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! (171 page)

G
olden globes everywhere lit up the night, and the moon rode high in a cloudless, starry sky. Out on the lawn were dozens of buffet tables butted together to form a huge U. On these tables food was placed in large silver dishes. A fountain sprayed imported champagne into the air, then trickled it into layered pools that ran into tiny spigots. On the middle table was a huge ice sculpture of Foxworth Hall.

Besides the main tables laden with all that money could buy were dozens of small round and square individual tables covered with brilliant cloths—green over rose, turquoise over violet, yellow over orange, and other striking combinations. The tablecloths were kept from blowing by heavy garlands of flowers festooned around them.

Although Chris and I had been introduced in the receiving line, it seemed to me most of Bart’s guests made it a point not to talk to us. I looked at Chris just as he looked at me. “What’s going on?” he asked in a low whisper.

“The older guests are not talking to Bart, either,” I answered. “Look, Chris, they’ve come just to drink, eat, and
enjoy themselves, and they don’t give a damn about Bart, or any of us. They are just here so he can dine and wine them.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Chris replied. “Everyone makes it a point to speak to Jory and Melodie. Some are even talking to Joel. Doesn’t he look a fine and elegant gentleman tonight?”

Never would it cease to amaze me the way Chris could find something to admire in everyone.

Joel looked like a funeral director as he moved solemnly from one group to another. He didn’t carry a glass like everyone else. He didn’t partake of the refreshments that piled the buffet tables in such a breathtaking array. I nibbled daintily on a cracker spread with goose liver pâté and looked around for Cindy. She was in the center of five young men, very much the belle of the ball. Even her demure blue dress didn’t keep her from looking very seductive—now that she’d shoved the shoulder ruffle down to bare the top half of her bosom.

“She looks like you used to,” said Chris, also watching Cindy. “Except you had a more ethereal quality, as if your two feet were never firmly on the ground, and never would you stop believing miracles could happen.” He paused and looked at me in that special way that kept my love for him always alive and thriving. “Yes, love,” he whispered, “miracles can happen, even here.”

Every wife or husband seemed to be trying to score with any member of the opposite sex besides their spouses. Only Chris and I stuck together. Jory had disappeared, and now Melodie was standing with Bart. He was saying something to her that had her eyes blazing hot. She turned to hurry away, but he seized hold of her arm and yanked her back. She snatched her arm away, only to have him seize it again, and ruthlessly he pulled her into his embrace. They began to dance, with Melodie determinedly keeping him from crushing her against him.

I started to go to them, but Chris caught my arm to restrain me. “Let Melodie handle him. You’d only make him furious.”

Sighing, I watched the small conflict between Bart and his brother’s wife and saw to my amazement that he won, for she relaxed and finally seemed to enjoy the dance that soon ended. Then he was leading her from group to group, as if she were his wife and not Jory’s.

I’d tasted only a little of this and that when a very beautiful woman stepped forward, smiling first at Chris, then at me. “Aren’t you Corrine Foxworth’s daughter, the one who came to that Christmas night party and—”

Abruptly I cut her short. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a few duties to perform,” I said, hurrying away and keeping fast hold of Christopher. The woman ran behind us. “But Mrs. Sheffield . . .”

I was spared the need to answer by the blast of many trumpets. The entertainment began as Bart’s guests seated themselves with plates of food and drinks. Bart and Melodie came to join us, while Cindy and Jory ran to warm up in practice outfits before they changed into elaborate costumes.

Soon the professional entertainers had me laughing along with everyone else.

What a wonderful party! I glanced often at Chris, at Bart and Melodie, who sat near us. The summer night was perfect. The mountains all around enclosed us in a friendly romantic ring, and I was again amazed that I could see them as anything but formidable barriers to keep freedom forever out of reach. I was happy to see Melodie laughing and, most of all, happy to see Bart really having a good time. He shifted his chair closer to mine. “Would you say my party is a success, Mother?”

“Yes, oh, indeed, yes, Bart, you’ve outdone anything I’ve ever attended. It’s a marvelous party. The evening is breathtakingly beautiful, with the stars and moon overhead, and all your colored lights. When does the ballet begin?”

He smiled and put his arm lovingly about my shoulders. His voice was tender with understanding when he asked,
“Nothing for you equals the ballet, does it? And you won’t be disappointed. You just wait to see if New York or London can equal my production of
Samson
and Delilah.
”

Jory had danced the role only three times before, but each time his performances had brought such acclaim it was no wonder Bart was fascinated with the role. The musicians in black sat down, reached for new music sheets, and started tuning their instruments.

A few yards away, Joel stood stiffly, a hateful, disapproving look on his face, as if he reflected all that his father’s ghost might be feeling to see this extravagant waste of good money.

“Bart, you’re twenty-five today, happy birthday! I remember clearly when a nurse laid you in my arms the first time. I had a terrible time giving birth to you, and the doctors kept coming to say I had to make a choice, your life or mine. I chose yours. But I made it, and was blessed with a second son . . . the very image of his father. You were crying, your small hands balled into fists as you flailed the air. Your feet kicked free of the blanket, but the minute you felt my body heat against yours, held close to my heart, you stopped crying. Your eyes, closed until then, parted into slits. You seemed to see me before you fell asleep.”

“I’m sure you thought Jory was a prettier baby,” he said with sarcasm, but his eyes were tender, as if he liked hearing of himself as a baby.

Melodie was regarding me with the strangest expression. I wished she weren’t so near. “You had your own kind of beauty, Bart, your own personality, right from the start. You wanted me with you night and day. I’d put you in your crib, you’d cry. I’d pick you up, you’d stop crying.”

“In other words I was a great big nuisance.”

“I never thought that, Bart. I loved you from the day I conceived you. I loved you more when you smiled. Yours was such a faltering first smile, as if it hurt your face.”

It seemed for a moment I’d touched him. His hand reached
for mine, and mine reached for his. But at that moment the overture to
Samson and Delilah
began, and this moment of sweetness between my second son and me was lost in the excited murmur of surprise as Bart’s guests looked at the program and saw that Jory Janus Marquet was going to dance his most famous role, and his sister, Cynthia Sheffield, would play the role of Delilah. Many people looked at Melodie with curiosity, wondering why she wasn’t dancing Delilah.

As always, when a ballet began, I was lost to the real world, drifting somewhere on a cloud and feeling so much it was painful, beautiful, and I was transported to another world.

The curtain lifted to show the inside of a colorful silken tent set against a backdrop representing a starry night in the desert. Stuffed but real-looking camels were there, palm trees swayed gently. On stage was Cindy, dressed in a diaphanous costume that clearly showed her slender but ripe figure. She wore a dark wig, cleverly bound around her head with jeweled bands. She began a seductive, undulating dance, enticing Samson, who lingered just off stage. When Jory came on, the birthday guests stood and gave him a resounding ovation.

He stood waiting until the applause ended, then began his dance. He wore nothing but a lion-skin loincloth held up by a strap that crossed his well-muscled broad chest. His skin, well tanned, appeared oiled. His hair was long and black and perfectly straight; muscles rippled as he whirled,
jetéed
, duplicating Delilah’s steps only more violently, as if he mocked her womanly weakness and delighted in his own agile, masculine strength. The power it took to portray Samson made my spine shiver. He looked so right for the role, danced so well, I shivered again, not from cold but from the pure beauty of seeing my son up there, dancing as if God had gifted him with superhuman style and grace.

Then, as it inevitably had to be, Delilah’s beguiling dance of seduction wore down his resistance, and Samson succumbed to the loveliness of Delilah, who let down her dark
tresses and slowly began to undress . . . veil by veil she let fall before Samson fell upon her and bore her back onto the pile of animal skins . . . and the stage darkened just before the curtain dropped.

Applause thundered as the curtain came down. I noticed a certain look on Melodie’s pale face—was that envy? Was she wishing now she’d danced Delilah?

“You would have made the best Delilah,” whispered Bart softly, his lips brushing the wisps of hair that curled above her pearl-studded ear. “Cindy can’t compare . . .”

“You do her an injustice, Bart,” answered Melodie. “When you consider her lack of rehearsal time, she’s performed beautifully. Jory told me he was surprised how good she is.” Melodie leaned forward to address me. “Cathy, I’m sure Cindy has put in hours and hours of general practice, or else she wouldn’t dance as well as she is.”

Since the first act of the ballet had gone so well, I leaned back against Chris, who had his arm about me, and relaxed. “I feel so proud, Chris. Bart is behaving beautifully. Jory is the most accomplished
danseur
I’ve ever seen. I’m amazed how well Cindy is doing.”

“Jory was born to dance,” said Chris. “If
he’d
been raised by monks, still he would have danced. But I do remember a rebellious little girl who hated to stretch her muscles and make them hurt.”

We laughed in the way long-married couples do, intimate laughter, expressing more than what we said.

The curtain rose again.

While Samson slept on the colorful couch he and Delilah had shared, she cautiously eased off, drew on a lovely garment of frail silk, then stole quietly to the opening of the tent and beckoned inside a group of six warriors previously hidden. All bore shields and swords. Already Delilah had shorn Samson’s head of his long dark hair. She held it up triumphantly, giving the timid soldiers confidence.

Startled awake, Samson jumped from the bed,
jetéed
high into the air and tried to lift his weapon. What was left of his long hair was short and stubby. His sword seemed too heavy. He screamed silently on finding all his strength gone. His despair was made visual as he whirled in frustration, beating his brow with brutal fists for believing in love and Delilah; then he fell to writhe on the ground, twisting about, glaring at Delilah, who tormented him with her wild laughter. He rushed for her, but the six soldiers sprang upon Samson and brought him down. They bound him with chains and ropes as he struggled mightily to free himself.

And all the time, off stage, the most famous tenor from the Metropolitan Opera sang his pleading song of love to Delilah, asking why she had betrayed him. Tears flowed down my face to see my son lashed and whipped before he was hauled to his feet and the soldiers began their dance of torture while Delilah watched.

Even knowing all this horror was feigned, I cringed against Chris when the branding iron, heated white hot, was moved ever closer to Samson’s bulging eyes. The set darkened. Only the white-hot iron lit up the stage—and the ghostly shine on Samson’s near nude body. The last sound was Samson’s scream of agony.

The second act curtain lowered. Again, there was wild applause, and cheers of “Bravo! Bravo!”

Between acts people chatted, got up for more drinks, to fill their plates again, but I sat beside Chris almost frozen with dread that I couldn’t explain.

Beside Bart, Melodie sat as tense as I, her eyes closed and waiting.

Third act time.

Bart shifted his chair closer to Melodie. “I hate this ballet,” she murmured. “It always frightens me, the brutality of it. The blood seems so real, too real. The wounds make me feel sick. Fairy tales suit me better.”

“Everything will be fine,” soothed Bart, putting his arm over her shoulders. Immediately Melodie jumped to her feet, and from then on she refused to sit.

The crimson curtain rose. Now we were staring at the representation of a heathen temple. Huge thick columns made of papier-mâché towered toward heaven. The vulgar squatting heathen god crouched overhead, cross-legged and center stage, with his cruel eyes gazing evilly downward. He was supported by two main columns reached by a short flight of steps.

The musical cue for the third and final act started.

Dancers represented the crowd that would watch Samson tortured before the priests of the temple danced onto stage, each doing his or her own special solo performance before settling into seats. Then dwarfs tugged on chains that dragged Samson onto the stage. Worn and weary-looking, blood streaking from many simulated wounds, Samson stumbled blindly in circles as the dwarfs meanly confused him, tripped him so he fell, only to struggle upward and be tripped again. I leaned foward anxiously. Chris’s hand stayed on my shoulder, trying to calm me.