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! (165 page)

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.

S
ix 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 nose 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-blonde 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 three-winged 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 how. 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.”