Logan 03 Unfinished Symphony

by V. C. Andrews

  bed that I realized just how tired I was. Young or not,

  I finally realized the time difference. After all, for me

  it was three hours later than it was for everyone here.

  I'll just rest for a few minutes, I thought and lay back,

  closing my eyes. A sharp rap on my door woke me

  immediately. I sprang into a sitting position. "What? Yes?"

  The door opened and Alec gazed in at me. "Mr. and Mrs. Livingston are waiting for you in

  the dining room," he announced.

  "Oh. Oh, I fell asleep! I'll be right there," I cried

  and hopped off the bed. He grimaced and closed the

  door.

  I splashed cold water on my face, practically

  tore off my blouse and jeans, and pulled on my dress.

  I ran my brush through my hair once and then hurried

  out of the room and down the stairs.

  The Livingstons were at the far end of the long

  table. Mr. Livingston sat at the end. He was dressed in

  a dark sport coat and navy blue tie. His thinning dark

  brown hair was parted on the right side and cut neatly

  around his ears. He glanced up at me, his hazel eyes

  sweeping over me quickly before turning downward

  again to look over the bridge of his narrow, bony

  nose, under which he wore a well-trimmed mustache.

  He had thin lips and a soft, almost round chin. "Hello dear. I'd like you to meet Philip. Philip,

  this is Holly's little friend, Melody."

  "Hello," he said quickly and flashed a smile that

  swept across his lips so fast, it was as if someone had

  turned a light on and off.

  "Just sit right there, dear," Dorothy said,

  nodding at the seat across from her. She wore a black

  evening dress with puffy sleeves and a frilly, square

  collar, a pair of teardrop diamond earrings with a

  matching necklace and bracelet, and at least two more

  rings than she had on when I had first met her. I took my seat and Philip looked up instantly at

  Alec. He moved quickly to begin serving us. "I told Philip all about your little episode

  today," Dorothy continued, "and he made a wonderful

  suggestion. Tell her, Philip," she said.

  "You're doing fine," he replied, glancing at me

  and then at his plate as he drummed his fingers on the

  table. Alec began serving us bowls of what looked

  like clear chicken broth with some rice and carrots. "Philip says this woman has to have a social

  security number. Everyone has a social security

  number. He will call the business manager at the

  catalogue company and check the number to see if it's

  under her name or your mother's name. Isn't that a

  wonderful suggestion?"

  I nodded and looked at Philip. He began eating

  his soup.

  "Just common sense," he muttered between

  slurps.

  Then he paused, his spoon perfectly still before

  him, not a tremble in his hand. "Of course, people

  have been known to produce phoney identification

  and get a new social security number. We'll see," he

  added.

  "So you see, dear, you don't have to spend any

  more time chasing down this woman. Just relax and

  enjoy your visit," Dorothy said.

  Philip twisted the right corner of his mouth so

  deeply it looked like his lips were made of pale pink

  clay.

  "It won't be something I can do overnight," he

  muttered.

  "That's all right. I'll still want to meet this

  woman," I said.

  "Philip thinks that might be dangerous." "I didn't say dangerous. I said unpleasant." "Well, that's practically the same thing,"

  Dorothy insisted.

  He put his spoon down and sat back. Alec

  moved instantly to remove his soup bowl. I had barely

  eaten half of my small portion and took two quick

  spoonfuls when I felt Alec hovering over my

  shoulder. Dorothy didn't dip her spoon into the cup

  more than twice, but that seemed to be enough. A small dinner salad followed, accompanied by

  the thinnest slices of bread, paper-thin slices that

  crumbled in your fingers.

  Our main course was veal medallions in a

  lemon sauce, accompanied by string beans and

  mashed potatoes with a flavor I couldn't recognize.

  Everything was delicious, but as I ate, I noticed Dorothy watching me and recalled her warning about eating too much. I could have eaten more, but I

  stopped.

  Philip made little conversation but he was

  interested in my description of the lobster fishing

  business and the Cape Cod tourist business. He said

  he had some clients interested in investing in a hotel

  chain that serviced the Cape and he was not keen

  about it.

  Dinner was followed by coffee in a silver

  service and a custard dessert. It had been a wonderful

  meal and I said so as I thanked them.

  "Maybe we should ask Selena to prepare lobster

  for us tomorrow night, Philip, in Melody's honor,"

  Dorothy said as the meal came to an end.

  "Lobster's overpriced these days," he grumbled.

  How could anyone with this much money worry about

  the price of lobster? I wondered.

  "Oh nonsense," Dorothy said.

  "I don't enjoy eating things that I know are

  overpriced," he insisted.

  "I really don't need to have lobster, Dorothy." "Of course she doesn't," Philip said, nodding.

  "She gets it dirt cheap back on the Cape and it won't

  be as good here. Think of something else," he said. "I've got some work to finish in my office," he explained as he rose. I realized he was not quite as tall as Dorothy. "It was nice meeting you," he added,

  nodding as he walked away.

  "Philip's the most efficient man I've ever

  known," Dorothy said shaking her head. "He reviews

  the household accounts once a month and makes

  brilliant suggestions to save money. He says he does it

  for his clients, why can't he do it for himself? I

  suppose that's true. Well, do you want to find

  something to read? You can look in our library. I try

  to keep up with everything. I belong to three book

  clubs."

  "First, I'd like to try to call Gina Simon," I

  explained.

  "Oh. Well then, why don't you use the phone in

  the parlor. You'll have some privacy there," she

  suggested.

  "Thank you," I said, trying to remember where

  the parlor was in this big house. She must have read

  that in my face.

  "Just go down the corridor to the third doorway

  on the left, dear. There's a phone book on the shelf of

  the small table."

  "Thank you."

  "You're welcome. I'll be in after a while and

  then we can go to the den and watch some television

  if you like. Desperate Lives is on tonight. Do you

  watch it? Philip calls it nothing more than a soap

  opera, but it's so much more than that, it's . . . just

  more," she said.

  "No, I haven't heard of it," I said.

  "Haven't heard of it? Oh dear. Well, maybe

  you'll like it," she said and I went to the parlor. I

  found the phone book and discovered three Gina

  Simons, but the address pointed out th
e right one.

  With my fingers trembling again, I lifted the receiver.

  It was an antique brass and ivory dial phone and I

  misdialed the first time and got a phone number that

  was disconnected.

  I dialed correctly the next time, but after only

  three rings, an answering machine came on. "This is Gina Simon. I'm sorry I'm not able to

  take this call. Please leave your name, the time of

  your call and a brief message at the sound of the

  beep," the voice directed. I listened closely. It did

  sound like Mommy, but there was an affectation, an

  attention to diction I didn't recognize. I waited and

  called again just to hear the voice. It sounds like her, I

  told myself. It must be Mommy.

  Dorothy entered the parlor, a small white

  angora cat in her arms.

  "This is Fluffy," she said. "Isn't she beautiful?"

  "Yes, she is."

  "Philip won't let me keep her in the house

  proper. She stays with Selena. He says whenever she's

  permitted to run through the house, she leaves hairs

  everywhere. He's so finicky about the house. If a

  piece of dust is out of place, Philip knows it." She sighed and sat in the soft cushioned chair

  across from me, the cat purring in her lap.

  "So, did you try calling that woman?" "I got an answering machine," I said. "It sounds

  like my mother."

  "Did you leave a message?"

  "No. I wasn't sure what to say."

  "She might have been there, listening," Dorothy

  said, nodding. "People often do that here. They wait to

  see if it's someone important and then they answer. If

  it's not someone important enough, they let the

  machine take the call. It's a power thing, Philip says." "Power thing?"

  "Yes, you just don't speak to anyone. It

  diminishes your importance."

  "I can't imagine my mother thinking that way." "Well, if this woman wants to be someone in

  the industry, she behaves that way, believe me. I've

  met enough of them."

  I thought about it. What was it Billy Maxwell

  had told me just before I had left New York . . . be

  prepared to find a very different woman, even if she

  was my mother. Perhaps that was very true. "I wish the world we lived in wasn't so

  conscious of every little thing," Dorothy said, dreamyeyed as she petted the purring cat in her lap. "Philip

  wants me to be perfect, to remain perfect. If I have a

  hair out of place, he asks why I didn't go to the beauty

  salon this week," she said a bit more mournfully than

  I would have expected.

  "He doesn't seem like that," I told her. She

  snapped out of her reverie and raised her eyebrows. "He's a man, isn't he? They're all the same,

  waving a magnifying glass over you, checking for

  wrinkles, for age spots, measuring your bosom, your

  waist, your hips, looking for an ounce of ugly fat. "I have a personal trainer," she continued, "who

  comes to the house three times a week. It's such a

  bore, but I bear it for Philip's sake. And my own, I

  suppose," she said with a sigh. "Well, a woman has to

  do all she can, doesn't she?" she added.

  "I'm not sure. I've never really thought about it I

  guess," I said.

  "Of course you haven't. You're still young and

  beautiful. You have a way to go, but believe me, one

  day you'll wake up and look in the mirror and notice a

  little wrinkle here, a little more puffiness there and

  you'll realize it's going to take some work to look

  beautiful.

  "Of course," she continued, "if you're bright

  enough, you won't settle for just anyone and you'll

  marry someone substantial as I did, so he can provide

  you with the best there is when it comes to cosmetic

  surgery."

  "Surgery?"

  "Now don't sit there and flatter me and tell me

  you didn't notice how firm my buttocks are for a

  woman of my age without thinking I had something

  done," she said smiling.

  "I didn't really notice, but . ." An operation on

  her rear end?

  "It's nothing more involved than a tummy tuck.

  I can't tell you how. many times I've had that done.

  Oh, and my eyes of course. Some people are so lucky.

  They're born with genes that help them to remain

  young-looking longer. Philip's mother, for example, hardly had a wrinkle in her late seventies and look at Philip. Well, it's always different for men anyway. They can have wrinkles. It makes them distinguished

  looking, but we girls .

  "Well," she said with a little more animation in

  her face, "do you think our sexual relationship would

  be as strong as it is if I didn't keep myself attractive?

  There's an article about it in my latest issue of Venus.

  According to scientific studies, a successful

  relationship means a husband and wife make love on

  the average of five times a month, even at our ages. I

  told Philip about it and he said his own research

  indicated between four and six times. We mark the

  calendar. You probably noticed it on the wall by our

  bed. Philip appreciates order in his life.

  "Oh, I know what men do when they have ugly

  wives," she continued, ignoring my gaping mouth,

  "especially in this town," she said, nodding. "A

  woman has to work on her relationship. That's her job.

  And I don't mind telling you I'm very successful at it. "You saw how the young male waiters were

  gazing at me at The Vine," she said, batting her

  eyelashes and smiling. "They have no idea how old I

  am, and they'll never know," she said firmly. "You

  guard your age like you guard your life. Never tell a man your true age. Always subtract five to seven

  years at the least," she advised.

  "Oh no," she said suddenly, rising to her feet.

  "Desperate Lives has started. Quickly," she ordered

  and marched out of the parlor.

  I sat there for a moment, trying to digest the

  things she had told me the way you would try to

  digest food that was far too spicy. The words kept

  repeating themselves.

  "Come along, dear!" she shouted.

  I rose and joined her in the hallway. She turned

  in to the den and flipped on the television set. Then

  she plopped herself into her overstuffed chair, curling

  her legs under her lap, and gazed at the television

  screen like a teenager about to see her teen idol. I sat

  on the sofa beside her and listened to her little moans

  and sighs as one handsome young man after another

  paraded before us on the large television screen. But fatigue began to rise in my body like

  mercury in a thermometer. I felt my eyelids getting

  heavier and heavier and drifted off a few times, only

  to be wakened by her shouts at the television set,

  complaining about something a character said or did,

  as if she thought they could actually hear her. "Doesn't that just get you infuriated," she railed, turning my way. I nodded, even though I had no idea why she was so upset. "And I hate it when they leave you hanging like that. But," she said, smiling suddenly, her mood swinging radically in the opposite direction, "as Philip says, that's how they get you to
tune in night after night and how they get to sell all those products. You look tired, dear. Perhaps you

  should go to bed. I know it's late for you."

  "Yes, I guess it's all finally caught up with me,"

  I said, rising. "Thank you so much for everything." "Nonsense. Tomorrow, right after breakfast,

  we'll go to Rodeo Drive and get you something proper

  to wear. Don't," she said, raising her hand to stop any

  protest, "say anything that will make me deaf. Philip

  and I have no children. I was never fond of the idea of

  being pregnant and Philip really can't tolerate little

  people very well anyway. But we both enjoy doing

  things for young people now and then. When they're

  deserving, as you are, of course." She smiled. "Have a

  good night's rest."

  "Thank you," I said again, too tired to argue

  anyway, and went upstairs, taking the steps as if I

  were already walking in my sleep.

  Despite my exhaustion, before I turned out the

  lights and crawled under the cover, I lifted the phone receiver and dialed Gina Simon's number. It rang and rang until the answering machine came on again, and again, I listened closely to her voice, feeling more and more confident that it sounded like Mommy's voice.

  Or was I just wishing it did?

  And why wasn't she picking up? Had she gone

  away? Maybe it would be days, weeks, before I stood

  face to face with her.

  I lay my head back on the pillow and closed my

  eyes, grateful I was too tired to continue thinking, but

  still apprehensive as to what tomorrow would bring.

  5

  A Bitter Pill

  .

  Once again it was a gentle knock on my door

  that woke me, but this time a pleasant-looking woman with strands of gray running through her dark brown hair entered. The breakfast tray she carried was laden with a silver coffee pot, cup and saucer, a plate, silverware, eggs in a dish, a croissant, jelly and butter and a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Alongside everything was a small vase with a single fresh red rose.

  "Good morning," the woman said. She had a pretty smile brightened with the warmest blue eyes I had ever seen. She was about five feet two with a small bosom and hips definitely too wide for Dorothy's taste. Her forearms were strong, but she had small hands. "I'm Christina, Mrs. Livingston's maid. She asked me to bring up your breakfast this morning."

  "Oh, you didn't have to do that," I said, sitting up and struggling to get my eyelids to stay open. "What time is it?" I gazed at the clock in the belly of a light blue ceramic, seagull. "I've never slept this late."

  "It's all right, dear. Mrs. Livingston insisted," Christina said, placing the tray on a bed table she'd retrieved from the closet.