The Flowers in the Attic Series: The Dollangangers: Flowers in the Attic, Petals on the Wind, If There Be Thorns, Seeds of Yesterday, and a New Excerpt!

by Andrews, V. C.

  “He’s too old for you!”

  “I love him.”

  “So, you love him. What about your career? Are you throwing away all those years of dreaming, of working? Are you going to break your word? You know we swore to each other to go after our goals and not let those lost years make a difference.”

  “Paul and I have discussed that. He understands. He thinks we can work it out. . . .”

  “He thinks? What does a doctor know about the dancer’s life? You’ll never be with him. He’ll be here; you’ll be God knows where, with men your own age. You don’t owe him anything, Cathy, you don’t! We’ll pay him back every cent he’s spent on us. We’ll give him the respect he deserves, and the love—but you don’t owe him your life.”

  “Don’t I?” I asked in a whisper, aching inside for Chris. “I think I do owe him my life. You know how I felt when I came here. I thought no one could be trusted or depended on. I expected the worst to happen to us, and it would have too without him. And I don’t love him just for what he’s done. I love him because of who and what he is. Chris, you don’t see him as I do.”

  He whirled about, seizing the shears from my hands. “And what about Julian? You are going to be married to Paul and dance with Julian? You know Julian is mad for you. It’s all over him, the way he looks at you, the way he touches you.”

  I backed off, stricken. Chris wasn’t talking just of Julian. “I’m sorry if this has ruined your holiday,” I said, “but you’ll find someone too. You love Paul, I know you do. And when you’ve thought about this, you’ll know we are right for each other, despite our age difference, despite everything.” I went off, leaving Chris in the garden with the hedge clippers.

  Paul drove me to Greenglenna while Carrie stayed home to enjoy the new color TV set and all her new clothes and games. Paul chatted happily of the party he planned for all of us tonight at his favorite restaurant. “I wish I could be selfish and leave Chris and Carrie at home. But I want them there when I put the ring on your finger.” I fixed my eyes on the winter landscape rolling by, the trees bare, the grass brown, the pretty houses with decorations and outdoor lights turned on after dark. Now I was part of the show, no longer just a spectator locked away—and yet I felt so torn, so miserable.

  “Cathy, you are seated beside the happiest man in the world!”

  And back in his garden, I’d left a man just as miserable as I felt.

  * * *

  In my purse I had a ring I’d bought for Carrie in New York. A tiny ruby for a very small finger, and even so, it was too large for anything but her thumb. As I stood there, in the better jewelry department of the best store in town, discussing just how the ring could be reduced in size without ruining the setting, I suddenly heard a very familiar voice! A sweet, husky, dulcet-toned voice. As in slow motion, I cautiously turned my head.

  Momma! Standing right next to me! If she’d been alone, perhaps she would have seen me, but she was absorbed in chatting to her female companion who was dressed just as elegantly as she was. I’d changed considerably since she saw me last—still if she looked, she would have to know who I was. The two of them were discussing the party they had attended last night. “Really, Corrine, Elsie does carry the festive theme through to an outrageous extreme—all that red!”

  Parties! Was that all she did, go to parties! My heart went pounding in fox-trot time. My spirits went limp, sagged out by disappointment. A party—I should have known! She never stayed at home and watched TV! She hadn’t seen me! Oh, but I was angry! I turned to make her see me! A small standing mirror on the glass jewelry showcase reflected her profile, and showed me how lovely she was still. A bit older looking, but striking nonetheless. Her flaxen hair was drawn back to emphasize the perfection of her small gem of a nose, her pouting red lips, her long and naturally dark lashes that were made thicker by mascara. Her ears glittered with gold and diamonds, the real things—and she was speaking.

  “Can’t you show me something just right for a lovely young girl?” she asked the saleslady. “Something in good taste, not gaudy, or too large, but something a young girl can keep all her life and be proud of.”

  Who? What girl did she have to give gifts to? I felt jealous and watched her select a lovely gold locket very much like the one Chris had given me! Three hundred dollars! Now our dear mother was spending money on a girl not her own, forgetting about us. Didn’t she think of us, wonder how we were faring? How could she sleep at night when the world could be so cold, ugly and cruel to children on their own?

  As far as I could tell, she was completely without guilt or regrets. Maybe that was what millions could do—nail a satisfied smirk to one’s face—despite what it covered. I wanted to speak and see her poise collapse! I wanted her smiles to peel off like bark from a tree and she’d be revealed before her friend for what she was—a monster without a heart! A killer! A fraud! But I said nothing.

  “Cathy,” said Paul, coming up behind me and putting his hands on my shoulders, “I’ve returned everything—how about you? Ready to go now?”

  I wanted desperately for my mother to see me with Paul, a man every bit as handsome as her darling “Bart.” I wanted to shout it out. See, I too can attract intelligent, kind, educated and handsome men! So quickly I glanced to see if Momma had heard Paul speak my name, hoping to delight in her stunned surprise, her guilt, her shame. But she’d moved on farther down the counter, and if she heard the name, Cathy, it didn’t cause her to turn her head.

  For some reason I didn’t understand, I sobbed.

  “Are you all right, darling?” asked Paul. He saw something on my face that puzzled him and put concern in his eyes. “You’re not having second thoughts about us, are you?”

  “No, of course not!” I denied. But I was having second thoughts about me. Why hadn’t I done something? Why hadn’t I put out my foot this time and tripped her? Then I could have seen her sprawled on the floor, her poise vanished—maybe. It would be like her to fall gracefully and have all the men in the store hurry to assist her up—even Paul.

  * * *

  I was dressing for the big affair at The Plantation House when Chris came into my bedroom and sent Carrie away. “Go watch TV,” he said with more sharpness than I’d ever heard him use with her. “I want to speak to your sister.” Carrie threw him, then me, an odd look before she skipped out of the room.

  No sooner had Carrie closed the door behind her, than Chris was at my side and seizing my shoulders. He shook me violently. “Are you going through with this farce? You don’t love him! You still love me! I know you do! Cathy, please, don’t do this to me! I know you’re trying to set me free by marrying Paul, but that’s not a good reason for marrying a man.” He hung his head, released my shoulders, and looked terribly ashamed. His voice came so low I had to keen my ears to hear his words. “I know it’s wrong what I feel for you. I know I should try and find someone else, like you try to do . . . but I can’t stop loving you and wanting you. I think about you all during my days, every day. I dream about you at night. I want to wake up and see you in the room with me. I want to go to bed and know you’re there, very close, where I can see you, touch you.” A sob tore from his throat before he could go on. “I can’t bear to think of you with another man! Damn it, Cathy, I want you! You don’t plan to have children anyway, so why can’t it be me?”

  I’d drawn away when he released my shoulders. When his words stopped I ran to fling my arms about him, as he clutched at me, as if I were the one and only woman who could save him from drowning. And we’d both drown if I did as he wanted. “Oh, Chris, what can I say? Momma and Daddy made their mistake in marrying each other—and we were the ones to pay the price. We can’t risk repeating their mistake!”

  “Yes we can!” he fervently cried. “We don’t have to have a sexual relationship! We can just live together, be together, just brother and sister, with Carrie too. Please, please, I beg you not to marry Paul!”

  “Shut up!” I screamed. “Leave me alone!” I str
uck at him then, wanting to hurt him, as every word he said hurt me. “You make me feel so guilty, so ashamed! Chris, I did the best I could for you when we were prisoners. Maybe we did turn to each other, but only because we had no others! If there had been, you would never have wanted me, and I would never have given you a second glance! You are only a brother to me, Chris, and I want to keep you where you should be . . . which isn’t in my bed!”

  Then he had me in his arms, and I couldn’t help but cling to him with my cheek pressed against his thudding heart. He was having a hard time controlling his tears. I wanted him to forget . . . but every second he held me hard against him raised his hopes, and he was aroused! And he was the one who thought we could live platonically together! “Let me go, Chris. If you love me for the rest of your life, keep it to yourself; I never want to hear about it again! I love Paul, and nothing you say will keep me from marrying him!”

  “You’re lying to yourself,” he choked, holding me tighter. “I see you watching me before you turn your eyes his way. You want me, and you want him. You want everyone, and everything! Don’t ruin Paul’s life when already he’s suffered enough! He’s too old for you—and age does count! He’ll be old and dried up sexually when you’re at your peak! Why even Julian would be better!”

  “You are one big fool if you believe that!”

  “Then I’m a fool! I’ve always been a fool, haven’t I? When I put my love and trust in you that was the biggest mistake of my life, wasn’t it? You are just as heartless, in your own way, as our mother! You want every man who appeals to you, regardless of the consequences . . . but I would let you have whomever you wanted, as long as you always came back to me.”

  “Christopher, you’re jealous because I found someone to love before you did! And don’t stand there and glare your icy blue eyes at me—for you’ve had plenty of affairs! I know you’ve slept with Yolanda Lange, and God knows how many others. And what did you tell them? You told them you loved them too! Well I don’t love you now! I love Paul, and there’s not one thing you can do to stop us from marrying each other!”

  He stood there, pale faced and quivering all over, and then he said in a hoarse whisper, “Yes there is. I could tell him about us . . . he wouldn’t want you then.”

  “You wouldn’t tell him that. You’re much too honorable, and besides, he already knows.”

  For long, long moments we glared at each other . . . and then he ran from the room, slamming the door so hard behind him it put a long crack in the ceiling plaster.

  * * *

  Only Carrie accompanied Paul and me to The Plantation House. “It’s too bad Chris doesn’t feel well. I hope he doesn’t have the flu. . . . Everyone else does.”

  I didn’t say anything, just sat and listened to Carrie chatter on and on about how much she loved Christmas and the way it made everything ordinary look so pretty.

  Paul slipped a two-carat diamond ring on my finger while a huge fire crackled the Yule log, and soft music played. I did my best to make it a joyous occasion, laughing, smiling, exchanging long, romantic looks while we sipped champagne and toasted each other and our long and happy future together. I danced with him under the giant crystal chandeliers and kept my eyes closed, picturing Chris home alone, sulking in his room and hating me.

  “We’re going to be so happy, Paul,” I whispered, standing on the toes of my high-heeled silver slippers. Yes, this was the way our life together would be. Easy. Sweet. Effortless. Just like the lilting, old-fashioned waltz we danced to. Because when you truly loved there were no problems that love couldn’t overcome.

  Me . . . and my ideas.

  April’s Fool

  Drive. Dedication. Desire. Determination. The four D’s of the ballet world we had to live by. If Madame Z. had been tough on us before Christmas, now she clamped down on us such a heavy schedule of practice all we did was work. She lectured on how perfect The Royal Ballet was, strictly classical—but we were to do everything in our own unique American way, classical . . . but more beautiful and innovative.

  Julian was absolutely ruthless, even demonic. I began to really despise him! We were both wet with sweat and our hair hung in strings. My leotard was glued to my skin. Julian wore only a loin cloth. He yelled as if I were deaf, “Do it right this time, damn it! I don’t want to be here all night!”

  “Stop yelling at me, Julian! I can hear perfectly well!”

  “Then do it right! First take three steps and then you kick, then jump for me to catch, and for God’s sake this time lay back immediately! Don’t stay upright and stiff, the moment I catch you fall backwards and go limp—if you can manage to do anything right or graceful today.”

  That was my trouble. I didn’t trust him now. I was afraid he was going to try to hurt me. “Julian, you yell at me as if I’m deliberately doing everything wrong!”

  “It seems to me you are! If you really wanted to do it right you could. All you have to do is take three steps, kick, then jump, and I lift and you fall back. Now see if you can get it right at least one time out of fifty tries!”

  “Do you think I like this? Look at my armpits,” I said as I lifted my arms to show him. “See how raw they are, how you’ve rubbed the skin off? And tomorrow I’ll be black and blue all over from the bruises you make with your hard grasps!”

  “Then do it right!” He raged not only with his voice, but with his jet eyes, and I was terribly afraid he was just waiting for the opportunity to let me fall—on purpose—for revenge. But I got up, and we did it again. And again I failed to fall back and fully trust him. This time he threw me to the floor where I lay panting, gasping, and wondering why the hell I kept this up.

  “You’re gasping for breath?” he asked sarcastically, towering above me, his bare feet wide apart and straddling my legs. His bare chest glistened with perspiration that dripped down to fall on me. “I do all the hard work, and you lie there sprawled out and exhausted looking. What happened to you down there? Did you use all your energy making it with your doctor?”

  “Shut up! I’m tired from twelve hours of continuous practice, that’s all!”

  “If you’re tired, I’m ten times more so—so get up, and let’s do it again—and get it right this time, goddamn you!”

  “Don’t you swear at me! Get yourself another partner! You tripped me up and made me fall so my knee hurt for three days afterward—so how can I run and jump into your arms—you’re mean enough to cripple me permanently!”

  “Even if I hated you, I wouldn’t let you fall. And, Cathy, I don’t hate you. Not yet.”

  After practicing over and over again to the piano music, counting, timing, repeating the same series of steps, at last I got it right, and even Julian could smile and congratulate me. Then came the final dress rehearsal and the performance of Romeo and Juliet.

  It was the stunning sets and dazzling costumes that brought out the best in all of us when combined with a full orchestra. Now I could give to the role of Juliet all the little nuances that would make her real, and not some wooden stick that Yolanda appeared tonight, as she did her pliés while her eyes seemed glassy, unfocused. Madame Z. came up to peer closely into her face, and then she sniffed Yolly’s breath. “By God . . . you been smoking grass! No dancer of mine goes spaced out onto the stage and cheats my audience—get home and to bed. Catherine, get ready to play Juliet!”

  Yolanda staggered past me, then tried to give me a savage kick as she hissed, “Why did you have to come back? Why didn’t you stay down there where you belong?”

  I didn’t think of Yolanda and her threats as I stood on the flimsy balcony and gazed dreamily down into Julian’s pale face that tilted upward to mine. He appeared so beautiful under the bluish lights, wearing white tights, with his dark hair gleaming, his jet eyes glittering along with the fake jewels on his medieval costume. He seemed to be my attic lover who would ever bound away from me, and never let me near enough to see the features of his face.

  The applause thundered as the curtain lowered.
And behind it, out of breath Julian sprang up to hug me close. “You were sensational tonight! How do you manage to frustrate me right up until the moment of performance?” The curtain rose for our bows—then he kissed me full on the lips. “Bravo,” they cried, for this was the sort of drama and passion all balletomanes craved.

  It was our night, the best yet, and drunk with success I dashed past photographers, and autograph hounds toward my dressing room, for there was a big bash afterward, a celebration before our company took off for London. Quickly I lathered on cold cream to take off the makeup, then I changed from my last act costume into a short formal of periwinkle blue. Madame Zolta rapped on my door and called out, “Catherine, a lady here says she has flown all the way from your home town to watch you dance. Come, open your door and we will hold up the party until you arrive.”

  A tall attractive woman entered. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, her clothes were expensive and flattering to her figure. For some strange reason, it seemed I’d met her before, or she reminded me of someone. She looked me over from head to toe, and only then did she turn to stare around the small dressing room filled with plastic bags jammed with all the costumes I was taking with me to England, each labeled with my name and the name of the ballet the costumes were designed for. I waited impatiently for her to have her say, then go, so I could get on to putting on my coat.

  “I don’t think I know you,” I said to hurry her up.

  She smiled crookedly, then sat down uninvited to cross her nicely shaped legs. Rhythmically she swung one foot in a high-heeled black pump back and forth.

  “Of course you don’t know me, my dear child . . . but I know a great deal about you.”

  There was something in her sweet and too-smooth tongue to warn me, and I stiffened, prepared for whatever she’d come to deliver—and it would be bad. I could tell from the mean look that hid beneath the false sweet one.