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! (167 page)

“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.

A
round 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 attaché 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.