Midnight Whispers

by V. C. Andrews

  "Thank you, Mommy."

  "Daddy's showering and getting dressed. He wants us to give you your first gift at breakfast. I think he's even more excited about your birthday than you are," she added, stroking my hair.

  "I can't wait until everyone comes," I said. "Aunt Trisha's still coming, right?"

  "Oh yes, she called last night. And she said she's bringing you play programs and a lot of other theatrical souvenirs."

  "I can't wait." I went to the closet and picked out a light blue skirt and button-down collar blouse with short sleeves.

  "You'd better wear a sweater this morning. It's still a bit nippy," Mommy said. She joined me at the closet to look at my party dress again. "You're going to look so beautiful in this," she said, holding it out.

  It was a pink silk strapless dress with a sweet-heart neckline and billowing skirt to be worn over layers of crinolines. I had had shoes dyed to match and would wear gloves, too. When I had first tried the dress on, I thought I looked foolish in it because of my small bosom, but Mommy surprised me by buying me an uplift bra. Even I was shocked by the effect. It took my breath away to see my breasts swell up to create a cleavage. My face reddened along with my chest and neck. Could I wear this? Would I dare?

  "You're going to look so grown up," Mommy said and sighed. She turned to me. "My little girl now a little lady. Sooner than we think, you will graduate from high school and be off to college," she added, but she sounded melancholy.

  "I want to do what Mr. Wittleman says, Mommy. I want to audition for Juilliard or maybe Sarah Bernhardt," I said and her smile faded. For some reason Mommy was afraid of my going to New York and didn't encourage me about it very much.

  "There are a number of good performing arts schools outside of New York—several right here in Virginia, in fact."

  "But Mommy, why shouldn't I want to go to New York?"

  "New York is too big. You can get lost there."

  "New York is where there is the most opportunity," I replied. "Mr. Wittleman says so, too."

  She didn't argue. Instead, she took on this sad look, lowering her soft blue eyes and drooping her head. She was usually so bright and alive that whenever something made her mood grow dark, I felt a terrible foreboding and emptiness in my heart.

  "Besides Mommy," I reminded her, "that's where you went to performing arts school, and that's where Aunt Trish went, and look at where she is now!"

  "I know," she said, reluctantly admitting what I said was true. "I just can't help being afraid for you."

  "I won't be much younger than you were when you took over all this responsibility at the hotel," I reminded her.

  "Yes, honey, that's true, but responsibility was thrust on me. It wasn't something I wanted. I had no choice," she complained.

  "Will you tell me all of it, Mommy? Why you left the Sarah Bernhardt School? Will you?"

  "Soon," she promised.

  "And will you finally tell me the truth about my real father? Will you?" I pursued. "I'm old enough to know it all now, Mommy."

  She gazed at me as if she were seeing me for the first time. Then, that angelic smile came over her lips and she reached out to wipe some strands of my golden hair away from my forehead.

  "Yes, Christie. Tonight, I will come to you in your room and tell you the truth," she promised.

  "All of it?" I asked, nearly gasping. She took a deep breath and nodded.

  "All of it," she said.

  Daddy, as handsome as ever, was already at the table reading the newspaper when I came down to breakfast. Mommy had to go into Jefferson's room to help him hurry along. He would diddle-dawdle forever if he suddenly got interested in one of his toy trucks or trains while he brushed his teeth or combed his hair.

  "Happy birthday, honey," Daddy said and leaned over to kiss me on the cheek when I sat down.

  He still looked more like my older brother than my stepfather. Both my parents were so young-looking that all my friends were jealous, especially my best friend, Pauline Bradly who was Mrs. Bradly's granddaughter. Mrs. Bradly was in charge of our front desk at the hotel.

  "Your dad has such dreamy eyes," Pauline often said. In the summer his skin would turn a deep bronze color from so much outdoor work. Against his tan his dark eyes became as bright and shiny as polished onyx, and he had beautiful white teeth that gave him an ivory smile. He was muscular and tall, and lately he had let his hair grow longer and he brushed it up in a soft wave in front. I had no trouble understanding why Mommy had been in love with him ever since they were children.

  "So how does it feel to be the ripe old age of sixteen?" he asked, his smile warming me.

  "I don't know. I'm too excited to feel anything, I think," I said and he smiled even wider.

  "From the way your mother's behaving, you would think it's her Sweet Sixteen," he quipped.

  "What was that you said, James Gary Longchamp?" Mommy cried, coming through the door with Jefferson right behind her.

  "Uh oh." Daddy snapped his paper and pre-tended to go back to his reading.

  "Meanwhile," Mommy said, sitting down, "Your father here has been the one worrying about the food, the decorations, the music. He's the one driving everyone around the hotel crazy, insisting that every hedge be cut just right and every flower stem be perfectly straight. You would think we're giving a party for the Queen of England!"

  Daddy shifted the paper so he could see me and he winked.

  "Daddy, Daddy, can I ride on the rider mower with you today?" Jefferson begged. "Can I? Please."

  "We'll see," Daddy said. "It depends on how well you eat your breakfast and how many people you drive crazy an hour."

  Mommy and I laughed.

  "Happy birthday, Christie," Mrs. Boston said, coming into the dining room with our platter of eggs and grits. After she put it down, she gave me a hug and a kiss.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Boston."

  "You're going to make one fine birthday girl." "You're coming to the party, aren't you?" I asked her.

  "Oh sure. I went and bought me a new dress, a modern one." She eyed Daddy quickly. "And don't you say nothing about it, Mr. Longchamp."

  Daddy chuckled and folded his paper. Then he reached down beside his chair and came up with a small package.

  "This is the only opportunity the family will have today to be alone and together, so your mother and I decided to give you this now," he declared. "We thought it might come in handy today, considering how important every minute is."

  "Wow!" Jefferson said, impressed with the gift wrapping, which was silver with a deep blue ribbon around it.

  Nervously, I started to unwrap it, taking care not to rip the pretty paper. I wanted to save every memento, every memory from this day. I opened the long box and looked down at a stunning gold watch.

  "Oh, it's beautiful," I cried. "Thank you, Dad-dy." I hugged him. "Thank you, Mommy," I said and kissed her.

  "Let me help you put it on," Daddy said and took the watch out.

  "Does it have an alarm? Does something pop up? Is it waterproof?" Jefferson demanded.

  "It's just a lady's watch," Daddy said, holding my arm gently as he fastened the watch. "Look at that," he added when I held my wrist out.

  "It looks beautiful on you, Christie," Mommy said.

  "Is it the right time?" Jefferson asked. "It's so small, how can you tell?"

  "I can tell. Yes." I smiled at everyone, so happy that we were together, that we all cared so much about each other. For a few moments, I even forgot it was cloudy outside. There was so much warm sunshine inside. "It's the best time of all!" Mommy and Daddy laughed and we proceeded to eat our breakfasts, everyone chattering away.

  On weekends, besides looking after Jefferson, I usually helped out in the hotel, relieving people at the front desk. Sometimes Pauline came over and worked with me. At various times she had crushes on different bellhops, as did I, and it was fun flirting with the II in the lobby, as well as answering the phones and speaking to people who called from as far away as Los An
geles, California or Montreal, Canada.

  But today, my special day, I didn't have to do anything. As soon as breakfast was over, I wanted to go to the ballroom to see how the decorations were coming along. Naturally, Jefferson begged to go with me.

  "You should leave your sister alone today," Mommy warned him.

  "It's all right, Mommy, as long as he's good," I said, glaring, at him sternly. I might as well have tried to melt ice with my look. No one but Daddy and Mrs. Boston could get Jefferson to behave if he didn't want to.

  "I'll be good," he promised.

  "If you are, you can come out and help me with the lawns this afternoon," Daddy said. That was enough to make him sit up straight, finish his breakfast and drink his milk. Afterward, he took my hand obediently, and we hurried out the door, down the steps and across the grounds, even beating Mommy to the hotel.

  The grand ballroom was all lit up because the staff was putting up the decorations. Mommy had decided my party should have a musical theme, so there were huge pink and white styrofoam cut-outs of tubas, trumpets, drums and trombones, as well as violins, oboes and cellos along the walls. On both ends there were enormous cut-outs of pianos. From the ceiling the staff had hung multicolored styrofoam notes and on both ends of the ballroom there were to be huge clumps of balloons, all with the words: Happy Birthday Christie, Sweet Sixteen on them. Mommy said that after everyone sang "Happy Birthday" to me, the balloons were to be released.

  When we arrived, the dining room staff was already there setting up the tables, putting on pink and blue paper cloths that picked up the musical theme with notes and bars. Each table would have a basket of party favors that included combs and mirrors, the mirrors with my picture on the back.

  At the front of the room was the dais at which Daddy, Mommy, Grandmother Laura and Bronson, Aunt Trisha, Aunt Fern, Granddaddy Longchamp, his wife Edwina, and Gavin would sit with me and some of my best friends from school. Jefferson was excited because he had his own table for his school friends, as well as Richard and Melanie.

  Just for this party, the lighting on the dance floor had been changed to include colorful revolving balls and pulsating spotlights. We had the hotel band and Mommy promised to sing a song or two with them.

  Everyone was saying that this would be the best party ever held at the hotel. All the members of the hotel staff were either invited or working at the party, and most were as excited about it as we were.

  Jefferson and I just stood in the doorway drinking in everyone and everything. They were all so busy, no one noticed us. Suddenly though, we heard someone say, "This is going to be a very expensive party."

  We turned around to face Richard and Melanie, who stood so closely to each other it was as if they were attached. As usual, they wore matching outfits: Melanie in a navy blue skirt with a white blouse with blue polka dots, and Richard wearing navy blue pants and an identical shirt. Aunt Bet spent a good deal of her time finding them identical clothes. She was so proud of having twins and never missed an opportunity to show them off. They both had similar thick-lensed glasses, both having the same eyesight problems.

  Richard and Melanie had straw blonde hair and Uncle Philip's clear blue eyes. They had identical pinched faces with Aunt Bet's sharp nose and thin mouth. Richard was slightly heavier and an inch or so taller, but Melanie had straighter teeth and smaller ears. Richard had more of a Cutler's shape—wide shoulders and narrow waist, and held his head more arrogantly, speaking with Aunt Bet's nasality. Of the two, Melanie was more withdrawn, and, I thought, more intelligent, despite Richard's air of superiority.

  "Hi," I said. "It does look fabulous, doesn't it?"

  "Fabulous," Richard mimicked dryly. He turned to Jefferson. "Father says we're going to sit at your table, so please don't embarrass us and Christie by spitting food or throwing spitballs."

  "Jefferson isn't going to do anything like that tonight, are you?" I asked pointedly.

  "Nope," he said, driving his hands deeply into his pockets. "I'm going to cut grass with Daddy this afternoon."

  "Great," Richard said out of the corner of his mouth. "There is nothing I would like to do more than bounce around on a machine belching gas in the hot sun."

  "What are you going to do now?" Jefferson asked, unaffected by Richard's sarcasm. I always enjoyed Jefferson's indifference to Richard's nastiness. He acted like Richard had some strange illness and it was best not to bring any more attention to it than necessary

  "We were on our way to the game room," Melanie said. "We're going to play Parcheesi with some guest children."

  "Can I watch?" Jefferson asked.

  "I doubt that you can just watch," Richard said caustically. "But . . ."

  "You can come along," Melanie finished. "Do you want to come, too, Christie?" she asked.

  "No, I'm going to see Mr. Nussbaum. He told me to stop by this morning."

  "The kitchen . . . ugh," Richard said.

  "You shouldn't despise the hotel so much, Richard," I chastised. "You're a Cutler."

  "He didn't say anything bad," Melanie snapped, coming to his defense quickly. It was as if I had said it to her.

  "It's bad to look down on our staff and give them the impression you feel superior."

  "We own the hotel," Richard reminded me.

  "But it wouldn't be any good to us if staff members didn't want to work here and do a good job," I said pointedly. The two of them gaped at me through their thick lenses, which magnified their eyes so they looked more like frogs than kids. Richard finally shrugged.

  "Let's go," he said to Melanie.

  "Oh," Melanie said, turning. "Happy birthday, Christie."

  "Yes," Richard cried like a parrot. "Happy birthday."

  Jefferson followed them away and I headed for the kitchen. Mr. Nussbaum's face brightened the moment he set his eyes on me. Mommy said he had been with the hotel forever and probably lied about his age. She estimated him to be in his early eighties. During the last few years, he had agreed to take on an assistant, his nephew Leon, a tall, lanky, brown-haired man with sleepy chestnut eyes. Although he always looked half-awake, he was a wonderful chef and practically the only person Nussbaum would tolerate interfering in his kitchen.

  "Ali, the birthday girl," Nussbaum said. "Come . . . see," he beckoned and I approached one of the counters on which he had trays and trays of hors d'oeuvres prepared. "There will be three different kinds of shrimp, each baked in a special dough, fried won-tons, fried zucchini and a cheese selection, some with ham and some with bacon. That one Leon made," he added and pointed. "Come," he said and took my hand to show me the fine cuts of prime rib.

  "I have a chicken in wine sauce for those who don't want the beef. See what my baker has made," he added, showing me the small rolls and breads. The breads were shaped into musical notes.

  "You can't see the cake yet. That's a big surprise," Mr. Nussbaum said.

  "It all looks so wonderful."

  "So, why shouldn't it be wonderful? It's for a wonderful young lady. Right, Leon?"

  "Oh, yes, yes," he said, cracking a smile quickly.

  "My nephew," Mr. Nussbaum said, shaking his head. "That's why I can never retire." He beamed his smile at me. "But you don't worry about anything. Just enjoy."

  "Thank you, Mr. Nussbaum," I said. I left the kitchen and headed for the lobby, but when I rounded the corner, I met Uncle Philip, who was coming from the old section of the hotel.

  "Christie," he cried. "How wonderful—a chance to congratulate my favorite niece privately. Happy birthday." He embraced me and pulled me to him and then pressed his lips to my forehead, softly at first and then, surprising me by continuing his kiss down the side of my head to my cheek.

  Uncle Philip was handsome, a debonair man who always dressed elegantly in tailored sports jackets and slacks with creases so sharp they looked like they could cut your fingers, gold and diamond cufflinks, gold rings, and gold watches. His hair was always well trimmed and brushed, not a strand out of place. I never saw him w
ith shoes not polished into mirrors. His idea of being sloppy was wearing a jacket without a tie.

  Aunt Bet was just as prim and prissy, not wearing anything that wasn't in style or created by some designer. She never came down unless her hair was perfect and her make-up was applied to bring out what she believed were her best features: her long eyelashes, thin mouth and small chin.

  Uncle Philip did not release me after he lifted his lips from my cheek. He held me out at arms' length and looked down at me, nodding.

  "You have become a very, very lovely young lady, even lovelier than your mother was at your age," he said softly, so softly it was practically a whisper.

  "Oh no, I'm not, Uncle Philip. I'm not prettier than Mommy."

  He laughed, but still kept me in his arms. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. I knew that Uncle Philip loved me, but sometimes I felt I was too old for his affectionate hugs and caresses and they embarrassed me. I tried to shrug out of his arms without being rude, but his hold grew a little tighter.

  "I like the way you're wearing your hair these days," he said. "Your bangs make you look very grown-up, very sophisticated." He ran his forefinger along my forehead gently.

  "Thank you, Uncle Philip. I'd better get out front. Aunt Trisha is arriving any moment."

  "Oh yes, Trisha," he said, smirking. "That woman drives me mad sometimes. She can't sit still. She's always spinning and turning and rushing here and there, and those hands . . . they're like two birds attached to her wrists always trying to break free."

  "She's like that because she's a performer, Uncle Philip."

  "Right. The theater," he said, his voice light but his look serious as he looked down, still holding me.

  "I've got to go," I repeated.

  "Me too. Happy birthday again," he said, kissing my cheek once more before he released me.

  "Thank you," I said and hurried away, some-thing wistful in his look making my heart skip a beat.

  Just as I entered the lobby, I saw Mommy greeting Aunt Trisha. They hugged as I ran across the lobby. Aunt Trisha was wearing a dark red dress with a long skirt that came nearly down to her ankles. When she spun around, the skirt flew about like the skirt of a flamenco dancer. She had sandals with straps up her calves and wore a white shawl loosely around her shoulders. Her dark brown hair was drawn back from her face and pinned up in a chignon that I thought looked very glamorous. Long earrings made of sea shells dangled from her lobes.