Although Chris and I had been introduced in the receiving line, it seemed to me most of Bart's guests made it a point not to talk to us. I looked at Chris just as he looked at me. "What's going on?" he asked in a low whisper.
"The older guests are not talking to Bart, either," I answered. "Look, Chris, they've come just to drink, eat and enjoy themselves, and they don't give a damn about Bart, or any of us. They are just here so he can dine and wine them."
"I wouldn't say that," Chris replied. "Everyone makes it a point to speak to Jory and Melodie. Some are even talking to Joel. Doesn't he look a fine and elegant gentleman tonight?"
Never would it cease to amaze me the way Chris could find something to admire in everyone.
Joel looked like a funeral director as he moved solemnly from one group to another. He didn't carry a glass like everyone else. He didn't partake of the refreshments that piled the buffet tables in such a breathtaking array. I nibbled daintily on a cracker spread with goose liver pate and looked around for Cindy. She was in the center of five young men, very much the belle of the ball. Even her demure blue dress didn't keep her from looking very seductive--now that she'd shoved the shoulder ruffle down to bare the top half of her bosom.
"She looks like you used to," said Chris, also watching Cindy. "Except you had a more ethereal quality, as if your two feet were never firmly on the ground, and never would you stop believing miracles could happen." He paused and looked at me in that special way that kept my love for him always alive and thriving. "Yes, love," he whispered, "miracles can happen, even here."
Every wife or husband seemed to be trying to score with any member of the opposite sex besides their spouses. Only Chris and I stuck together. Jory had disappeared, and now Melodie was standing with Bart. He was saying something to her that had her eyes blazing hot. She turned to hurry away, but he seized hold of her arm and yanked her back. She snatched her arm away, only to have him seize it again, and ruthle
ssly he pulled her into his embrace. They began to dance, with Melodie determinedly keeping him from crushing her against him.
I started to go to them, but Chris caught my arm to restrain me. "Let Melodie handle him. You'd only make him furious."
Sighing, I watched the small conflict between Bart and his brother's wife and saw to my amazement that he won, for she relaxed and finally seemed to enjoy the dance that soon ended. Then he was leading her from group to group, as if she were his wife and not Jory's.
I'd tasted only a little of this and that when a very beautiful woman stepped forward, smiling first at Chris, then at me. "Aren't you Corrine Foxworth's daughter, the one who came to that Christmas night party and--"
Abruptly I cut her short. "If you'll excuse me, I have a few duties to perform," I said, hurrying away and keeping fast hold of Christopher. The woman ran behind us. "But Mrs. Sheffield . . ."
I was spared the need to answer by the blast of many trumpets. The entertainment began as Bart's guests seated themselves with plates of food and drinks. Bart and Melodie came to join us, while Cindy and Jory ran to warm up in practice outfits before they changed into elaborate costumes.
Soon the professional entertainers had me laughing along with everyone else.
What a wonderful party! I glanced often at Chris, at Bart and Melodie, who sat near us. The summer night was perfect. The mountains all around enclosed us in a friendly romantic ring, and I was again amazed that I could see them as anything but formidable barriers to keep freedom forever out of reach. I was happy to see Melodie laughing and, most of all, happy to see Bart really having a good time. He shifted his chair closer to mine. "Would you say my party is a success, Mother?"
"Yes, oh, indeed, yes, Bart, you've outdone anything I've ever attended. It's a marvelous party. The evening is breathtakingly beautiful, with the stars and moon overhead, and all your colored lights. When does the ballet begin?"
He smiled and put his arm lovingly about my shoulders. His voice was tender with understanding when he asked, "Nothing for you equals the ballet, does it? And you won't be disappointed. You just wait to see if New York or London can equal my
production of Samson and Delilah."
Jory had danced the role only three times before, but each time his performances had brought such acclaim it was no wonder Bart was fascinated with the role. The musicians in black sat down, reached for new music sheets and started tuning their instruments.
A few yards away, Joel stood stiffly, a hateful, disapproving look on his face, as if he reflected all that his father's ghost might be feeling to see this extravagant waste of good money.
"Bart, you're twenty-five today, happy birthday! I remember clearly when a nurse laid you in my arms the first time. I had a terrible time giving birth to you, and the doctors kept coming to say I had to make a choice, your life or mine. I chose yours. But I made it, and was blessed with a second son . . . the very image of his father. You were crying, your small hands balled into fists as you flailed the air. Your feet kicked free of the blanket, but the minute you felt my body heat against yours, held close to my heart; you stopped crying. Your eyes, closed until then, parted into slits. You seemed to see me before you fell asleep."
"I'm sure you thought Jory was a prettier baby," he said with sarcasm, but his eyes were tender, as if he liked hearing of himself as a baby.
Melodie was regarding me with the strangest expression. I wished she weren't so near. "You had your own kind of beauty, Bart, your own personality, right from the start. You wanted me with you night and day. I'd put you in your crib, you'd cry. I'd pick you up, you'd stop crying."
"In other words I was a great big nuisance."
"I never thought that, Bart. I loved you from the day I conceived you. I loved you more when you smiled. Yours was such a faltering first smile, as if it hurt your face."
It seemed for a moment I'd touched him. His hand reached for mine, and mine reached for his. But at that moment the overture to Samson and Delilah began, and this moment of sweetness between my second son and me was lost in the excited murmur of surprise as Bart's guests looked at the program and saw that Jory Janus Marquet was going to dance his most famous role, and his sister, Cynthia Sheffield, would play the role of Delilah. Many people looked at Melodie with curiosity, wondering why she wasn't dancing Delilah.
As always, when a ballet began, I was lost to the real world, drifting somewhere on a cloud and feeling so much it was painful, beautiful, and I was transported to another world.
The curtain lifted to show the inside of a colorful silken tent set against a backdrop representing a starry night in the desert. Stuffed but real-looking camels were there, palm trees swayed gently. On stage was Cindy, dressed in a diaphanous costume that clearly showed her slender but ripe figure. She wore a dark wig, cleverly bound around her head with jeweled bands. She began a seductive, undulating dance, enticing Samson, who lingered just off stage. When Jory came on, the birthday guests stood and gave him a resounding ovation.
He stood waiting until the applause ended, then began his dance. He wore nothing but a lion-skin loincloth held up by a strap that crossed his
well- muscled broad chest. His skin, well tanned, appeared oiled. His hair was long and black and perfectly straight; muscles rippled as he whirled, jeteed, duplicating Delilah's steps only more violently, as if he mocked her womanly weakness and delighted in his own agile, masculine strength. The power it took to portray Samson made my spine shiver. He looked so right for the role, danced so well, I shivered again, not from cold but from the pure beauty of seeing my son up there, dancing as if God had gifted him with superhuman style and grace.