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! (183 page)

“Mother, for once in your life, see something from my side. I’m not bad, not wicked, or the beast you sometimes make me feel I am. I’m only a man who has never felt good about himself. Help me, Mother. Help Melodie have the kind of husband she needs now that Jory can’t be a real man anymore.”

The rain beat a frantic tattoo on the window glass. It matched the rhythm of my heart. The wind whistled and shrieked around the house, while frenzied bat wings threw themselves against the inside of my skull. I couldn’t split Melodie into two equal halves and give to Jory and Bart each
their share. I had to stick with what I knew was right. Bart’s love for Melodie was wrong. Jory needed her most.

Still I stood there, riveted to the carpet . . . and felt overwhelmed with my second son’s desperate need to be loved. So many times in the past I’d believed him capable of evil, and he’d been proven innocent. Did my own guilt for bringing him into being curse me with eyes that refused to see the good in Bart?

“Are you sure, Bart? Do you truly love Melodie—or do you just want her because she belongs to Jory?”

Turning on his back, his dark eyes met mine with more honesty than he’d ever shown. How those dark eyes pleaded for understanding. “In the beginning I wanted Melodie only because she belonged to Jory. I honestly admit that. I wanted to take from him what he treasured most. Because he’d taken from me what I wanted most—YOU!”

I cringed as he went on. “She rejected my advances so many times that I began to respect her, to see her as different from other women who were easy to get. The more she shoved me away, the higher burned my desire, until I had to have her or die. I love her! Yes, she’s made me vulnerable . . . and now I don’t know how to live without her!”

I threw my hands wide before I sank to the side of his king-sized bed. “Oh, Bart . . . what a pity it couldn’t have been another woman. Any woman but Melodie. I’m glad you’ve experienced love—and know it isn’t dirty or sinful. Would God have made men and women the way he did if he hadn’t meant for them to join together? He planned it that way. We recreate ourselves through love. But, Bart, you have to promise not to see her alone again. Wait until Melodie has her baby before you and she decide anything.”

His eyes filled with hope, with gratitude. “You’ll help me?” Disbelief flooded his eyes. “I never thought you would . . .”

“Wait, please wait. Let Melodie have her child, then go to her, and then to Jory, and face up to him, Bart. Tell him how
you feel about her. Don’t steal his wife without giving him a chance to have his say.”

“What can he say, Mother, that will make any difference? He’s already lost. He can’t dance. He can’t even walk. He can’t perform physically.”

Seconds ticked away before I found more useless words to speak. “But does she honestly love
you
? I was in your sitting room. I heard her. She hasn’t had her say in this matter. From what I can tell, she’s torn between loving Jory and needing you. Don’t take advantage of her weakness, or Jory’s disabilities. Give him time to recover—then do what you must. It isn’t fair to steal from Jory when he can’t fight back. Give her time to adjust to Jory’s condition. Then, if she still wants you, take her, for she’d only harm him more. But what would you do with Jory’s child? Will you take that child from Jory, as well as take his wife? Are you planning to leave him nothing?”

Staring up at me, his eyes glittered suspiciously. Bart jerked his eyes away to stare up at the ceiling. “I don’t know yet about the baby. I haven’t thought it out to that extent. I try not to think of the baby—and you don’t have to go running to Chris or Jory with this. For once in your life, give me a chance to have something of my very own.”

“Bart—”

“Go now, please. Leave me alone to think. I’m tired. You can weaken a man, Mother, with your demands, with your judgments. Just give me a fair chance this time to prove to you that I’m not as bad as you think, or as crazy as I once believed myself to be.”

He didn’t ask me again not to tell Jory, or Chris. As if he knew I wouldn’t. Standing and turning about, I left his room.

*  *  *

On the way back to my room I thought about confronting Melodie, but I was too upset to face her without giving it more
thought. She was already distraught enough, and I had to consider the health of her child.

Alone in my rooms, I sat before a guttering log fire and contemplated what to do. Jory’s needs came first. In three months Jory’s strong legs had begun to wither into thin sticks, reminding me of Bart’s legs when he was very young. Short, thin legs covered with scratches, cuts, and bruises, always falling, always breaking his bones. Punishing himself for being born and not living up to the standards Jory had set. That alone stood me up and headed me toward Jory’s bedroom.

I stood in his doorway, my face washed clean of tear streaks, my eyes cooled by ice packs so they weren’t red, and I smiled brightly at my firstborn. “Melodie is napping, Jory. But she’ll see you before dinner. I think it would be nice for the two of you to dine alone before the fireplace. The rain outside will make it very cozy in here. I’ve asked Trevor and Henry to carry up logs and a special small table for dining. I’ve planned a menu with everything you like. Now, what can I do to help you dress and look your best?”

He shrugged indifferently. Before the accident he’d always loved clothes, had always groomed himself to perfection. “What difference now, Mom, what difference? I see you didn’t bring her back with you, and why did it take you so long to come back and say she’s napping?”

“The telephone rang . . . and Jory, I have to do a few things for myself once in a while. So now, what suit do you favor most?”

“Pajamas and a robe will do,” he said distantly.

“Listen to me, Jory. Tonight you are going to sit in that electric wheelchair, wearing one of your father’s suits, since you didn’t bring a winter suit with you.” Immediately he objected, while I insisted.

Already we’d sent to New York for all of Jory’s clothes, but Melodie had requested we leave hers where they were—and that had made me heat with anger inside, although I’d said nothing.

“When you look good, you feel good, and that’s half the battle. You’ve stopped caring about your appearance. I’m going to shave your face even if you do want to grow a beard. You’re much too handsome to hide behind bristly hair. You’ve got the most beautiful mouth, and a strong chin. Only weak-chinned men should hide behind beards.”

Eventually he gave up and smiled sardonically, agreeing to all I wanted to do to make him look more like himself. “Mom, you’re something else. You care so damned much—but I won’t ask why. I’m just grateful somebody cares enough.”

About that time Chris drove home from Charlottesville, and he was eager to help. He shaved Jory’s handsome face with a straight-edge razor, claiming that kind of shave did more for a man than anything else.

I sat on the bed to watch Chris finish the shaving before he splashed on lotion and cologne. All the time Jory looked so tolerant. I couldn’t help but wonder what Bart was doing, and how I was going to approach Melodie and tell her that I knew what was going on between her and my second son.

Already Jory’s arms were strong enough to swing his upper body into the chair. Chris and I stood back and watched, not offering to help, knowing he had to do this for himself. He seemed somewhat humiliated, and also somewhat proud that he did it easily the first time. Once he was in the chair, Jory looked pleased despite himself. “Not so bad,” he said as he studied his face in the mirror I held up. He activated the chair and buzzed around the room for a trial spin. He grinned at us both. “It is better than the bed. What a fool you must think me—now it will be easier to finish the ship before Christmas, and maybe, with pampering like this, I’ll struggle through.”

“As if we ever believed anything else,” said Chris happily.

“Now, contain yourself, Jory . . . I’m going for Melodie,” I said, delighted with the way he looked, and the glow of happiness in his eyes, and his excitement to be mobile again, even if he had wheels instead of legs. “Melodie is probably dressed
and ready for dinner downstairs. As you know, our formerly sloppy Bart is now a stickler for all the niceties of living elegantly.”

“Tell her to hurry,” called Jory behind me, sounding more like his old self. “I’m famished. And the sight of that fire burning makes me want her very badly.”

With many trepidations I headed for Melodie’s room, knowing I was going to face her down with what I’d found out—and when I was finished, I might very well have driven her straight into Bart’s ready arms. That was the chance I took.

One brother would win.

The other would lose.

And I wanted them both to win.

S
oftly I rapped on Melodie’s door. I could hear faintly through the heavy wood the music from
Swan Lake
. She must have had it playing very loud, or else I wouldn’t be hearing it at all. I knocked again. She didn’t respond. This time when she didn’t answer I opened her door and stepped inside, quietly closing the door behind me. Her room was messy with clothes dropped on the floor; cosmetics littered the dressing room table. “Melodie, where are you?”

Her bathroom was empty. Oh, damn! She’d gone to Bart. In a flash I was off and running back to Bart’s wing. On his door I banged furiously. “Bart, Melodie . . . you can’t do this to Jory.”

They weren’t there.

I flew down the back stairs, heading for the dining room, half expecting they’d start dinner without Chris and me. Trevor was setting the table for two, measuring with his eye the distance of the plate from the edge of the table with such precision it was as if he used a ruler. I slowed down to walk into the dining room. “Trevor, have you seen my second son?”

“Oh, yes, my lady,” he said in his polite British way,
beginning to lay out the silver flatware. “Mr. Foxworth and Mrs. Marquet just left to eat in a restaurant. Mr. Foxworth requested that I tell you he’d be back . . . soon.”

“What did he really say, Trevor?” I asked, feeling sick at heart.

“My lady, Mr. Foxworth was just a wee bit drunk. Not too drunk, so don’t worry about the rain and accidents. I’m sure he can control the car, and Mrs. Marquet will be just fine. It’s a lovely night for driving if you like rain.”

I hurried on toward the garage, hoping to be in time to stop them. Too late! And it was just as I’d feared. Bart had taken Melodie in his small, fast, sports car, the red Jaguar.

My steps were snail-like as I headed back up the stairs. Jory was glowing from the champagne he’d sipped as he waited. Chris had gone on to our room to change for dinner.

“Where is my wife?” asked Jory, seated at the small table Henry and Trevor had carried up. Fresh flowers from our greenhouse centered the table, and with the champagne cooling in a silver ice bucket the atmosphere was festive and seductive, especially with the log fire burning to chase away the damp chill. Jory looked very much like himself with his legs hidden, and the chair he’d hated was hardly noticeable.

Should I make up a lie this time, as I had before?

All the brightness in his eyes faded. “So she’s not coming,” he said in a flat way. “She never comes here anymore—at least not inside the room. She lingers in the doorway and speaks to me from a distance.” His husky voice cracked, then broke entirely and he was crying.

“I’m trying, Mom, really trying to accept this and not be bitter. But when I see what’s happening between me and my wife, I come apart inside. I know what she’s thinking even when she says nothing. I’m not a real man anymore, and she doesn’t know how to cope with that.”

I fell upon my knees at his side and took him into my arms. “She’ll learn, Jory, she’ll learn. We all have to learn how
to cope with what can’t be helped. Give her time. Wait until after the baby comes. She’ll change. I promise she’ll change. You will have given her your child. There’s nothing like a baby of your own to hold in your arms to put joy in your heart. The sweetness of a baby, the thrill of having one small, tiny bit of humanity entirely dependent on you to shape and mold. Jory, just you wait and see how Melodie changes.”

His tears had stopped, but the anguish in his eyes stayed.

“I don’t know if I can wait,” he whispered hoarsely. “When there are other around to see, I smile and act content. But I’m thinking all the time about putting an end to this and setting Melodie free of all obligations. It’s not fair to expect her to stay on. I’m going to tell her tonight that she can go if she wants, or she can stay until after the baby is born and then leave, and file for divorce. I won’t contest.”

“No, Jory!” I flared. “Say nothing to upset her more—just give her time. Let her adjust. The baby will help her adjust.”

“But, Mom, I don’t know if I can live through to the end now. I think all the time about suicide. I think of my father and wish I had the courage to do what he did.”

“No, darling, hang on. You’ll never be alone.”

Chris and I sat down at the small table to keep him company. He didn’t speak a dozen words during the meal.