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! (186 page)

Reeling from his words, I felt hazy and unreal. “And the baby, what of the baby?”

Now his voice turned hard. “The baby is another matter. He or she will belong to Jory, no matter which brother Melodie chooses. That child will help see Jory through—for he may never be able to sire another.”

“Chris, please. Go to Bart and tell him to let Melodie go. I cannot stand the thought of Jory losing his wife at this point in his life.”

He shook his head, telling me that Bart had never listened
to him, and it wasn’t likely he would now. And already he’d spoken without my knowledge to Melodie.

“Darling, face up to the facts. In her heart Melodie doesn’t want Jory now. She won’t come out and say that, but behind every word she doesn’t say, behind all her excuses, is the plain fact that she just does not want to stay married to a man who can’t walk. In my way of thinking it would be cruel to force her to stay, and even harder on Jory in the long run. If we do try to force her to stay, sooner or later she’d strike back at him for not being the man he was and I want to spare him that. Better to let her go before she hurts him even worse than by just having an affair with Bart.”

“Chris!” I cried, shocked that he would think as he did. “We can’t let her do this to Jory!”

“Cathy, who are we to judge this matter? Right or wrong, should we, who are considered sinners by Bart, sit in judgment on him?”

*  *  *

In the morning Chris drove away after telling me he’d be back Friday evening around six. I watched from my bedroom window until his car was out of sight.

How empty the days when Chris was away, how bleak the nights without his arms to hold me and his whispers to assure me everything would work out fine. I smiled and laughed for Jory, not wanting him to know that I was suffering from the lack of having Chris in my bed every night. Jory slept alone, I told myself, and I could manage if he could. I knew that Melodie and Bart were still lovers; however, they were discreet enough to try and hide that from me. But I knew from the way Joel glared at Jory’s wife that he considered her a bitch. Strange that he didn’t glare at Bart, when he was just as guilty. But then men had a way of thinking what was right for the gander was wrong for the goose, even pious religious ones like Joel.

We were two weeks into November, and our plans for Thanksgiving were complete. Our weather turned more severe and hurled blustery winds and snow our way, stacking snow around our doors, freezing it overnight to ice so we couldn’t leave the garage in one of our many cars. One by one our servants deserted until there was only Trevor to prepare the meals with my off-and-on help.

Cindy flew home and helped cheer our hours with her easy laughter, her winning ways that charmed everyone but Bart and Joel. Even Melodie seemed a bit happier. Then she took to her bed, to stay there all day long, trying to keep warm now that our electricity went off so often, and that meant our furnaces controlled by electric thermostats refused to give out heat. We then had to resort to our coal furnace auxiliary.

Freely Bart carried in the wood he wanted to burn in his office fireplace and forgot the rest of us would enjoy a fire.

Bart was secreted away with Joel, whispering of the Christmas ball he planned, so I had to carry in enough logs to build a fire in Jory’s room, where Cindy was playing a game with him. He sat in his chair, wrapped with an afghan, his shoulders covered with a jacket, and smiled at my futile attempts to set the kindling ablaze. “Open the damper, Mom, that always helps a little.”

How had I forgotten that?

Soon I had a fire going. The bright glow cheered up the room, which seemed so right in summer but not so right in winter, just as Bart had predicted. Now the dark paneling would have made Jory feel cozier.

“Mom,” Jory said, suddenly looking very cheerful, “I’ve been thinking about something for days. I’m a fool to act as I am. You’re right—been right all along. I’m not going to feel sorry for myself the minute I’m alone and no one can see, as I’ve been doing since the accident. I am going to accept what can’t be helped and make the most of a difficult situation. Just like you and Dad did when you were locked away, I’m going to
turn my idle moments into creative moments. I’ll have plenty of time to read all the books I’ve never had time to read before, and I’m going to say yes to Dad the next time he offers to teach me how to paint with watercolors. I’ll go outdoors and try landscapes. Perhaps I’ll even venture into oils, other mediums. I want to thank you both for giving me the incentive to go on. I’m a lucky guy to have parents like you and Dad.”

Feeling proud enough to cry myself, I embraced him, congratulating him for coming back to being his natural, enthusiastic self.

Cindy had set a bridge table for two, but Jory soon turned back to the clipper ship he was determined to finish before Christmas. He was stringing the threadlike cords to the rigging, which was the last step before a little touch-up painting here and there.

“I’m going to give this to someone very special, Mom,” he informed me. “On Christmas day, one person in this house is going to have my first difficult piece of handicraft.”

“I bought it for you, Jory, to become an heirloom to pass down to your children . . .” I blanched when I heard myself say “children.”

“It’s all right, Mom, for with this gift I am going to win back the younger brother who loved me before that old man came and changed him. He wants it badly; I see it in his eyes every time he comes in and checks to see my progress. Besides, I can always put together another one for my child. Right now I want to do something for Bart. He thinks none of us need him or like him. I’ve never seen a man as uncertain about himself . . . and that’s such a pity.”

T
hanksgiving Day came, and with it arrived Chris early in the morning. Jory’s nurse ate Thanksgiving dinner with us, keeping his lovesick eyes glued on Cindy as if she had him under a spell. She couldn’t have behaved more like a lady, making me tremendously proud of her. The next day she eagerly accepted our invitation to go shopping in Richmond. Melodie shook her head. “Sorry, I just don’t feel up to it.”

Chris, Cindy and I drove off with a clear conscience, knowing Bart had flown to New York and wouldn’t be with Melodie. Jory’s nurse had promised to stay with Jory until we returned.

Our three-day holiday in Richmond refreshed our minds and souls, gave me the sense of being still beautiful and very much in love, and Cindy had the time of her life spending, and spending, and spending some more. “You see,” she said proudly, “I don’t waste all the allowance you send me on myself. I save to buy wonderful gifts for my family . . . and Momma, Daddy, you just wait until you see what I bought for you both. And I certainly hope Jory likes his gift. As for
Bart, he can take what I give and like it or not.”

“What about your Uncle Joel?” I asked with curiosity.

Laughing, she hugged me. “Wait until you see.”

Hours later Chris turned onto the private road that would wend its crooked way up to Foxworth Hall. In one of the boxes that filled our trunk and rear seat of the car, I had an expensive dress to wear to the Christmas ball I’d overheard Bart arranging with the same caterers who’d taken care of his birthday party. In her own huge box, Cindy had chosen a spectacular dress, daring but at the same time wonderfully appropriate. “Thank you, Momma, for not objecting,” she’d whispered before she kissed me.

Nothing unusual had occurred during our absence, except Jory had finally completed the clipper ship. It stood proud and exquisitely finished down to the last detail, its tiny brass helm gleaming, its sails full and bulging with invisible and unfelt high winds. “Sugar stiffening,” revealed Jory with a small laugh, “and it worked. I took the sails and shaped them around a bottle like the instructions read, and now our maiden voyage is well under way.” He was proud of his work, smiling as Chris stepped over to admire his meticulous craftsmanship more closely. Then we had to help him lift the ship into a styrofoam form-fitting mold that would hold it securely until it reached the hands of the new owner.

His beautiful eyes turned to me. “Thanks for giving me something to do during all these long, boring hours, Mom. When I first saw it I was overwhelmed, thinking I’d never be able to do something that appeared so difficult. But I took one step at a time, and now I feel I won over those hideously complicated directions.”

“That’s the way all life’s battles are won, Jory,” said Chris as I hugged Jory close. “You don’t look at the overall picture. You take one step, then another, and another . . . until you arrive at your destination. And I must say, you did a magnificent job on this ship. It’s as professionally made as any I’ve
seen. If Bart doesn’t appreciate all the effort you put into this, he’ll really disappoint me.”

Standing, Chris beamed at Jory. “You’re looking healthier, stronger. And don’t give up on the watercolors. It is a difficult medium, but I thought you would enjoy it more than oils. I think one day you are going to be a fine artist.”

Downstairs, Bart was on the phone directing a bank official to take over a failing business. Then he was talking to someone else about the Christmas party he was planning, a ball to make up for the tragedy of his birthday party. I stood in his open doorway thinking it was a good thing that all he ordered did not come from his personal fund but from the Corrine Foxworth Winslow Trust, which left Bart his annual five hundred thousand as “pin” money to spend only on himself. It more than irked Bart to be forced to confer with Chris each time he spent over the named figure of ten thousand.

Bart slammed down the receiver, glared at me. “Mother, do you have to stand in the doorway and eavesdrop? Haven’t I told you before to stay away from me when I’m busy?”

“When do I see you if I don’t do this?”

“Why do you need to see me?”

“Why does any mother need to see her son?”

His dark eyes softened. “You’ve got Jory—and he always seemed more than sufficient.”

“No, you’re wrong there. If I had never had you, Jory would have been sufficient. But I
did
have you, and that makes you a vital part of my life.”

Uncertain-looking, he stood up and strode to a window, keeping his back toward me. His voice came to me deep and gruff, with a melancholy sadness. “Remember when I used to keep Malcolm’s journal stuffed inside my shirt? Malcolm wrote so much about his mother, and how much he loved her until she ran off with her lover and left him alone with a father he didn’t like. Some of Malcolm’s hate for her rubbed off on me, I’m afraid. Each time I see you and Chris head up
those stairs together, I feel the need to cleanse myself from the shame I feel and you two don’t. So don’t you start lecturing to me about Melodie, for what I do with her is far less sinful than what you do with Chris.”

He was no doubt right, and that’s what hurt worse than anything.

*  *  *

More or less I grew unhappily accustomed to seeing Chris only on the weekends, although my heart ached and my bed felt huge and lonely without him, and all my mornings alone were wistful, wishing I could hear him whistling as he shaved and showered, missing his cheerfulness, his optimism. When the weather kept him away on the weekends, even then, I grew used to that. How adaptable we humans were, how willing to suffer through any horror, any adjustment, any deprivations just to gain those few minutes of priceless joy.

To stand at the window and watch Chris drive up filled me with surprising youthful excitement so overwhelming it was as if I were waiting for Bart’s father to steal away from Foxworth Hall and meet me in the cottage. Certainly I didn’t act as placidly accepting as when I’d seen him every night, every morning. The weekends were something to be anticipated and dreamed about. However, Chris was both more and less to me—more a lover and less a husband. I missed the brother who’d been my other half, and loved the lover-husband who didn’t remind me as much of the brother I’d known.

There was no way and there were no words that could separate the two of us now that I’d accepted him and taken him as my husband, defying all scorn and society’s moral rules.

Still, my unconscious was trying peculiar tricks to give my conscious relief. With determination I was separating Chris the man from Chris the boy who’d been my brother. An unconscious, unplanned game we both began to play with some finesse. We didn’t discuss it, we didn’t have to. No longer
did Chris call me “my lady Cath-er-ine.” No more did he say teasingly, “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” All the charms and enchantments of those yesterdays when we were locked up, meant to keep away evil spirits, we let go, at last, in the middle years of our contentment.

He came home late one Friday night in December, stomping his feet in the foyer as I lingered in the shadows of the rotunda watching him take off his topcoat and hang it neatly in the guest closet before he raced up the stairs two at a time, calling my name. I stepped out of the shadows and threw myself into his eager arms.” You’re late again!” I cried. “Who do you see in your lab that sends shivers up and down your spine?”