"Yes, Jimmy," I said. "I can't wait, but I won't lie. I'm a little scared, too."
He paused and looked at me in that special way that kept my love for him always alive and thriving.
"So am I, Dawn," he confessed. "So am. I."
We made arrangements for our trip immediately. Christie was very confused, even angry about Jimmy's arriving and departing in less than a day. When she heard I was going, too, she demanded to go along and then cried and finally pouted when we said she couldn't. But fortunately, Jimmy hadn't forgotten to bring her back something from Texas: a model of a Texas ranch with tiny cattle and horses and ranch hands of all sorts, some with lassos in their fists. There were women and children, the women involved in household chores, one churning butter. There was even a tiny porch with tiny furniture, including a grandmother seated and knitting in a miniature rocking chair that really rocked. The model had to be put together. However, I thought Jimmy was happy about that—it took his mind off the trip to New York. He didn't come to bed until it was all finished and set up in Christie's room.
"Well, that should keep her occupied until we get home," he said, crawling in beside me. He snuggled up. "I really missed you when I was in Texas," he said.
"I missed you, too, and I was sorry I didn't make myself go," I admitted.
"Daddy's different. It's almost as if he's a completely changed man," Jimmy said.
"How so?"
"I don't know. He's . . . a lot more settled. He doesn't ever stay out drinking, Edwina says, and he just dotes on his new son. I wish," he added wistfully, "he had been this sort of daddy with me."
My heart nearly broke when I heard him say that. Tears burned behind my eyelids. All I could do was lean over and kiss him tenderly on the cheek. He turned to me and smiled. Then he lightly brushed the back of his hand over my cheek.
"I do love you so," he said, and he held me close. "Let's never get mad at each other again," he whispered.
"Never," I promised, but never was one of those words hard to believe in. Never again to be sad or troubled or lonely seemed like an impossible dream, something too magical for the world we were in.
We lay there quietly, both of us waiting and welcoming sleep to yank us back from the sad memories of yesterday.
Early the next morning I rose and went to the hotel to see about some things that had to be done before we left. We didn't say a word to anyone about the real purpose of our trip. Philip and Betty Ann simply thought we were going on a quick shopping spree. They were surprised, but not suspicious. We made reservations at the Waldorf and arrived in the hotel early in the afternoon. A mostly overcast sky cleared so that it was bright and blue by the time we had settled in. We had a late lunch, both of us fidgety and nervous. I did do some shopping around the hotel, mostly just to keep my mind occupied. Finally Jimmy said it was time to take a cab to the Osbornes' address.
Their brownstone was located in one of those clean and neat enclaves of New York City, a section that looked immune to all the noise and trouble. No loiterers lingered; no litter lined the gutters. The sidewalks were cleanly swept, and the people who walked up and down them didn't have that same frenzied gait and look that characterized most people hurrying through the busier sections of Manhattan. Of course, I remembered the area because it was close to the Sarah Bernhardt School and Agnes Morris's residence, where I had lived while studying.
The cab brought us to the address, and we got out. Jimmy paid the driver, and then we turned and contemplated the dark oak doorway with its stained glass window. Now that we were actually here we were both so nervous that we had to hold onto each other as we went up the steps. I saw the tension in Jimmy's eyes, the way the skin around them narrowed and tightened. He straightened into his military posture and pressed the doorbell button. We heard the chimes clang, and immediately a small dog began to bark.
Moments later Clayton Osborne opened the door, chiding the gray French poodle at his feet to be still, but the dog wouldn't stop barking until Clayton lifted him into his arms. It whined and squirmed in Clayton's long, graceful fingers but didn't bark.
Clayton was still dressed in his pin-striped suit and tie. He was tall and good-looking with dark brown hair and hazel eyes. He was a slim man who held himself confidently, perhaps exaggerating his stiffness because of the occasion.
"Good afternoon," he said. Jimmy had been right about his arrogant nasality. It wasn't a cold. He held his head back when he spoke and immediately tightened his jaw, as if he were anticipating an argument after each and every word.
"Good afternoon," Jimmy replied. "I'm James Longchamp, and this is my wife, Dawn."
"Pleased to meet you." He offered me his hand first, shifting the dog under his other arm. Then he shook Jimmy's hand quickly. "Come in," he said, stepping back. After he closed the door behind us he paused. "Just so we all understand clearly," he said, "Kelly knows nothing about her sordid past. As far as she is concerned, you two are friends of mine, friends I've made through business. You were in the neighborhood and stopped by," he instructed. "But you can't stay long. You're going to a Broadway show or something and have to get ready, if Kelly should ask."
I felt Jimmy stiffen beside me. I didn't like the condescending tone in Clayton Osborne's voice either. He spoke with a pompous air, as if we should be forever grateful for the favor he was doing us.
When neither of us spoke, he added, "I've had a discussion with my attorney, and he was not happy about this. However, your locating us was surely inappropriate, if not out-and-out illegal. There are laws protecting the parents of adopted children and the children themselves, laws specifically against this sort of thing."
"We're not here to cause anyone any trouble, Mr. Osborne," I replied quickly, before Jimmy could speak. "I'm sure you can sympathize with our feelings and understand why we want to see Fern now."
"Kelly," he corrected. "Her name is Kelly," he repeated firmly. "You must not say Fern," he snapped.
"Kelly," I corrected. His eyes fell more heavily on me as he shifted the dog to his other arm. "Are you two husband and wife?"
"That's right," Jimmy said. A tremor of confusion passed through Clayton Osborne's face, but he quickly recovered.
"One other thing," he said. "Don't refer to me as Mr. Osborne. My name is Clayton, and my wife's name is Leslie. Kelly is a very perceptive and"—he turned to Jimmy—"precocious young girl, as I explained to you on the phone. She would pick up something like that immediately and become suspicious."
"Clayton?" a female voice called.
We all turned. Leslie Osborne had come into the hallway. She wore a jade-green blouse and jeans. I thought she had the figure of a dancer—small-breasted with a narrow waist and long, sleek legs. She had very light brown hair tied behind her head with a turquoise ribbon and wore no makeup, but she had the sort of face that didn't require much. Her lips were naturally bright red, her blue eyes crystalline and her complexion perfect, her skin as smooth and as clear as alabaster.
"Why are you staying in the entryway so long?" she asked.
"We were just greeting one another," he explained quickly. "This is my wife, Leslie," he said. She stepped toward us, extending her hand. I saw she wore two diamond stud earrings in her pierced ears.
"How do you do?" she said.
I took her hand in mine. Her fingers were long and thin, but her palms were puffy with muscle. Artist's hands, I thought. I felt she was a substantially warmer and less threatened person than her husband, and even though her eyes scanned me quickly, they were friendly eyes.
"Forgive me for staring," she said, smiling. "I often forget I'm doing it. It's an occupational hazard. You see, I'm an artist."
"I understand," I said. I had almost said, "I know," but I didn't, because I didn't want her to know how much spying we had done.
"Well, Clayton?" she said, turning to him.
"You take them into the living room, and I'll get Kelly," he instructed.
"Right this way," Leslie said, indica
ting the room to the right.
"Thank you," I said, and jimmy and I walked into their living room.
The Osbornes' townhouse appeared to be a large two-story building with thick carpets and elegant old furniture immaculately maintained. From what I could see, every room was a showcase filled with expensive and beautiful things. There were paintings everywhere, and because of the signature I spotted on them, I knew most were Leslie's. But here and there were rural scenes painted by other artists. Fern had been brought up in this world, a world of elegance and art, a world filled with rich and good things, I thought. I wondered how it had shaped her.
"Please have a seat," Leslie said, indicating the chestnut silk sofa. "And quickly tell me something about yourselves before they arrive. Where do you live?" she asked, sitting on the matching settee.
"We live in Cutler's Cove, Virginia, where I manage my family's resort, the Cutler's Cove Hotel."
"Oh, I've heard of it," Leslie said. "It must be beautiful there."
"It is."
"And how did you two . . ." She gestured.
"Get together?"
"Yes," she said, still smiling.
I looked at Jimmy. We both understood how difficult it would be to tell our story quickly.
"I guess we always realized we were in love.. After Jimmy joined the army we pledged ourselves to each other," I said, still looking at Jimmy. "When he was discharged we got married. By then I was living in Cutler's Cove."
"Oh, how nice," she said. Jimmy had yet to say a word to her. She stared at him, but before she could say anything to him or he could say anything to her, Clayton Osborne and Fern appeared in the doorway.
Despite our promises to pretend to be people we weren't, neither of us could help but fix our gazes intently, almost hungrily on Fern. I saw immediately that she sensed we were looking at her in a way that was much different from how her parents' other friends might look. Her dark eyebrows rose like question marks.
She was tall for her age and looked more like a girl of twelve or thirteen, which made sense when I recalled how tall Momma Longchamp was. She wore her hair in a pageboy; it was as dark and shiny as black onyx. Momma Longchamp's hair, I thought. She had Jimmy's dark eyes, but hers were smaller.
Clayton was right to characterize her as advanced for her age. Although she was only ten, she had begun to develop a figure. The outline of her training bra was just visible beneath the light green cotton blouse. She had long arms and slim shoulders, her body trim and sleek like a cat's. In fact, I realized she had cat's eyes—narrow, sharp, searching, probing and poking, driven by a feline curiosity.
Even so, she was a pretty girl with a smooth, dark complexion. She had Momma's nose and mouth and Daddy's chin and jaw. It wouldn't be hard to see Jimmy beside her and not know they were related, I thought.
"This is Mr. and Mrs. Longchamp," Clayton said. "Our daughter Kelly."
"Hello," I said first. For a moment I thought Jimmy wasn't going to say anything.
"Hi," he finally added.
She studied us as if trying to decide whether to talk or just glare. Her mouth opened slightly, but she made no sound. She looked from Jimmy to me and then back to Jimmy.
"It's polite to return a greeting when you get one, Kelly," Clayton chastised.
"Hello," she said.
"Sit down, Kelly," Clayton commanded.
Reluctantly, she sauntered over to the easy chair and plopped into it, keeping her eyes glued to us.
"Kelly," Clayton snapped, "since when do you treat the furniture like that? And in front of guests?"
"It's all right, Clayton," Leslie said. "Kelly is just a little bit depressed today," she explained, turning to us. "She's had a bad day at school."
"It wasn't my fault!"
"This isn't the time for this discussion," Clayton said, fixing his eyes firmly on Fern. She shot a gaze at us and then looked away. "Mr. and Mrs. Longchamp are old friends who have come a long way and are here for only a few minutes," he continued.
The way he limited our visit caught Fern's attention, and she turned back to us with renewed interest.
"How far did you come?" she asked.
"From Virginia," I said.
"Did you drive or fly?" she followed.
"We flew," Jimmy said, smiling. His warm expression drew her gaze, and for a moment, a fleeting moment, I was sure I saw something in her eyes, some note of recognition, or at least some deep-seated curiosity.
"Wasn't I born in Virginia?" she demanded of Leslie. Leslie smiled softly.
"I've told you dozens of times, Kelly," Leslie explained. "You were born in the emergency room of a hospital just outside of Richmond, Virginia. Your father and I had wandered off too far while I was in the ninth month."
Born on the road, I thought—the same sort of lie Momma and Daddy Longchamp had told me. When I looked at Fern to see her reaction, however, I found she was already staring intently at me, as if she wanted to see my reaction more than I wanted to see hers. Jimmy flashed a disdainful gaze my way. He didn't think much of their fabrication.
"And what do you do?" Fern asked. "Buy dozens and dozens of stocks and bonds like Daddy's other friends?"
"We own and operate one of the biggest hotels in Virginia Beach," I explained. "It's called Cutler's Cove."
"I've never been to Virginia Beach," Fern moaned.
"Oh, you poor, deprived child," Clayton said, cutting into her with his sarcasm. "You've only been to the beaches in Spain and France and all over the Caribbean islands."
"Do you have any children?" she asked me, ignoring Clayton.
"A little girl, Christie."
"How old?" she followed quickly.
"Kelly, it's not polite to cross-examine people like that," Leslie said. She turned to us. "She's a very inquisitive child. Clayton thinks she will become a journalist."
"Or work for the I.R.S.," he added, shaking his head.
"That's all right. I don't mind," I said, turning back to Fern. "Christie's just over five, actually five and a half."
"How come you have only one child, too?" she demanded.
"Kelly!" Clayton glanced down at us and then stepped toward her. "Didn't your mother just tell you not to cross-examine? There are ways to carry on a civilized conversation and there are ways not to."
"I'm just asking," she said.
"I did try to have another child," I told her, "only I had a miscarriage."
Fern's eyes brightened.
"Wow," she muttered. I saw a smile take form on Jimmy's face.
"What's your favorite subject in school?" he asked her. From the way he held himself as he gazed at her, I could feel his frustration . . . How he would like to jump up and embrace her, I thought. It was evident he saw all the resemblances to Momma Longchamp in her face, too.
"English," she replied, "because I can make up stuff and write it sometimes."
"Why, then, are you doing so poorly in the subject?" Clayton inquired.
"The teacher doesn't like me."
"None of your teachers likes you," Clayton commented. "Kelly's been having a little trouble adjusting to things this year," Leslie began.
"This year?" Clayton said, raising his eyebrows. Leslie continued, ignoring him.
"She happens to be a very bright girl who, whenever she wants to," she added, gazing at her, "can leap to the head of the class; but because the other students are a bit slower, she gets bored, and when she gets bored, she gets into trouble."
"She's bored a lot these days," Clayton inserted.
"Well, I hate the Marion Lewis School. All the kids there are snobs. I wish I was back in public school," she complained.
"I don't think your record in public school is much to brag about, Kelly," Clayton said. He turned to us. "We were hoping that if we enrolled Kelly in this private school, she would change, benefit from the special attention, but she has to want to change herself."
Fern pouted just the way I imagined she would. She embraced herself tightly and turned
away, her lips pursed.
"Have you been having good hotel seasons at Cutler's Cove?" Leslie asked me.
"The last few years have been very good. We're going to expand the facilities next year. We're thinking of adding some tennis courts and buying a few more boats for the guests to use off our dock. We're getting younger guests these days," I explained.
"You own your own boats?" Fern asked, slowly drawn back by my description.
"Uh-huh," Jimmy said. "Sailboats and motorboats."
"What else does the hotel have?" she inquired.
"A large swimming pool, playing fields, gardens, a ball room, a game room, a card room . . ."
"Cool," Fern exclaimed.
"Kelly, I've asked you not to bring that juvenile jargon into the house," Clayton said. "One of Kelly's problems," he continued, "is her hanging around with children much older than she is. They are invariably bad influences."
"They're not children," Fern cried.
"Excuse me," he said. "Teenagers."
"How long are you staying in New York City?" Leslie asked, more to end the argument than to find out the answer.
"We're going to leave tomorrow," I said.
"Which hotel are you at?" Fern asked.
"The Waldorf," Jimmy said quickly.
"Coo . . . that's nice," she said, looking up at Clayton. All this time he had made no attempt to sit down, which underlined how short he wanted our visit to be. He gazed at his gold wristwatch.
"I think," he said slowly, nodding his head, "Kelly should go up and begin her homework, don't you, Leslie?"
"I got lots of time. I'm not going to school for two days," Fern said.
"What? Two days?" He spun around toward Leslie.
"We'll talk about it afterward, Clayton," Leslie said calmly.
"She's been suspended from school again?" he cried out in dismay.
"Later, Clayton," Leslie said, nodding in our direction. His pale skin flamed with a bright red fury as he bit down on his lips.
Cutler 3 - Twilight's Child Page 27
