Logan 04 Music in the Night

by V. C. Andrews

  honey?" I heard Mommy call from my doorway. "Yes, Mommy."

  "Everything all right?"

  "Yes, Mommy. I just had to go to the

  bathroom," I said. "I'm fine."

  "Okay. Would you like some hot chocolate?" "No, Mommy. I ate and drank enough." "Oh. Is Mrs. Royce a good cook?"

  I swallowed and closed my eyes. Robert had

  told me she was a good cook.

  "Yes, Mommy," I said. I felt like I had stuck

  pins in my own throat. No one believed in me more

  than Mommy and no one would refuse more to

  believe I had lied or been deceitful.

  "That's nice, dear. You can tell me all about it

  tomorrow, if you want. Good night, Laura." "Good night, Mommy."

  I heard her go to her room. Then I took a deep

  breath and got ready for bed. I tossed and turned all

  night, seeing myself in a rowboat that was being flung

  from one wave to another, the sky black and full of

  cold rain. Out of the storm clouds Daddy's face

  appeared, raging. A long finger of accusation pointed

  at me from the heavens.

  "You have sinned," he bellowed. It was a chant

  caught in the wind. "You have sinned."

  I woke up in a cold sweat.

  "I haven't sinned. I haven't. I love Robert and

  he loves me. That's not a sin. That's--"

  I pressed my hand to my mouth, embarrassed to

  find myself talking aloud. Slowly, I lowered my head

  to the pillow and stared into the darkness until my

  eyelids grew so heavy again, I couldn't keep them

  open.

  Sunlight burst into my room like a bird crashing

  madly into the window. My eyes snapped open and I

  sat up quickly. I had perspired so much during the

  night, my nightgown was cold and wet. I pulled it off

  my body quickly and went in to take a warm shower,

  turning my face into the water and letting it pound on

  my closed eyes and cheeks.

  No one but Cary seemed to notice how quiet I

  was at breakfast. Daddy was excited about a new

  location he had discovered for lobster fishing and talk

  of the day's work dominated the conversation. Every

  once in a while, Cary glanced at me and I could see

  from the way he studied me that he sensed something

  was wrong. Every time his questioning gaze met mine I glanced away quickly. I was eager for everyone to finish eating so I could escape to the kitchen to help

  Mommy clean up.

  Cary poked his head through the kitchen

  doorway just as Mommy and I were finishing. "I'm going over to the bog," he said, "if you and

  May want to come along."

  "Go ahead, dear," Mommy said. "We're almost

  done."

  "I know it's not as exciting as it used to be,"

  Cary snapped. "Forget it."

  "No!" I cried. He looked back, surprised. "I'd like to go, too. I'll get May."

  We joined him outside and the three of us, just

  as we used to, walked over the beach to our cranberry

  bog. It was all in blossom and looked like a pale pink

  ocean.

  "Daddy says it will be a fair crop this year, but

  no record breaker," Cary remarked. He leaned over

  and inspected some of the blossoms.

  We didn't harvest until the fall and even with

  everyone helping it was still quite a process. It was

  Cary's job to run one of the harvesting machines. He

  had been doing it since he was ten.

  "Looks healthy," he remarked. He gave May a blossom. Then he sat and put a twig in his mouth as he gazed out at the ocean. "So how was your dinner?

  Are you a member of their family yet?"

  "No, Cary. And you don't have to be so

  sarcastic. We had a nice dinner," I added quickly. "Um." He glanced at me. "Everything all

  right?" "Yes," I said.

  "You don't look all that happy this morning." "I've been thinking about a lot of things," I said.

  "Oh?"

  "Things I have to work out for myself," I added.

  He grimaced.

  "Used to be a time when you and I trusted each

  other with our problems, Laura."

  "It's riot that I don't trust you, Cary. Sometimes

  girls have to deal with girl issues, issues boys just

  won't be able to understand."

  "Sure," he said, his mouth twisted with

  skepticism. "I'm telling you the truth, Cary Logan.

  You don't have to sneer at everything I say." "You mean you're not going to discuss this with

  your precious boyfriend?"

  "Cary!"

  "What?"

  "Nothing," I said, shaking my head, my tears

  escaping from the corners of my eyes.

  "What is it, Laura?" he asked with a face full of

  concern.

  "Boys are just . . boys!" I cried and got up. I

  tried running down the sandhill, but sand has a way of

  giving and I know I looked clumsy and foolish, nearly

  losing my balance as I hurried back to the house. All that day I found myself bursting into tears

  for no apparent reason or warning. I tried to hide my

  face and spent most of my time alone in my room

  under the guise of studying for finals. The truth was

  my eyes just floated over the pages of my notes, my

  mind not grasping any of the lessons. Robert called,

  but I kept our conversation short and I heard the

  unhappiness in his voice when I ended the call. I returned to my room and my mind once again

  returned to the night before.

  Why? I demanded of my annoying conscience,

  why should I feel any guilt? I love Robert and I

  believe he loves me. What we did all people who are

  in love do.

  But other people wait until the proper time,

  until they are blessed and until they swear their love

  and loyalty before God in a church, my conscience, in

  Daddy's voice, replied.

  No. I shook my head. Love is what's holy, not

  words pronounced by a priest. Love, pure and simple. Is it love? Can you be so sure, so positive? Will

  you be in love like this next year? Will Robert? Yes, yes, yes, I shouted in my thoughts. Suddenly there was a gentle knock on my door.

  I quickly wiped away my tears with the back of my

  hand.

  "Who is it?"

  Cary opened the door and leaned in.

  "Laura, if Ive done anything or said anything

  to hurt your feelings today, I'm sorry," he said. "I just

  wanted you to know that before you went to sleep." "You didn't," I said. "But thanks."

  "Good. Night, Laura."

  "Good night, Cary."

  He closed the door and walked softly away. During the following week, Robert would leave

  a letter in my locker at the end of every day. Each

  letter declared his love for me more than the letter he

  had previously written.

  I want to apologize to you, Laura, but I tell

  myself what we did was not wrong and neither you

  nor I should feel guilty about it. I love you and only

  you and making love is only another way of saying it.

  There's no one to forgive, he added.

  I tied his letters up and kept them hidden in my

  desk at home, reading and rereading them so much, I

  thought the words were starting to fade. I wanted to

  believe every word he wrote and everything he said to

  me. I w
anted that more than anything and I fought

  hard to silence the voice of conscience that berated me

  and threatened me with the punishments of

  damnation.

  Every night that week at dinner, Daddy seemed

  to pick the readings from the Bible as if he knew what

  was going on in my mind. One night Isaiah, Chapter

  1: "Ah sinful nation, a people laden with iniquity, a

  seed of evildoers, children that are corrupters . . ." I looked down at my lap and when I looked up,

  I felt the heat in my face and Cary's penetrating gaze,

  his face still full of questions and concern.

  The next night it was my turn and Daddy asked

  me to read from Romans, 8. I began, but my voice

  cracked when I read, ". . for to be carnally minded is

  death; but to be spiritually minded is life and peace . .

  ."

  My throat closed and I had to stop, pretending

  to be choking on something I had nibbled before we

  sat at the table. I drank some water and Cary scooped up the Bible and completed the reading for me. Daddy

  looked at me with troubled eyes.

  "Are you all right, Laura?" Mommy asked. "Yes, Mommy."

  "Maybe you're working too hard on your

  schoolwork," she said. "You should take a day off and

  maybe go sailing or enjoy the beach."

  "I'll see, Mommy," I said. "I'll be fine." Robert's letters kept coming, his pleading

  growing more frantic as I continued to remain aloof in

  school. He was absent on Thursday and, since Cary

  was already eating with friends, I sat with Theresa

  Patterson in the cafeteria.

  "You look lost without Robert," she said.

  "Where is he?"

  "He's . . . I don't know. I guess he wasn't feeling

  well this morning."

  Theresa's dark eyes searched my face and then

  she moved a little closer.

  "There are a lot of girls who are jealous of you,

  Laura. Most of them would steal him away if they

  could. Can they?" she asked with a small smile on her

  lips.

  "I don't own him, Theresa. No one owns

  anybody else," I replied.

  She shook her head.

  "That's not the right answer, Laura. You should

  be a tiger when it comes to holding on to your man.

  See Maggie Williams there. She'd jump you and tear

  out your hair you so much as batted your eyelashes at

  Artrus. Everything all right with you and Robert?" she

  finally asked.

  "Yes," I said.

  "I know that boy dotes on you, Laura. That's

  why the other girls were making all that hissing about

  you and him and Cary. They're jealous. Good," she

  said. "I like to see them eat their hearts out," she

  added, glaring at the girls across the room, the ones

  who would never be seen sitting beside a Brava. She turned back to me.

  "You make that boy happy, Laura, he'll make

  you happy. Know what I mean?" she said, winking. I shook my head.

  "If you're a good lover, your lover is good to

  you," she said and laughed. "Never mind. I don't want

  to pry. But I warn you," she sang, "you turn your back

  on him once, and Robert Royce is going to be

  snatched away."

  Was she right? I wondered. Was Robert losing

  patience with me? Would he turn away? And would I regret it, forever? If only these answers were as easy as the answers that came to me on my final exams, I thought, life would be so simple.

  7

  A Woman's Heart

  .

  Once, when I was much younger, I looked up

  and saw Mommy staring at me while we were both sitting on the porch and doing needlework. "What's wrong, Mommy?" I asked because she had the strangest, soft smile on her face. She looked like a little girl, amazed at some wonder of nature.

  "Oh, nothing, dear," she said. "I was just thinking how much you remind me of Belinda sometimes."

  Then, as if she realized she had said something blasphemous, she bit down on her lower lip and shook her head vigorously.

  "Don't ever tell anyone I said that, especially your Grandma Olivia, Laura. I shouldn't have said that. You don't really look like Belinda. Not at all," she emphasized and went back to her needlework.

  Although I never mentioned it to anyone, not even Cary, I never forgot Mommy had said it, and whenever I had any opportunity to look at a picture of Aunt Belinda, I searched her face for similarities.

  Then, one day, on a whim, I asked Cary to take me to the rest home. He refused at first. For us it was as off limits as a local bar. It was pretty much understood that Aunt Belinda was an embarrassment to our family and she was so mentally confused, it would be a waste of time to speak to her. If I asked about her, Daddy would say, "It's not your affair. Forget about her." Nevertheless, probably because of the remark Mommy had let slip from her lips and the curiosity it had stirred in me, I wanted to meet Aunt Belinda.

  Finally, Cary agreed to drive me there one day, but he refused to follow me inside.

  "I'll wait out here for you," he said. "Don't be more than a half hour."

  That was my first visit. It was our secret for a long time. He drove me there one other time, but that was months ago. Neither of us spoke much about Aunt Belinda. Cary didn't ask any questions about my visits. It was as if he thought it was so forbidden a subject, even to show curiosity was a sin. He would rather act as if it never happened.

  Occasionally, because it had been done so many times before in conversation, he would make a remark like, "That's something only crazy Aunt Belinda would do or say." She was truly a skeleton dangling in our family closet.

  The day of my conversation with Theresa in the cafeteria, I asked Cary to drive me to the rest home.

  "What? Why? You haven't been there for months," he said.

  "I know. I feel sorry for her, Cary, but I want to talk to her about other things."

  "What other things?"

  "Things," I said. "If you won't do it, I'll have to ask Robert," I said. That was enough to cause him to make a decision quickly.

  "I'll do it, but I won't go in with you."

  "I know. I'd rather that you didn't anyway," I said.

  He looked at me with a face full of curiosity, but he just shook his head.

  "You've been acting really strange these past few days, Laura. Sometimes keeping a secret buried so long can make it fester like a sore," he warned.

  "I'll be all right, Cary. Just do me this favor. Please."

  It was almost impossible for Cary to refuse me anything if I asked him strongly enough.

  "As soon as we get May home, we'll go up, but it can't be for long, Laura. You know we can't let Daddy know."

  "I know. I think that's wrong. She's really a very lonely, sweet old lady and no threat to anyone," I said.

  He didn't reply. We picked up May from school and walked home quickly. Then he and I got into the truck and drove to the rest home.

  We rode for nearly a half hour before Cary turned up a side road heavy with pine, wild apple, and scrub oak. It seemed fitting that our aunt who was kept a secret and whose past was to be forgotten had been put in such an isolated place.

  The rest home had a pretty setting. The ocean was directly behind it and the grounds in front of the building consisted of a long, rolling lawn with benches, a rock garden, and some fountains.

  The Wedgwood-blue home was a three-story building with a front porch the width of the building. Behind the building there was an elaborate garden, more benches and fountains, and a gazebo twice the size of Grandma Olivia's. There were some full red maple trees, more scrub oak and pine, and the pathways wer
e lined with trimmed bushes. I had spent my second visit with Aunt Belinda out among the gardens.

  After he shut off the engine, Cary turned to me.

  "Remember. Not more than thirty minutes," he ordered, tapping his watch. "We want to get back before Daddy gets home and starts asking questions."

  "Okay, okay."

  I got out and walked the flagstone walkway to the short row of steps. I glanced back at Cary, who stared at me with a face the picture of worry. He looked about as if he were afraid to be caught here, as if he were the driver for a gang of bank robbers.

  I entered the building. The lobby had light blue curtains, a blonde oak slat wood floor with dark blue oval area rugs. There were large paintings of country scenes and ocean scenes, some with fishermen, some simply with sailboats. The cushioned chairs and settees were all done in a light blue floral pattern. There were small wooden tables, book and magazine racks, and several rocking chairs were lined up in front of the large, brick fireplace.

  There were only a few residents seated, a pair of elderly gentlemen playing checkers, with the rest just reading or talking softly. I didn't see Aunt Belinda.

  The receptionist turned from a nurse and hurried toward me.

  "Yes?"

  "I'd like to see my aunt, Belinda Gordon. I've been here before," I said. "My name's Laura Logan."

  "Oh, yes." She turned to the nurse. "Do you know where Belinda Gordon is at the moment, Jenny?"

  "She's in her room. I brought her there about ten minutes ago."

  "Is she all right?" I asked quickly.

  "She was tired. She spent almost the whole day outside," the nurse said. "Come on. I'll take you to see her," she offered with a smile.

  I followed her down the corridor through another door to Aunt Belinda's room.

  She was sitting in her chair, her eyes closed. The moment after we appeared in her doorway, her eyes snapped open and she blinked rapidly.

  "There's someone here to see you, Belinda," the nurse said. I stepped into the room.

  "Hello, Aunt Belinda. It's Laura. Jacob and Sara's daughter," I added when her face registered no recognition.

  She smiled.

  "Oh, yes. Laura."

  I pulled the chair near the window closer to her and sat. "How are you feeling?"

  Aunt Belinda was no taller than Grandma Olivia. If anything, she was an inch or so shorter. They both had small features, but I thought Aunt Belinda was prettier. She had sapphire-blue eyes, which even here were brighter, happier. Her smile was softer. There was a childlike innocence to her, despite the tales of promiscuity and the notoriety of her youth.