Cutler 1 - Dawn

by V. C. Andrews

  It was a bright, nearly cloudless day with a soft, warm ocean breeze. The sea looked calm, peaceful, inviting, the tide gently combing the beach and falling back into small waves. Everything looked cleaner, friendlier.

  There was a constant line of traffic in the street, but it moved lazily. No one seemed to be in a rush; everyone was mesmerized by the glitter of the sunlight on the aqua water and the flight of terns and sea gulls that floated effortlessly through the summer air.

  This might very well have been a wonderful place in which to grow up, I thought. I couldn't help wondering what I might have been like had I been raised in the hotel and Cutler's Cove. Would I have turned out as selfish as Clara Sue? Would I have loved my grandmother, and would my mother have been an entirely different person? Fate and events beyond my control had left these questions forever unanswered.

  "There it is, straight ahead of us," Sissy said, pointing to a cozy little white Cape Cod house with a patch of lawn, a small sidewalk, and a small porch. It had a picket fence in front. Sissy looked at me. "You want me to wait here for you?"

  "No, Sissy. You can go on back. If anyone asks you where I am, tell them you don't know."

  "I hope you're doing the right thing," she said and turned back, walking quickly with her head down as if she were afraid she would set eyes on some ghost in broad daylight.

  I couldn't help trembling myself as I approached the front door and rang the buzzer. At first I thought no one was home. I pushed the buzzer again and then I heard someone shout.

  "Hold your water. I'm coming; I'm coming."

  The door was finally opened by a black woman with completely gray hair. She was in a wheelchair and peered up at me with big eyes, magnified under her thick lenses. She had a soft, round face and wore a light blue housecoat, but her feet were bare. Her right leg was wrapped in a bandage from her ankle up until the bandage disappeared under her dress.

  Curiosity brightened her eyes and drew deep creases in her forehead. She pressed her lips together and leaned forward to peer out at me. Then she raised her glasses and wiped her right eye with her small fist. I saw a gold wedding band on her finger, but other than that, she wore no jewelry.

  "Yes?" she finally said.

  "I'm looking for Mrs. Dalton, the Mrs. Dalton who was a nurse."

  "You're looking at her. What do you want?" she asked leaning back in her wheelchair. "I don't work no more, not that I don't wish I could."

  "I want to talk to you. My name's Dawn, Dawn Lon . . . Dawn Cutler," I said.

  "Cutler?" She studied me. "From the hotel family?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  She continued to stare at me.

  "You ain't Clara Sue?"

  "Oh, no, ma'am."

  "Didn't think you was. You're prettier than I remember her to be," she said. "All right, come on in," she added and finally backed her wheelchair up.

  "I'm sorry I can't offer you anything. I'm having enough trouble taking care of myself these days," she said. "I live with my daughter and her husband, but they got their own lives and problems. Spend most of my time alone," she mumbled, looking down at the floor and shaking her head.

  I paused and looked into the entryway. It was a small one with hardwood floors and a blue and white throw rug. There was a coat rack on the right, an oval mirror on the wall, and a globular overhead light fixture.

  "Well, come in if you're coming in," Mrs. Dalton said when she looked up and saw I was still standing in the doorway.

  "Thank you."

  "Go on into the living room there," she said, pointing after I entered. I went through the doorway on the left. It was a small room with a rather worn dark brown rug. The furniture was vintage, too, I thought. The flower-pattern covering on the couch looked thin in the arms. Across from it was a rocking chair, an easy chair, and a matching settee, all equally tired-looking. There was a square-shaped dark maple table at the center. Against the far wall were paintings—seascapes and pictures of seaside houses. To the left was a glass-door bookcase filled with knickknacks as well as some novels. Over the small fieldstone fireplace hung a ceramic cross, but I thought the nicest thing in the room was an old dark pine grandfather's clock in the left corner.

  The room had a pleasant lilac scent. Its front windows faced the sea, and with the curtains drawn back it provided a nice view and made the room bright and cheery.

  "Sit down, sit down," Mrs. Dalton commanded and wheeled herself in behind me. I chose the couch. The worn cushions sank in deeply under me, so I sat as far forward as I could. She turned her wheelchair to face me and put her hands in her lap. "Now, then, what can I do for you, honey? There ain't much more I can do for myself," she added dryly.

  "I'm hoping you can tell me more about what happened to me," I said.

  "Happened to you?" Her eyes narrowed. "Who'd you say you were?"

  "I said I was Dawn Cutler, but my grandmother wants me to go by the name I originally had been given when I was born—Eugenia," I added, and I might as well have reached out to slap her across the face. She snapped back in her chair and brought her hands to her sagging bosom. Then she crossed herself quickly and closed her eyes. Her lips trembled, and her head began to shake.

  "Mrs. Dalton? Are you all right?" What was wrong with her? Why had my words caused such a reaction? After a moment she nodded. Then she opened her eyes and gazed at me with wonder, her lips still trembling.

  She shook her head softly. "You're the lost Cutler baby. . . ."

  "You were my nurse, weren't you?"

  "Only a few days. I should have known someday I'd set eyes on you. . . . I should have known," she mumbled. "I need a drink of water," she decided quickly. "My lips feel like parchment. Please . . . in the kitchen." She gestured toward the doorway.

  "Right away," I said, getting up quickly. I went out to the hallway and followed it to the small kitchen. When I brought back the water, she was slumped to the side in her wheelchair, looking as if she had gone unconscious.

  "Mrs. Dalton?" I cried in a panic. "Mrs. Dalton!" She straightened up slowly.

  "It's all right," she said in a loud whisper. "I'm all right. My heart's still strong, although why it still wants to beat in this broken, twisted body is beyond me."

  I handed her the water. She sipped some and shook her head. Then she looked up at me with big searching eyes.

  "You turned out to be a very pretty girl."

  "Thank you."

  "But you've been through a few things, haven't you, child?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Ormand Longchamp was a good father and Sally Jean was a good mother to you?"

  "Oh, yes, ma'am," I said, happy to hear their names from her lips. "You remember them well?" I took my seat on the couch again quickly.

  "I remember them," she admitted. She swallowed some more water and sat back. "Why did you come here? What do you want from me?" she asked. "I'm a sick woman, advanced diabetes. I'm going to have to have this leg amputated for sure, and after that . . . I might as well be dead anyway," she added.

  "I'm sorry for your trouble," I said. "My momma . . . Sally Jean . . . became a sick woman and suffered something terrible."

  Her face softened.

  "Well, what can I do for you?"

  "I want you to tell me the truth, Mrs. Dalton," I said, "every last detail of it you remember, for my daddy . . . the man I called my daddy, Ormand Longchamp, sits in prison, and my mother Sally Jean is dead, but I can't think of them as being the evil people everyone tells me they were. They were always good to me and always took care of me. They loved me with all their hearts, and I loved them. I can't allow such bad things to be said about them. I just can't. I owe it to them to find the truth."

  I saw a slight nod in Mrs. Dalton's face.

  "I liked Sally Jean. She was a hardworking woman, a good woman who never looked down on nobody and always had a pleasant smile no matter how hard things were for her. Your daddy was a hardworking man who didn't look down on nobody. Never saw me without saying
hello and asking how I was."

  "That's why I can't think of them as bad people, Mrs. Dalton, no matter what I'm told," I insisted.

  "They did take you," she said, her eyes turning glassy.

  "I know that, but why . . . how is what I don't understand."

  "Your grandmother doesn't know you're here, does she?" she asked, nodding because she anticipated the answer.

  "No."

  "Nor your real father or mother?" I shook my head. "How is your mother these days?" she asked, pulling the corners of her mouth in.

  "Nearly always locked up in her room for one reason or another. She suffers from nervous ailments and gets everything brought to her, although she doesn't look sick to me." I refused to feel sorry for my mother. In her own way she was just as selfish as Clara. "Occasionally she accompanies my grandmother at dinner and greets guests."

  "Whatever your grandmother wants," Mrs. Dalton muttered, "she's sure to do."

  "Why? How do you know so much about the Cutlers?" I asked quickly.

  "I was with them a long time . . . always worked special duty for them when any of them were sick. I liked your grandfather. He was a sweet, gentle man. I cried as much when he died as I did when my own father died. Then I was a maternity nurse for your brother, for you, and for your sister."

  "You cared for Clara Sue, too?" She nodded. "Then my grandmother certainly wasn't mad at you for what happened and didn't blame you for my abduction."

  "Heavens, no. Who told you that?"

  "My mother."

  She nodded again. Then she widened her eyes.

  "If your grandmother don't know you're here and neither does your parents, who sent you? Ormand?"

  "Nobody sent me. Why would my daddy send me?" I asked quickly.

  "What do you want?" she asked again, this time more sharply. "I told you I'm sick. I can't sit up and talk long."

  "I want to know what really happened, Mrs. Dalton. I spoke to Mrs. Boston—"

  "Mary?" She smiled. "How is Mary doing these days?"

  "She's fine, but when I asked her about what happened, she didn't tell me you were visiting with her when I was abducted, and she didn't want to talk about it."

  "I was with her; she just forgot, that's all. There's nothing more to tell. You were asleep, comfortably. I left the nursery; Ormand took you and then he and Sally Jean run off. You know the rest."

  I looked down, the tears building quickly.

  "They ain't treating you so good since you been returned, is that it?" Mrs. Dalton asked perceptively. I shook my head and wiped away the tears that had escaped my eyes.

  "My grandmother hates me; she's upset I was found," I said and looked up. "And she was the one who put up the money for the reward leading to my recovery. I don't understand. She wanted me found, but she was upset when I was, and it wasn't just because all this time has passed. There's something else. I feel it; I know it. But no one wants to tell me, or no one knows it all.

  "Oh, Mrs. Dalton, please," I begged. "My daddy and momma just weren't bad people. Even you just said so. I can't understand them stealing a baby from someone, even if my momma had suffered a stillborn. No matter what I'm told, I can't learn to hate them, and I can't stand thinking about my daddy locked up in some prison.

  "My little sister, Fern, and my brother, Jimmy, have been sent to live with strangers. Jimmy just ran away from a mean farmer and hid out in the hotel until Clara snitched on him. The police took him away last night. It was just terrible."

  I took a deep breath and shook my head.

  "It's like some curse was put on us, and for what? What did we do? We're no sinners," I added vehemently. That widened her eyes again. She brought her hands to the base of her throat and looked at me as if I were a ghost. Then she nodded slowly.

  "He sent you," she muttered. "He sent you to me. This is my last chance at redemption. My last chance."

  "Who sent me?"

  "The Lord Almighty," she said. "All my good churchgoing days don't matter none. It ain't been enough to wash me clean." She leaned forward and grasped my hand firmly into hers. Her eyes were wide, wild. "That's why I'm in this wheelchair, child. It's my penance. I always knew it. This hard life is my punishment."

  I sat absolutely still as she stared into my face. After a moment she nodded and released her grip on my hand. She sat back, took a deep breath and looked at me.

  "All right," she said. "I'll tell you everything. You was meant to know and I was meant to tell you. Otherwise, He wouldn't have sent you to me."

  "Your mother comes from a rich and distinguished old family in Virginia Beach," Mrs. Dalton began. "I remember your father and mother's wedding. Everybody does. It was one of the most gala affairs in Cutler's Cove, and everyone in society was invited, even people from Boston and New York. People thought it was the perfect marriage—two very attractive people from the best families. Why, people here went around comparing it to the marriage of Grace Kelly, the movie star, and that prince in Europe.

  "Your father was like a prince here anyway, and there was a number of suitors after your mother's hand. But even back then I heard stories."

  "What kind of stories?" I asked when she looked like she wouldn't continue.

  "Stories about your grandmother being unhappy about the marriage, not thinking your mother was right for your father. Say what you want about your grandmother, she's a powerful woman with eyes like a hawk. She sees things other people close their eyes to, and she goes and does what has to be done.

  "Yes, she's a distinguished lady who wouldn't do anything to embarrass the family. Your grandfather liked your mother. Any man would have. I don't know if she's still as beautiful as she was, but she was like some precious little doll, her features tiny but perfect, and when she batted her eyelashes . . . men would turn into little boys. I seen that firsthand," Mrs. Dalton added, lifting her eyes to me and raising her eyebrows.

  "So your grandmother kept her opposition quiet, I guess. I don't know all that went on behind closed doors, mind you, although some of the older staff, people who had been with the Cutlers a long time, people like Mary Boston, had a good idea what was going on and said there was a struggle.

  "Not that Mary is the type who goes around gossiping, mind you. She don't. I was always close with Mary, so she told me what she knew. I was already a nurse and had done some special duty at the hotel, taking care of guests who got sick occasionally, and then, as I told you, taking care of Mr. Cutler Senior when he got sick.

  "It wasn't no big secret then how your grandmother felt about your mother. She thought she was too flighty and self-centered to be a good hotel man's wife, but your father was head over heels. There was nothing he wanted more.

  "Anyway, they got married, and for a while it seemed your mother might make a good hotel man's wife. She behaved, did what your grandmother wanted, learned how to be nice to the guests and be a host . . . She really enjoyed getting all dressed up and wearing all her expensive jewelry so she could be the Princess of Cutler's Cove, and in those days, as it still is, Cutler's Cove was a very special hotel catering to the richest, most distinguished families from up and down the East Coast . . . even Europe!"

  "What happened to change things?" I asked, unable to contain my impatience. I knew all about the hotel and how famous it had become. I wanted her to get to the parts I didn't know.

  "I'm getting to it, child. Don't forget, I'm not spry, and my mind wanders something awful because of this ailment, this curse, I should say." She waved her hand and then took on a far-off look. I sat obediently, waiting until she turned back to me.

  "Where was I?"

  "You were telling me about my mother, the wedding, how good things were in the beginning . . ."

  "Oh, yeah, yeah. Well, it wasn't long after your brother was born . . ."

  "Philip."

  "Yeah, Philip, that your mother started to stray a bit."

  "Stray?"

  "Don't you know what stray means, child? You know what it is when a cat str
ays, don'tcha?" she asked, leaning toward me.

  "I think so. Flirting?" I guessed.

  She shook her head.

  "She was doing more than just flirting. If your father knew, he didn't let on. 'Least as far as anyone knew, but your grandmother knew. Nothing happens at that hotel, she doesn't know about it the same minute or minutes afterward. It always looked like your grandfather was in charge, but she's the strength, always was, 'least as long as I can remember," she added, blinking quickly.

  "I know," I said sadly.

  "Anyway, from what I know about it, there comes this entertainer, piano player and singer, as handsome a man as could be. All the young women drooled over him, and he and your mother . . ." She paused and then leaned toward me again as if there were other people in the room and she didn't want to be overheard.

  "There was this chambermaid, Blossom, who told me she come upon them out behind the pool house one night. She went out there herself with a man called Felix, who was a handyman. Nothing to look at," she added, twisting her nose, "but Blossom, she'd make love to any man who paused long enough to notice her.

  "Anyway, she knew it was your mother, and she got frightened and pulled Felix away. Blossom didn't tell but one or two of her close friends besides me about what she saw, and your mother and her lover didn't know Blossom had been there at the same time, but it wasn't much longer after that, your grandmother found out all of it. She had ears and eyes working for her everywhere in that place, if you know what I mean," Mrs. Dalton said, nodding.

  "What did she do?" I asked in a voice barely audible.

  "The singer was let go and shortly afterward . . . well, your mother was pregnant."

  "With me?"

  " 'Fraid so, child. And your grandmother, she got your mother into her office and whipped her with words so bad, she had her begging for mercy. Of course, your mother swore up and down that you was her and Randolph's, but your grandmother was too sharp and knew too much about what went on. She knew dates, times . . . your mother finally confessed and admitted you was most likely not Randolph's child. Besides," she said, her eyebrows up again, "I don't think things was running that smooth between your mother and your father, as smooth as they're supposed to be running between a man and a woman. You understand?"