Brooding sullenly in the back seat beside Carrie, Chris relented. Carrie cried as Paul headed his car toward the climbing mountain roads that Momma and her husband must have traversed thousands of times. Paul stopped at a gas station to ask directions to Foxworth Hall. Easily we could have guided Paul to Foxworth Hall, if we knew where the train tracks were and could find the mail depot that was a stop-off point.
"Beautiful country," said Paul as he drove. Eventually we did come upon that grand house that sat all alone on a mountainside. "That's the one!" I cried, terribly excited. It was huge as a hotel, with double wings that jutted out front and back from the long main stem constructed of pink brick with black shutters at all the windows. The black slate roof was so sharply pitched it looked scary--how had we ever dared to walk up there? I counted the eight chimneys, the four sets of dormer windows in the attic.
"Look over there, Paul," I directed, pointing out the two windows on the northern wing where we had been held prisoners for so long, waiting endlessly for our grandfather to die.
While Paul stared at those two windows, I looked up at the dormer windows of the attic and saw that the fallen slat from one of the black shutters had been replaced. There wasn't a scorch mark anywhere or signs of a fire. The house hadn't burned! God hadn't sent an errant breeze to blow the candle flame until it caught a dangling paper flower on fire. God wasn't going to punish our mother or the grandmother, not for anything!
All of a sudden Carrie let out a loud howl. "I want Momma!" she screamed. "Cathy, Chris, that's where we used to live with Cory! Let's go inside! I want Momma, please let me see my real momma!"
It was frightful the way she cried and pleaded. How could she remember the house? It had been dark the night we arrived, with the twins so sleepy they couldn't have seen anything. The morning we stole away it was before dawn and we'd left by the back door. What was it that told Carrie this was our prison of yesteryears? Then I knew. It was the houses lower down the street. We were at the end of the cul-de-sac and up much higher. We'd often peeked out the windows of our locked room and gazed down on all the fine houses. Forbidden to look out of the windows--and yet we dared, on occasion.
What had been accomplished by our long journey? Nothing, nothing at all except more proof that our mother was a liar beyond belief. I mulled it over, day after day, even when I was perched on one of the built-in shower seats as Paul lathered my hair and carefully began to wash it. The long length couldn't be piled on top and screwed around or I'd never get out the tangles. He did it the way I'd taught him, working the soapy lather from scalp to ends, and when it was over, he'd dry it, brush it free of tangles and all around me it would fall like a silken shawl to cover my nakedness, like Eve must have covered hers.
"Paul," I asked, my eyes downcast, "it's not sinful what we're doing, is it? I keep thinking of the grandmother and all her talk of evil. Tell me that love makes this all right."
"Open your eyes, Cathy," he said softly, using a washcloth to wipe away the suds before I did. "Look at what you see--a naked man, the way God planned him to be." When I'd looked, he tilted my face upwards and then lifted me so he could hold me close. Holding me in his tight embrace, he began to talk, and every word he said told me our love was beautiful and right.
I couldn't speak. Silently I cried inside, for so easily I could have ended up the prude the
grandmother wanted to make of me.
Like a young child I allowed him to dry me off and brush my hair, and do what he would with his kisses and caresses, until the embers always ready between us caught fire and he picked me up and carried me to his bed.
When our passion was sated, I lay in the circle of his arms and thought of all I could do. Things that would have shocked me as a child. Things that once I would have considered terribly gross, ugly, for I had thought then only of the acts and not of the feelings of giving. How strange that people were born so sensual and had to be stifled for so many years. I recalled the first time his tongue had touched me there and the electrifying jolt I'd felt.
Oh, I could kiss Paul everywhere and feel no shame, for loving him was better than smelling roses on a sunny summer day, better than dancing to beautiful music with the best of all partners.
That was what loving Paul was like for me when I was seventeen and he was forty-two.
He had restored me and made me whole, and deeper down I shoved the remorse I felt for Cory.
There was hope for Chris, he was alive.
There was hope for Carrie, that she could grow and find love too.
And maybe, if things turned out right--there was hope for me too.
Toward the Top
. Julian didn't fly down as often as he used to, and his mother and father complained about this. When he did come, he danced better than ever, but not once did I see him glance my way. I had the suspicion though, he did plenty of looking when he knew I couldn't see him I was getting better, more disciplined, more controlled . . . and I worked. Oh, how I worked!
From the very first I'd been included in the professional group of the Rosencoff Ballet Company, but only as a member of the corps de ballet. This Christmas we were to alternate performances of The Nutcracker and Cinderella.
Long after the others had gone home I had the dance studio all to myself on a Friday afternoon, and I was lost in the world of the Sugarplum Fairy, intent upon giving this role something different, when suddenly Julian was dancing with me. He was like my shadow, doing what I did, even pirouetting, making a mockery of what I did.
He frowned, then grabbed up a towel to dry his face and hair. I wiggled my toes and started toward the dressing room. I was going out to dinner with Paul that evening.
"Cathy, hold up!" he called. "I know you don't like me--"
"I don't."
He grinned wickedly, leaning forward to stare into my eyes. His lips brushed my cheek as I cringed away, then he had me pinioned in his arms, with his palms flat against the wall to prevent my running away. "You know what, I think you should be the one to dance Clara, or Cinderella." He tickled under my chin, then kissed near my ear. "If you're nice to me I could see to it that you dance both lead roles."
I ducked and ran. "Come off it, Julian!" I flared. "Your favors would demand a price. . . and you don't interest me."
Ten minutes later I had showered and dressed and was ready to leave the building when Julian showed up in his street clothes. "Cathy, seriously, I think you're ready for New York now. Marisha thinks so too. ' His smile was wry, as if his mother's opinion wasn't as worthy as his own. "No strings attached. Not unless someday you decide you want strings"
Now I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing. I did get chosen for both the roles for the Rosencoff performances. I thought the other girls would be jealous and resentful, but instead they applauded when it was announced. We all worked well together, making it one merry, hectic time. Then came my debut as Cinderella!