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.

  “Fair women look so dramatic in dark settings,” said Bart almost without realizing he’d spoken. No one said a word, not even Jory, who gave him a hard look.

  In that bath was also a walk-in shower and a lovely dressing table of the same walnut with a three-winged gold-framed mirror, so the occupant seated on the velvet-covered stool could see herself from every angle.

  * * *

  We dined early and sat outside on a terrace in the twilight hours. Joel didn’t join us, and for that I was grateful. Bart had little to say, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off Melodie in her frail blue dress that molded to every delicate curve of thigh, hip, waist, and bust. I felt a sinking sensation to see him studying her so closely, with desire written clearly in those dark, blistering eyes.

  At the breakfast table on the terrace outside the dining room, the daisies were yellow. We had hope how. We could look at yellow and not fear we’d never see sunlight again.

  Chris was laughing at something funny Jory had just reported, while Bart only smiled, still keeping his eyes on Melodie, who picked at her breakfast without appetite. “Everything I eat comes up sooner or later,” she explained with a small look of embarrassment. “It’s not the food, it’s me. I’m supposed to eat slowly and not think about losing the meal . . . but that’s all I’m thinking of.” Just beyond her shoulder, in the shadows of a giant live palm planted in a huge clay pot, Joel had his gaze riveted also on Melodie, studying her profile. Then he was looking at Jory, narrowing his eyes again.

  “Joel,” I called, “step forward and join us for breakfast.”

  He advanced reluctantly, cautiously, whispering his soft-soled shoes over the flagstones, holding his arms crosswise over his chest, as if he wore an invisible coarse, brown, homespun monk’s habit, and his hands were tucked neatly out of sight up the wide sleeves. He seemed a judge sent to weigh us in for Heaven’s pearly gates. His voice was slight and polite as he greeted Jory and Melodie, nodding in answer to their questions that plied him for information on what it was like to live as a monk. “I couldn’t bear life without women,” said Jory, “without music and lots of different types of people all around. I get a little from this person, something else from another. It takes hundreds of friends to keep me happy. Already I’m missing those in our ballet company.”

  “It takes all kinds to make the world go round,” said Joel, “and the Lord giveth before he taketh away.” Then he ambled off, his head bowed low, as if he whispered prayers and fingered a rosary. “The Lord must have known what he was doing when he made each of us so different,” I heard him murmur.

  Jory swiveled about in his chair to stare after Joel. “So that’s our great uncle, who we presumed died in a skiing accident. Mom, wouldn’t it be odd if the other brother turned up as well?”

  Jumping to his feet, Bart’s face flamed furious. “Don’t be ridiculous! Malcolm’s eldest son died when his motorcycle went over a precipice, and they found his body and buried it. It’s in the family cemetery that I’ve visited often. According to Uncle Joel, his father sent detectives looking for his lost second son, and that’s one reason my uncle had to stay hidden in that monastery, until eventually he grew used to it and began to fear life on the outside.” He flicked his eyes at me, as if to recognize the fact that we, too, as children, had grown accustomed to our imprisoned life, fearing the outside.

  “He says when you are isolated for long periods, you begin to see people as they really are—as if distance gives you better perspective.”

  Chris and I met eyes. Yes, we knew about isolation. Standing, Chris gestured to Jory and offered to show him around. “Bart’s planning horse stables, so he can have fox hunts like Malcolm used to have. Perhaps one day we may even want to join in that kind of sport.”

  “Sport?” queried Melodie, rising gracefully and hurrying to catch up with Jory. “I don’t call a pack of hungry hounds chasing a cute little harmless fox a true sport—it’s barbaric, that’s what!”

  “That’s the trouble with those in the ballet—too sensitive for the real world,” Bart retorted before he stalked off in a different direction.

  * * *

  Later on in the afternoon, I found Chris in the foyer watching Jory work out before the mirrors, using a chair for a barre. The two men shared the kind of relationship I hoped would develop one day between Chris and Bart. Father and son, both admiring and respecting the other. My arms crossed over my breasts to hug myself. I was so happy to have all my family together, or at least it would be when Cindy arrived. And the expected baby would be more cement to bind us together . . .

  Jory had warmed up enough and began to dance to The Firebird music. Whirling so fast he was a dazzling blur, whipping his legs, leaping into the air, bounding to land as light as a feather so you didn’t hear his feet hit the floor. His muscles rippled as he jetéed again and again, spreading his legs so his outstretched arms allowed his fingertips to touch his toes. I filled with excitement, watching him perform, knowing he was showing off for our benefit.

  “Would you look at those jetés?” said Chris when he caught sight of me. “Why, he clears the floor by twelve feet or more. I don’t believe what I’m seeing!”

  “Ten feet, not twelve,” corrected Jory as he whirled by, spinning, spinning, covering the immense space of the foyer in mere seconds. Then he fell breathlessly down on a quilted floor mat put there so he’d have a place to rest without his body sweat fading the delicate and fancy chair coverings. “Damned hard floor if I fall . . . ,” he gasped as he lay back and rested on his elbows.

  “And the spread of his legs when he leaps, it’s unbelievable he can be so supple at his age.”

  “Dad, I’m only twenty-nine, not thirty-nine!” protested Jory, who had a thing about growing older and losing the spotlight to a younger danseur. “I’ve got at least eleven good years ahead before I begin to slide.”

  I knew exactly what he was thinking as he sprawled there on the mat, looking so much like Julian. It was as if I were twenty or so again. The muscles of all male dancers approaching forty began to harden and become brittle so that their once magnificent bodies weren’t as attractive to the audience any longer. Off with the old, on with the new . . . the fear of all performers, although ballerinas with their layer of fat under their skin could hold on longer. Falling on the mat beside Jory, I sat cross-legged in my pink slacks.

  “Jory, you are going to last longer than most danseurs, so stop worrying. It’s a long and glamorous road you have to travel to reach forty, and who knows, maybe you’ll be fifty before you retire.”

  “Yeah, sure,” he said, tucking his hands behind his curly head and staring up at the distant ceiling. “Fourteenth in a long line of dancers has to be the lucky number, doesn’t it?”

  How many times had I heard him say he couldn’t live without dancing? Since he was a small boy of two, I’d put his feet on the road to where he was now.

  Down the stairs Melodie glided, looking beautiful and fresh from a recent bath and shampoo, seeming a fragile spring flower in her blue leotards. “Jory, my doctor said I could keep on with light practice, and I want to dance as long as possible to keep my muscles supple and long . . . so dance with me, lover. Dance and dance, and then let’s dance some more.”

  Instantly Jory bounded to his feet and whirled to the foot of the stairs, where he fell upon one knee in the romantic position of a prince seeing the princess of his dreams. “My pleasure, my lady . . .” and swinging her off her feet, he whirled with her in his arms before he put her down with the skilled practice and grace that made her seem to have the weight of a feather. They whirled around, always dancing for the other, as once Julian and I had danced for the pure delight of being young, alive, and able. Tears came to my eyes as I stood beside Chris and watched them.

  Sensing my thoughts, Chris put his arm about my shoulder and drew me closer. “They’re beautiful together, aren’t they? Made for each other, I would say. If I squint my eyes and see them hazily, I see you dancing w
ith Julian . . . only you were far prettier, Catherine, far prettier . . .”

  Behind us Bart snorted.

  Whipping around, I saw Joel had trailed behind Bart like a well-trained puppy and at his heel he stopped, his head low, his hands still tucked up those invisible brown homespun sleeves. “The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away,” mumbled Joel again.

  Why the devil did he keep saying that?

  Uneasily I looked from Joel to Bart and found his admiring gaze again riveted on Melodie, who was in arabesque position, waiting for Jory to sweep her up in his arms. I didn’t like what I saw in Bart’s dark, envious look, the desire that burned hotter by the hour. The world was full of unmarried women—he didn’t need Melodie, his brother’s wife!

  Wildly Bart applauded as their dance ended and both were gazing transfixed at each other, forgetting we were there. “You’ve got to dance like that at my birthday party! Jory, say that you and Melodie will.”

  Reluctantly Jory turned his head to smile at Bart. “Why, if you want me, of course, but not Mel. Her doctor will allow a little mild dancing and practicing, like we just did, but not that strenuous kind needed for a professional performance, and I know you’ll want only the best.”

  “But I want Melodie, too,” protested Bart. He smiled charmingly at his brother’s wife. “Please, for my birthday, Melodie, just this one time . . . and you’re not so far along anyone will notice your condition.”

  Appearing uncertain, Melodie stared at Bart. “I don’t think I should,” she said lamely. “I want our baby to be healthy. I can’t risk losing it.”

  Bart tried to persuade her, and might have, but Jory put a brisk end to the debate. “Now, listen, Bart, I told our agent Mel’s doctor didn’t want her to perform, and if she does, he might get wind of it and we could be sued. Besides, she’s very fatigued. The kind of easy fun dancing you just witnessed is not the kind we do when we’re serious. A professional performance demands hours and hours of warm-ups and practice and rehearsal. Don’t plead, it’s embarrassing. When Cindy comes she can dance with me.”

  “No!” Bart snarled, frowning now and losing all his charm. “She can’t dance like Melodie.”

  No, she couldn’t. Cindy wasn’t a professional, but she did well enough when she wanted to. Jory and I had trained her since she was two.

  Several feet behind Bart, like a skinny dark shadow, Joel’s hands came out of wide sleeves and templed beneath his bowed head. He had his eyes closed, as if again in prayer. How irritating to have him around all the time.

  Deliberately I turned my thoughts from him to Cindy. I couldn’t wait to see her again. Couldn’t wait to hear her breathless girlish chatter that told of proms and dates and the boys she knew. All the things that brought back to me my own youth, and my own desires to have what Cindy was experiencing.

  In the rosy glow of the evening sunset, I stood unobserved in the shadows of a great arch overhead and watched Jory again dancing with Melodie in the huge foyer. Again in leotards, this time violet ones, with the filmy tunic to flutter enticingly, Melodie had bound violet satin ribbons under her small, firm breasts. She appeared a princess dancing with her lover. Oh, the passion Jory and Melodie had between them stirred a wistful longing in my own loins. To be young again like them . . . to have the chance to do it all over . . . do it right the second time around . . .

  Suddenly I was aware that Bart was in another alcove, as if he’d waited to spy . . . or, more generously, watch as I watched. And he was the one who didn’t like ballet and didn’t care for beautiful music. He leaned casually against a door frame, his arms folded over his chest. But the burning dark eyes that followed Melodie weren’t casual. They were full of the desire I’d seen before. My heart skipped.

  When had Bart ever not wanted what belonged to Jory?

  The music soared. Jory and Melodie had forgotten they might be observed and became so involved in what they were doing that they danced on and on, wildly passionate, entranced with each other, until Melodie ran to leap into his outstretched arms. Even as she did her lips pressed down on his. Parting lips that met again and again. Hands that roamed to seek out all the secret places. I was as much caught up in their lovemaking as Bart, unable to back away. Their kisses seemed to devour one another. In the heat of kindled desire, they fell to the floor and rolled onto the mat. Even as I strode toward Bart, I heard their heavy breathing, growing louder.

  “Come, Bart, it’s not right to stand and watch when the dancing is over.”

  He jumped as if my touch on his arm burned. The yearning in his eyes both hurt and frightened me.

  “They should learn to control themselves when they’re guests in my home,” he said in a gruff voice, not taking his eyes off the forgetful pair rolling about on the mat, arms and legs entwined, sweaty hair wet and clinging as they kissed.

  I yanked Bart into the music room and softly closed the door behind us. This was not a room I favored. It had been decorated to please Bart’s very masculine taste. There was a grand piano that no one ever played, although I’d seen Joel finger it once or twice, then snatch his hands away as if the ivory keys singed him with sin. But the piano lured him so often he just stood staring at it, his fingers flexing and unflexing.

  Bart strode toward a cabinet that opened to reveal a lighted bar. He reached for a crystal decanter to pour himself a stiff scotch. No water or ice. In one gulp he downed it. Then he was looking at me in a guilty fashion. “Nine years of marriage. Still they aren’t tired of one another. What is it that you and Chris have that Jory has captured and I haven’t?”

  I flushed before my head bowed low. “I didn’t know you drank alone.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, dear Mother.” He poured a second scotch, I heard the slow gurgle of the fluid without looking up. “Even Malcolm had a drink once in a while.”

  Curiosity filled me. “Do you still think about Malcolm?”

  He fell into a chair, crossed his legs by placing one ankle on the opposite knee. I looked away, thinking that once my second son had the most irritating ways of putting his feet on anything available, ruining many a good chair with his muddy boots, and bedspreads suffered early deaths. Then my eyes went back to his shoes. How did he keep the soles so clean, so they appeared never to have walked on anything but velvet?

  Bit by bit Bart had lost all his messy ways on the way toward manhood. “Why do you stare at my shoes, Mother?”

  “They’re very handsome.”

  “Do you really think so?” He gazed down at them indifferently. “They cost six hundred bucks, and I paid another hundred to have the soles treated so they’ll never show scuff marks or dirt. It’s the ‘in’ thing to do, you know. Wear shoes with clean soles.”

  I frowned. What psychological message did that impart? “The tops will wear out before the soles do.”

  “So what?”

  I had to agree. What did money mean to any of us now? We had more than we could possibly spend.

  “When the tops wear, I’ll throw them out and buy a new pair.”

  “Then why bother to have the soles treated?”

  “Mother, really,” he said crossly. “I like everything to keep its new appearance until I’m ready to discard it—I’m going to hate looking at Melodie when she’s bulging in the middle like some breeding cow . . .”

  “I’ll be happy the day she shows, then perhaps you can move your eyes away from her.”

  He lit a cigarette, met my eyes calmly. “I bet I could easily take her away from Jory.”

  “How dare you say such a thing?” I cried angrily.

  “She never looks at me, have you noticed? I don’t think she wants to see that I’m better-looking than Jory now, and taller, and smarter, and a hundred times richer.”

  Our eye contact held. I swallowed nervously, plucked invisible lint from my clothes. “Cindy’s coming tomorrow.”

  He shut his eyes briefly, gripped the arms of his chair harder, but otherwise showed no expression. “I
disapprove of that girl,” he finally managed.

  “I hope you won’t be unkind to her while she’s here. Can’t you remember the way she used to tag around, adoring you? She loved you before you turned her against you. She’d still adore you if you’d stopped teasing her so unmercifully. Bart . . . aren’t you sorry for all the ugly things you said and did to your sister?”

  “She’s not my sister.”

  “She is, Bart, she is!”

  “Oh, God, Mother, I’ll never think of Cindy as my sister. She’s adopted, not truly one of us. I’ve read a few of those letters she writes to you. Can’t you see what she is? Or do you only read what she says, and not what she means? How can any girl be that popular and not be giving out?”

  I jumped to my feet. “What’s wrong with you, Bart?” I yelled. “You deny Chris as your father, Cindy as your sister, Jory as your brother. Don’t you need to have anyone but yourself—and that hateful old man who trails you about?”

  “I’ve got a little of you, don’t I, Mother?” he said, narrowing his eyes to sinister slots. “And I’ve got my Uncle Joel, who is a very interesting man, who is, at this moment, praying for all our souls.”

  A red flag waved in my face. I flamed with instant anger. “You’re an idiot if you prefer that creepy old man to the only father you’ve ever had!” I tried to keep my emotions under control but failed, as I’d always failed when it came to Bart and control. “Have you forgotten all the many kind deeds Chris has done for you? Is still doing for you?”

  Bart leaned forward, piercing me with his diamond-hard glare. “But for Chris I would have had a happy life. With you married to my real father, I could have been the perfect son! Far more perfect than Jory. Maybe I’m like you, Mother. Maybe I need my revenge more than I need anything else.”