Secrets of the Morning

by V. C. Andrews

  "You will feel differently, Dawn," she cried. "After you calm down, you will feel differently. And then you will need me. You will need me . . ."

  I slammed the outer chamber door behind me, stifling her cries, and hurriedly descended the stairs. As soon as I stepped out of the hotel, I stopped to catch my breath. Then I looked up at the now-deep-blue sky with the previous layers of clouds far off toward the horizon.

  God couldn't have wanted all this to happen, I thought. He didn't write the scripts for the puny little players down here. We wrote them ourselves—with our lusts and our greed and our selfish ways. These rich and powerful people feasted on each other like cannibals and if someone got hurt in the process, well, too bad.

  Then afterward, like my mother up in her luxurious suite, they tried to make it seem like nothing significant had occurred. Well, it was terrible, and they should be made to suffer even more than they had, I thought.

  "Hey," Jimmy called from the car. "Come on, Dawn." He came forward to take my hand. "Say goodbye to the past, and hello to the future. We're wasting time. Christie is waiting for you."

  "Yes," I said, smiling. "She is, isn't she?"

  It was just like Jimmy to say the right words to make me feel alive and free, free enough to forget thoughts of revenge and think only of blue skies and warm breezes, days of happiness filled with music, music I wanted so much to make.

  I took his hand and let him lead me away from the hotel. In moments we were driving off toward a rainbow and all the promises it pledged.