As I stood and looked at him, trying to bring him back to himself, the sky suddenly darkened and all the brigh
t falling leaves went limp in the cold, drenching rain that plastered them against the glass. "Daddy used to do all the chores when we lived in Gladstone. Momma used to complain the storm windows gave her twice as many to clean . . ."
"I want my wife, Mom, NOW!"
I was reluctant to go in search of Melodic for no reason could name. In the dreary gloom Jory was forced to turn on a lamp at ten in the morning.
"Would you like a cheerful wood fire burning?"
"I only want my wife. Do I have to repeat this ten times? Once she's here, she can start the fire."
I left him alone, realizing my presence irritated him when he wanted her--the only one who could bring him back to himself.
Melodic was not in her room as I'd expected her to be.
The halls I trod seemed the same halls I'd walked before when I was younger. The closed doors I passed seemed the same heavy, solid doors I'd stealthily opened when I'd been fourteen, fifteen. Behind me I sensed the omniscient presence of Malcolm, the malice of the hostile grandmother.
I turned to the western wing. Bart's wing.
Almost automatically my feet took me there as my mind stayed blank. Intuition had ruled most of my life and, it seemed, would rule my future as well. Why was I going this way? Why didn't I look elsewhere for Melodic? What instinct was guiding me to my second son's rooms, where he never wanted me to go?
Before Bart's wide double doors that were heavily padded with luxurious black leather, goldtooled with his monogram and the family crest, I called softly, "Bart, are you in there?"
I heard nothing. However, all the doors were made of solid oak, heavily paneled beneath the ostentatious padding. Very soundproof doors and thick walls that knew how to hold secrets, so no wonder we four had been so easily hidden away. I turned the doorlatch, expecting to find it locked. It wasn't.
Almost stealthily I stepped inside Bart's sitting room, which was kept immaculate, not one book or magazine out of place. On his walls hung his sporting equipment: tennis rackets and fishing rods, a golf bag in a corner, a rowing machine inside a closet with the door partially open. I stared at the photographs of his favorite sports stars. I often thought Bart made a pretense of admiring football and baseball athletes just so he'd have something in common with the rest of his sex. To my way of thinking he'd have been more honest to plaster his walls with pictures of those who'd earned fortunes in the stock market, or wheeling and dealing in industry, or politics.
His rooms were all black and white with red accents; dramatic, but somehow cold. I sat down on his white leather sofa fully twelve feet long, my feet on his red carpet, with black velvet and satin pillows behind my back. In one corner was a marvelous bar sparkling with crystal decanters and various stemmed glasses, and every kind of liquor he kept there for his private use, along with snack foods. There was also a small fridge and a micro oven for melting cheese, or doing whatever light cooking he wanted.
Every photograph was matted in black or red and' framed in gold. Three walls were of white moire fabric. One wall was covered with padded and quilted black leather. A deceiving wall. One of those leather buttons concealed the large safe in which he kept his stock and bond certificates, for he'd proudly shown me his suite just once, soon after it was completely decorated. He'd operated the secret buttons, happy to display the complexity of all he controlled. The safe in his office downstairs was used for less permanent and important papers.
I turned my head to stare at the door to his bedroom, covered with black leather, too. Beautiful doors to a magnificent bedroom with the same decor as this room. I thought I heard something. The soft rumble of male laughter--the softer giggle of a woman. Could I be wrong? Did Bart have the ability to make Melodie laugh when none of the rest of us could?
My imagination worked overtime, picturing what they had to be doing, and I felt sick at heart, thinking of Jory in his room, hopefully waiting for a wife who never came to him. Sick because Bart would do this to him, his own brother, whom he'd loved and admired very much for a short while, such a pitifully short while . . .
Just then the door opened and Bart came striding out, wearing not one stitch of clothing. He moved swiftly, his long legs a fast blur. Embarrassed to see him naked, I shrank back into the soft cushions, hoping he wouldn't see me. He'd never forgive me. I shouldn't be here.
Due to the sudden storm, the gloom in his sitting room was so dense there was some hope he wouldn't notice me sitting on his white sofa. Straight to the fully equipped bar he stalked, and with quick, skilled hands mixed some drink using crystal decanters. He sliced lemon, filled two cocktail glasses, put those half-filled glasses on a silver tray and headed back for his bedroom. The door behind him was kicked closed.
Cocktails in the morning, before twelve . . . ?
What would Joel think of that?
I sat on, hardly breathing.
Thunder rolled and lightning cracked, the rain beat on the windowpanes. Lightning zagged and lit up the gloom every few seconds.
Moving to a more secluded spot in his room, I made myself part of the shadows behind a huge plant, then waited.
It seemed an eternity passed before that door opened again, and I knew Jory was waiting anxiously, perhaps even angrily, for Melodie to show up. Two glasses, two. She was here. She had to be here.
In the dimness I finally saw Melodie step out of Bart's bedroom wearing a filmy peignoir that clearly showed she wore nothing beneath. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated her, showing the bulge of the baby that was due early in January.
Oh, Melodie, how can you do this to Jory?
"Come back," called Bart in a slurred, satisfied voice. "It's raining. The fire in here makes it cozier-- and we have nothing better to do . . ."
"I've got to bathe and dress and visit Jory," she said, hesitating in the doorway, looking at him with apparent longing. want to stay, really I do, but Jory needs me once in a while."