Gates of Paradise

by V. C. Andrews

  I thought he had very fine facial features, not pretty-boy fine; more like the features carved on the face of a Greek statue. He tilted his head a bit to the side and one of his dark, thick eyebrows lifted as he considered me. He was looking at me so intensely that I became very self-conscious. Something he saw in me was affecting him, moving him. His eyes grew small, like Tony's eyes when they took on that faraway look just before he would babble and confuse past and present. Why didn't he speak? I began to tremble, naturally feeling threatened by his

  unwillingness even to say hello. I looked toward the house, but no one had followed me out; no one knew I was here.

  When I turned back to him, I saw that his lips curved into a smile, and there was something in that smile and in those dark brown eyes that made me feel warm and safe.

  "You don't have to tell me who you are," he said, his voice soft, soothing, almost loving. "You are Heaven's daughter. Although, you look more like Leigh with that hair color. Tell me, is it your natural color or did you dye it as your mother once did?"

  "Who are you?" I demanded more emphatically now. I saw in his eyes that he was thinking, deciding whether to continue to speak to me or just to rush off. Something he couldn't overcome kept him at my side.

  "Me? I'm . . Brothers. Timothy Brothers." "But who arc you? I mean, how do you know my mother and her mother? And how did you know she once dyed her hair?"

  "I work for Mr. Tatterton."

  I sat back. He certainly didn't look like one of the handymen, and Rye had told me there was no one with this man's description working on the grounds. Of course, Rye could be forgetful, too, I thought, but I didn't think this man did hard labor. There was a softness about him, a gentleness that suggested a contemplative nature.

  "Oh? And what do you do for Mr. Tatterton?" "I . . create toys."

  "Create toys?"

  "Don't look so surprised, Annie. Someone has to do it."

  "How did you know my name?" I asked with surprise.

  "Oh, by now everyone knows your name. Mr. Tatterton talks so much about you."

  I continued to gaze into his eyes. I sensed that there was a lot more mystery to this man than he was willing to reveal.

  "And what were you doing here in the hedges, or is that where you create toys?"

  He threw his head back and laughed'.

  "Hardly, no. I was taking a walk when I saw you coming down the walkway."

  "Where do you live? Farthy, too?"

  "No. I live on the other side of the maze. That's where I create the toys."

  "The other side of the maze? Isn't that where . . . isn't there a cottage there?" I asked quickly.

  "Oh, you know about the cottage?" I nodded. "Because your mother told you about it?"

  "No. She didn't tell me very much about Farthy; she never liked to talk about it."

  He nodded slowly, his face turning sad. He shifted his eyes away, gazing toward the Tatterton family cemetery. There was something in the way he held his shoulders that reminded me of myself whenever I was feeling melancholy. After a moment he took his right hand out of his pocket and brushed back his hair. His fingers looked long, sensitive, strong, the fingers of an artist. They were quite similar to my own. Perhaps certain people were born to be artistic, I thought.

  "I'm very sorry about what happened to your parents," he said, almost under his breath. He didn't look at me when he spoke.

  "Thank you."

  "So?" He looked up quickly. "You know about the maze, too, I take it. I couldn't help but notice how you were looking at it."

  "It looks so mysterious."

  "Like anything, it is for those who don't know it. Would you like to go through it?"

  "Through it? You mean . . to the other side?"

  "Why not?" He looked up at the blue sky streaked here and there with strokes of long thin clouds, "it's a nice day for a walk. I'd be glad to wheel you about."

  I hesitated to say yes, even though I was most eager to experience the maze and certainly wanted to see the cottage, for despite Mr. Brothers's pleasant and friendly way, he was still a complete stranger. What would everyone say to my going off with him like this? I wondered, On the other hand, he did work for Tony, and Tony was going to be upset that I had left the house, anyway. I might as well add a side trip, especially this side trip.

  "All right," I said. He saw the way I was looking around furtively.

  "Mr. Tatterton doesn't know you are out here?"

  "No, but I don't care," I said defiantly.

  "You've inherited your mother's spirit, I see." He came around my chair and took hold of the handles. "You knew her well?"

  "Yes. I knew her well. She was about your age when I met her, too."

  "You mean you've been working for Tony all this time? Making toys?"

  "Yes." He was behind me now, pushing the chair along, so I couldn't see his face, but his voice had grown even softer.

  "But I thought his brother Troy was the one who designed all the toys then."

  "Oh, he was. I'm just making replicas of his designs. He taught me everything I know."

  "I see." I sensed he wasn't being quite truthful. "Did you work in the cottage, too? Or did you work in a factory?"

  "Both."

  "Where did you meet my mother?" We were getting closer and closer to the entrance to the maze, and I thought I would talk to cloak my fear.

  "Here and there." He stopped pushing me. He seemed to sense the anxiety in me. "Are you sure you want to go on?"

  I didn't answer immediately. The hedges were so high and thick, the pathways through the maze were dark and looked so deep. What if this man didn't really know his way and we got lost?

  "You're sure you can go in and find your way out?" He laughed.

  "Blindfolded. Maybe one day I'll do it just to show you I can. But if you're afraid . . ."

  "No, no, I want to go on," I said, forcing myself to be brave.

  "Very well, then. Here we go," he said, and pushed me forward into the great English maze. I was actually going into it! Something that had been a fantasy for much of my life was about to happen! Once again I longed for Luke to be with me. I sat back, holding my breath, and soon we were walled up in a castle of shiny green ivy.

  It was pretty in the maze, the hedges growing as tall as ten feet and making precise right-angle turns. Of course, like most of the greenery about Farthy, it needed trimming and care. But it was dark and green and soothing in there, and I felt the tension of the day, the worry, the fear, the struggle ease away from me.

  "What do you think so far?" he asked as soon as we had made our first turn and gone in deeper.

  "It's so quiet. I can barely hear the garden birds chirping."

  "Yes, the peaceful serenity is what I love about the maze."

  I looked up. Even the plaintive shrieks of the sea gulls flying overhead seemed muffled, faraway. He paused as we made another turn.

  "Are you seated too low to see the roof of Farthy?"

  "No, I can just make it out above the hedge. It looks so far off already."

  "In the maze you can pretend you're on a different world. I often do," he confessed. "Do you like to pretend, to live in fantasy from time to time?"

  "Yes, very much. Luke and I often did that, and if we were both home now, we probably still would, even though we would seem too old for it."

  "Luke?"

  "My . . . cousin . . my aunt Fanny's son Luke Junior."

  "Oh, yes . . . your aunt Fanny. I had forgotten about her."

  "You knew her, too!"

  "I knew of her," he said.

  He knew more than he was saying. I could tell. Who was this man? Had I been too adventurous to accept his invitation so quickly? We were heading deeper and deeper into the--great maze. I wrapped my arms about myself protectively. Part of me wanted to go right back to the house, but a stronger part of me wanted to see the cottage, wanted to know more about this mysterious, fascinating man.

  "Are you cold? It does get quite co
ol in here." "I'm okay. Is it going to be much longer?"

  "Only a few minutes more. We take this turn and then that and then go straight into another turn and another and then we'll be on the other side."

  "I can see how someone could easily get lost." "People do. Your mother once did."

  "She did? She never told me about it."

  He laughed.

  "The first time I saw her. She couldn't find her way back."

  "Please tell me about that," I begged. "She was so reluctant to talk about her days at Farthy."

  "It was the first time she had gone into the maze. I was working in the cottage--making little suits of armor for tiny knights, I think--when suddenly she appeared at the door. She looked innocent and lost, almost like an angel who had stepped out of the mist . . . so beautiful and so full of determination. It was very foggy that day and had grown dark quickly. She was afraid she wouldn't find her way back."

  "Was Troy there, too?"

  "Yes, he was."

  "Well, what happened next?" I asked, impatient with his dramatic pauses.

  "Oh, we calmed her down. Gave her something to eat, as I recall, and then directed her back through the maze."

  "It's funny to think of my mother as a young girl."

  "She was a very beautiful young lady, much like yourself."

  "I'm not feeling particularly beautiful these days, though."

  "You will. I'm sure. Well, here we are, one more turn." We went around a corner and emerged from the maze.

  Before us lay a path of pale flagstone lined with tall pines. Directly ahead was the small stone cottage with a red slate roof crouched low amidst the pine trees. I couldn't keep the small cry from escaping through my lips.

  It was Mommy's toy cottage, the one she had given me on my eighteenth birthday. The Tatterton replica was exact. How eerie, I thought. It was as if I had just stepped into a fantasy world, truly a toy world where people lived their dreams.

  Oh, I thought, if only Luke were here. He would see that all our make-believe could come true. Those two toy figures in the toy cottage really would be us.

  There was the knee-high picket fence, not meant to keep anything out, winding its crooked way around the cottage, giving support to climbing roses just the way they were in the replica.

  Unlike the rest of Farthy, the grounds around the cottage were well cared for, maintained with a loving hand . . . grass rich and trim, the fence whitewashed, the walk clean and smooth, the windows glistening.

  "Well . . . there's the cottage."

  "Oh, it belongs in a picture book. How I wish I could come here to paint it!" I exclaimed.

  "You paint?"

  "Oh yes. Painting is my passion. I'm even doing it now while I recuperate. I want to study art and work on my talent forever and ever," I added hopefully.

  "Of course. Of course," he repeated, once again sounding distant, lost in his own memories. "Well, then maybe you will paint it someday. Why not?"

  "Can we go inside?" I asked.

  "Certainly; but won't they be missing you back at Farthy by now?"

  "I don't care. I feel like a prisoner in there, anyway. Please, take me into the cottage."

  He pushed me forward down the path of flagstone to the front door, opened it and then wheeled me in. There were Tatterton Toys

  everywhere, on shelves and on the mantel above the fireplace, and at least a half-dozen antique clocks, all on time. As if to punctuate this realization, the grandfather clock in the corner struck the hour and the light blue music-box clock that was shaped like the cottage itself opened its front door. The tiny family within emerged and then retreated to a sweet, haunting melody, a melody that was familiar.

  It was the same melody that played whenever the roof of the toy cottage back at Winnerrow was lifted: Chopin's nocturne. We looked at one another as the melody came to an end.

  "My mother had a toy cottage that looked exactly like this cottage, with the hedges and the pine trees, and it played the same tune. She gave it to me on my eighteenth birthday. It is as old as I am and it still works. Someone sent it to her right after I was born."

  "Yes," he said. He could barely utter the word.. He looked frightened, his eyes a little wider. Then his expression changed and he looked very sad, his head tilted as he went into deep thought for a moment. Suddenly he realized I was staring, and smiled.

  I turned away quickly and continued to inspect the cottage. It was quaint, cozy, and warm, as I imagined a gardener's cottage might be. Although the furniture was old, none of it looked worn. Shelves, floors, curtains--everything looked neat and clean, looked like it belonged in the home of a meticulous person. There were really only two rooms, and in the living room right before the fireplace was a long table, covered with tiny pieces of metal, tools, and what was an unfinished toy medieval village. The church with its spiral roof and stained-glass windows was completed. There was even a priest standing in the doorway waving hello to his approaching parishioners. There were shops and fine stone houses and the huts of the poorer folk. Some tiny wagons drawn by horses were only partially completed, as were some of the buildings and walkways.

  "I have some ice tea, if you'd like."

  "Yes, please." I wheeled myself into the living room to look more closely at the Tatterton Toy village.

  "That one's taking me a lot longer because I keep adding something here and there," he explained.

  "It's so beautiful, so lifelike! I love it. Look at how you've captured the expressions on their faces. No two are the same." I looked up and caught him gazing intently at me, a soft and wonderful smile on his face. He realized how he was staring.

  "Oh . . . the tea. One moment," he said, and went into the kitchen. I sat back and looked around the cottage.

  "Here you go," he said, coming over quickly to hand the ice tea to me. I took it but didn't drink it. He tried to avoid my eyes, and turned away to busy himself putting tools back in their little niches on the wall.

  "You're the man I saw from the window of my room," I declared.

  "Oh?"

  "I saw you at my parents' monument, didn't I?" "I stopped there once, yes."

  "More than once," I insisted.

  "Maybe more than once." He flashed a smile and sat on the wooden rocker beside the fireplace. He put his hands behind his head, his long slender legs stretched out,and looked up at the ceiling. Now that I studied his profile, I saw that he was quite goodlooking in a special way. He radiated a sensitivity that reminded me of Luke when Luke was his most loving, most intense and poetic self.

  "My walks are my only form of exercise these days. I wander all about the grounds."

  "You were at the service, too. I saw you," I said pointedly. "Why couldn't you come out of the woods and stand beside the other mourners?"

  "Oh . . I'm just shy. So," he said, anxious to change the topic, "how is your recuperation coming along?"

  "But why wouldn't you want to be seen there? Are you afraid of Tony?"

  "No." He smiled.

  "I can't understand why you keep yourself so . . so hidden, then."

  "It's just my way. I suppose there's something peculiar about all of us if we care to look closely. I'm the type who likes being by himself."

  "But why?" I pursued.

  "Why?" He laughed. "You do hang on once something bothers you, don't you? Just like your mother."

  "I don't understand how you know so much about her if you like to keep to yourself all the time."

  He laughed again.

  "I can see where I'm going to have to keep my life's secrets well undercover when you're around. I like to keep to myself," he said quietly, "but I did like to be with your mother and I do talk to people, just like I'm talking with you light now. Now, tell me about your recovery,"

  "Yesterday I stood up by myself for the first time since the accident."

  "How wonderful!"

  "But the doctor and Tony think I should go slowly. No one tried to get me to stand up today, and I have yet to
use the walker. They keep insisting I take naps and sleeping pills and remained locked away from people. This is the first time I've been out of the house since, and I've been here nearly a week; I can't even call anyone and talk. I have no' phone!" I cried.

  "Oh?"

  "I haven't seen my cousin Luke since I left the hospital, which is six days now. I sent- him messages through Tony and Drake."

  "Drake?"

  "My mother's half brother."

  "Oh yes, Luke Senior's son,"

  "You seem to know a lot about my family for a worker . an assistant at that," I said suspiciously.

  "I'm just a good listener when people talk around me,"

  "What a remarkable memory for details you have."

  I narrowed my eyes to show him I thought there was a lot more he wasn't telling me.

  He smiled, a boyish smile.

  "And what happened to Luke?"

  "He hasn't called or come. I wheeled myself into Tony's office and called Luke's dorm at Harvard and left a message for him with his roommate before I came outside."

  "I see. Well, I'm sure he'll soon pay you a visit, then."

  "I don't know. Everyone's different . . . Drake is . . . in love with being a businessman, working for Tony, and Luke would never ignore me before. We've grown up together and we have always been very close. I've told him things other girls would never dare tell another boy, and he's told me things boys would never dare tell girls. Because we're special to each other," I emphasized. He nodded thoughtfully. "We're more than just cousins." I paused. For some reason I felt Lcould share the family secrets with this man. I sensed his sincerity and I felt so comfortable in his presence. It was as if I had known him all my life. Complete strangers in Winnerrow knew about Luke. Why not him? I thought. "Luke and I have the same father," I finally blurted.

  "I see," he said, but he showed no surprise at the revelation.

  "You don't see. No one could see how hard it is, how hard it has been," I cried. "Especially for Luke. He's had so many, many obstacles to overcome, mountains to climb. People can be very cruel sometimes, especially in small towns like Winnerrow. They won't let you forget the sins of your . . ."