Cutler 3 - Twilight's Child (16 page)

"I'm happy for you, Mother," I said, and I went to my closet to choose something appropriate to wear to dinner. We had nearly a full house, and there were many guests to greet.

"Thank you. Oh," she said, turning. "With all our chatter, I nearly forgot why I came in here to see you. Isn't that silly of me?"

"Oh? I thought you came in here to show me your new dress," I said.

"Yes, that, too."

"What else brought you in here, Mother?" I asked, turning back to her, sensing she had something up her sleeve.

She paused and took a deep breath. "Bronson would like to have you and James accompany me to his home for a formal dinner this coming Tuesday night, if that's all right with you."

I stared at her a moment.

"A formal dinner?"

"Yes. It will be wonderful, I assure you. And I would like so much for you to see Beulla Woods. Also," she added, her eyes narrowing, "it would be smart to accept an invitation from the man who is president of the bank holding the mortgage on the hotel."

"If I agree to go, it won't be because I feel threatened not to," I snapped back. She pulled herself up as if I had spit in her face.

"I didn't mean . . . it's just good sense to do the proper things now that you are a woman of some position, Dawn," she explained.

"All right," I said. "I'll speak to Jimmy about it." "Well, why shouldn't he want to go?" she asked quickly. "Jimmy's not impressed with these things, Mother, but I don't anticipate him refusing, so relax."

She brightened immediately.

"That's very nice, Dawn. I so want us to become good friends, despite all the unpleasantness that has occurred between us in the past."

Unpleasantness? I thought. Her permitting Grandmother Cutler to arrange for my kidnapping, and then her not coming to my defense while the dreadful old woman made my life miserable after my return? Unpleasantness? Her never coming to see me in New York or doing anything to interfere with Grandmother Cutler's sending me to give birth at The Meadows, under the control of that horrible sister, Emily? Unpleasantness? Her failure to do anything about poor Randolph and her permitting her children to fall away like pieces of some delicate china?

"I have to get ready for dinner, Mother," I said, turning away so she couldn't see the two tears that had lodged themselves in the corners of my eyes.

"Of course." She started out and turned in the doorway. "Isn't it remarkable," she said, "how well you are doing?" She laughed. "Grandmother Cutler is surely spinning around in her grave." Her laughter trailed after her.

Perhaps Mother was right about that, I thought. Perhaps that was really why I was working as hard as I could to fill her shoes, and maybe even do better. I wanted to keep her spinning in her grave.

"Forgive me, Jimmy," I whispered, "but I can't help wanting sweet revenge."

To my surprise, Jimmy was more than just willing to go to dinner at Bronson Alcott's home. He was looking forward to it.

"I've heard so much about that house," he told me, "especially from Buster Morris, who does some grounds maintenance there as well."

I smiled. Jimmy had become very popular with the hotel staff, especially the men and women directly under his authority. He put on no airs of superiority and didn't act as if he knew everything. He relied heavily on the advice of the old-timers and didn't attempt to change anything they had been doing for years and years.

"What have you heard about Beulla Woods, Jimmy?" I asked. Curiosity filled me. I couldn't help but be interested in Mr. Alcott, not only because of Mother's friendship with him, but because of the debonair and suave way he had swept into my life, flashing that charming smile, drinking me in with those laughing blue eyes. Whenever I saw him he seemed to have an alluring and provocative grin.

And there was a mystery about him. He was a handsome and engaging man who carried himself with the self-confidence of a famous movie star. Well-to-do, important and obviously well educated, he presented a striking figure. Why, then, had he remained unmarried all these years? Was it what Mrs. Boston thought—he was too brokenhearted over not marrying Mother?

"Well, for one thing, Buster says that the house is enormous for one man to be living in it alone. He's got some servants, of course, but the house has ten bedrooms, a sitting room, a formal living room, a library and an office. He says the kitchen's half as big as our hotel kitchen, and it's all on one hundred and fifty rolling acres with a view of the cove and the sea that will take your breath away. He has a pool and a tennis court in the rear, too.

"Buster says his father built the house after he returned from the First World War. It's one of those Norman cottages."

"Cottage?"

"Well, that's what they call the style. It's French, but it looks a little like English Tudor, too," he added, proud of his new knowledge.

"It sounds like you and Buster talked a lot about Mr. Alcott's home," I teased.

"Yeah, well, I'm interested in houses and construction and stuff. I told you," he added, his face a little crimson, "I intend to build us a house someday. I've even got a piece of the hotel property picked out—up on a little rise at the northwest end. Buster says it's perfect for the sort of house I'm designing."

"Really? Oh, Jimmy, that would be wonderful." He beamed.

"Anyhow," he said, "I don't mind looking at Beulla Woods close up."

And so on Tuesday we got dressed up to accompany Mother in the hotel limousine. I hadn't really bought any new clothing since my days in New York City attending the Sarah Bernhardt School of Performing Arts. At Mother's suggestion I took off Monday afternoon and went shopping for something appropriate to wear to a formal dinner. I found an elegant-looking black satin gown with spaghetti straps and a black silk sash. Mother was literally ecstatic when she saw what I had bought.

"It's perfect," she cried, holding it up against herself and gazing in my mirror. "Absolutely perfect. We're almost the same size," she commented. "Maybe you'll let me borrow it one day."

"Of course, Mother," I replied.

"Oh, let me help you dress tomorrow night," she begged. "Please."

"I know how to get dressed, Mother," I said. Her smile wilted so much I thought she might burst into tears. "But I don't mind you giving me some hints," I added charitably.

"Good," she said, hugging my new dress to her bosom. She closed her eyes. "We'll be like mother and daughter getting ready for an important ball . . . like a debutante's ball. Oh, I can't wait," she cried.

True to her promise, she was at my side the following day as I began to prepare to go to Bronson Alcott's dinner. Following her suggestion, I changed my hairstyle somewhat by brushing and pinning one side. I let her brush and trim my bangs. Then she insisted I go back to her suite and sit beside her while we did our makeup together. Jimmy shook his head, laughing as she seized my hand and pulled me away.

But as she sat there giving me instructions on how to do my eyes, how to work in the makeup, what color lipstick to choose and what perfume to wear, I couldn't help wondering what it might have been like if she and I had been together since my birth. It made me feel a bit guilty to wonder, for I truly missed Momma Longchamp and mourned her passing; but I couldn't help longing for the feminine things.

I would have had beautiful dresses and stylish clothes. As I grew up, Mother and I would have been like two princesses in the hotel. Maybe she wouldn't have become so self-centered if she had had a daughter with whom she could really share things. We could have been good friends, confiding in each other, sharing hopes and fears.

All these things I longed for, I vowed Christie would have. She and I would sit before a vanity mirror like this when she was older. I dreamed about helping her prepare for her first date or dance. I would be the mother to her that I had never had.

"There," Mother said when we were finished, "just look at how much more beautiful you are now."

I gazed at myself. I did look older, more alluring. Was Mother like the devil making me as vain as she was? I thought. I couldn't stop gazing at myself.

"Thank you, Mother," I said. "I'd better finish dressing and see how Jimmy is coming along."

"Don't worry," she sang. "It's fashionable to be late. Bronson expects it of me anyway," she added, laughing. "He told me if I came to my own funeral on time, the minister would be shocked to death himself."

Jimmy looked sincerely impressed when I stepped back into our suite. He whistled and nodded.

"You look great!" he said.

"So do you, Jimmy." He wore a dark blue sports jacket, matching tie and slacks. After I put on my dress I took his arm, and we stood before the full-length mirror gazing at our images.

"Is this the little girl who used to streak mud all over herself while playing with her toy teacups in the backyard?" he asked.

"Is this the boy who fell off his bike and smacked his head so badly he had to have stitches?" I responded.

"Hey," he said. "You've never forgotten that. You were so frightened." He started to laugh.

"The blood was streaming down your face. I thought you were going to die," I protested. "And you shouldn't have laughed at me."

"I had to," he confessed. "I was so scared myself at the sight of all that blood. I was glad I had to calm you down first."

"I was only—what, four, five?"

"Five," he said. "Daddy was so mad. 'We ain't got money for this kind of nonsense,' he said. Remember?" I shook my head. "I couldn't ride my bike for weeks after that. That old bike," he said, shaking his head and recalling. "I had to leave it behind when we packed up and moved. No room for it in the car. I'll never forget how I felt when we pulled away and I looked-back and saw it leaning against the side of the house." He swallowed back his tears, and I kissed his cheek.

"Maybe we shouldn't think about those days so much, Jimmy. Maybe we should think only about the future," I suggested.

"Yeah, I know. Once in a while, though, I can't help remembering, and then I think about Fern and wonder what happened to her. Mr. Updike still can't find anything out, huh?"

I had asked him to try, but he had had no luck. I didn't want to tell Jimmy how pessimistic Mr. Updike was about it, but I explained it to him the way Mr. Updike had explained it to me.

"No, Jimmy. When people adopt children like that they want it kept secret just so the baby's old family doesn't come around, and so they can tell the child she's their own. Then if she does find out she's adopted, she can't go off looking for her real family and trying to find out why they gave her away."

"I understand," Jimmy said. "I just wish we could see her, see how she's grown, what she's like. I bet she looks more and more like Momma, huh?"

"Probably. She had Momma's dark hair and dark eyes."

"I'm ready," Mother sang from the corridor.

"The queen is calling," Jimmy said, smiling. "Shall we?" he added, and he held out his arm for me to take.

Mother hadn't shown me her newest dress until this moment. It was a pearl-white satin strapless gown with a bodice that dipped scandalously low on her bosom, easily revealing half her cleavage. Her crimson breasts bubbled over, raised by an uplift bra. Yet the hem of the skirt was quite conservative, a little below the ankle. Around her neck she wore a necklace I had seen only once before. It was an enormous pear-shaped diamond in a white-gold setting with a white-gold chain, and I would never forget it, for Grand-mother Cutler had worn it. Mother had the earrings to match.

Mother threw her crochet lace shawl over her shoulders and ran it over her arm before stepping toward us.

"Do I look beautiful?" she asked, spinning around.

"You certainly do," Jimmy said. He nodded appreciatively.

"Thank you, James. And Dawn, you look so pretty, too," Mother said.

"Where did you get that necklace, Mother?" I asked pointedly.

"Necklace? Oh," she said with a nervous little laugh, "this was one of the last things poor Randolph gave me before he . . . before he passed on," she said.

"Wasn't it Grandmother Cutler's necklace?" I pursued.

"So? What if it was? What good did it do her anyway? She never cared about it, or about anything that any normal woman would care about. Go look in her closet and you will see the sort of garments she owned. She hardly ever wore makeup," Mother said, and she leaned toward us to add, "I don't think she even wore perfume. Just used Ivory soap and a Brillo pad," she said, laughing. "That's why she filled her office with lilacs."

"I can't believe Randolph would have given any of his mother's things away," I muttered, loud enough for her to hear.

"Well, he did. Actually, I asked him for it, and he went into her room and got it." She shook her head. "He told me she wanted me to have it, and I said, 'Next time you see her, thank her for me.' " She started to laugh.

"Oh, Mother, you didn't," I said, grimacing. To feed Randolph's insanity like that . . . it was immoral.

"Oh, what difference does it make now? Whatever is in that room is yours and mine anyway, Dawn," she claimed.