Twilight's Child

by V. C. Andrews

I sat back. I could almost feel Grandmother Cutler seething behind me and grinding her teeth. Maybe I can do this, I thought. Maybe I can.

  Then I realized what time it was and jumped up to see about Christie. But as I was passing through the lobby Patty, one of the older chambermaids, stopped me.

  "I think you had better go down to the laundry," she advised, and she nodded as if she were slipping me some secret.

  "Something broken?" It was on the tip of my tongue to ask her to see Mr. Dorfman, but she shook her head vigorously.

  "Someone ought to go down there," she repeated, and she left me standing in confusion. I asked Mrs. Boston to go up and see about Christie while I went downstairs to the basement of the hotel, where the laundry was situated.

  At first I thought no one was there, but when I turned into the room where all the washing machines were housed I spotted Randolph off in a corner by a table used for the folding of linen and towels. He had dozens of measuring cups lined up on each side of the table, and he was using a measuring spoon—the kind used to measure flour or sugar in a kitchen—only he was using it to scoop soap powder into the cups. He had two different brands of soap powder in big vats beside him.

  "Randolph," I said, approaching, "what are you doing?" He didn't turn around. He kept scooping the soap powder carefully.

  "Randolph?" I put my hand on his arm, and he looked at me, his eyes bloodshot and wild.

  "I'm right about this," he said. "I suspected it, and I'm right." He turned back to the soap powder.

  "Right about what, Randolph?" I asked.

  He stopped and smiled maddeningly.

  "This brand on my right is more concentrated. It takes less powder per pound of laundry, even though it costs more, understand? What this means is we can save a lot of money by buying the more expensive brand. I told Mother this once. I told her. She just shook her head, didn't listen, was too busy with something else . . . whatever," he said, waving in the air, "but I was right." He gazed at me, his eyes brightening even more and hit smile even more maddening. "I was right."

  "Will we really save all that much, Randolph? I mean, is it worth it for you to go through all this?"

  "What?" He swung his shining blue eyes my way, totally devoid of any expression. He behaved as if he didn't know who I was. It sent icicles sliding down my spine. "I'm sorry," he said. "I've got to finish this study. I'll talk to you later, okay? Thank you, thank you," he muttered, and he went back to scooping the powder carefully and exactly into the measuring cups.

  I watched him for a moment and then hurried out and upstairs. Mother had to know about this, I thought.

  As I stepped onto the second-floor landing I was surprised to hear the sound of my mother's laughter. I approached slowly, for I also heard the distinct sound of a man's voice. I knocked softly on her outer door and then entered.

  "Yes?" Mother called, her voice filled with annoyance. I peered in and saw her sitting on the settee, a most handsome and distinguished-looking man seated in the wing-back chair across from her, his legs crossed comfortably.

  Mother was dressed in one of her bright blue angora sweaters and a matching cotton skirt. She had her hair brushed down softly over her shoulders and wore long, dangling diamond earrings and a matching bracelet. She had returned to wearing makeup as well and looked as bright and happy as I had ever seen her.

  "Oh, Dawn, I'd like you to meet Mr. Bronson Alcott, a dear, dear old friend of mine," she said, beaming. The flood of color in her lovely face made her even more beautiful.

  "So this is the young lady I've heard so much about," Bronson Alcott said, turning his attention to me.

  He was a tall, sleek-figured man with a light brown mustache under a perfectly straight Roman nose. He had his hair cut short and neat, the chestnut-brown strands glimmering under the light of the Tiffany lamp. A smile formed around his bright, laughing aquamarine eyes.

  "Hello," I said.

  "Bronson is the president of the Cutler's Cove National Bank," Mother explained. "The bank that holds the mortgage on this hotel," she added pointedly.

  "Oh." I turned to him again. For a banker his skin was remarkably tanned. He wore an amused smile, as if he were about to wink at me. He kept his long, graceful hands crossed over each other on his knee. Even though he looked like a man in his mid-forties, I thought he could easily be older.

  "I'm very happy to finally get the opportunity to meet you, Dawn," he said. His voice was deep and resonant, which complemented his perpetually sexy smile. Mother looked mesmerized by his every word, his every gesture. He stood up and extended his hand. I took it and felt myself blush at how intensely he drank me in, gazing at me quickly from head to foot. He didn't release my hand quickly.

  "Is this an engagement ring?" he asked, still keeping my fingers firmly in his.

  "Yes," Mother said dryly. "It is."

  "Congratulations. Who's the lucky young man?" he asked.

  "No one you would know, Bronson," Mother replied before I could.

  He tilted his head, his smile softening.

  "Someone from out of town?" he pursued.

  "I'll say he's out of town," Mother said, beginning to buff her nails. "He's in the army."

  "His name is James Gary Longchamp," I said, eyeing Mother with daggers.

  I saw that Bronson wasn't going to sit down until I did. He was the quintessential Southern gentleman who easily made every woman feel a little like Scarlett O'Hara. Reluctantly I sat beside Mother on the settee, and he returned to his wing chair.

  "So when is the wedding?" Bronson asked.

  "Soon after Jimmy—I mean James—is discharged," I replied, again flashing defiance at Mother. She uttered a short, nervous laugh and continued buffing her nails.

  "I told her, tried to explain to her how she shouldn't rush into anything, how she would now be the center of attention for every distinguished, available bachelor in Virginia, but she insists on pushing ahead with this childhood romance," Mother complained.

  "Let's not be too harsh, Laura Sue," Bronson said, his eyes twinkling. "You and I once had a childhood romance."

  Mother blushed. "That was different, Bronson, entirely different."

  "Your mother broke my heart you know, I've never really forgiven her. But," he added, nodding, "I suspect mine was not the only heart broken in those days. She had a trail of beaux that stretched from here to Boston."

  Mother brightened, and her laugh became lighter.

  "It's not hard to imagine you doing the same thing, Dawn," Bronson said, turning back to me. His gaze lingered, and out of the corner of my eye I could see Mother growing green with envy.

  "I'm not interested in breaking hearts right now, Mr. Alcott," I said.

  "Oh, please, call me Bronson. I have hopes that we shall become good friends as well as business associates," he said, this time winking. "Which reminds me," he added, pulling up on a long gold watch fob and snapping his gold pocket watch open. He gazed at it and turned back to Mother. "I should be on my way. I have played hooky from my responsibilities at the bank long enough." He stood up and turned back to me. "Perhaps I can hope that you and your mother will pay a visit to Beulla Woods," he said.

  "That's the Alcott estate," Mother explained quickly. "It's a magnificent home just northwest of Cutler's Cove."

  The way she said it and gazed at Bronson when she did gave me the impression she had been there many, many times and could find it in the dark.

  "Yes, maybe all of us can go one day," I said, emphasizing "all." Bronson held his smile, but Mother smiled coyly. He reached out for my hand and brought it to his lips.

  "Good-bye. It was a pleasure meeting you," he said, holding me in his gaze so long, I felt my heart begin to flutter. He seemed to want to memorize every aspect of my face. Finally he turned to Mother. "Laura Sue."

  She rose, and they embraced, Bronson planting a kiss on her cheek, but a kiss that found his lips so close to hers, I was sure they grazed in passing. Mother glanced at me quickly and then
released one of her nervous little laughs. Bronson bowed and left us. When I looked back at Mother I saw her face was flushed. She looked as though her heart was pounding harder than mine.

  "Oh, dear," she said quickly, "I didn't realize how getting dressed to look decent and visiting with someone would tire me. I'm afraid I have to take a little rest, Dawn." She turned to go into her bedroom.

  "Mother, wait. I came up here to see you for a reason," I said. She paused, a look of impatience on her face.

  "What is it now, Dawn?" she huffed.

  "It's Randolph. He doesn't look very good to me, and he's doing very strange things." I told her what had transpired in the laundry. She shook her head.

  "There's nothing new about all that," she said. "Randolph is Randolph," she added, as if that explained it forever.

  "But don't you think he's worse? I mean, he's no longer concerned about his appearance, and—"

  "Oh, Dawn, he'll snap out of it. It's just his way of mourning the death of his precious mother. Please, I have my own health to worry about these days."

  "Yes," I said, "but yours appears to return on demand," I added caustically.

  "I'm too tired for this," she replied. "Much too tired." She continued into her bedroom and shut the door quickly. I left and went to my room, where I found Mrs. Boston rocking Christie in her arms and singing a lullaby. The sight made me smile.

  "Oh, Dawn," she said when she realized I was standing and watching her. "I was just putting her back to sleep."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Boston. I know you have so much of your own work to do without adding mine."

  "Oh, I don't consider this work, Dawn," she said, carefully placing Christie back in her cradle. "Has your mother's guest gone yet?" she asked.

  "Yes, he just left," I said, catching some disapproval in her voice and eyes. "Do you know him, Mrs. Boston?"

  "Everyone knows Mr. Alcott. At one time, a long time ago," she said, "he was a frequent visitor at the hotel."

  "Is that right?"

  "Yes. Your mother had many gentleman callers," she said, "but he was the only one who came around after she married Randolph."

  "Isn't he married himself?" I asked. Now that I recalled, I hadn't seen a wedding ring on his finger.

  "Oh, no. He's still one of the most eligible bachelors in Cutler's Cove."

  "I wonder why he never married. He's a very handsome man," I said. Mrs. Boston had that look on her face that told me she knew the gossip. "Do you know why?"

  She shrugged. "You know how it is around the hotel—people talk."

  "And what do they say, Mrs. Boston?" I pursued.

  "That your mother broke his heart so bad, he couldn't love anyone else if he wanted to. But that's enough of this idle chatter," she added quickly, pulling her shoulders back. "I do have work waiting."

  "Mrs. Boston," I called as she started toward the doorway. She turned. "When did Mr. Alcott stop being a frequent visitor?" She tightened her lips as if she wasn't going to add any fuel to the fire.

  "Right after you were born and stolen away," she said. "But that don't mean they stopped seeing each other," she added, and then she bit down on her lower lip as if to stop a runaway mouth. "Now don't make me into some gossip monger and ask me anymore." She pivoted before I could and was gone, leaving all sorts of questions dangling in my mind.

  3

  LEARNING THE ROPES

  DURING THE MONTHS THAT FOLLOWED, CHRISTIE GREW RAPIDLY. The features of her tiny face became more and more distinct, as did her personality. She continued being a contented, happy baby who cried only to let us know her diaper was wet or that she was hungry, but she wasn't one who craved a great deal of attention and had to be doted upon, even though everyone in the hotel enjoyed doing so. Whenever I brought her down with me the receptionists, the chambermaids, even the dining room staff were drawn to her, eager to hold her or pinch her plump cheeks. She would smile and pummel their faces gently with her tiny pink fists.

  Her curiosity and remarkable perception kept her occupied. There was nothing she looked at that didn't attract her interest. She could be content sitting for hours turning a toy in her hands, tasting it, testing its firmness and tracing its shape with the tips of her fingers. Whatever she reached, she explored, and when something made her laugh she slapped her hands together and widened her eyes, revealing a joy of life that made everyone around her feel good. On the grayest of days Christie brought sunshine and warmth.

  When I sat her in my lap she would inevitably explore my face with her fingers, touching my nose, my lips and occasionally going "Ooooh." If I smiled, she smiled. If I stopped to gently chastise her, she would grow serious and always listen. Often I would play peekaboo with her, lowering the blanket to reveal my hair and forehead. But she would laugh only when she saw my eyes. Then she would explode in delight.

  By the time she was nine months old her hair had grown down to the base of her neck, and I could comb and brush it. She was already very feminine, a little lady, eager to sit quietly to have her hair brushed, happy to be bathed, and attracted to any affection or loving caress. Whether it was I or Mrs. Boston who sang to her, she would lie quietly and listen intently, her eyes so still, we both felt she had already memorized our songs and was waiting to hear the parts she knew would come.

  Any musical expression interested her, whether it be our singing or the radio and records. Crib toys that played tunes were her favorites, and if she cried for anything to be done, other than to be fed or changed, it was to have me pull the cords that set the toys tinkling. Everyone knew she had a propensity for music, and on her first birthday she was flooded with picture books that had built-in music boxes, windup toys that played children's songs, recorders and a toy piano for her to play. That was her favorite. She was already fascinated with her ability to produce melodic sounds.

  In the beginning I tried to look after Christie and learn about the hotel business every day, but as it drew closer to spring and the business and activity increased for the hotel, I decided I needed help with her. I found out that Sissy, the young black girl who had been my chambermaid partner when I had first come to the hotel years ago, was in need of employment again. Grandmother Cutler had fired her for helping me find Mrs. Dalton, the woman who had taken care of me when I was born.

  Mrs. Boston knew Sissy and her mother very well, and she thought Sissy would be ideal as a mother's helper. Sissy was overwhelmed with the changes that had come about for me since she and I had last seen each other. She didn't look much different from that day. We sat and talked for a while, reminiscing. She told me Mrs. Dalton had passed away.

  "She was a very sick woman when I met her," I said. Sissy nodded sadly. "I was very sorry to hear that Grandmother Cutler had punished you for helping me, Sissy. I hope it didn't create too much hardship for you and your mother."

  "No, we've been all right. I worked in a department store for a while, and that's where I met Clarence Potter."

  Sissy explained that she and Clarence were practically engaged, and as soon as they had both saved up enough money they would get married.

  "But I'd love to help take care of Christie until then," she emphasized.

  Christie took right to her. Sissy was patient and gentle and almost as thrilled with every new thing Christie did as I was. She couldn't wait to come down to the office to tell me Christie had stood up and taken a step, and she was claiming that Christie said her own name when she was only eleven months old. Christie was precocious and did develop faster than normal babies. She was barely over thirteen months when I distinctly heard her say, "Momma."

  As soon as I heard her pronounce "Momma" with some clarity I began to teach her other words, and everyone who heard her utter the syllables remarked at how brilliant she was. One of the words I wanted her to be able to pronounce was "Daddy." I was hoping that when Jimmy pulled his next leave and came to the hotel, she would greet him with it.

  Not a week went by that Jimmy didn't call, or write when he wasn't able to
get to a phone. My letters to him were volumes. I filled page after page, first describing all the things Christie had done, and then I described my activities at the hotel. I'm sure I bored him to death with my details concerning accounts and purchase orders and meetings with Mr. Dorfman, but Jimmy never complained.

  "Everyone here's jealous of the mail I receive," he told me over the phone. "Some guys get nothing from their families."

  Jimmy had tried to return on leave a number of times, but something always came up that kept him away. Finally he was able to get a weekend free. What he didn't tell me until he was about to leave again was that he had volunteered for a final six months of duty to be spent in Panama, guarding the canal.

  "The deal is that I can get discharged six weeks earlier than I'm scheduled if I do this, so I figured it was worth it," he said. He kissed my trembling chin. "That means we'll be married six weeks earlier, you know. Aren't you happy about that?"

  "I am, Jimmy," I said. "But I don't like the idea of your being so far away again."

  "Well . . . you're going to be so busy now. Time will pass quickly for both of us. Anyway, we can make definite plans, wedding plans," he pointed out.

  I knew he was right, and we did have a wonderful weekend together. The hotel had two sailboats and a motorboat down at the dock, and we went motorboating. It was nearly summer, so it was already very warm. We anchored the boat a mile or so offshore, and I went swimming while Jimmy did some fishing. Mrs. Boston had packed a picnic basket for us. We stayed out all day and watched the sun begin to fall below the horizon, making the sky orange and turning the ocean into a dreamy dark blue. He and I sat in the boat with his arm around me, and we just let the waves rock us soothingly as we gazed back at the shore. The Cutler's Cove Hotel was visible on the hill overlooking the sea.

  "It's very beautiful here," Jimmy said. "I'm sure we're going to be happy. That is," he warned, "if you don't turn into one of those crazy businesswomen who work, work, work all the time. I've heard about them, and Grandmother Cutler was like that, from what I've learned."