by Freda, Paula
"I'm not frightened," Cybelle said hastily. But she was. "My father often spoke of Mark and his parents, and their kindness and friendship to him during his time in college." Often during the semester breaks, Mark and his parents aware that Jacques and Helen had no living relatives with whom to spend time, offered them unstinting hospitality at the mansion.
Neither had her father made it a secret that Mark had often lent him funds.
Jacques repaid every penny.
Cybelle held her chin up proudly. "We had nothing like this, but we were extremely happy. We didn't need a mansion, or suave, cosmopolitan airs, or live-in servants." Cybelle's voice trembled. Her strained emotions were gathering force and she wished she could tell Mark and his apparently rich, refined companion where they could go.
"I'm sorry," Leatrice said. "We are frightening you. Believe me, we're no worse or better than you or your family. If you want, I'll leave."
Cybelle studied the woman's face and her eyes. She found no malice there. And no fear. Only a determined self-possession she had never encountered in her short life. Her mother had constantly involved herself in every community project possible. She rarely put her daughter first. Cybelle often felt that Helen was afraid of missing out on all that life had to offer. Jacques was a kind and sensitive man, but he was afraid of losing Helen, so he never interfered or objected to his wife's' frequent neglect. "No, don't leave," Cybelle said, earnestly. "I need a friend."
"So do I," Leatrice replied.
"Good," Mark said decisively, taking each by an arm. "Let's go eat."
CHAPTER THREE
Attired in a tailored tan blazer and white pants, Mark waited inside the foyer of his home and welcomed the guests arriving to celebrate Cybelle's eighteenth birthday. He directed them toward the patio at the rear of the house where the housekeeper and her husband had set up tables with pink linen and centerpieces of pink carnations and white camellias. At Cybelle's request, the rest of the garden had been temporarily transformed into a Long Island backyard setting for an afternoon birthday party. Chinese lanterns hung from opaloid streamers and swayed gently in the path of cool afternoon breezes. At Leatrice's suggestion, a disc jockey, conspicuous in a white gold-fringed outfit complete with Stetson, tape deck and stereo equipment, emceed from inside a gazebo. Upstairs, Cybelle left her bedroom and paused before the gilt-framed mirror in the corridor. What reflected was a vision of loveliness. Her cocoa-brown hair curled softly about her brow and temples, and caressed the sides of her face. She had applied her makeup meticulously; brown feathery strokes of eye-brow pencil, and rose blush. The touch of iridescent eye shadow matched perfectly the shimmering sky blue of her crepe-de-chin party frock, which began with a scooped neckline, draped softly about her upper torso, bloused about her hips and flared to just below her knees. Flung casually over one arm she carried a white lace shawl, and in her hands a gold purse. "Well, at least I look refined," Cybelle chuckled.
Mark turned at the sound of her clicking heels. A clothed Venus rising out of the sea. Jacques would be proud of his daughter today. She had graduated high school with honors and earned a scholarship to the college of her choice. Cybelle hurried to his side. "Well, how do I look? Refined enough?" she asked.
Mark laughed. "You know very well that refinement has very little to do with looks, but mostly with actions."
Cybelle made a face. "Then maybe I should go back upstairs." She pretended to turn back.
"Enough of that," he cautioned light-heartedly, cupping her elbow. "Everyone here today loves popcorn." He was referring to her favorite self-description whenever she lost her composure at his high expectations with regard to her behavior and her grades. "Come on, Princess, let's go. Your guests are waiting." Mark escorted her into the garden, and then moved away as the DJ announced her arrival, calling her "The Birthday Queen."
The guests, who included Mark's friends, relatives, and their sons and daughters, several of who were Cybelle's age, applauded warmly, together with a handful of her former schoolmates. A taped drum roll and the DJ requested, "To begin the celebration, will the birthday queen choose a partner for the first dance."
Cybelle scanned the gathered well-wishers for a suitable partner. Terry, Bill perhaps, or Timmy, or one of the several other young men straining at the edge of their folding chairs, ready to join her if she chose them. Her gaze rested on Mark who had taken a seat with the Lamberts and the O'Hares, close friends of his parents. Cybelle smiled impishly.
Mark watched her advance steadily toward him. When she stopped in front of him, he noticed the playful gleam in her eyes. "May I have this dance?" she requested, extending her hand.
Now why would she want to dance with him when there were so many eligible handsome young men just dying to partner her. Not one of her best choices, but he couldn't refuse her without embar-rassing her. He stood up and escorted her to the center of the patio where an area had been designated for dancing. The DJ upped the volume on the stereo and tantalizing sounds floated through the garden. Mark fitted an arm about her waist and began guiding her across the empty circle.
"I shouldn't have asked?" Cybelle inquired innocently. Over the past two years she had learned to interpret the various expressions on his face with an accuracy that sometimes startled him.
"It might have been wiser to choose one of the guests," Mark said.
"If my father were alive, I probably would have chosen him."
"I'm not your father, Cybelle. I'm not even a relative."
"You're my guardian."
"No, not even that, as of today. You're eighteen, officially an adult," and with a note of whimsy, "except perhaps for drinking in public places," alluding to the time she had ordered a drink at the restaurant where they had stopped while traveling north to her new home.
Cybelle shrugged. Was he afraid people would talk? "You worry too much," she said. "I chose you for my first dance because I owe you so much I doubt I'll ever be able to repay you."
The DJ invited the guests to join the couple on the dance floor. "The only payment I want is to see you sculpt a good life for yourself, one that would make your father proud."
"I want you to be proud of me," Cybelle confessed. She lifted her chin to gaze into Mark's face. Despite her high-heeled vamps, the top of her head hardly reached his jaw.
Mark looked away worriedly. What he'd read in her eyes was disconcerting; not that he hadn't seen it coming. From her arrival as a grief-stunned rebellious teen-ager, she had grown to trust him and depend on him. It was partly his fault. Remembering how Helen had neglected her husband and her daughter, he had made sure to be there for Cybelle whenever she needed him. She was grateful to him for salvaging her future, but like some patients who grow attached to their doctors, she was too young and inexperienced to differentiate between gratitude and the true affection that can grow between a man and a woman.
"Cybelle, in a few days you'll be living on campus, busy with completing your education. You'll make new friends; friends I hope with strong moral fibers. You might even meet some young man who you'll learn to care for very much." He wanted to say more, but again he did not wish to embarrass her, or cause her hurt. But blunter remarks proved unnecessary. Her ensuing silence as they finished the dance told him she understood.
Geraldine's expertise in the kitchen achieved culinary per-fection that afternoon. Everyone agreed that the prim housekeeper's hot buffet was a masterpiece. There were chafing dishes steaming with sumptuous Veal Francaise, Chicken Sorrentino, Steak Napolitana, along with Sweet and Sour Salmon and Crab Mousse. Leatrice pitched in with Harry for the Chef's salad. The housekeeper's husband proudly carried in the huge bowl filled with the greens. And later, after another interval of dancing, the desserts were wheeled in — delicate meringue pies, elegant light fluffy mousses, and an exotic fruit salad served inside a scooped-out watermelon halve with a scalloped rim edged with cotton lace. Aromatic liqueurs embellished the coffees — Irish, Cappuccino, Demitasse and good old fashioned brow
n.
Throughout the afternoon Cybelle smiled and laughed and chatted gaily with her guests. She hid the growing sense of loss that Mark's words and accurate intimations had struck in her heart. As he might describe it, she fancied herself in love with her benefactor. "Fancied" was the key word. "Unrequited" was another. Very well, then, as Mark wished, she would have to free herself of that feeling for him.
Evening encroached upon the brilliant orange and amethyst sunset. To make amends it hung a star-studded indigo curtain across the heavens. Leatrice and Mark were dancing to a soothing fox trot from the early 70's when Geraldine wheeled onto the patio a serving cart with a rectangular birthday cake bearing eighteen pink candles, all lit. Everyone gathered around Cybelle and the cake to watch her make a wish and blow out the candles. Someone asked what she wished for. Cybelle did not answer and no one but Mark noticed the tinge of sadness in her eyes. Later she sat on the grass opening a pile of gaily-wrapped presents, among them a fine wood jewelry box, a delicate lace blouse, a leather pocketbook, and scores of other eye-filling finery. Mark's present was the most precious, a pair of pendant cameo earrings rimmed with tiny diamonds. A wisp of elastic held the earrings in place on a bed of white silk.
She found it impossible to hide the gratitude. She leapt to her feet and ran to Mark and hugged him. He hugged her in return and kissed her on the forehead, then absently began talking to the O'Hares.
Cybelle felt wretched. She spun away and collided with Leatrice. One glance at her face and she knew that Leatrice was aware of her young friend's feelings. "Would you like to talk later," Leatrice offered. "We can help Geraldine carry the presents to your room. She'd appreciate the help."
Cybelle wondered if Mark had discussed her with Leatrice. Twice as the two had danced, she had caught them watching her. Again she did not answer, simply walked away as if Leatrice were not there.
At last the party was over, the last of the guests had departed, all of her presents had been deposited in her closet, and she was alone in her room, in her apple mint cotton robe, preparing for bed.
Geraldine had placed the small white box containing the earrings that Mark had given her on the vanity table along with Leatrice's gift, a large bottle of perfume, Chanel No. 5, Cybelle's favorite. On impulse, Cybelle sat down at the vanity and reopened Mark's gift. She lifted the earrings off their silk bed and slipped them on. The cameos hung delicately by three gold links. The workmanship on the faces was fastidious and grand. The tiny diamonds caught the light from the boudoir lamp on the vanity and twinkled and sparkled. She would treasure this gift for the rest of her life, and the man who had given it to her, even if his only intent had been kindness and the fulfillment of a promise to her father.
Leatrice was older and sophisticated, and more his type. There was no chance in heaven that he would ever see his ward as more than Jacques' child in need of protection. Next week she would leave for college and Mark's responsibility for her begin to end. The thought produced a knot in her stomach. She had never felt so alone in her life, not since she had lost her parents and her home. That rebellious feeling which often surged when she felt frustrated and faced with an insoluble problem, overwhelmed her. She wanted to do something wild and stupid.
Cybelle left her room and went straight to the kitchen, a huge room, brick floored, with an authentic colonial hearth. She opened the refrigerator intent on eating at one sitting what remained of the birthday cake. Bottles of champagne lounged on their sides on the bottom shelf. "Champagne, that's even better," she whispered. With an evil grin, Cybelle decided that for the first time in her young life, she was going to get drunk. She used a dishtowel to muffle the noise of the popping cork, and then she took a wine tumbler from the cabinet and filled it with the bubbly. She sat down and stared at the drink angrily for a moment, then drank it without coming up for air. She burped, made a face, and proceeded to refill the tumbler. "Down the hatch," she murmured and down it went.
In his room, Mark donned his mauve silk robe over his pajamas, both Christmas gifts from Lea-trice. He drew the drapes and sat down in his favorite wing chair by a small table near the window. His thoughts were on Cybelle and her infatuation with him. Ever since she had been put under his care, he had developed a habit of praying, and speaking to Jacques about his daughter.
She will get over this infatuation, I'm sure, Jacques. It's common at this age for girls to acquire crushes on unlikely partners. She's grateful and misinterpreting her feelings. I'd appreciate some advice on how to handle this matter. I have no wish to embarrass her or hurt her feelings.
Lord, do I sound pompous! Mark chided himself. If this is the feeling I'm conveying to Cybelle, the girl may learn to hate me. That's not what I want, Jacques. I want her trust and respect. A loud crash outside in the corridor sent him bolting upright.
Cybelle grabbed on to the walnut lowboy as her legs gave way and she fell, taking the Wedgwood vase with her to the tiled floor. The meeting of the body, vase and ceramic tile created a cacophony of sound that reverberated through the entire hallway. "Oh heck," she muttered, as the cocoon of unconcern with the world around her that the champagne had induced, burst. Her head spun, taking her stomach with it. Slowly perfection herself to her knees, she noticed the shattered vase. "Ooops, sorry," she told it.
Standing up was a feat that at the moment she felt unequal to perform. She continued along on her hands and knees until a pair of large feet wearing brown slippers obstructed her path.
"Oh heck," she muttered again. They had to belong to Mark. Who else would have the audacity to grow such big feet?
The upward swing as Mark pulled her to her feet by both wrists, sent her equilibrium spinning a second time. Her head fell forward and her nose buried itself between the lapels of his robe.
Oooh, silk pajamas," she giggled, trying to raise her head, and hiccupping.
"What have you done to yourself?" Mark demanded. "You're soused."
"I am not s-soused." Cybelle hiccupped again.
Mark inspected the bemused grin on her small oval face. He sighed in resignation.
"You're soused," he said.
Cybelle's voice rose a few octaves as she insisted, "I am not!" Hiccup. "I'm p-perfectly s-s-sober." Hiccup.
Her face felt as if a hot wet towel had been wrapped around it and she was very sleepy. She yawned and hiccupped again. She honestly could not understand why Mark looked so exasperated. It would be nice if he would just hold her, that is, if she could just stop hiccupping and yawning, and keep her eyes from closing. She felt so light, as if she were floating. She was glad of Mark's presence to keep her from climbing too high, or she might hit the ceiling. She could feel him lifting her into his arms. He was so handsome and tall, so personable and self-confident, so much a gentleman, with the most mesmerizing blue eyes, and he had such fabulously comfortable shoulders. The one her head was resting on was cool and snug. Cybelle yawned again, then quietly fell asleep. Mark wavered between exasperation and the need to laugh rather than be angry at Cybelle's latest escapade. He carried her into her room and lowered her on to the bed. The night was cool. A heady breeze from an opened window wove through the room. A moth fluttered between the curtains as they shook softly.
The blanket sheet had already been partially pulled back. Mark drew it over Cybelle. As he did so, his fingers accidentally brushed her neck. Warmth crept over him. "No!" the word issued from him as a startled whisper. A disclaimer. He withdrew his hands. As he stepped back, he spied the earrings she wore, his gift. The minikin diamonds bordering the cameos winked. The expression in his eyes grew concerned, then vulnerable, and then tender.
CHAPTER FOUR
Cybelle tossed in her bed. Once more, she dreamed….
Fireworks peaked as the Fourth drew to a close. It was a few minutes to midnight. Jacques and his family had retired. Someone somewhere set off one last rocket. The night sky flared brightly with the tail of a peacock. One of the fiery plumes drifted down to the roof and began to smolder.
The screams of her parents woke her. She bounded from bed and ran to the door. The metal knob was hot and singed her fingertips. Using the edge of her nightgown to protect her hand, she turned the knob and opened the door. Jets of smoke and heat blasted at her face and tried to enter her lungs. She slammed the door shut. Her home was on fire. She ran to the window and threw it open. Fire trucks, their red lights flashing, were gathered below in the suburban street. Neighbors in their nightclothes had congregated in frightened groups along the sidewalks. A fireman pitched a ladder against the outside wall and within moments, he had climbed and seized Cybelle and carried her down to safety. All the while, she cried out asking him to rescue her parents; the firefighter made no reply. Their bedroom was on the other side of the house. As soon as the fireman set her down Cybelle scurried to where she could see the windows to her parents' bedroom clearly. They were open and flames leapt from their center, defying all the firemen's efforts to douse them. She heard her mother and father crying out from behind the flames. She began to scream along with her parents' tortured cries…
