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! (168 page)

“Apologize, Bart,” ordered Chris. I cringed, knowing Bart would never apologize.

Bart curled his lips, his scorn so apparent, even as he acted indignant and angry. His lips parted to insult Chris
as he’d done so many times, but then he glanced at Melodie, who’d turned to look at him in a detached, curious way. A deep flush heated Bart’s face. “I’ll apologize when she learns how to dress and act like a lady.”

“Apologize
now
, Bart,” ordered Chris.

“Don’t make demands,
Christopher,”
said Bart, looking Chris meaningfully in the eyes. “You’re in a very vulnerable position. You and my mother. You’re not a Sheffield, not a Foxworth—or at least you can’t let it be known you’re a Fox-worth. So just what are you that counts? The world is full of doctors, too many doctors—and younger and more knowledgeable ones than you are.”

Chris stood taller. “My ignorance about medicine has saved your life more than once, Bart. And the lives of many others. Perhaps one day you’ll recognize that fact. You’ve never said thank you for anything I’ve done for you. I’m waiting for that day.”

Bart paled, I suspected not so much from what Chris had just said. I thought he was embarrassed because Melodie was watching and listening. “Thank you,
Uncle
Chris,” he said sarcastically.

How mocking and insincere his words and his tone of voice. I watched the two men in silent challenge, seeing Chris wince from the way Bart put stress on “Uncle.” Then, for no reason at all, I glanced at Joel.

He’d moved closer to pause just behind Melodie, and on his face was the kindest, most benign smile. But in his eyes lurked something darker. I moved to stand beside Chris, just as Jory lined up with him on the other side.

My lips parted to add a long list of things Bart should thank Chris for, when suddenly Bart was striding toward Melodie, ignoring Cindy. “Have I told you the theme of my party? The dance I’ve chosen for you and Jory? It’s going to cause a sensation.”

Melodie stood up. She stared Bart straight in his eyes with
open contempt. “I’m not going to dance for your birthday guests. I think Jory has explained to you more than once that I’m doing everything I can to see I have a healthy baby—and that doesn’t include dancing for your amusement and that of people I don’t even know.”

Her voice was cold. Dislike for Bart glared from her dark blue eyes.

She left, taking Jory with her, leaving the rest of us to follow. Joel tagged along at the very end like a tail that didn’t know how to wag.

Quick to recover from all wounds, as always she’d rebounded from Bart’s rebuffs, Cindy gushed happily about the expected baby that would make her an aunt. “How wonderful! I can hardly wait. It’s going to be one beautiful baby, I know, when it has parents like Jory and Melodie, and grandparents like you and Dad.”

Cindy’s delightful presence made up for so much of Bart’s hatefulness. I hugged her close and she snuggled down on the loveseat in my private sitting room and began to spill out all the details of her life. I listened eagerly, fascinated by a daughter who was making up for all the excitement Carrie and I had missed out on.

*  *  *

Each morning Chris and I were up early to enjoy the beauty of the cool mountain mornings, with the perfume of roses and other flowers drifting to delight our nostrils. Cardinals scarlet as flames flew everywhere while bluejays shrieked and purple martins searched the grass for insects. It surprised me to see dozens of birdhouses to accommodate wrens, martins and other species, and fabulous birdbaths and rock garden pools where the birds had a merry time taking quick, fluttery baths. We ate on one terrace or another to enjoy different views, talking often of all this that had been denied us when we were young and would have been appreciated even more than it was
now. Sad, so sad to think of our little twins and how they had cried to go outside, outside, and the only playground they had was the attic garden we made for them out of paper and cardboard. And this had been there then, unused, unenjoyed, when two little five-years-olds would have been in seventh heaven to have had just a little of what we could enjoy daily now.

Cindy liked to sleep late, as did Jory and especially Melodie, who complained a great deal about nausea and fatigue. As early as seven-thirty Chris and I watched workmen and party decorators drive up. Caterers came to prepare for the party, and interior designers arrived to complete the appointments in some of the unfinished rooms, but not one neighbor dropped in to welcome us. Bart’s private phone rang often, but the telephones on the other lines hardly rang at all. We sat at the top of the world, or so it seemed, all by ourselves, and in some ways it was nice, in other ways it was a little frightening.

In the distance, faint and hazy, we could faintly see two church steeples. When the nights were still and without wind, we could faintly hear them chime away the hours. I knew one had been patronized by Malcolm when he lived, and about a mile away was the cemetery where he and our grandmother were buried side by side, with elaborate headstones and guardian angels put there by our mother.

I filled my days with playing tennis with Chris, with Jory, sometimes with Bart, and that’s when he really seemed to like me most. “You surprise me, Mother!” he yelled over the net, slamming that yellow ball so hard it almost went through my racket. Somehow I managed to race to hit it back, and then my troublesome knee started hurting and I had to quit. Bart complained I was using that knee as an excuse to abandon play with him.

“You find any reason to stay away from me,” he yelled as if Chris’s words meant nothing. “Your knee doesn’t hurt . . . or you’d be limping.”

I did limp as I climbed the stairs, but Bart wasn’t around to notice this. I soaked in a tub of hot water for an hour to take away the pain. Chris came in to tell me I was doing it wrong again. “Ice, Catherine, ice! You only inflame your knee more when you sit in hot water. Now get out while I fill a bag with crushed ice, and keep it on your knee for twenty minutes.” He kissed me to take the sting from his words. “See you later,” he said, hurrying back to the tennis courts to take on Jory, while Bart left with Joel in tow. All this I could see from our bedroom balcony while I sat with that ice bag held to my knee, and soon enough the cold worked, chasing away the throbbing hot pain.

I was beginning a layette for Jory’s expected baby. This demanded many shopping sprees for yarns, needles, crochet hooks, for visiting adorable baby shops. Often we drove into Charlottesville with Cindy and Chris to shop, and twice we made the longer drive to Richmond and shopped there, went to the movies, and stayed overnight. Sometimes Jory and Melodie went with us, but not as often as I would have liked. Already Foxworth Hall’s charm was palling.

But if it palled for me, for Jory and Melodie, it worked its charm on Cindy, who adored her room, her fancy French furniture, her ultrafeminine bath with its pink decor enhanced with gold and mossy pale green. Hugging herself, she danced around. “So he doesn’t like me,” she laughed, spinning around before the many mirrors, “and yet he decorates a room exactly the way I’d want. Oh, Momma, how can either of us understand Bart?”

Who could answer that?

A
s Bart’s twenty-fifth birthday approached, a kind of feverish insanity descended on the Hall. Different kinds of decorators came to measure our lawns, our patios, our terraces. In groups they whispered, made lists, sketches, tried different colors for the tablecloths, talked in huddles to Bart, discussed the theme of the dance, and made their secret plans. Bart still refused to reveal the theme—at least to the members of his family. Secrets didn’t sit well with anyone but Bart. The rest of us became a close-knit family that Bart didn’t want to join.

Workmen with wood and paint and other construction materials began to build what appeared to be a stage and platforms for the orchestra. I heard Bart brag to one of his entourage that he was hiring opera stars, very famous ones.

Whenever I was outdoors, and I stayed outside as much as possible, I stared at the blue-misted mountains all around us and wondered if they remembered two of the attic mice shut upstairs for almost four years. I wondered if ever again they’d transform an ordinary little girl into someone full of fanciful
dreams she had to make come true. And I had made a few come true, even if I’d failed more than once to keep husbands alive. I wiped away two tears and met Chris’s still loving gaze and felt that old familiar sadness wash over me. How sane Bart could have been if only Chris hadn’t loved me—and I hadn’t loved him.

Blame the wind or stars of fate—but I still blamed my mother.

Despite our dire anticipations of what lay ahead, I couldn’t help but feel happier than I’d felt in some time, just watching all the excitement in the gardens that gradually turned into something straight from a movie set. I gasped to see what Bart wanted done.

It was a biblical scene!

“
Samson and Delilah,”
Bart said flatly when I asked, all his enthusiasm squelched because Melodie kept refusing to dance the role he wanted. “Often I’ve heard Jory say he loved the chance to produce his own productions, and he does love that role most of all.”

Pivoting about, Melodie headed for the house without answering, her face pale with anger.

Again, I should have known. What other theme would capture Bart’s fancy as much?

Cindy ran to throw her arms about Jory. “Jory, let me dance the role of Delilah, I can! I just know I can.”

“I don’t want your amateurish attempts!” shouted Bart.

Ignoring him, Cindy tugged pleadingly on both of Jory’s hands. “Please, please, Jory. I’d love to do it. I’ve kept up my ballet classes, so I won’t be stiff and awkward and make you look unskilled, and between now and then you can help me gain better timing. I’ll rehearse morning, night, and noon!”

“There’s not enough time to rehearse when the performance is two days away,” complained Jory, throwing Bart a hard, angry look. “Good lord, Bart, why didn’t you tell me before? Do you think just because I choreographed that particular
ballet that I can remember all the difficult routines? A role like that needs weeks of rehearsing, and you wait until the last moment! Why?”

“Cindy’s lying,” said Bart, looking longingly at the door through which Melodie had disappeared. “She was too lazy to keep up her classes before, so why should she when Mother’s not there to force her?”

“I have! I have!” cried Cindy with great excitement and pride, when I knew she hated violent exercises. Before the age of six, she’d loved the pretty tutus, the cute little satin slippers, the little sparkling tiaras of fake jewels, and the fantasy of the fanciful productions had put her in a spell of beauty I’d once believed she’d never abandon. But Bart had ridiculed her performances just one too many times, and she’d let him convince her she was hopelessly inadequate. She’d been about twelve when he stole her pleasure in the ballet. From then on she’d never gone to classes. Therefore I was doubly amazed to hear she’d never really given up on the dance, only on allowing Bart see her perform.

She turned to me, as if pleading for her life. “Really, I am telling the truth! Once I was in the private girl’s school, and Bart wasn’t around to ridicule me, I started again and ever since have kept up my ballet classes, and I tap dance as well.”

“Well,” said Jory, apparently impressed, giving Bart another hard look, “we can devote what time we have left to practicing, but you were extremely unthinking to believe we wouldn’t need to practice for weeks, Bart. I don’t expect to have much difficulty myself since it’s a familiar role—but Cindy, you’ve not even seen that particular ballet.”

Rudely interrupting, Bart asked with great excitement, “Do you have the lenses, the white lenses? Can you really see through them? I saw you and Melodie in New York about a year ago, and from the orchestra you really did look blind.”

Frowning at his unexpected question, Jory studied Bart seriously. “Yes . . . I have the contacts with me,” he said
slowly. “Everywhere I go someone asks me to dance the role of Samson, so I take the lenses. I didn’t know you appreciated ballet so much.”

Laughing, Bart slapped Jory on the back as if they’d never had a disagreement. Jory staggered from the strength of that blow. “Most ballets are stupid bores, but this particular one catches my fancy. Samson was a great hero and I admire him. And you, my brother, perform extraordinarily well as Samson. Why, you even look just as powerful. I guess that’s the only ballet that has ever thrilled me.”

I wasn’t listening to Bart. I was staring at Joel, who leaned forward. Muscles near his thin lips worked almost spasmodically, hovering near a smirk or a laugh, I couldn’t tell which. All of a sudden I didn’t want Jory and Cindy to dance in that particular ballet, which included very brutal scenes. And it had been Bart’s idea years and years ago . . . hadn’t he been the one to suggest that the opera would provide the music for what he considered would make the most sensational ballet of all?

All through the night I thought and I thought of how to stop Bart from wanting that particular production.