“Great. Feed him at five and put him to bed. I’ll be there at seven-thirty for cocktails. After dinner we can get to know each other better.” He met my considering look with grave intensity, as a proper attorney should. Then, because of that look we held too long, simultaneously we both broke into laughter.
“And incidentally, Mr. Winslow, if you cut through the woods back of your place, you can reach mine and no one will see you unless, of course, you make a big show of yourself.”
He put his palm up and nodded, as if we were both conspiring. “Discretion is the password, Miss Dahl.”
The Spider and the Fly
Exactly at seven-thirty the door chimes sounded, punched by an impatient finger, forcing me to hurry lest he waken Jory who hadn’t liked being put to bed at such an early hour.
If I had taken pains to look my best, so had Bart. He strode in as if he already owned the place and me. He left behind a drift of shaving lotion with a piney forest scent, and every hair on his head was carefully in place, making me wonder if he had a thinning spot—which I’d find out for myself sooner or later. I took his coat and hung it in the hall closet, then sashayed over to the bar where I busied myself as he sat down before the log fire I had burning (nothing had been overlooked; I even had soft music playing). By this time I knew enough about men and the ways of pleasing them best. There wasn’t a man alive who wasn’t charmed by a lovely woman bustling about, eager to wait on him, pamper and wine and dine him. “Name your weakness, Bart.”
“Scotch.”
“On the rocks?”
“Neat.”
He watched my every movement, which was deliberately graceful and deft. Then, turning my back I mixed a fruity drink for myself, lacing it lightly with vodka. And with my two little stemmed goblets on a silver tray, I seductively ambled his way, leaning to give him an enticing view of my braless bosom. I sat across from him and swung one leg over the other to allow the long slit of my rose-colored dress to open and expose one leg from silver sandal midway to the hip. He couldn’t take his eyes off it. “Sorry about the glasses,” I said smoothly, well pleased with his expression, “I don’t have room in this cottage to unpack everything I own. Most of my crystal is in storage and I have here only wine glasses and water goblets.”
“Scotch is scotch no matter how it’s served. And what in the world is that thing you’re sipping?” By this time he’d shifted his gaze to the low V of my gown.
“Well, you take orange juice freshly squeezed, a dab of lemon juice too, a dash of vodka, bit of coconut oil, and drop in a cherry to dive after. I call it A Maiden’s Delight.”
After a few minutes of conversation, we drifted to the dining table, not so far from the fireplace, to eat by candlelight. Every so often he’d drop his fork, or spoon, or I would, and both of us would go for it, then laugh to see who was fastest. I was, every time. He was much too distracted to spot a missing fork or spoon when a neckline opened up so obligingly.
“This is delicious chicken,” he said after demolishing five hours of hard labor in about ten minutes. “Usually I don’t like chicken—where’d you learn to prepare this dish?”
I told him the truth. “A Russian dancer taught me, she was on tour over here, and we liked each other. She and her husband stayed with Julian and me, and we’d cook together whenever we weren’t dancing or shopping or touring. It took four chickens to feed four people. Now you know the nasty truth about dancers; when it comes to eating we are not in the least dainty. That is, after a performance. Before we go on we have to eat very lightly.”
He smiled and leaned across the small drop-leaf table. Candlelight was in his eyes, sparkling them devilishly. “Cathy, tell me honestly why you came to live in this hick town and why you’ve got your heart set on me for a lover.”
“You flatter yourself,” I said in my most aloof manner, thinking I was very successful in appearing cool on the outside while inside I was a web of conflicting emotions. It was almost as if I had stage fright and was in the wings waiting to go on. And this was the most important performance of my life.
Then almost magically I felt I was on stage. I didn’t have to think of how to act or what to say to charm him and make him forever mine. The script had been written a long time ago when I was fifteen and locked away upstairs. Yes, Momma, it’s first act time. Expertly written by someone who knew him well from all the answers to her many questions. How could I fail?
After dinner I challenged Bart to a game of chess, and he accepted. I hurried to bring out the chessboard as soon as the table was cleared and the dishes were stacked in the sink. We began to set up the two armies of medieval warriors. “Exactly what I came for,” he said, darting me a hard look, “to play chess! I showered, shaved and put on my best suit—so I could play chess!” Then he smiled, devastatingly winsome. “If I win—what reward?”
“A second game.”
“When I win the second game—what reward?”
“If you win two games, then comes the playoff. And don’t sit there and grin at me so smugly. I was taught this game by a master.” Chris, of course.
“After I win the playoff—what reward?” he insisted. “You can go home and fall asleep very satisfied with yourself.”
Very deliberately he picked up the chessboard with its hand carved ivory chessmen and put it on top of the refrigerator. He caught my hand and drew me into the living room. “Put on the music, ballerina,” he said softly, “and let’s dance. No fancy footwork, just something easy and romantic.”
Popular music I could listen to only on the car radio to cheer up a long, lonely drive, but when it came to spending my money on records I bought classical or ballet. However, today I’d made a special purchase of “The Night Was Made for Love.” And, as we danced in the dimness of the living room with only the fire for light, I was reminded of the dry and dusty attic and Chris.
“Why are you crying, Cathy?” he asked softly, then turned my head so his cheek was smeared by my tears. “I don’t know,” I sobbed. And I didn’t. . . .
“Of course you know,” he said, rubbing his smooth cheek against mine as we danced on and on. “You are an intriguing combination, half child, half seductress, half angel.”
I laughed short and bitterly. “That’s what all men like to think about women. Little girls they have to take care of—when I know for a fact it is the male who is more boy than man.”
“Then say hello to the first grown-up man in your life.”
“You’re not the first arrogant, opinionated man in my life!”
“But I’ll be the last. The most important one—the one you will never forget.” Oh! Why did he have to say that? Chris was right. I was over my head with this one.
“Cathy, did you really think you could blackmail my wife?”
“No, but I gave it a try. I’m a fool. I expect too much, then I’m angry because nothing ever works out the way I want. When I was young and full of hopes and aspirations, I didn’t know I would get hurt so often. I think I’ll get tough and won’t ache again, then my fragile shell shatters, and again, symbolically, my blood is spilled with the tears I shed. I pull myself back together again, go on, convince myself there is a reason for everything, and at some point in my life it will be disclosed. And when I have what I want, I hope to God it stays long enough to let me know I have it, and it won’t hurt when it goes, for I don’t expect it to stay, not now. I’m like a doughnut, always being punched out in the middle, and constantly I go around searching for the missing piece, and on and on it goes, never ending, only beginning. . . .”
“You’re not being honest with yourself,” Bart said softly. “You know better than anyone where that missing piece is, or I wouldn’t be here.”
His voice was so low and seductive I put my head on his shoulder as we went on dancing. “You’re wrong, Bart, I don’t know why you’re here. I don’t know how to fill my days. When I’m teaching class and when I’m with my son, then I’m alive—but when he’s in bed and I’m alone,
I don’t know what to do with myself. I know Jory needs a father, and when I think of his father I realize I’ve always managed to do the wrong thing. I’ve read my reviews that rave about the potential I had . . . but in my personal life I’ve made only mistakes, so what I accomplished professionally doesn’t matter at all.” I stopped moving my feet and sniffled, then tried to hide my face—but he tilted it upward, then dried my tears and held his handkerchief so I could blow my nose.
Then came the silence. The long, long silence. Our eyes met and clung and my heart started a faster thumping. “Your problems are all so simple, Cathy,” he began, “all you need is someone like me, who needs someone like you. If Jory needs a father, then I need a son. See how simply all complicated matters are solved?”
Too simply, I thought, when he had a wife and I was discerning and cynical enough to know he couldn’t possibly care for me enough. “You have a wife you love ,” I said bitterly. I shoved him away. I didn’t want to get him too easily, but only after long and difficult struggles against my mother, and she wasn’t here to know.
“Men are liars too,” he said flatly, with some of the zest gone from his eyes. “I have a wife and occasionally we sleep together, but the fire has gone out. I don’t know her. I don’t think anyone knows her. She’s a bundle of secrets, wound up tight, and she won’t let me inside. It’s gone on so long I don’t care to be let in now. She can keep her secrets and her tears, and eat her way out of her anxieties and whatever it is that makes her wake up in the night and go and look in that damned blue album! Now she’s overweight and she’s written she’s just had plastic surgery—face lift—and I won’t know her when she comes back. As if I ever really knew her!”
I panicked inside—he had to care! How could I break up a marriage that was already coming apart? I needed to feel I’d accomplished this against overwhelming odds! “Go home!” I said, pushing at him. “Get out of my house! I don’t know you well enough to even listen to your problems—and I don’t believe you. I don’t trust you!”
He laughed, mocking me, aroused by my puny efforts to push him away. His libido was fired. . . . It flamed in his eyes as he grabbed my upper arms and drew me hard against him. “Now you come off it! Look at the way you’re dressed. You had me come here for a reason. So here I am, ready to be seduced. You seduced me the first time I saw you—and for the life of me it seems I’ve known you much longer than I actually have. Nobody plays games with me, then calls it a draw. You win or I win, but if we go to bed together we might wake up in the morning and find out we’ve both won.”
Red lights flashed, Stop! Resist! Fight! I did none of those things. I beat on his chest with ineffectual small fists as he laughed and picked me up and threw me over his shoulder. With one hand he gripped both of my legs to keep them from kicking, and with the other he turned out the lamps. In the dark, with me still beating on his back, he carried me into my bedroom and threw me down on the coverlet. I scrambled to get up, but he came at me fast! There wasn’t a chance to use the knee I had ready. He sensed my dancer’s ability could defeat him so he lunged, caught me about the waist so we both tumbled to the floor! I opened my mouth to scream. He clamped his hand upon my open lips, then pinioned my arms with his iron strength and sat on the legs that tried to kick myself free.
“Cathy, my lovely seductress, you went to such a lot of trouble. You seduced me long ago, ballerina. Until the week before Christmas you are mine, and then my wife will be home—and I won’t need you.”
His hand eased away from my lips and I thought I would scream, but instead I bit out, “At least I didn’t have to buy you with my father’s millions!” That did it. He crushed his lips brutally hard down on mine before I realized what was happening. This wasn’t the way I wanted it! I wanted to tempt him, set him on fire, make him chase me, and give in only after a long and arduous pursuit that my mother could watch and suffer through, knowing she could do nothing or I’d talk. And yet he was taking me heartlessly, more ruthless than Julian at his worst! Savagely he bore down on me. He squirmed and writhed to grind in, even as his hands ripped and tore off my clinging rose dress. All I had on then was pantyhose, and soon he had those pulled down so my silver slippers came off and stayed inside of them.
With his lips still crushed brutally hard on mine, he carried my resisting hand to his zipper and squeezed until my knuckles cracked. It was either tug it down or have my fingers broken! How he managed to wiggle out of his clothes, even as he held me naked beneath him, I’ll never know. When he was naked, but for his socks, I kept on wiggling, writhing, squirming, butting and trying to scratch or bite while he kissed, fondled and explored. I had my chance to scream several times—but I too was breathing fast and hard, and jerking upward to force him off. But he took this as a welcoming arch of invitation. He entered, and had his too-quick satisfaction, then pulled out before I had any!
“Get out of here.” I screamed. “I’m calling the police! I’ll have you thrown in jail, charged with assault and rape!”
He laughed scornfully, chucked me under the chin playfully, then stood up to pull on his clothes. “Oh,” he said, mocking me with an imitation of my own voice, “I am so frightened.” Then his voice was deeply earnest. “You aren’t happy, are you? It didn’t work out the way you planned it, but don’t you worry, tomorrow night I’ll be back, and maybe then you can please me enough, so I’ll feel like taking the time to please you.”
“I’ve got a gun!” (I didn’t.) “And if you dare set foot in this house again you’re a dead man! Not that you are a man. You are more brute than human!”
“My wife often says the same thing,” he said casually, zipping up his trousers shamelessly, without the decency to even turn his back. “But she likes it just the same, just as you did. Beef Wellington, you can have that tomorrow night, plus a tossed salad and a chocolate mousse for dessert. If you make me fat, we can burn off the calories in the most pleasant way possible—and I don’t mean jogging.” He grinned, saluted me, put one foot behind the other to turn smartly, military fashion, then paused at the doorway as I sat up and clutched the remnants of my gown to my breasts. “Same time tomorrow night, and I’ll stay the night—that is, if you treat me right.”
He left, and slammed the front door behind him. Damn him to hell! I began to cry, not from pity for myself. It was frustration so huge I could have torn him limb from limb! Beef Wellington! I’d lace it with arsenic!
A small timid sound came from outside my door. “Mommy . . . I’m scared. Are you cryin’, Mommy?”
Hastily I pulled on a robe and called him in, then held him close in my arms. “Darling, darling, Mommy is all right. You had a bad dream. Mommy isn’t crying . . . see?” I brushed away the tears—for I’d get even.
Three dozen red roses arrived while Jory and I were eating breakfast—the long-stemmed variety from the florist. A small white card read:
I’m sending you a big bouquet of roses,
One for every night you’ll have my heart.
No name. And what the devil was I supposed to do with three dozen roses in a matchbox house? I couldn’t send them to a children’s ward; the hospital was miles and miles away. Jory decided what to do with them. “Oh, Mommy, how pretty! Uncle Paul’s roses!”
For Jory I kept the roses instead of throwing them out, and in many vases I scattered them throughout the house. He was delighted, and when I took him with me to dancing school he told all my students roses were all over his home—even in the bathroom.
After lunch I drove Jory to the nursery school he so loved. It was a Montessori school that was inspiring him to want to learn by appealing to his senses. Already he could print his name, and he was only three! He was like Chris, I told myself, brilliant, handsome, talented—oh, my Jory had everything—but a father. From his bright blue eyes shone the quick intelligence of someone who would have a lifetime curiosity about everything. “Jory, I love you.”
“I know that, Mommy.” He waved good-bye as I drove off.
/> I was there to meet him when he came from his school, his small face flushed and troubled. “Mommy,” he said as soon as he was beside me in the car, “Johnny Stoneman, he said his mommy slapped him when he touched her—there.” And he shyly pointed at my breast. “You don’t slap me when I touch you there.”
“But you don’t touch me there, not since you were a little baby and Mommy nursed you for a short while.”
“Did you slap me then?” He looked so worried. “No, of course not. Babies are meant to suckle their mother’s breasts—and I would never slap you for touching there—so if you want to try me, go ahead and touch.” His small hand reached out tentatively while he watched my face to see if I’d be shocked. Oh, how fast the young learned all the taboos! And when he’d touched and God’s lightning hadn’t struck him down, he smiled, very relieved. “Oh, it’s just a soft place.” He’d made a pleasant discovery, and around my neck he threw his arms. “I love you too, Mommy. ’Cause you love me even when I’m bad.”
“I’ll always love you, Jory. And if you’re bad sometimes, I’ll try and understand.” Yes, I was not going to be like my grandmother—nor my mother. I was going to be the perfect mother, and someday he’d have a father too. How was it that little children, such young ones, would already be talking of sin and being slapped for only touching? Was it because it was too high here, too near God’s eyes? So that everyone lived under his spell, living afraid, acting righteous, while they committed every sin in the book? Honor thy father and thy mother. Do unto others as thou wouldst have done unto you. An eye for an eye.
Yes . . . an eye for an eye—that’s why I was here.
I stopped to buy stamps before I reached my cottage, and left Jory dozing on the front seat. He was in the post office, which was no larger than my living room, buying stamps too. Charmingly he smiled at me, as if nothing untoward had happened between us the night before. He even had the nerve to follow me to my car so he could ask how I liked the roses. “Not your kind of roses,” I snapped, then got primly into my car and slammed the door in his face. I left him staring after me without a smile—in fact, he looked rather miserable.
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! Page 77
