No, she couldn't. Cindy wasn't a professional, but she did well enough when she wanted to. Jory and I had trained her since she was two.
Several feet behind Bart, like a skinny dark shadow, Joel's hands came out of wide sleeves and templed beneath his bowed head. He had his eyes closed, as if again in prayer. How irritating to have him around all the time.
Deliberately I turned my thoughts from him to Cindy. I couldn't wait to see her again. Couldn't wait to hear her breathless girlish chatter that told of proms and dates and the boys she knew. All the things that brought back to me my own youth, and my own desires to have what Cindy was experiencing.
In the rosy glow of the evening sunset, I stood unobserved in the shadows of a great arch overhead and watched Jory again dancing with Melodie in the huge foyer. Again in leotards, this time violet ones, with the filmy tunic to flutter enticingly, Melodie had bound violet satin ribbons under her small, firm breasts. She appeared a princess dancing with her lover. Oh, the passion Jory and Melodie had between them stirred a wistful longing in my own loins. To be young again like them . . . to have the chance, to do it all over . . . do it right the second time around .. .
Suddenly I was aware that Bart was in another alcove, as if he'd waited to spy . . . or, more generously, watch as. I watched. And he was the one who didn't like ballet and didn't care for beautiful music. He leaned casually against a door frame, his arms folded over his chest. But the burning dark eyes that followed Melodie weren't casual. They were full of the desire I'd seen before. My heart skipped.
When had Bart ever not wanted what belonged to Jory?
The music soared. Jory and Melodie had forgotten they might be observed and became so involved in what they were doing that they danced on and on, wildly passionate, entranced with each other, until Melodie ran to leap into his outstretched arms. Even as she did her lips pressed down on his. Parting lips that met again and again Hands that roamed to seek out all the secret places. I was as much caught up in their lovemaking as Bart, unable to back away. Their kisses seemed to devour one another. In the heat of kindled desire, they fell to the floor and rolled onto the mat. Even as I strode toward Bart, I heard their heavy breathing, growing louder.
"Come, Bart, it's not right to stand and watch when the dancing is over."
He jumped as if my touch on his arm burned. The yearning in his eyes both hurt and frightened me.
"They should learn to control themselves when they're guests in my home," he said in a gruff voice, not taking his eyes off the forgetful pair rolling about on the mat, arms and legs entwined, sweaty hair wet and clinging as they kissed.
I yanked Bart into the music room and softly closed the door behind us. This was not a room I favored. It had been decorated to please Bart's very masculine taste. There was a grand piano that no one ever played, although I'd seen Joel finger it once or twice, then snatch his hands away as if the ivory keys singed him with sin. But the piano lured him so often he just stood staring at it, his fingers flexing and unflexing.
Bart strode toward a cabinet that opened to reveal a lighted bar. He reached for a crystal decanter to pour himself a stiff scotch. No water or ice. In one gulp he downed it. Then he was looking at me in a guilty fashion. "Nine years of marriage. Still they aren't tired of one another. What is it that you and Chris have that Jory has captured and I haven't?"
I flushed before my head bowed low. "I didn't know you drank alone."
"There's a lot you don't know about me, dear Mother." He poured a second scotch, I heard the slow gurgle of the fluid without looking up. "Even Malcolm had a drink once in a while."
Curiosity filled me. "Do you still think about Malcolm?"
He fell into a chair, crossed his legs by placing one ankle on the opposite knee. I looked away, thinking that once my second son had the most irritating ways of putting his feet on anything available, ruining many a good chair with his muddy boots, and bedspreads suffered early deaths. Then my eyes went back to his shoes. How did he keep the soles so clean, so they appeared never to have walked on anything but velvet?
Bit by bit Bart had lost all his messy ways on the way toward manhood. "Why do you stare at my shoes, Mother?"
"They're very handsome."
"Do you really think so?" He gazed down at them indifferently. "They cost six hundred bucks, and I paid another hundred to have the soles treated so they'll never show scuff marks or dirt. It's the 'in' thing to do, you know. Wear shoes with clean soles."
I frowned. What psychological message did that impart? "The tops will wear out before the soles do."
"So what?"
I had to agree. What did money mean to any of us now? We had more than we could possibly spend. "When the tops wear, I'll throw them out and buy a new pair."
"Then why bother to have the soles treated?"
"Mother, really," he said crossly. "I like everything to keep its new appearance until I'm ready to discard it--I'm going to hate looking at Melodie when she's bulging in the middle like some breeding cow . . ."
"I'll be happy the day she shows, then perhaps you can move your eyes away from her."
He lit a cigarette, met my eyes calmly. "I bet I could easily take her away from Jory."
"How dare you say such a thing?" I cried angrily.
"She never looks at me, have you noticed? I don't think she wants to see that I'm better looking than Jory now, and taller, and smarter, and a hundred times richer."
Our eye contact held. I swallowed nervously, plucked invisible lint from my clothes. "Cindy's coming tomorrow."
He shut his eyes briefly, gripped the arms of his chair harder, but otherwise showed no expression. "I disapprove of that girl," he finally managed.
"I hope you won't be unkind to her while she's here. Can't you remember the way she used to tag around, adoring you? She loved you before you turned her against you. She'd still adore you if you'd stopped teasing her so unmercifully. Bart . . . aren't you sorry for all the ugly things you said and did to your sister?"
"She's
not
my sister."
"She is, Bart, she is!"
"Oh, God, Mother, I'll never think of Cindy as my sister. She's adopted, not truly one of us. I've read a few of those letters she writes to you. Can't you see what she is? Or do you only read what she says, and not what she means? How can any girl be that popular and not be giving out?"
I jumped to my feet. "What's wrong with you, Bart?" I yelled. "You deny Chris as your father, Cindy as your sister, Jory as your brother. Don't you need to have anyone but yourself--and that hateful old man who trails you about?"
"I've got a little of you, don't I, Mother?" he said, narrowing his eyes to sinister slots. "And I've got my Uncle Joel, who is a very interesting man, who is, at this moment, praying for all our souls."
A red flag waved in my face. I flamed with instant anger. "You're an idiot if you prefer that creepy old man to the only father you've ever had!" I tried to keep my emotions under control but failed, as I'd always failed when it came to Bart and control. "Have you forgotten all the many kind deeds Chris has done for you? Is still doing for you?"
Bart leaned forward, piercing me with his diamond- hard glare. "But for Chris I would have had a happy life. With you married to my real father, I could have been the perfect son! Far more perfect than Jory. Maybe I'm like
you,
Mother. Maybe I need my revenge more than I need anything else."
"Why do
you
need revenge?" Surprise was in my voice, a certain kind of hopelessness. "No one has done to you what was done to me."
He leaned forward, very intense as he bit out, "You think because you gave me all the necessary things, all the clothes I needed, all the food I could eat, and a house to shelter me, you made yourself believe that was enough, but it wasn't. I knew you saved the best of your love for Jory. Then, after Cindy came, you gave your second best to her. You had nothing left to give me but pity--and
I hate you for pitying me!"
Sudden nausea almost made me gag. I was glad I had the chair beneath me. "Bart," I began, struggling not to cry and show the very kind of weakness he'd despise, "perhaps once I did pity you for being clumsy, for being unconfident. Most of all, I was sorry you hurt yourself so often. But how can I pity you now? You're very handsome, intelligent, and when you want to be, extremely charming as well. What reason do I have now for pitying you?"
"That's what bothers me," he said in a low voice. "You make me look at myself in the mirror, wondering what it is you see. I've come to the conclusion that you just don't like me. You don't trust me, don't believe in me. I see in your eyes right now that you don't believe I'm completely sane." Suddenly his eyes, which had half-closed, opened wide. He stared penetratingly into my eyes, which had always been easy to read. He laughed short and hard. "It's there, dear Mother, that suspicion, that same fear. I can read your mind, don't think I can't. You think someday I'll do something to betray you and your brother, when I've had chances enough to do exactly that and I've done nothing. I've kept your sins to myself.
"Why not be honest and say now you didn't love your mother's second husband. Say truthfully you only used him as the instrument of your revenge. You went after him, got him, conceived me, then he was dead. True to the kind of woman you are, you then headed straight back to that poor doctor in South Carolina, who no doubt believed in you and loved you beyond reason. Did he realize you married him just as a means to give your bastard child a name? Did he know you used him to escape Chris? See how much thought I've given to your motivations? And now I've come to another conclusion: you see a lot of Chris in Jory--and that's what you love! You look at me and see Malcolm, and although my face and physique may resemble that of my true father, you ignore that and see what you want to in my eyes. In my eyes you think you see the soul of Malcolm. Now tell me that I've presumed wrongly! Go on, tell me I'm not speaking the truth."
My lips parted to deny every word, but nothing came out.
I panicked inside, wanting to run to him and pull his head against my breast, as I so often comforted Jory, but I couldn't make my feet move in Bart's direction. I truthfully did fear him As he was now, fiercely intense and cold and hard, I was afraid of him, and fear made my love turn to dislike.
He waited for me to speak, to deny his charges, and in the end, I did the worst thing possible--I ran from the room.
On my bed I threw myself down and cried. Every word he'd said was true! I hadn't known Bart could read me like an open book. Now I was terrified of what he might do someday to destroy not only Chris and me, but Cindy, Jory and Melodie.
Around eleven the next day, Cindy arrived in a taxi, running into the house like a fresh, invigorating, spring breeze. She hurled herself into my arms, reeking of some exotic perfume I thought too sophisticated for a girl of sixteen, an opinion I knew I'd better keep to myself.
"Oh, Momma," she cried, kissing and hugging me repeatedly, "it's so good to see you again!" Her lavishings of affection left me quite breathless as I eagerly responded. All the while, even as we embraced, she managed to stare around at the grand rooms with all their elegant furnishings. Holding to my hand, she pulled me from one room to another, gasping and exclaiming at the beauty of everything so fine and rich.
"Where's Dad?" she asked. I explained that Chris had driven into Charlottesville to turn in his rented car for a more luxurious model.
"Darling, he hoped to be back before you reached here. Something must have slowed him down. Be patient, and in a second or two he'll stroll in the door and welcome you."
Satisfied, she again exclaimed, "Momma, wow! What a house! You didn't tell me it would be like this. You made me think the new Foxworth Hall would be just as ugly and scary as the first."
To me, Foxworth Hall would always be ugly and scary, yet it was thrilling to watch Cindy's excitement flow over. She was taller than I, her young breasts ripe and full, her waist very slender so it emphasized the gentle swell of her beautifully formed hips with the flat belly, while her buttocks filled out the back of her jeans delightfully. Looking at her figure sideways, I had to compare her to a burgeoning flower, so tender, so frail appearing, and yet she had exceptional endurance.
Her full and heavy long golden hair was casually styled. It blew wild in the wind as we went out to watch Jory and Bart fighting it out on the new tennis courts. "Oh, gosh, Momma, you do have two beautiful sons," she whispered as she stared at their bronzed, strong bodies. "I never thought Bart would grow up to be just as handsome as Jory, not when he was such an ugly little brute."
Amazed, I stared at her. Bart had been too thin, always with scabs and scars on his legs, and his dark hair had never been tidy, but he'd been a good-looking little boy, certainly not ugly looking--only ugly acting. And once upon a time, Cindy had worshipped Bart. A knife twisted in my heart as I realized so much of what Bart had said last night was true. I
had
put Cindy ahead of him. I had thought she was perfect and incapable of doing wrong, and still did.
"Do try to be kind and, thoughtful to Bart," I whispered, seeing Joel coming our way.
"Who's that funny-looking old man?" asked Cindy, turning to stare at Joel as he bent stiffly to pull up a few weeds. "Don't tell me Bart has hired somebody like him for a gardener--why, he can hardly straighten up once he's crooked."
Before I could answer, Joel was upon us, smiling as broadly as his false teeth would allow. "Why, you must be Cindy, the one Bart talks about all the time," he said with some faint leftover charm, taking Cindy's reluctantly offered hand and putting it to his thin, crooked lips.
I could tell she wanted to yank her hand away, yet she tolerated the touch of his lips. The sun through Joel's almost white hair still streaked with Foxworth gold made it seem terribly thin. Suddenly I realized I hadn't told Cindy about Joel and hastened to introduce them. She seemed fascinated once she knew who he was. "You really mean you knew that hateful old Grandfather Malcolm? You are really
his
son? Why, you must be really ancient . . ."
"Cindy, that's not tactful . . ."
"I'm sorry, Uncle Joel. It's just when I hear my mom and dad talk of their youth, it seems a million years ago." She laughed charmingly, smiling apologetically at Joel. "You know something, you look a lot like my dad in some ways. When he's really old, no doubt he'll grow to look like you."
Joel turned his eyes toward Chris, who'd just driven up and was even now stepping out of a beautiful new blue Cadillac with his arms full of packages. He'd picked up gifts I'd had engraved for Bart's birthday. For his birthday, I'd gone all out and given him only the best, as he would expect: an attache case of the finest leather, with combination locks, for Chris to give him. Eighteen-karat gold cufflinks with his initials in diamonds and a matching gold cigarette case, also monogrammed in
diamonds--the gem Bart respected most, from me. His father had carried such a cigarette case, given to him by my mother.
Dropping the packages onto a lawn chair, Chris held his arms open. Cindy hurled herself into his welcoming embrace. She covered his face with a rain of small kisses, leaving her lip marks all over his face. Staring up into his face, she pleaded. "This is going to be the best summer of my life. Daddy, can't we stay here until school starts in the fall, so I can know what it's like to live in a real mansion, with all those beautiful rooms and fancy bathrooms? I already know which one I want, the one with all those pink and white and gold girlish things. He knows I just adore pink, really love pink, and already I adore and love this house! Just love it, love it!"
A shadow flickered through Chris's eyes as he released her and turned to look at me. "We'll have to talk that over, Cindy. As you know, your mother and I are here just to help Bart celebrate his twenty-fifth birthday."
I looked over toward where Bart smashed the tennis ball with such force it's a wonder it didn't burst. Running like a streak of white light, Jory slammed the yellow ball back to Bart, who ran just as fast to swoop and cleverly whack it back with just as much force. Both were hot and sweaty, their faces reddening from the exercise and the hot sun. "Jory, Bart," I called, "Cindy's here. Come to say hello."
Instantly Jory turned his head to smile, causing him to miss the next yellow ball that came hurtling his way. He failed to return it, and Bart whooped for joy. He jumped up and down, hurled down his expensive racket, shouting, "I win!"
"You win by default," said Jory, throwing down his racket as well. He ran our way, his face all smiles. He threw back at Bart, "Default winning doesn't count."
"It does so count!" bellowed Bart. "What the hell do we care whether or not Cindy's here? You just used that to quit before my score topped yours."
"Have it your way," answered Jory. In a moment he was swinging Cindy off her feet, whirling her around and around, making her blue skirt fly and reveal skimpy bikini panties. It amused me to see that Cindy still dressed from the skin out in one color.
Melodie rose from a marble garden seat where she'd been watching the tennis game, until now half hidden by high shrubbery. I saw her lips tighten as she observed Cindy's too affectionate greeting.
"Like mother like daughter," mumbled Bart from 'behind me.
Cindy approached Bart warily, with so much decorum she didn't seem like the same girl who had kissed Jory. "Hello, brother Bart. You're looking very fit."
Bart stared at her as if he'd never seen her before. It had been two years, and at fourteen, Cindy had still worn her hair in pigtails, or ponytails, and she had braces on her teeth. Now her gleaming white teeth were perfectly spaced. Her hair was a loose-flowing mass of molten gold. There wasn't a girl in the skin magazines that had a better figure or more perfect complexion, and only too unhappily I realized that Cindy knew she looked sensational in her tight blue and white tennis dress.
Bart's dark eyes lingered on her ripe, unfettered breasts that jiggled when she walked, their peaks jutting out clearly. His eyes measured her hand-span waist before he stared at her pelvic area; then he lowered his eyes to take in very pretty long legs that ended in white sandals. Her toenails were painted bright red to match her fingernails and lipstick.
She was breathtakingly lovely in a sweet, fresh and innocent way that strove unsuccessfully to appear sophisticated. I didn't believe for a moment that that long, intense look she gave Bart meant what apparently he took it to mean.
"You're not my type," he said scornfully; turning away. When he did, he stared long and meaningfully at Melodie. Then again he turned to Cindy. "You have a certain cheap quality, despite all your expensive clothes--you don't possess nobility."
It hurt to hear him deliberately try and squelch Cindy's youthful pride. Her radiant expression faded. Like a tender flower without the admiration of rain to nourish her faith in herself, she wilted before me as she turned into Chris's waiting arms.
"Apologize, Bart," ordered Chris. I cringed, knowing Bart would never apologize.
Bart curled his lips, his scorn so apparent, even as he acted indignant and angry. His lips parted to insult Chris as he'd done so many times, but then he glanced at Melodie, who'd turned to look at him in a detached, curious way. A deep flush heated Bart's face. "I'll apologize when she learns how to dress and act like a lady."
"Apologize
now,
Bart," ordered Chris.
"Don't make demands,
Christopher,"
said Bart, looking Chris meaningfully in the eyes. "You're in a very vulnerable position. You and my mother. You're not a Sheffield, not a Foxworth--or at least you can't let it be known you're a Foxworth. So just what are you that counts? The world is full of doctors, too many doctors--and younger and more knowledgeable ones than you are."
Chris stood taller. "My ignorance about medicine has saved your life more than once, Bart. And the lives of many others. Perhaps one day you'll recognize that fact. You've never said thank you for anything I've done for you. I'm waiting for that day."
Bart paled, I suspected not so much from what Chris had just said. I thought he was embarrassed because Melodie was watching and listening. "Thank you,
Uncle
Chris," he said sarcastically.
How mocking and insincere his words and his tone of voice. I watched the two men in silent challenge, seeing Chris wince from the way Bart put stress on "Uncle." Then, for no reason at all, I glanced at Joel.
He'd moved closer to pause just behind Melodie, and on his face was the kindest, most benign smile. But in his eyes lurked something darker. I moved to stand beside Chris, just as Jory lined up with him on the other side.
My lips parted to add a long list of things Bart should thank Chris for, when suddenly Bart was striding toward Melodie, ignoring Cindy. "Have I told you the theme of my party? The dance I've chosen for you and Jory? It's going to cause a sensation."
Melodie stood up. She stared Bart straight in his eyes with open contempt. "I'm not going to dance for your birthday guests. I think Jory has explained to you more than once that I'm doing everything I can to see I have a healthy baby--and that doesn't include dancing for your amusement and that of people I don't even know."
Her voice was cold. Dislike for Bart glared from her dark blue eyes.
She left, taking Jory with her, leaving the rest of us to follow. Joel tagged along at the very end like a tail that didn't know how to wag.
Quick to recover from all wounds, as always she'd rebounded from Bart's rebuffs, Cindy gushed happily about the expected baby that would make her an aunt. "How wonderful! I can hardly wait. It's going to be one beautiful baby, I know, when it has parents like Jory and Melodie, and grandparents like you and Dad."
Cindy's delightful presence made up for so much of Bart's hatefulness. I hugged her close and she snuggled down on the loveseat in my private sitting room and began to spill out all the details of her life. I listened eagerly, fascinated by a daughter who was making up for all the excitement Carrie and I had missed out on.
Each morning Chris and I were up early to enjoy the beauty of the cool mountain mornings, with the perfume of roses and other flowers drifting to delight our nostrils. Cardinals scarlet as flames flew everywhere while bluejays shrieked and purple martins searched the grass for insects. It surprised me to see dozens of birdhouses to accommodate wrens, martins and other species, and fabulous birdbaths and rock garden pools where the birds had a merry time taking quick, fluttery baths. We ate on one terrace or another to enjoy different views, talking often of all this that had been denied us when we were young and would have been appreciated even more than it was now. Sad, so sad to think of our little twins and how they had cried to go outside, outside, and the only playground they had was the attic garden we made for them out of paper and cardboard. And this had been there then, unused, unenjoyed, when two little fiveyear-olds would have been in seventh heaven to have had just a little of what we, could enjoy daily now.
Cindy liked to sleep late, as did Jory and especially Melodie, who complained a great deal about nausea and fatigue. As early as seven-thirty Chris and I watched workmen and party decorators drive up. Caterers came to prepare for the party, and interior designers arrived to complete the
appointments in some of the unfinished rooms, but not one neighbor dropped in to welcome us. Bart's private phone rang often, but the telephones on other lines hardly rang at all. We sat at the top of the world, or so it seemed, all by ourselves, and in some ways it was nice, in other ways it was a little frightening.
In the distance, faint and hazy, we could faintly see two church steeples. When the nights were still and without wind, we could faintly hear them chime away the hours. I knew one had been patronized by Malcolm when he lived, and about a mile away was the cemetery where he and our grandmother were buried side by side, with elaborate headstones and guardian angels put there by our mother.
I filled my days with playing tennis with Chris, with Jory, sometimes with Bart, and that's when he really seemed to like me most. "You surprise me, Mother!" he yelled over the net, slamming that yellow ball so hard it almost went through my racket. Somehow I managed to race to hit it back, and then my troublesome knee started hurting and I had to quit. Bart complained I was using that knee as an excuse to abandon play with him.
"You find any reason to stay away from me," he yelled as if Chris's words meant nothing. "Your knee doesn't hurt . . . or you'd be limping."
I did limp as I climbed the stairs, but Bart wasn't around to notice this. I soaked in a tub of hot water for an hour to take away the pain. Chris came in to tell me I was doing it wrong again. "Ice, Catherine, ice! You only inflame your knee more when you sit in hot water. Now get out while I fill a bag with crushed ice, and keep it on your knee for twenty minutes." He kissed me to take the sting from his words. "See you later," he said, hurrying back to the tennis courts to take on Jory, while Bart left with Joel in tow. All this I could see from our bedroom balcony while I sat with that ice bag held to my knee, and soon enough the cold worked, chasing away the throbbing hot pain.
I was beginning a layette for Jory's expected baby. This demanded many shopping sprees for yarns, needles, crochet hooks, for visiting adorable baby shops. Often we drove into Charlottesville with Cindy and Chris to shop, and twice we made the longer drive to Richmond and shopped there, went to the movies and stayed overnight. Sometimes Jory and Melodie went with us, but not as often as I would have liked. Already Foxworth Hall's charm was palling.
But if it palled for me, for Jory and Melodie, it worked its charm on Cindy, who adored her room, her fancy French furniture, her ultrafeminine bath with its pink decor enhanced with gold and mossy pale green. Hugging herself, she danced around. "So he doesn't like me," she laughed, spinning around before the many mirrors, "and yet he decorates a room exactly the way I'd want. Oh, Momma, how can either of us understand Bart?"
Who could answer that?