Cutler 2 - Secrets of the Morning

by V. C. Andrews

  And yet, I recalled my promise to Michael. He had asked me if I could keep a secret; in other words, could I be mature? How could I betray him the first chance I had? What if Trisha said something to someone without realizing it, and it got back to Michael?

  I bit down on my lower lip to keep the words from spilling out.

  "Well?" Trisha said, curling her legs under her and sitting back on them. "Tell me!" she squealed.

  "Yes," I confessed, "I did meet someone."

  "Oh, I knew it. You had the look in your face from the first moment I set eyes on you. So? Who is he? He's a senior, right? It's not Erik Richards, is it? I saw him looking at you the other day and whispering to his friends. He has such dreamy eyes! It is Erik, isn't it?" she concluded quickly.

  "No," I said. "It's someone else." I bit down on my lower lip again to think a moment. I could tell her without telling her, I realized.

  "Then who is it? Tell me!"

  "He's not a student at Bernhardt."

  "He's not?" She deflated quickly from disappointment, but then rose again with an even greater curiosity.

  "No. He's older, a lot older," I added. Her eyes widened even more and her mouth dropped open. "I met him at George's Luncheonette," I said, spilling it out as soon as I concocted it. "We talked and talked and then he began to meet me at the school . . . to walk me home. He walked me home today."

  "How old is he?" Trisha asked and held her breath.

  "He's easily in his early thirties," I said.

  "Thirties!"

  I nodded.

  "What's his name?"

  For a moment I was stumped. My mind spun like a top passing every boy's name I had ever known.

  "Allan," I said. "Allan Higgins. But you must swear, and promise not to say a word to anyone."

  "I won't. Of course, I won't," she said, drawing her fingers across her mouth as if she were closing a zipper. "What does he look like?"

  "He's tall, six feet two or three, and he has eyes the color of almonds and dark brown hair. He has a very sensitive face, the kind of face you can look into and trust. He's very, very polite and considerate. We've had some wonderful talks while he walked with me."

  "But a man in his thirties!" Trisha shook her head. "What would he want with you?" Her eyes brightened with another outrageous thought. "He's not married, is he?"

  "He was, but his wife died after they had been married only three short years. He said he hasn't even looked at another woman until now, and the only reason he looked at me was because I reminded him of her."

  "What does he do?" Trisha asked in a breathy voice.

  "He's a business executive. I know he's doing well because he has an apartment on Park Avenue. He's invited me there," I said. "Tonight," I added.

  "Tonight! What are you going to do?" she asked.

  "I want to go, but I don't want Agnes to know where I'm going, of course. I'll tell her I have a special piano lesson and I have to go to the library to do research for a term paper. Will you help me and back me up if she asks any questions?"

  "But to go to his apartment, a man you just met and a man in his thirties!"

  "I can trust him; I know I can. He's so sweet. We're just going to listen to music and talk."

  She shook her head, astonished.

  "Was he ever at the luncheonette when you and I were there together?"

  "Yes, he was, but he didn't have the nerve to speak to me, which shows you how timid and polite he is."

  "I don't remember anyone like that," she said sadly. "Will you introduce me to him?"

  "When he's ready. Right now he's understandably reluctant to meet anyone."

  I waited to see how she would accept my story.

  "All right," she said, "I'll back you up at dinner if Agnes asks you any questions, but be careful," she warned.

  "Thank you. I knew I could trust you."

  "Over thirty," she muttered to herself. I hid my smile and turned to my homework so I would have nothing to keep me from going to Michael Sutton's,

  Even though Michael had told me to come as I was dressed, I changed into a nicer sweater, my pink one with the mother-of-pearl buttons. It had been one of the first things ray mother had bought me in preparation for my attending Bernhardt, and when I put it on now, I noticed it was tighter around my bosom. I slipped into a dark blue, pleated wool skirt and chose a pair of dark blue loafers. I wore my hair loose and down and borrowed Trisha's tiny pearl earrings.

  "Why are you so dressed tonight?" Agnes asked suspiciously. I told her I had to return to the school for a special piano lesson and there might be some people there to listen. I mentioned that I had to do some work on a term paper, too. Trisha played along by complaining about the assignments, flashing conspiratorial glances at me from time to time. I almost got caught in my lie on the way out when Agnes noticed I didn't have any books in my hands.

  "I'm just reading and gathering information at the library tonight," I told her quickly. "I'm working with another girl." She accepted my explanation and I left.

  Michael lived in a fancy apartment house. The lobby had a gold marble floor, red leather sofas and chairs, glass tables in brass frames and a long box filled with bright flowers and plants. A doorman showed me to the elevator, and my finger trembled with excitement as I pressed on Michael's door buzzer. A moment later he appeared dressed in a beautiful charcoal-gray suit made of the softest cashmere wool I had ever seen or felt.

  "Hi," he said. "Very prompt. My other guests should take lessons," he added and stepped back.

  His apartment was luxurious, from the marble entryway to the sunken living room in which he had a circular silk sofa, a large glass-top table in a black metal frame, and an enormous fireplace. The floor was covered with a deep, soft, marshmallow-white rug. The floor-to-ceiling windows were hung with off-white satin drapes. Right now, they were pulled back to provide an unobstructed view of the night skyline.

  I stepped into the living room and instantly recognized the music playing on the stereo to be Tchaikovsky's "Sleeping Beauty."

  "What a beautiful apartment," I said.

  "Thank you. A little home away from home," he said, closing the door behind me. "You didn't tell anyone you were coming here, did you?" he asked, squinting with concern.

  "Oh, no."

  "Good." He smiled and indicated I should have a seat on the couch.

  "I shouldn't offer you any cocktails," he said, following behind me, "but I guess I can give you a little white wine. Would you like that?"

  "Oh, yes," I said.

  "Just make yourself comfortable."

  I went to the center of the sofa and sat down. I was so nervous I didn't know what to do with my hands. First, I folded them on my lap. Then I thought that looked silly, made me look like a school girl at her desk, so I put my right arm over the back of the sofa and dropped my left over my lap. I crossed and uncrossed my legs.

  "You look very nice," Michael said, bringing me my glass of wine.

  "Thank you." I took the glass with both hands, afraid that my trembling would cause me to spill some on the sofa.

  "Actually," he said, sitting beside me, "I'm glad you arrived before the others. It gives me a chance to get to know you even better without any distractions." He took a sip from whatever he had in his glass and put the glass on the coaster on the table. Then he leaned so close to me, we were practically touching.

  "Let's see," he continued, that impish glint returning to his sapphire-blue eyes. "I know you attended a private school in Richmond and you sang a solo there at the spring musical and you were a spectacular success."

  "I was just one of many people performing that night," I said.

  "Uh, huh. And then your family realized you were talented and sent you to Bernhardt. Do you miss being away from home?"

  "No," I said, perhaps too quickly. He raised his eyebrows. Then he nodded to himself.

  "That's right. You were away from home when you went to that private school, but you're not with your br
other and sister anymore. Doesn't that bother you?"

  "We don't get along that well," I said, unable to hide a smirk.

  "I understand. I don't get along that well with my two brothers. We rarely see each other and they never come to any of my performances. You're lucky to have a family that's at least supportive," he said. "It's paid off; they've raised a very nice young lady, as well as a talented one."

  "Thank you," I said, but it was nearly inaudible and I couldn't keep the tears from breaking free of my lids.

  "Something wrong?"

  I bowed my head as the tears streaked down my cheeks and dropped off my chin. I hated all this deception, all these lies. Michael was so sincere and so devoted to his singing and had been so wonderful to me, making me feel so special, and here I was telling him one false thing after another.

  He reached out and lifted my chin.

  "Dawn?"

  When I gazed into his dark eyes, I saw the confusion.

  "Oh Michael, I don't really have any family," I said. "My mother lives in her bedroom most of the time, doting on herself and being waited on hand and foot. My sister hates me, is very envious of me, and my brother . . . my brother . . ."

  "Yes?"

  I started to cry harder, sob like a baby. My shoulders shook. He put his arm around me quickly.

  "Now, now, it can't be all that bad. Whatever it is, it's behind you. You're away from it and you're here at Bernhardt and working with me," he said. He kissed my forehead and brushed away some strands of my hair that had fallen over my eyes. Then he reached into his smoking jacket pocket and produced a hand-kerchief with which to wipe away my tears. As he did so, I gazed into his eyes. I felt like an instrument of yearning, filled with a ravenous desire for romantic fulfillment and I know he saw it in my face, for his expression changed into a more thoughtful one.

  "There's something bewitching about you, Dawn. I knew it the first time I set eyes on you at the audition.

  One second I look at you and you are a naive, young girl, and then I blink and your face changes and you become a provocative, seductive woman, a woman who seems to know exactly what she's doing."

  He was mistaken, I thought. I never intended to be seductive. I hadn't started to cry for that reason. I shook my head and mouthed a "No," but he placed his right hand gently on my cheek.

  "Oh yes, you do," he said. "Maybe you're not aware of it yourself, aware of your feminine power, the power you have and will have over men."

  "Some women, women like you," he continued, "can turn a man into a boy in seconds . . . just like that," he added, snapping his fingers, "and make them beg, plead for a favorable look, a touch, a kiss. I've been all over the world, you know, and I have seen these women, have made a fool of myself from time to time over them. So I know from where I speak."

  His eyes shone beautifully with unused tears. How deeply he felt the things he said, I thought. He was right when he told me that great actors, great singers, all great performers feel things more deeply.

  "I don't mean to make it sound bad. You can't be bad. You can only be wonderful. If any man suffers because of you, it's his own fault," he added, sounding almost furious about it. Then his face softened again. He smiled and touched my cheek, gently.

  "You will put this power to great use on the stage, believe me," he said. "The audience will feel it." I started to smile, but he remained very serious.

  "You haven't had many boyfriends, have you?" he asked.

  "No."

  "I'm glad," he said so definitely that I looked at him with surprise. "I like working with someone who is pure and innocent. When you sing with me, it will be like making love, making love for the first time each time we sing together."

  I held my breath. He paused, but I didn't know what to say or what he expected of me. Sing with him? Where? When? Silence thicker than a fog came between us. He didn't take his eyes off mine. Then the tips of his fingers glided down my cheek and over my lips.

  "I was very impressed with you today," he whispered, "especially after I kissed you at the end of the song. You really did understand. Do you know the difference between a stage kiss and a real kiss?"

  I shook my head.

  "A stage kiss looks passionate, but the two people hold back the passion. I've had to kiss women I could barely tolerate looking at.

  "But I didn't have that problem with you today," he added quickly. "There was already something between us, some invisible cord tying us to each other, pulling us to each other. In fact, I'm having trouble keeping my lips away from yours right now. Does that frighten you?"

  "No," I said, even though it did. It made me tremble like a little girl to hear him say such things, things I had dreamt he would say to me.

  He took my wine glass from me and put it on the table. Then he turned back to me, moving his face toward mine slowly, and ever so slowly, brought his lips to my lips. I closed my eyes the moment we touched. This time my lips parted beneath his prolonged kiss. I gasped because his tongue touched mine, but I didn't pull away. When he lifted his lips from my mouth, I started to open my eyes, but he kissed them shut, kissing my eyelids softly and then kissing my cheek and moving down to my neck.

  "Oh Dawn," he whispered, "you are a lovely creature, a most exquisite young woman. I have seen beautiful women all over the world and you are one of the most beautiful."

  Me? I thought. One of the most beautiful women in the world? He must be saying these things and doing these things just to make me feel better,

  "You and I will be spectacular together. I will make you into one of the greatest singing stars. I can't wait until you and I sing together, for we will put this passion we feel toward each other into our music and our music will be extraordinary. Do you want that?"

  What could I say? I had fantasized about my picture on billboards, my name in lights. And here was Michael Sutton telling me the whole world would know about me. We would be on Broadway together. We would be in movies. Grandmother Cutler would die a thousand deaths. She would hear and see my name everywhere.

  "Yes," I said, thrilled that at long last I would prove Grandmother Cutler wrong. "Oh yes, yes."

  "Good." He pressed himself closer to me. "You must not be afraid of deep feelings and feeling deep passion. You will need to find these feelings when you sing. They are hidden inside you, waiting to be discovered. I’ll help you find them," he said, and I felt his hands slide down my arms to my waist. His fingers slipped under my sweater and his palms were against my naked skin as his hands climbed quickly to my breasts. He pressed them and leaned against me more so that I had to slide back along the sofa. A moment later, he was looking down at me.

  "I want to be the first to bring you to ecstasy," he whispered, "the first to take you to heights you've only read about or dreamt about. I knew that today, understood it at the end of our lesson. It's only fitting we share the greatest moments together, that I be the one to introduce you to real passion, for I will be the one who will bring you to your ultimate singing capabilities. You can't sing about the ultimate moment of love if you haven't experienced it.

  "You understand what I'm saying, don't you, don't you?" he demanded, a frantic note in his voice. I was both terrified and electrified, excited and frightened, but I could do nothing more than nod and close my eyes as his fingers continued to caress my breasts.

  "Dawn," he whispered, "the first light of day." He backed off the sofa and knelt down beside it to slip his hands under me. Then he lifted me into his arms. He kissed the tip of my nose and started to carry me toward his bedroom.

  "But . . ." I turned the doorway. "Your other guests . . ."

  He smiled and shook his head.

  "They were very rude being so late. We won't answer the door, should they come," he said and continued to carry me across the living room. He leaned against his bedroom door and it swung open.

  A small lamp on the night stand by his bed cast a soft glow over the room. The blanket had been drawn down on the bed. Michael lowered me g
ently to the sheets. He took off his jacket and the crisp white shirt beneath it quickly and leaned over me, flooding my face with kisses. I started to open my eyes when he pulled back, but he put the tip of his fingers on them and whispered, "Don't open your eyes until I tell you to.”

  I heard the sounds of the rest of his clothing being taken off and then I felt him beside me. I started to open my eyes again, but he brought his lips to them so I would keep them closed. Then he lifted my sweater up and over my head and he continued to undress me while I lay there quietly, gazing into the darkness behind my eyelids, my heart pounding.

  "Now open your eyes," he said softly.

  With his eyes he began his lovemaking, and in his eyes I drowned, afraid to look at anything else. He lay beside me at first, not touching, not kissing, not moving. His chest was barely inches from my naked breasts. My body tingled everywhere in expectation of his touch. The anticipation was like torture.

  "You are stunning, almost too beautiful to disturb, like a magnificent flower that should only be admired and never plucked. But I don't have that kind of restraint and then again, you should not be denied the splendid ecstasy that comes when two talented and beautiful people make love."

  With that he brought his lips firmly to mine. Skin to skin we pressed, just holding close at first and thrilling in the exaltation of sharing what the other had to give. With each touch of his lips, of his hands I was shot through with electrifying sensations, until at last I was wild to have him enter me, no longer tender, but fervent with his own fierce, demanding need to reach the same heights I was seeking.

  He cupped my breasts in his hands and kissed the tops of each, each kiss feeling like a drop of warm rain. His hands endlessly roamed and sought all my most intimate places. Then he turned and twisted until he had fixed himself over me. He lifted my legs and closed them like a scissors around his waist. I uttered soft cries as he pressed on, calling to me over and over as if seeking me to do more, but I wasn't sure what more I should do. He was still the teacher and I was still the student.