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.

  His burning eyes showed such intensity and interest I was encouraged to go on, especially when he asked, “How do you explain love?”

  It was a trap he baited, knowing the loves of my life had all been ill-fated. Still I answered, hoping to save him from all the mistakes he was sure to make. “I don’t explain love, Bart. I don’t think anyone can. It grows from day to day from having contact with that other person who understands your needs, and you understand theirs. It starts with a faltering flutter that touches your heart and makes you vulnerable to everything beautiful. You see beauty where before you’d seen ugliness. You feel glowing inside, so happy without knowing why. You appreciate what before you’d ignored. Your eyes meet with the eyes of the one you love, and you see reflected in them your own feelings, your own hopes and desires, and you’re happy just to be with that person. Even when you don’t touch, you still feel the warmth of being with that one person who fills all your thoughts. Then one day you do touch. Perhaps his hand, or her hand, and it feels good. It doesn’t even have to be an intimate touch. An excitement begins to grow, so you want to be with that person, not to have sex . . . just to be with them and gradually grow toward one another. You share your life in words before you share your body. Only then do you start seriously thinking about having sex with that person. You begin to dream about it. Still you put it off, waiting, waiting for the right moment. You want this love to stay, to never end. So you go slowly, slowly toward the ultimate experience of your life. Day by day, minute by minute, second by second, and from moment to moment you anticipate that one person, knowing you won’t be disappointed, knowing that person will be faithful, dependable . . . even when she’s out of sight, or you’re out of sight. There’s trust, contentment, peace, happiness when you have genuine love. To be in love is like turning on a light in a dark room. All of a sudden everything becomes bright and visible. You’re never alone because she loves you, and you love her.”

  I paused for breath, saw his continued interest that gave me the courage to go on. “I want that for you, Bart. More than all the billions of tons of gold in the world, more than all the jewels in vaults, I want you to find a wonderful girl to love. Forget money. You have enough. Look around, open your eyes and discover the joys of living, and forget your pursuit of money.”

  Musingly, he said, “So that’s the way women feel about love and sex. I always wondered. It’s not a man’s kind of feeling, I do know that . . . still, what you said is interesting.”

  He turned away before he went on. “Truthfully, I don’t know just what I want out of life but more money. They tell me I’ll make an excellent attorney because I know how to debate. Yet I can’t decide what branch of law I want. I don’t want to be a criminal lawyer like my father was, for I’d often have to defend those I know were guilty. I couldn’t do that. I think corporate law would be a bore. I’ve thought about politics, and this is the area I find most exciting, but I’ve got my damned psychological background to mar my record . . . so how can I go into politics?”

  Rising from behind his desk, he stepped close enough to catch my hand in his. “I like what you’re telling me. Tell me more about your loves, about which man you loved best. Was it Julian, your first husband? Or was it that wonderful doctor named Paul? I think I would have loved him if I could remember him. He married you to give me his name. I wish I could see him in my memory, like Jory can, but I can’t. Jory remembers him well. He even remembers seeing my father.” His manner turned very intense as he leaned to lock his eyes with mine. “Tell me that you loved my father best. Say he was the one and only man who really seized your heart. Don’t tell me you only used him for your revenge against your mother! Don’t tell me that you used his love to escape from the love of your own brother.”

  I couldn’t speak.

  His brooding, morose, dark eyes studied me. “Don’t you realize yet that you and your brother have always managed with your incestuous relationship to ruin and contaminate my life? I used to hope and pray someday you’d leave him, but it never happens. I’ve adjusted to the fact that the two of you are obsessed with one another and perhaps enjoy your relationship more because it is against the will of God.”

  Snared again! I rose to my feet, knowing he’d used his sweet voice to beguile me into his trap.

  “Yes, I loved your father, Bart, don’t you ever doubt that. I admit I wanted revenge for all that our mother had done to us, so I went after my stepfather. Then, when I had him, and I knew I loved him, and he loved me, I felt I’d trapped myself as well as him. He couldn’t marry me. He loved me in one way—and my mother in another way. He was torn between us. I decided to end his indecision by becoming pregnant. Even then he was undecided. Only on the night when he believed my story of being imprisoned by his own wife did he turn against her and say he’d marry me. I thought her money would bind him to her forever, but he would have married me.”

  I rose to leave. Not a word did Bart say to give me a hint as to his thoughts. At the door I turned to look back at him. He was seated again in his desk chair, his elbows on the blotter, his hands cradling his bowed head. “Do you think anyone will ever love me for myself and not for my money, Mother?”

  My heart skipped a beat.

  “Yes, Bart. But you won’t find a girl around here who doesn’t know you’re very wealthy. Why don’t you go away? Settle in the Northeast or in the West. Then when you find a girl she won’t know you are rich, especially if you work as an ordinary lawyer . . .”

  He looked up then. “I’ve already had my surname changed legally, Mother.”

  Dread filled me, and I didn’t really need to ask, “What is your last name now?”

  “Foxworth,” he said, confirming my suspicion. “After all, I can’t be a Winslow when my father was not your husband. And to keep Sheffield is deceitful. Paul wasn’t my father, nor was your brother, thank God.”

  I shivered and turned icy with apprehension. This was the first step . . . turning himself into another Malcolm, what I’d feared most. “I wish you’d chosen Winslow for your surname, Bart. That would have pleased your dead father.”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” he said dryly. “And I did consider that seriously. But in choosing Winslow, I would forfeit my legitimate right to the Foxworth name. It’s a good name, Mother, a name respected by everyone except those villagers, who don’t count anyway. I feel Foxworth Hall truly belongs to me without contamination, without guilt.” His eyes took on a brilliant, happy glow. “You see, and Uncle Joel agrees, not everyone hates me and thinks I am less than Jory.” He paused to watch my reaction. I tried to show nothing. He seemed disappointed. “Leave, Mother. I’ve got a long day of work ahead of me.”

  I risked his anger by lingering long enough to say, “While you’re shut away in this office, Bart, I want you to keep remembering your family loves you very much, and all of us want what’s best for you. If more money will make you feel better about yourself, then make yourself the richest man in the world. Just find happiness, that’s all we want for you. Find your niche, just where you fit, that’s the most important thing.”

  Closing his office door behind me, I was headed for the stairs when I almost bumped into Joel. A guilty look flashed momentarily through the blue of his watery eyes. I guessed he’d been listening to Bart and me. But hadn’t I done the same thing inadvertently? “I’m sorry I didn’t see you in the shadows, Joel.”

  “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he said with a peculiar look. “Those who expect to hear evil will not be disappointed,” and away he scurried like an old church mouse, lean from lack of enough fuel to feed his appetite for making trouble. He made me feel guilty, ashamed. Suspicious, always so damned suspicious of anyone named Foxworth.

  Not that I didn’t have just cause.

  My First Son

  Six days before the party, Jory and Melodie flew into a local airport. Chris and I were there to meet them with the kind of enthusiasm you saved for those you hadn’t seen for years, and we’d parted less t
han ten days ago. Jory was immediately chagrined because Bart hadn’t come along to welcome them to his fabulous new home.

  “He’s busy in the gardens, Jory, Melodie, and asked us to give you his apologies” (although he hadn’t). Both looked at me as if they knew differently. Quickly I went into details of how Bart was supervising hordes of workmen come to change our lawns into paradise, or something as near that as possible.

  Jory smiled to hear of such an ostentatious party; he preferred small, intimate parties where everyone knew each other. He said pleasantly enough, “Nothing new under the sun. Bart’s always too busy when it comes to me and my wife.”

  I stared up into his face so like that of my adolescent first husband, Julian, who had also been my dancing partner. The husband whose memory still hurt and filled me with that same old tormenting guilt. Guilt that I tried to erase by loving his son best. “Every time I see you you look more like your father.”

  We were seated side by side, as Melodie sat beside Chris, and occasionally said a few words to him. Jory laughed and put his arms about me, inclining his dark, handsome head to brush my cheek with his warm lips. “Mom . . . you say that each and every time you see me. When am I going to reach the zenith of being my father?”

  Laughing, too, I released him and settled back to cross my legs and stare out at the beautiful countryside. The rolling hills, the misty mountains with the tops hidden in the clouds. Near Heaven, I kept thinking. I had to force my attention back to Jory, who had so many virtues Julian had never possessed, could never have possessed. Jory was more like Chris in personality than like Julian, although that, too, filled me with guilt, with shame, for it could have been different between Julian and I—but for Chris.

  At the age of twenty-nine, Jory was a wonderfully handsome man, with long, strong, beautiful legs and firm, round buttocks that made all the women stare when he danced onto stage wearing tights. His thick hair was blue-black and curly, but not frizzy; his lips exceptionally red and sensuously shaped; his nose a perfect slope with nostrils that could flare wide with anger or passion. He had a hot temper he’d learned to control a long time ago, mostly because of all the control it took for him to tolerate Bart. Jory’s inner beauty radiated from him with an electric force, a joie de vivre. His beauty was more than mere handsomeness; he had the added strength of a certain spiritual quality and was like Chris in his cheerful optimism, his faith that all that happened in his life had to be for the best.

  Jory wore his success with grace, with touching humility and dignity, displaying none of the arrogance that had been Julian’s even when he had performed poorly.

  So far Melodie had said very little, as if she contained volumes of secrets she was dying to spill out, but for some reason was holding back, awaiting her opportunity to be center stage. Customarily my daughter-in-law and I were very good friends. Countless times she twisted around in the front seat to smile back at me happily. “Stop teasing,” I admonished. “What’s this good news you have to tell us?”

  Again came that taut look on her face as she flicked her eyes to Jory, making her appear a locked gold purse about to burst if she didn’t tell us soon. “Is Cindy there yet?” she asked.

  When I said no, Melodie turned again to face the windshield. Jory winked. “We’re going to keep you in suspense a while longer, so everyone can enjoy our surprise to its full extent. Besides, right now Dad’s so intent on seeing we reach that house safely that he couldn’t give our secret the appreciation it needs.”

  After an hour’s ride we were turning onto our private road, which spiraled up the mountain, with deep ravines or precipices always on one side, forcing Chris to drive even more carefully.

  Once we were in the house and I’d shown them around downstairs, and they had exclaimed and oh’ed and ah’ed, Melodie came flying into my arms, ducking her head shyly down on my shoulder, for she was inches taller than I. “Go on, darling,” encouraged Jory softly.

  Quickly she released me and threw a proud smile at Jory, who smiled back at her reassuringly. Then she was spilling out the contents of that bulging gold purse.

  “Cathy, I wanted to wait for Cindy and tell you all at once, but I’m so happy I’m bursting. I’m pregnant! You just don’t know how thrilled I am when I’ve been wanting this baby ever since the first year Jory and I married. I’m a little over two months along. Our baby is due in early January.”

  Stunned, I could only stare at her before I glanced at Jory, who had told me many times he didn’t want to begin a family until he’d had ten years at the top. Still, he stood there smiling and looking as proud as any man would at this instant, as if he were accepting this unexpected and unplanned child very well.

  That was enough to make me overjoyed. “Oh, Melodie, Jory, I’m so thrilled for you both. A baby! I’m going to be a grandmother.” Then I sobered. Did I want to be a grandmother? Chris was slapping Jory on the back as if he were the first man ever to impregnate his wife; then he was embracing Melodie and asking questions about how she felt and if she was experiencing morning sickness—just like the doctor he was.

  Because he was seeing something I wasn’t, I looked at her more closely. She had shadows beneath hollowed eyes, and was much too thin to be pregnant. However, there was nothing that could steal from Melodie her classical type of cool blond beauty. She moved with grace, appearing regal even when she just picked up a magazine and flipped through it—as she was doing now. I was baffled. “What’s wrong, Melodie?”

  “Nothing,” she said, gone stiff for no apparent reason, telling me instead that everything was wrong.

  My eyes met briefly with Jory’s. He nodded, indicating he’d tell me later what was bothering Melodie.

  All the way back to Foxworth Hall I’d been dreading the meeting between Bart and his older brother, fearing there would be an ugly scene to start everything out wrong. I strode to a window overlooking a side lawn and saw that Bart was on the racket ball court, playing by himself with the same kind of intensity to win, as though he had a partner to batter down to defeat. “Bart!” I called, opening a French door, “your brother and his wife are here.”

  “Be there in a sec,” he called back, and continued to play.

  “Where are all the workers?” asked Jory, looking around at the spacious gardens empty now of anyone but Bart. I explained most left about four, wanting to drive home before they were caught in the late evening traffic.

  Finally Bart threw down his racket and sauntered our way, a broad, welcoming smile on his face. We all stepped onto a side terrace covered with multicolored flagstones and decorated with many live plants and pretty patio furniture with colorful umbrellas to shield us from the sun. Melodie seemed to pull in her breath and straighten her spine as she moved closer to Jory. She didn’t need his protection this time. Bart’s steps picked up until eventually he was running, and Jory was speeding to greet him. My heart could have burst . . . brothers, at last! Like they had been when both were very young. They pounded each other on the back, ruffled each other’s hair, and then Bart was pumping Jory’s hand up and down, slapping him on the shoulder again, the way men often do. He turned to look Melodie over.

  All his enthusiasm died. “Hi, Melodie,” he said briefly, then went on to congratulate Jory for their successes on stage and the adulation they received. “Proud of you both,” he said with a strange smile.

  “We’ve got news for you, brother,” said Jory. “You are now looking at the happiest husband and wife in the world, for we’re going to be parents come January.”

  Bart gazed at Melodie, who avoided meeting his eyes. She half turned toward Jory, with the sun behind her turning her honey-blonde hair fiery red near her scalp, making a golden haze of the outer strands, so it almost seemed she was sporting a golden halo. Madonna pure she stood in profile as if poised for flight. The grace of her long neck, the gentle slope of her small nose, the fullness of her pouting rosy lips gave her the kind of ethereal beauty that had helped to make her one of the most beautiful
and admired ballerinas in America.

  “Pregnancy becomes you, Melodie,” Bart said softly, ignoring what Jory was telling him about cancelling one year of bookings so he could be with Melodie throughout her pregnancy and help after the baby was born in all kinds of husbandly ways.

  Bart stared toward the French door where Joel stood silently watching our family reunion. I resented his being there; then, ashamed, I gestured him forward even as Bart called out, “Come, let me introduce you to my brother and his wife.”

  Advancing slowly, Joel shuffled along the flagstones, making each step whisper. Gravely he greeted Jory and Melodie after Bart’s introduction, not extending his hand to be shaken. “I hear that you are a dancer,” he said to Jory.

  “Yes . . . I’ve worked all my life to be called that.”

  Joel turned and left without another word to anyone.

  “Just who is that weird old man?” asked Jory. “Mom, I thought you told us that both your maternal uncles died in accidents when they were very young.”

  I shrugged and let Bart explain.

  * * *

  In no time at all, we had Jory and his wife established in a very rich-looking suite with heavy red velvet draperies, red carpet, and dark paneled walls that made the suite exceedingly masculine. Melodie took a look around, wrinkling her nose a bit in distaste. “Rich . . . nice . . . really,” she said with heavy effort.

  Jory laughed. “Honey, we can’t always expect white walls with blue carpet, can we? I like this room, Bart. It looks like your kind of bedroom—classy.”

  Bart wasn’t listening to Jory. He still had his eyes glued on Melodie, who glided from one piece of furniture to another, running her long, graceful fingers over the slick, polished tops before she glanced into the adjacent sitting room and then went on into the magnificent bath with an old-fashioned walnut tub lined with pewter. She laughed to see the tub. “Oh, I’m going to enjoy that. Look at the depth—water right up to your chin if you want it that way.”