Secrets of the Morning

by V. C. Andrews

  "Wasn't it wonderful?" he said. "Wasn't it like hitting the greatest notes, feeling yourself soar to the greatest heights? Well?" he said with some irritation when I didn't respond immediately. But I was thinking about it, trying to relive the moments and see if I could recall the feeling being as magnificent as he had said.

  The problem was I had been so concerned about being a good lover and doing everything right, I thought I might have missed some of the ecstasy he assured me had been there.

  "Yes," I said quickly.

  He smiled with satisfaction.

  "I told you passion makes us desperate, but being desperate brings us to the height of our very being, the ultimate of our essence, places us in exquisite danger. You will sing great songs," he declared and laughed.

  "I'm hungry," he said. "Making love always increases my appetite." He started to dress quickly. I sat up and began to put on my clothing. "Would you like something to eat?"

  "No," I said. "Thank you. I just use the bathroom a moment."

  "Of course. Come out when you're finished and watch me eat something. You can finish your wine. Then," he said, nodding more like a teacher now than a lover, "I'll call a cab for you and you will get back so you don't miss your curfew."

  He left me alone. As I finished my dressing, I gazed around his bedroom, and as if I had been in a daze the whole time, I suddenly realized where I was and what I had done.

  What had I done!

  I had made love without the slightest restraint or hesitation. I had permitted Michael to carry me off and seduce me, but I believed, I prayed, that his words were honest and sincere. He did see me as someone beautiful, someone to cherish, someone to love be-cause I was like him. We were blessed with a talent that made us different, made us feel things more intently. It was good; it was meant to be that two people such as he and I would find ecstasy together.

  And yet, I couldn't help feeling guilty. Was Grandmother Cutler right about me? Was I the spawn of some evil, sinful act between my mother and an itinerant singer who didn't care about the consequences of his actions? Was I as spoiled and as vain as my mother who wanted to be treated like a princess and be young and beautiful forever and ever?

  Just like my mother, I had my singer lover, I thought.

  But Michael was different; he had to be. He wasn't some wandering crooner looking for a good time and not caring about his career and his art. Michael loved me because he saw something exceptional in me. We would be beautiful together; we would sing duets on the stage, duets that people would remember forever and ever because we sang to each other sincerely, with a passion that made our voices even greater.

  No, I declared to myself, I would not feel bad; I would not feel guilty. I would feel fulfilled and I would be fulfilled. Michael had turned me into a woman, his woman, and I would wear my new identity with pride; although for a while at least, I would have to keep it all secret.

  8

  VOWS OF LOVE

  I joined Michael in his kitchen and watched him make himself a sandwich and coffee. He insisted I have a cup of coffee and sit with him as he ate. He described how pleased he was with his work at the Bernhardt School and how excited and happy he was to be back in New York.

  "Although," he said, "I thoroughly enjoyed traveling through Europe and singing in the great theaters with their wonderful histories, singing before the richest, most cultured audiences. I have played in Rome, Paris and London. I have even performed in Budapest, Hungary," he bragged.

  I sat there hypnotized by his voice and the stories he told me about his travels and performances.

  Suddenly, he leaned back in his chair and stared at me in a more scrutinizing manner, his head tilted to the right, his eyes fixed on mine.

  "Earlier," he said, "when you were complaining about your family, you never mentioned your father. What is he like? Is he still alive?"

  I thought for a long moment. Michael had taken me into his life, touched me in the most intimate ways a man could touch a woman, trusted me, wanted me. I didn't want to permit anything false between us. His eyes were full of concern and sincere interest. I believed him when he had said that music had already wed us to each other, bound us in ways other people could not understand.

  "I don't know what my father is like," I began and told him my story. He listened without moving a muscle. Our roles had been reversed: now he was mesmerized by me and my tale of kidnapping and discovery, being returned to a family I despised and learning the truth of my abduction. "I know every-thing," I concluded, "except my father's name."

  Michael nodded slowly, his dark eyes thoughtful as he digested what I had told him.

  "Your grandmother sounds like a strong-willed and powerful old woman. She would tell you nothing about your real father?"

  "No, and my mother is so terrified of her, she won't reveal anything either."

  He nodded, lowering his eyes sadly. Then he looked up, brightening with an idea.

  "Perhaps I can help you find your real father," he said.

  "Oh Michael, can you? How? If you could do that, it would be the most wonderful gift you could ever give me," I cried.

  "I have some good friends, agent friends, who must know agents who placed these singers and performers in resort hotels during the period you described. I'll get them to investigate and come up with some names for us. At least, we can narrow it down and proceed from there," he concluded.

  "He might be a performer working in New York. You might even know him!"

  "Very possibly," Michael agreed. "Let me work on it. In the meantime, young lady," he said, sitting back, "we had better get you on your way. Besides obeying your curfew at the residence, I'd like you to be fresh and energetic when I work with you. For obvious reasons, however, I won't be able to treat you any differently from the way I treat my other students. And you must continue to keep everything we do and say to each other under lock and key."

  "I will," I said. "Here in my heart," I added, my hand over my breast.

  "You are so lovely . . ." he trailed off.

  I couldn't help blushing at the compliment. He got up to kiss me on the cheek and then phoned down to the doorman to hail a taxi cab for me. At his apartment doorway, he kissed me softly on the lips and pressed his cheek to mine.

  "Good night, my little diva," he whispered.

  I felt like 1 floated to the elevator. When I descended to the lobby, the doorman had my taxi waiting. He escorted me out and opened the cab door for me, tipped his hat and said good night. I gave the driver my address and sat back, lost in the memory of all that had happened.

  Michael had singled me out and made love to me first through my music and then the way a man and a woman were meant to make love. I wondered if Michael's other guests had arrived and knocked on the door. I felt that we'd never have heard their annoyed knockings and ringings, so intent had we been on our own world, on our own happiness.

  I didn't think about Trisha until I started to open our bedroom door. 1 should have known she would be waiting anxiously for my return and would want me to tell her every detail of my secret evening with the older man I had invented. She was lying in bed, doing her homework, but she slapped all her books closed the instant I entered the room.

  "I couldn't wait until you got back," she said. "Tell me everything." She sat up and folded her hands on her lap. Just as before, I decided to mix fantasy and fact. As I got ready for bed, I began.

  "He has a beautiful apartment in a very fancy building with a doorman in the lobby." I described Michael's apartment in detail, feeling confident Trisha would never go there. "He has pictures of his dead wife in every room," I added. "One great big one over the fireplace, and it's true: we do look a lot alike. She was even my size in dresses and shoes, and he's kept all her clothing. He wanted to give me some things, but I refused to take anything. I did try a few things on and everything was a perfect fit."

  "That's eerie," Trisha said, eyes wide.

  "Yes, but maybe it was Fate that brought us
together. Some things are just meant to be."

  "You mean you're going to see him again and again?"

  "Oh yes, but always secretly," I emphasized. "I told him we shouldn't even meet at the school anymore. If Agnes should-somehow find out, she would be sure to phone Grandmother Cutler, and she might use it as an excuse to ship me off someplace else. You can't imagine how spiteful she can be."

  "What did you do at his apartment?"

  "We drank a little wine, listened to music and talked."

  "What did you talk about so long?" Trisha asked, looking skeptical.

  "First, he talked about himself and his wonderful marriage, how much he had loved his wife and how much she had loved him. It was very sad. I cried. And then I told him my story and he cried for me. He had lost his parents at a young age and knew what it was to feel like an orphan.

  "But do you know what he's going to do? He's going to see if he can help me find my real father. He has friends in important places, just like Grandmother Cutler, and he's going to make some inquiries and have some people do some research. He said he might even hire a private detective to track him down."

  "He did? But that could be very expensive," Trisha said.

  "He said that money doesn't matter to him when it comes to me. He wanted to give me some of his wife's jewelry and expensive perfume, but I told him I would have trouble explaining where I got them. He's very understanding and doesn't want to do anything that might cause trouble for me."

  Trisha's eyes grew smaller, more perceptive.

  "You must have done more than just talk with a man in his thirties," she insisted. I looked away quickly and began hanging up my things. "You did, didn't you?"

  "We kissed," I admitted, "and I wanted to do more, but Alvin said we must not rush headlong into things."

  "Alvin? I thought you said his name was Allan."

  "It is. Did I say Alvin?" She nodded. "I can't imagine why. Oh," I said. "He has a younger brother named Alvin. I'm just so tired and confused and full of happiness." Trisha looked skeptical a moment, but then accepted my explanation.

  "When will you see him again?"

  "Soon," I said, "but for obvious reasons, we have to be very discreet about it. He won't call me unless it's very, very important."

  "You're having a secret romance," she said unhappily. She sat back against her pillow and folded her arms under her bosom, her face in a pout. I sat at the foot of her bed.

  "What's wrong, Trisha?"

  "Nothing," she said. Then she looked up at me. "You're having all this romance and adventure, and I can't get anyone good-looking to say more than two words to me." Then, just as quickly as she had gone into a pout, she snapped out of it and smiled. "I think I'll start flirting with Erik Richards, since you're not interested in him," she said. "He did sit near me at lunch yesterday, and he didn't ask me a single question about you."

  "Erik Richards? Of course," I said excitedly. "I think you and he would be perfect together."

  "Maybe he'll ask me to the Halloween dance," she concluded. She turned to me. "What if someone from the school asks you?"

  "Oh, I couldn't go. I couldn't be with anyone else now. I'd only be thinking of . . . Allan," I said, "and it wouldn't be fair to the boy who had asked me."

  "But you'll miss all the good school fun. Are you sure you want to have a boyfriend so much older than you are?" she asked.

  "As I told you," I sang and stood up, "it's some-thing Fate brought about."

  I ran to the bathroom to wash and brush my teeth. I hated lying to Trisha. She had been such a good friend to me, right from the beginning. Looking in the mirror I saw the face of a liar. I'd felt so happy earlier with Michael, but could love turn me into a loathsome thing? How ironic and sad if I finally found love and happiness and safety and in doing so did things every bit as evil and dishonest as the things Grandmother Cutler did. I eased my conscience by telling myself that someday, perhaps someday soon, Michael would let me tell her the truth. I looked again into the mirror studying the girl's face caught in there. My face was flushed from everything that had transpired tonight. My eyes glittered in a way I'd never seen before—I saw power within them. The truth was, I'd never again be able to go to some dance with some silly school boy, not for the reasons I'd told Trisha, but because I now knew the joy of love with a masterful older man.

  Michael was true to his word when he said he wouldn't treat me any differently from the way he treated his other students at Bernhardt. In fact, I thought he was even colder and more formal with me since our evening together in his apartment. He stopped calling me Dawn in front of other students and called me Miss Cutler, instead. Whenever we passed by in the corridors, he smiled quickly, but just as quickly shifted his gaze back to whomever he was with as if he were afraid whoever accompanied him would immediately feel the electricity that crackled between us.

  For the next few weeks, he had Richard Taylor present at every one of our private sessions and when he worked with me, he acted as though he were ages and ages older than I was. He didn't put his hands on me, nor did he speak about anything other than our music, and he always excused me before he excused Richard so we couldn't be alone together even for a moment afterward.

  I worked and waited for him to ask to see me again. I hardly ever left the house at all, for fear I might miss a phone call. I knew if I weren't there, he wouldn't leave his name. Trisha became very suspicious as to why I hadn't gone on any other dates with my secret boyfriend.

  "You haven't mentioned Allan for days and days," she said, "nor have you gone out secretly at night to meet him. Did he run off with another woman?"

  "Oh, no. He had to go away on business," I told her, "but he will see me the moment he returns."

  Finally, one afternoon after my private vocal lesson, Michael asked me to remain. We waited for Richard Taylor to leave and then Michael closed the door.

  "Oh, Dawn," he said, coming to me quickly and taking my hands into his, "I'm so sorry I've been so terribly distant these past few weeks. I know you must think I'm horrible and I'm deliberately ignoring you."

  "It bothered me," I admitted. "I was afraid you thought I had given away our secret. I kept hoping you would speak to me soon. I didn't want to do anything to endanger you at the school."

  "I know," he said. "You've been wonderful about it. Very patient." He kissed me quickly on the cheek and stepped back. "A few days after you came to my apartment, the head of the school called me in to speak to me about my methods. It seems other teachers were whispering about me behind my back. I know it's just professional jealousy. They've all gotten wind of my criticism of their techniques, and some of them can't stand the attention I receive while they are hardly recognized.

  "Anyway, the head asked me if I would be somewhat more formal in my student-teacher relationships. I thought perhaps someone had seen us together when I took you for coffee that day, or maybe Richard had even sensed something and told people. Naturally, I was afraid for you, too, so I thought we should cool it. I'm sorry if I've hurt you," he added.

  "Oh Michael," I cried, "you can't hurt me. I understand."

  "I thought you would," he said, smiling and taking my hands into his again. "Anyway, I can't stand being this way with you and not seeing you when I want to, when I need to. Can you come to my apartment again tonight, the same way, without anyone knowing?"

  "Yes," I said quickly, thrilled that he had finally asked me to return.

  "Wonderful." He let go of my hands and hurried to gather his things. "I've got to move along to my next, appointment. Come at the same time. Don't disappoint me," he pleaded and left.

  I was so excited about Michael and our rendezvous, I didn't hear a word spoken in any of my other classes and hated the clock for ticking so slowly. The only one who noticed anything different about me, however, was Madame Steichen. She interrupted our lesson and my playing by slapping her wooden pointer so hard over the top of the piano, it splintered into three different pieces and flew off in
three different directions. I practically jumped off the piano stool.

  "What do you call this . . . this stupid tapping on the keys?" she sneered, her face twisted and witchlike.

  "Practicing," I said softly.

  "No," she flared, her eyes red with rage, "this is not practice; this is wasting time. I told you, you can't play like an artist if you don't connect your very being with every note. Your fingers cannot be separated from your very soul. Concentration, concentration, concentration. What are you thinking about while you play?"

  "Nothing," I said.

  "That's what your playing is . . . nothing, just sounds. Will you concentrate or are you here to waste my time?" she demanded with ice in her words.

  "I'll concentrate," I said, my eyes burning with tears.

  "Begin again," she said. "And rid your mind of whatever it is that is distracting you."

  She peered down at me, her eyes small, almost like two microscope lenses scrutinizing my face.

  "I don't like what I see in your eyes," she said. "Something is corrupting you from within and it is affecting your music. Beware of whatever it is," she advised and then stepped back, folded her bony arms under her small bosom and glared in anticipation.

  I shakily began again, this time putting all my concentration into my playing, forcing my thoughts away from Michael. Madame Steichen wasn't happy, but she wasn't dissatisfied enough to interrupt. At the end of the lesson, she stood before me, her shoulders lifted, her neck so straight and tight, it looked like the neck of a statue, and her head very still.

  "You must make up your mind," she said slowly, her words sharp and cutting, "whether you want to be a performer or an artist." Her eyes took on a glassy stare. I had to bow my head and look down.

  "An artist," she continued, "lives for her work. That's the difference between an artist and a performer, who is usually a person infatuated with himself and not with the beauty of what he creates. Fame," she lectured, "is often more of a burden than a blessing. This country is very foolish when it comes to its entertainers, celebrities," she said, spitting the words. "They worship them and then suffer when they discover their gods of stage and screen have feet of clay.