Secrets of the Morning

by V. C. Andrews

  "I thought you told me he had an apartment on Park Avenue," she said.

  "Did I say apartment? I meant his business was on Park Avenue."

  Trisha was impressed with the apartment building. She leaned out of the cab to hug me after I had stepped out.

  "Have a wonderful holiday," I said. "And thank you for making it possible for me to have one too."

  "Call me if you change your mind and really want to come," she said.

  We kissed each other's cheeks and then she left. I watched her taxi drive away. She waved to me from the rear window and then I went into Michael's apartment house to spend five glorious days with the man I loved.

  9

  SECRET LOVERS

  Just before school had recessed for the Thanksgiving holidays, I had given Michael a list of groceries to buy for our Thanksgiving dinner. He had everything spread out over the kitchen table when I arrived.

  "It's all here," he said, gesturing at the cans and boxes, the turkey and produce. "Just as you requested."

  "Good. I'm going to make our pies tonight," I explained and took off my coat quickly and began to put on the apron he had hanging on the inside of the pantry door.

  "You are? What kind?" he asked with an amused smile.

  "Apple and pumpkin. I learned from an expert, Momma Longchamp, although we rarely had enough money to spend on desserts, even for the holidays." I began taking out the pots and pans and setting out the mixer.

  "How poor you must have been with your first family," he remarked and sat in the kitchen watching me prepare and listening to my descriptions of what life had been like living with Daddy and Momma Longchamp.

  "I remember having nothing more to eat than grits and peas. Daddy would get so depressed he would go to a tavern and drink up whatever extra money we had and then we'd find ourselves scrounging. After Fern was born, it became even worse. We had another mouth to feed and Momma couldn't do much work. I had to do the housework, care for the baby and keep up with my school work, while other girls my age were dreaming of boys and going to parties and dances."

  "Well you're never going to suffer like that again," Michael said. He was moved to get up to kiss me and hold me and whisper promise after promise in my ear. "You're going to be a famous and very rich singer someday soon, so rich that you won't even be able to recall being that poor."

  "Oh Michael," I said, "I don't have to make piles and piles of money. As long as I have you and you love me, I'll be as rich as I want."

  He smiled, his eyes becoming soft, limpid pools of desire. His gaze made me tremble so, I had to look away.

  "What's wrong, little diva? Don't you like looking at me?"

  "I love looking at you, Michael. But when you gaze at me like that, it's as if you were undressing me with your eyes, taking me to bed with your eyes."

  He laughed.

  "Perhaps I am. Perhaps I should," he added and kissed me lovingly on the forehead. I saw he wasn't going to release me from his embrace.

  "Michael, I've got to mix this batter," I cried, pointing to the bowl on the counter. "And I want to make a stuffing for the turkey and . . ."

  "The food can wait," he declared. When that look came over him, there was no holding him back. It was infectious. I couldn't resist his kisses and soon I was kissing him back as hard as he was kissing me, and embracing him just as tenderly. Before I could protest, he scooped me into his arms and carried me out of the kitchen.

  "Our dinner!" I cried.

  "I told you—I get hungry after I make love," he said, laughing.

  It seemed we were in bed most of the time for the first few days of the holiday, but I did manage to prepare a small turkey, stuffing, candied sweet potatoes, fresh peas, a homemade bread, cranberry sauce, and the two pies. Michael said it was the best Thanks-giving dinner he had ever eaten.

  "I don't know many women who can cook like you can," he said. "All the women I know depend on maids and cooks and are helpless even when it comes to boiling water for tea."

  It was the first time he had spoken about the other women he has known and I couldn't help recalling the beautiful red-haired lady he had been with at the museum recital. I asked Michael who she was.

  "Oh, her." He shook his head. "She's the wife of a producer friend of mine. He's always asking me to do him a favor and take her places. She's the kind of a woman who needs more than one man, if you know what I mean," he said, winking.

  But I didn't know what he meant. How could you need more than one man if that man was the man you loved with all your heart and soul? And if a man loved a woman, how could he want someone else to escort her places?

  "Why wouldn't her husband be jealous of someone else showing her around?" I asked.

  "Jealous? He was grateful," he said, laughing slyly. "Show business people can be like that," he said. "They think their relationships are just another performance. But don't worry, I'm not like that," he added quickly.

  "You never found anyone you wanted to be with forever and ever?" I asked.

  "Not before you. I never met anyone who was as innocent and pure. Your name fits you; you're as fresh as a new day." He leaned over to kiss me on the cheek.

  I felt myself glow. I was never as happy as I was at that moment. It was the best Thanksgiving dinner had ever had. Afterward, Michael made a fire in the fireplace and brought out one of his soft quilts. I lay with my head in his lap and we listened to beautiful music while the fire crackled and warmed us. Every kiss that night seemed sweeter than the one before. Michael stroked my hair and told me he wished all time would stop and we would be stuck right where we were forever and ever.

  My heart was as full as my stomach. How could any woman love any man more than I loved Michael? I wondered.

  We stripped off our clothes and made love in the glow of that fire, our kisses and embrace so passionate, I thought we were burning like the logs, consuming each other and yet fulfilling each other. We fell asleep in each other's arms, exhausted but never more content.

  In the morning Michael told me he had an appointment with a producer downtown.

  "And after my meeting, I'm going to bring home a small Christmas tree. It's traditional to begin decorating one during Thanksgiving, isn't it?" he said. "I've never bothered before, but now that I have you . . ."

  "Oh Michael, I'd love that. It's been so long since I had a Christmas tree myself, or even cared about the holidays. When you don't have any family or a family you love and loves you, the holidays are just like any other day. Except you watch other people's happiness with an envious heart."

  "No more pain and envy for you, my little diva," he said and kissed me softly on the lips before leaving for his meeting. While he was gone, I listened to music, watched some television and did a little reading. We had been given some assignments to complete over the holiday.

  Late in the afternoon, Michael returned with a small, but beautifully shaped little tree, each branch full and very green. He had bought boxes and boxes of decorations. Both he and the tree were sprinkled with milk-white snowflakes.

  "Guess what!" he cried as soon as he entered, one hand holding the tree while he clutched the boxes of decorations against his chest. "It's snowing. What a wonderful surprise and just in time to put us into the holiday spirit. Do you like the tree?"

  "Oh, it's so darling," I cried.

  "I spent a lot of time picking it out. I wanted something special for us. The salesman nearly went mad waiting on me. Nothing he had seemed good enough. Then I peered around a corner and saw this one just waiting for me to choose it. It practically cried out to me," he said, laughing.

  He fit the tree in the stand and stood back. We decided it would look good just to the right of the fireplace.

  "Looks perfect," he said and gazed at his watch. I had noticed that from the moment he had arrived, he had periodically checked the time.

  "Is someone coming?" I asked.

  "What? Oh no, no."

  "You keep looking at your watch."

&
nbsp; "Yes." He shook his head. "I've got to leave in a little while for a meeting. This producer I met with today went ahead and scheduled something without checking it out with me, but it's so important, I have to attend. There's a very, very good chance star in a Broadway opening next season."

  "Oh Michael, how wonderful."

  "Yes, but these things take months and months of planning and endless meetings with investors and writers and production people. Everyone has an opinion. I hate preproduction, but it's a necessary evil. I'm sorry to have to leave you just when we've gotten started."

  "Oh, that's all right, Michael. While you're away, I'll decorate the tree and make our dinner."

  He looked troubled and shifted his eyes away quickly.

  "Something wrong?" I asked.

  "This meeting will probably run into dinner. I'm sorry, really I am," he said.

  "Oh, then you won't be home until much, much later," I realized.

  "Yes. Will you be all right?"

  "I'll be fine. I'll eat all our leftovers. It will take me a while to decorate the tree anyway. Don't worry about me, really. I'll be fine."

  "I'll try to call you later and let you know how late things will run," he said and then went in to change. He emerged wearing one of his beautiful wool sports jackets and slacks. When he put on his dark blue wool overcoat, I thought he never looked more handsome and told him.

  "Well, you have to look good for these people. They expect it. That's one of the drawbacks to being a star: everyone wants you to look as though you had just walked onto a stage. You have to fit their image because you're continually in the spotlight. If a hair's out of place or you fail to smile, it could be a disaster. Next thing you know, they're spreading rumors about you and you don't get offered good parts.

  "Are you sure you will be all right?" he asked again. "Maybe you should go to a movie? Let me give you some money for a taxi and a movie," he said and began to take out his wallet.

  "Oh, no. I have plenty to do, even some homework."

  He shook his head.

  "Homework. Some of those teachers are such bores. Can you imagine giving homework over the holidays? All right. I'll talk to you later," he said and kissed me goodbye.

  I had told him I would be all right, but the moment the door closed and I was all alone again, I looked around the empty apartment and felt like crying. How I wished we didn't have to be lovers in secret and he could have taken me with him. I would have been very interested in everything that happened, even though for him it had all become boring routine.

  I turned to the little Christmas tree.

  "Well," I said, "at least I have you. Now we'll get to know each other well."

  I opened the boxes of decorations Michael had bought and began to dress the tree. The hours passed by ever so slowly just because I wanted them to fly by. I spent as much time as I could on the tree, fixing it and then changing it until everything looked balanced. After that, I ate my leftovers and listened to music and thought about Michael. I cleaned up and then tried to finish my homework, but I couldn't concentrate on my reading. Continually, I would gaze at the clock and become furious at those stubborn little hands just inching their way around. I tried to make a fire and distract myself by watching some television. It grew later and later and Michael didn't call. I dozed off a few times, but woke with a start, afraid I had failed to hear the phone ringing.

  My poor attempt at a fire died. When I awoke from one of my short naps and checked the clock for the hundredth time, I was shocked to discover it was nearly twelve-thirty. Why hadn't Michael called? I wondered.

  When I gazed out the window, I saw that it had snowed harder and the sidewalks wore a white blanket. The streets were wet and slushy. Horns blared as drivers cut and stopped around each other. People get into accidents in bad weather, I thought. Perhaps something had happened to Michael. How would I know? He didn't want anyone to know I was waiting at his apartment, so no one would call.

  Despite my worry, it was hard to keep my eyes open, and after another half hour had passed, I drifted off again on the sofa and didn't awaken until I heard the door opening. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and sat up. Michael turned to close the door behind him and fumbled with the handle and lock. I heard him go, "Shh."

  "Michael?"

  "Huh?" he said, spinning around. His hair was disheveled and his jacket looked quite rumpled. "Shh," he said, bringing his forefinger to his lips. "You don't wanna wake Dawn."

  "Michael, I am Dawn," I said, smiling. I stood up. "What's wrong?"

  "Huh?" he said again. He blinked and swayed.

  "Michael, are you . . . drunk?" I asked. I had seen Daddy Longchamp enough times in this condition to know I didn't even have to ask.

  "Naw," he said, waving his hand and nearly falling forward. "Not a bit. I just had . . ." He held up his right hand and squeezed his right forefinger and thumb together. "This much. Every ten minutes," he added and laughed again. His laughter carried him forward and he had to reach out to brace himself on the wall so he wouldn't fall on his face.

  "Michael!" I cried and ran to him. He put his arm over my shoulder and leaned on me. How he smelled. It was as if he had taken a bath in whiskey. "Where were you? Why did you drink so much? How did you manage to get home?"

  "Home?" he said. He gazed around. "Oh yes, home."

  As I guided him toward the sofa, I noticed what looked like lipstick smudged on the side of his chin. There were also hairs on his jacket, red hairs!

  "Michael, where were you? Who were you with?" I demanded. He didn't respond. He lowered himself to the sofa and fell back, gazing at me dumbly and blinking, obviously trying to bring me and everything around us into focus.

  "Why is this room spinning around and around?" he muttered and closed his eyes. Then he slid down the back of the sofa until he was on his back, his eyes shut tight.

  "Michael!” I shook him, but all he did was groan. "Oh, what's the use," I cried. I lifted his legs and took off his shoes. Then, with great effort and strain, holding him up as I did so, I peeled off his overcoat and sports jacket. He was too heavy for me to carry to the bedroom. Instead, I hung up his coat and jacket and got him a blanket. When I spread it over him, he moaned and turned on his side. I fixed the pillow under his head and then I sat at his feet, watching him breathe deeply and regularly.

  My eyes drifted to our little Christmas tree. All decorated and lit up, it looked beautiful, warm, and very precious, but with Michael passed out on the couch, it looked as sad and as alone and disappointed as I was. Michael hadn't even noticed it. He had hardly even noticed me!

  I rose slowly and turned the lights off on the tree. I took one more look at Michael. He was snoring. I put out the lights in the living room and then retreated to Michael's bedroom to fall asleep alone.

  Michael was up before I was. I felt him sit on the bed and I fluttered my eyelids open just as he touched my face.

  "Michael. What time is it?"

  He was still wearing the clothes he had worn the night before. His shirt was open and his hair was wild, the strands going every which way. He yawned and shook his head.

  "It's early. I'm sorry, Dawn," he said. "I'm sure I must have been some mess last night. I don't even remember falling asleep on the couch, or your getting me a blanket. I was what they call . . . blotto drunk."

  I ground the sleep out of my eyes and sat up quickly.

  "Where were you? What happened? Why did you get so drunk?"

  "It was a celebration of sorts. I tried to leave them, but everyone insisted I go along. I was the life of the party, you see, the center of attraction. We had to wine and dine these investors, who paid for everything. The champagne flowed all night." He stretched and yawned again.

  "But where were you?"

  "Where was I? Let's see," he said, thinking as if it were a major question on a math exam or something. "Where was I? Well, first we were at this producer's office. Then we all went to dinner at Sardi's. After that, we started to hit nigh
tclub row. I should recall one or two places, but they all seem to run together in my mind now."

  He sighed and bowed his head into his cradling hands.

  "Who was with you?"

  "Who was with me?" He looked up, thought and then shrugged. "Some of the production people and the investors."

  "Was that red-haired woman there too?" I asked.

  "Red-haired woman? Oh, no, no," he said. "There was no red-haired woman. Well, I'd better get into the shower. I feel like last week's pot roast. I'm sorry," he repeated and leaned over to drop a quick kiss on my cheek. "Thank you for looking after me."

  He rose like a cat, undulating and stretching. I lay back on my pillow and watched him undress and go to take a shower. Was he lying to me, I wondered, or were those red hairs on his jacket there from some previous time, maybe one of the times he had to escort the wife of his friend? I just couldn't believe he would lie to me. He loved me too much to hurt me.

  I got up and went to the kitchen to put up our coffee and prepare some breakfast. When Michael appeared, he was bright and fresh, his hair neatly brushed. He wore a light blue, silk robe.

  "Um, that smells good," he said, coming up behind me to embrace me. "I'm really sorry about last night," he repeated. "Everyone was so excited about the new show, it was hard not to celebrate." He kissed me on the back of the neck.

  "Then it all went well?"

  "Yes. You will soon hear and read about Michael Sutton opening on Broadway," he said proudly. I spun around in his arms.

  "Oh Michael, how wonderful for you. You're right: that is very exciting. I only wish I could have been with you to celebrate last night."

  "We'll celebrate tonight," he said. "We will take a cab to a small, out-of-the-way Italian restaurant I know in Brooklyn. No one will notice us there, but the food is great."

  "But Michael, do you think we should? If someone should see us . . ."

  "No one will. How sweet of you to be so concerned for me," he said. "Now, let me go look at the Christmas tree." He took my hand and we went into the living room. I turned on the tree lights. "Magnificent," Michael said. "On Christmas Eve you and I will roast chestnuts in the fireplace and drink eggnog and make love right beside the little tree. Our tree," he added, putting his arm around my shoulders and drawing me to him. "My little diva," he said again and kissed me gently on the lips.