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! (93 page)

To see her unhappy made me furious with my mother—again! I began to dwell on what I would do when I had my chance. Now I was free, no husband to hold me back—make her pay, as Carrie was paying!

Each day she saw Paul and Chris battling for my attention, each desiring me, each beginning to look at the other with enmity. I had to settle something that should have been settled a long time ago. If only Julian hadn’t put himself in the way, I would now be Paul’s wife, and Jory would be Paul’s son, and yet, and yet . . . I loved Jory for who he was, and on second thought I was glad I’d had Julian for a while. I was no longer a sweet, innocent virgin—two men had taught me well. I would have the knowledge to hold my own when it came time to steal my mother’s husband away from her. I’d be like she’d been with Daddy. I’d cast Bart Winslow shy glances, meaningful long, long looks. I’d reach to caress his cheek. . . . And my biggest asset of all was I looked like her, but I was years younger! How could he resist? I’d put on a few pounds to make myself curvier—like her.

Christmas came and Jory, less than a year old, sat amidst his presents, wide-eyed and bewildered, not knowing what to
do, or which toy to pick up first. Snap, snap, snap went the click of three cameras. But Paul had the movie camera, not Chris, Carrie or I.

“Lullabye and good night,” sang Carrie softly to my son, rocking him to sleep on Christmas night, “. . . may heaven’s sweet charms hold you safe in its arms.”

I couldn’t help but cry to see her there, like a child herself, but so longing to have a child of her own. Chris came up behind me and put his arms around my waist as I leaned back against him. “I should run for a camera,” he whispered, “they look so sweet together, but I don’t want to break the spell. Carrie is so much like you, Cathy, except in size.”

One little word, “except.” One little word that kept Carrie from ever feeling really happy.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Quickly I jerked from Chris’s arms and went in to tuck my small son into his crib. I sensed Paul in the doorway now that Chris had gone on to his room. “Cathy,” whispered Carrie so Jory wouldn’t awaken, “do you think I’ll ever have a baby?”

“Yes, of course you will.”

“
I
don’t think I will,” she said, and then ambled away, leaving me to stare after her.

Paul came into the nursery, kissed Jory good night, then turned as if to take me in his arms. “No,” I said in a small voice, “not while Chris is in the house.” He nodded stiffly, then said good night, and I went to lie awake until almost dawn—wondering how I could solve the dilemma I was in.

Jory seemed quite happy with his situation; he wasn’t spoiled; he didn’t whine and cry or make unnecessary demands, he just accepted. He could sit for minutes staring from one to the other of us, as if sizing us up, and our relationship to him. He had the patience of Chris; the quiet sweetness of Cory, and only occasionally the brashness of his father—and his mother. But nothing at all about Jory reminded me of Carrie; he smiled so much more than she. Nevertheless,
when Carrie strolled through Paul’s gardens with Jory in her arms, she pointed out the differences between this tree and that. Incessantly explaining. She forced Jory to imitate speech sooner than he would have otherwise.

“Regard this oak leaf,” said Carrie one day after Jory had learned to walk, and spring breezes stirred the air. “Each tree leaf has its own shape, texture and smell. All flowers open up easily for a bee to enter, except the rose. But daisies don’t smell as pretty as roses, so the bees fly right on by, and head for the roses that are so stingy with their nectar, and hold their heads high on tall stems.” She pointed to a rose, then glanced at me. Next she was showing Jory the daisies and the pansies.

“Now, if I were a bee, you could bet I’d go straight for the violets and pansies too, even though they don’t stand as tall.” She lifted her eyes to meet mine and said in a strange, tight small voice. “You are like a rose, Cathy. All the bees come to you, and they don’t even see me down so low. Please don’t get married again before I have my chance. Please don’t be around if ever some man looks my way. . . . Don’t you smile at him, please.”

*  *  *

Oh, how fast the years go when you have a baby to fill all the hours. All of us took snapshots like crazy: Jory’s first smile; his first tooth; his first crawl from me to Chris, and then over to Paul, and to Carrie.

Paul began his courtship that was to last two years; the same two years Chris interned in the Clairmont Hospital. They couldn’t hurt each other when each loved and respected the other. They couldn’t even speak of the barrier between them, except through me.

“It’s this town,” said Chris. “I think Carrie would fare better in another city. All of us together.”

It was twilight in the gardens, our favorite time there. Paul was off making his rounds in three hospitals, and Carrie was entertaining Jory before she put him to bed. Henny rattled
pots and pans to let us know she was still up—and still busy.

Chris had completed his two years of internship, and had started on his residency which would take another three years. When he told me he was considering another hospital, far more famous, to further his training, I felt a deep shock. He was leaving me!

“I’m sorry, Cathy, the Mayo Clinic has accepted me, and that’s an honor. I’ll only be there nine months, and then back here to complete my training. Why don’t you and Jory come with me?” His eyes were very bright and lambent. “Carrie can stay to keep Paul company.”

“Chris! You know I can’t do that!”

“You are going to stay on here after I’m gone?” he asked bitterly.

“If Julian’s insurance company would pay off, I could afford a house of my own, and start my own dance school. But they keep insisting his death was suicide. I know that policy has a two-year suicide clause, and we paid on it since the day we married—so it was not in effect when he died. Yet, they won’t pay.”

“What you need is a good attorney.”

My heart jumped. “Yes. Yes I do. Chris, go on to the Mayo Clinic without me. I’ll make out fine, and I swear not to marry anyone until you are back and give your approval. Worry about finding someone yourself. After all, I’m not the only woman who resembles our mother.”

He flared. “Why the hell do you put it like that? It’s
you
, not
her
! It’s everything about you that’s not like her that makes me need and want you so!

“Chris, I want a man I can sleep with, who will hold me when I feel afraid, and kiss me, and make me believe I am not evil or unworthy.” My voice broke as tears came. “I wanted to show Momma what I could do, and be the best prima ballerina, but now that Julian’s gone all I want to do is cry when I hear ballet music. I miss him so, Chris.” I put my head on his chest and sobbed. “I could have been nicer to him—then he
wouldn’t have struck out in anger. He needed me and I failed him. You don’t need me. You’re stronger than he was. Paul doesn’t really need me either, or he would insist on marrying me right away. . . .”

“We could live together, and, and . . .” And here he faltered as his face turned red.

I finished for him, “No! Can’t you see it just wouldn’t work?”

“No, I guess it wouldn’t work for you,” he said stiffly. “But I’m a fool; I’ve always been a fool, wanting the impossible. I’m even fool enough to want us locked up again, the way we were—with me the only male available to you!”

“You don’t mean that!”

He seized me in his arms. “Don’t I? God help me but I do mean it! You belonged to me then, and in its own peculiar way our life together made me better than I would have been . . . and you made me want you, Cathy. You could have made me hate you, instead you made me love you.”

I shook my head, denying this; I’d only done what came naturally from watching my mother with men. I stared at him, trembling as he released me. I stumbled as I turned to run toward the house. Before me Paul loomed up! Startled I faltered guiltily and stared at him as he turned abruptly and strode in the opposite direction. Oh! He’d been watching and listening! I pivoted about, then raced back to where Chris had his head resting against the trunk of the oldest oak. “See what you’ve done!” I cried out. “
Forget me, Chris!
I’m not the one and only woman alive!”

He appeared blind as he turned his head and he said, “You are for me the only woman alive.”

*  *  *

October came, the time for Chris’s departure. To see him pack, to know he was going, to say good-bye as if I didn’t care when he came back made me deathly ill while I smiled.

I cried in the rose arbor. It would be easier now. I wouldn’t
have to keep putting Paul off so Chris wouldn’t be hurt. No longer would I have to weigh each smile and balance it off against what I’d given the other. Now I had a clear, straight path to Paul—but something got in my eyes. The vision of my mother as she stepped off the plane with her husband on the step behind her. She was coming back to Greenglenna! I clipped out the newsphoto and the caption and put that in my scrapbook. Perhaps if she’d stayed away, I would have married Paul then and there. As it was, I did something entirely unplanned.

*  *  *

Madame Marisha was “getting along” and needed an assistant, so I went to convince her I should be the one to keep her school running—if ever, well, you could never tell. . . .

“I don’t intend to die,” she snapped. Then begrudgingly she nodded, her ebony eyes suspicious. “Yes, I suppose
you
would think of me as old, though I never do. But don’t you try and take over, and try to run
me
. I am still the boss here, and will be until I am in my grave!”

By the time November rolled around I realized working with Madame M. was impossible. She had fixed ideas about everything, while I had a few ideas of my own. But I needed money, I needed a place of my own. I wasn’t ready to marry Paul, and if I stayed there, that’s just what would happen. I had spent enough years plotting and planning. It was time to make my move. The first pawn to play would be Mr. Attorney at Law. It wouldn’t work if I stayed with Paul, and though he objected, saying it was an unnecessary expense, I explained I had to have a chance to be my own person, and in my own home to find out what I really wanted. He gave me a puzzled look, then a more shrewd one. “All right, Catherine, do what you must. You will anyway.”

“It’s only because Chris insisted that I not marry again until Carrie had her chance, and Chris objects to my staying
here with you . . . when he isn’t here. . . .” My ending was lame, and oh, such a lie!

“I understand,” he said with a wry smile. “Since the day Julian died, it has been very clear that I am in competition with your brother for your affection. I’ve tried to talk to him about it, but
he
won’t let me. I try to talk to you about it, and
you
won’t let me. So go live in your own home, and be your own person, and find your own self, and when you feel grown up enough to act adult, come back to me.”

A
s soon as I was installed in a small, rented cottage, halfway between Clairmont and Greenglenna, I sat down to draft a blackmail letter to my mother. I was deeply in debt, with one child, but I had Carrie too. The enormous bills Julian had run up in New York stores were still unpaid; there was also his hospital bill, his funeral bill, plus my own hospital bills made when Jory was born. Credit cards just didn’t solve everything. Not for one moment was I going to accept more from Paul. He’d done enough. I needed to prove I was better than Momma, more able, smarter . . . and what did I do but write her a letter, as she’d written to her mother after Daddy died. Why not ask for just one paltry million? Why not? She owed us! It was ours too! With that money I could pay off all the debts I owed, pay back Paul and do something to make Carrie happier. And if I felt some shame to do the same thing she’d done—in a way—I rationalized it away by thinking it was her own fault! She’d asked for it! Jory was not going to live his life in need, when she had so much!

Finally, after many futile attempts, I came up with what I believed the perfect letter of extortion:

Dear Mrs. Winslow:

Once upon a Gladstone, Pennsylvania time, there lived a man and wife who had four children everyone referred to as the Dresden dolls. Now one of those dolls lies in a lonely grave and another of those dolls fails to grow to the height that should have been hers if she’d have been given sunlight and fresh air, and the love that a mother owed her when she needed it most.

Now the ballerina doll has a small son of her own, and not much money. I know, Mrs. Winslow, you don’t have much compassion for children who might cast a shadow over your sunny days, so I will come directly to the point. The ballerina doll
demands
payment of one million dollars—if you are to keep any of
your
millions—or billions. You may send that amount to the post office box I name, and be assured, Mrs. Winslow, that if you fail to do so, the ears of Mr. Bartholomew Winslow, Attorney at Law, will be filled with horror tales I’m sure you’d rather he not hear.