He threw his thin, long, pale hands wide, his face expressive as he scanned over my body with contempt.
"Aren't you a little old to try to be seductive?" "Have you ever heard of exercise, Joel?" I asked impatiently. "You don't have to enter this wing. Just stay away from our rooms and your eyes won't be so scandalized."
"You are disrespectful to someone older and wiser," he said sharply.
"If I am, I apologize. But your words and your expression offend me. If there is to be peace in this house during our visit, stay away from me, Joel, while I am in my own wing. This huge house has more than enough space to give us all privacy without closing the doors."
He stiffly turned away, but not before I'd seen the indignation in his eyes. I hurried to stare after him, wondering if I could be mistaken, and he was only a harmless old man who couldn't mind his own business. But I didn't call out to apologize. Instead I took off my leotards, put on shorts and a top, and with thoughts of Jory and his wife coming soon comforting me, I went to find Chris. I hesitated outside Bart's office door and listened to him talking to the caterer, planning for a minimum of two hundred guests. Just listening to him made me feel numb inside. Oh, Bart, you don't realize some won't come, and if they do, Lord help us all.
As I continued to stand there, I heard him name several of his invited guests, and they were not all from this country. Many were notables from Europe that he'd met on his tours. Throughout his college days he'd been tireless in his efforts to see the world and to meet important people, people who ruled and dominated either with political power, brains, or financial wizardry. I thought his restlessness was due to his inability to be happy in one place, and he was always longing for the next greener, farther field.
"They'll all come," he said to the party on the other end of the line. "When they read my invitation, they won't be able to decline."
He hung up, then swung his chair about to face me. "Mother! Are you eavesdropping?"
"It's a habit I caught from you, my darling." He scowled.
"Bart, why don't you just make your party a family affair? Or invite just your best friends. The villagers around here won't want to come. According to the tales my mother used to tell us, they have always disliked the Foxworths, who had too much when they had too little. The Foxworths came and went while the villagers had to stay. And please don't include the local society, even if Joel has told you they are his friends, and therefore yours and ours.
"Afraid that your sins will be found out, Mother?" he asked without mercy. I was accustomed to this, but nevertheless I recoiled inwardly. Was it so terrible that Chris and I lived together as man and wife? Weren't the newspapers full of much worse crimes than ours?
"Oh, come, Mother, don't look like that. Let's be happy for a change." His bronzed face took on a cheerful, excited look, as if nothing I said would daunt his excitement. "Mother, be excited for me, please. I'm ordering the best of everything. When the word spreads around, and it will because my caterer is the best in Virginia, and he loves to boast, no one will be able to resist coming to my party. They'll hear I'm sending to New York and to Hollywood for entertainers, and what's more, I'm sure everyone will want to see Jory and Melodie dance."
Surprise and happiness filled me. "Have you asked them?"
"No, but how can my own brother and sister-inlaw refuse? You see, Mother, I'm planning to hold my party outdoors in the garden, in the moonlight. The lawns will be all lit up with golden globes. I'm having fountains put everywhere, and colored lights will play upon the sprinkling water. There'll be imported champagne by the crates, and every other liquor you can name. The food will be the best. I'm having a theater constructed in the midst of a wonderworld of fantasy where tables will be covered with beautiful cloths of every color. Color upon color. Flowers will be banked all over. I'll show the world just what a Foxworth can do."
On and on he enthused.
When I left his office and found Chris talking to one of the gardeners, I felt happy, reassured. Perhaps this was going to be the summer when Bart found himself, at last.
It would be as Chris had always predicted: Bart would not only inherit a fortune, he would inherit his sense of pride and worth and find himself . . . and pray God he found the right self.
Two days later I was in his office again, seated in one of his luxurious, deep, leather chairs, amazed to see how much he'd accomplished in his short time home. Apparently all this special extra office equipment had been ready and waiting to be installed the moment he was here to direct the placement. The small bedroom beyond the library he used for his office, where our detested grandfather had lived until he died, had been converted into a room of filing cabinets. The room where our grandfather's nurses had stayed became an office for Bart's secretary when or if he ever found one who met his stiff requirements. A computer dominated one long, curving desk, with its two printers that typed out different letters even as Bart and I conversed. It had surprised me to see him typing faster than I could. The drumming of the printers was muffled by heavy plexiglass covers.
Proudly he showed me how he could keep in touch with the world while staying-at home, just by pushing buttons and joining up with a program called "The Source." Only then did I learn that one summer he'd taken two months of computer programming. "And, Mother, I can execute my buy and sell orders and avail myself of expert technical and fundamental data just by using this computer. I'll occupy my time that way until I open my own law firm." For a moment he looked reflective, even doubtful. I still believed that he'd gone to Harvard just because his father had. Law held no real interest for him at all; he was only interested in making money, and then more money.
"Don't you have sufficient money already, Bart? What is it you can't buy?"
Something boyishly wistful and sweet visited his dark eyes. "Respect, Mother. I don't have any talent, like you, like Jory. I can't dance. I can't draw a decent representation of a flower, much less draw the human form." He was referring indirectly to Chris and his painting hobby. "When I visit an art museum, I'm baffled by everyone's awe. I don't see anything wonderful about the "Mona Lisa." I see only a blandfaced, rather plain-looking woman who couldn't have been exciting. I don't appreciate classical music, any kind of music . . . and I've been told I have a rather good singing voice. I used to try and sing when I was a kid. Goofy kind of kid, wasn't I? Must have given you a million laughs." He grinned appealingly, then spread his arms supplicatingly. "I have no artistic talents, and so I fall back upon the kind of figures I can readily understand, those representing dollars and cents. I look around in museums, and the only things I see to admire are jewels."
Sparkle came to his dark eyes. "The glitter and gleam of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, pearls . . . all that I can appreciate. Gold, mountains of gold--that I can understand. I see the beauty in gold, silver, copper and oil. Do you know I visited Washington just to watch gold minted into coins? I felt a certain kind of elation, as if one day all that gold would be mine "
Admiration faded and pity for him flooded me. "What about women, Bart? What about love? A family? Good friends? Children? Don't you hope to fall in love and marry?"
He stared at me blankly for a moment or so, drumming his strong, square-nailed fingertips on his desktop before he got up to stand before a wide wall of windows, staring out at the gardens and beyond them the blue-misted mountains. "I've experienced sex, Mother. I didn't expect to enjoy it, but I did. I felt my body betrayed my will. But I've never been in love. I can't imagine how it would be to devote myself to one woman when so many are beautiful and only too willing. I see a beautiful girl walk by, I turn and stare, only to find her turning and staring back at me. It's so easy to get them in
to my bed. No challenge at all." He paused and turned his head to look at me. "I use women, Mother, and sometimes I'm ashamed of myself. I take them, discard them, and even pretend I don't know them when I meet them again. They all end up hating me."
He met my wide eyes with watchful challenge. "Aren't you shocked?" he asked pleasantly. "Or am I just the churlish type you always expected?"
I swallowed, hoping this time I could say the right thing. In the past it seemed I'd never said anything right. I doubted anyone could say words that would change Bart from what he was, and what he wanted to be . . . if he even knew. "I suspect you are a product of your times," I began in a soft voice, without recriminations. "I almost pity your generation for missing out on the most beautiful aspect of falling in love. Where is the romance in your kind of taking, Bart? What do you give to the women you go to bed with? Don't you know it takes time to build a loving, lasting relationship? It doesn't happen overnight. Onenight stands don't form commitments. You can look at a beautiful body and desire that body, but that's not love."
His burning eyes showed such intensity and interest I was encouraged to go on, especially when he asked, "How do you explain love?"
It was a trap he baited, knowing the loves of my life had all been ill-fated. Still I answered, hoping to save him from all the mistakes he was sure to make. "I don't explain love, Bart. I don't think anyone can. It grows from day to day from having contact with that other person who understands your needs, and you understand theirs. It starts with a faltering flutter that touches your heart and makes you vulnerable to everything beautiful. You see beauty where before you'd seen ugliness. You feel glowing inside, so happy without knowing why. You appreciate what before you'd ignored. Your eyes meet with the eyes of the one you love, and you see reflected in them your own feelings, your own hopes and desires, and you're happy just to be with that person. Even when you don't touch, you still feel the warmth of being with that one person who fills all your thoughts. Then one day you do touch. Perhaps his hand, or her hand, and it feels good. It doesn't even have to be an intimate touch. An excitement begins to grow, so you want to be with that person, not to have sex . . . just to be with them and gradually grow toward one another. You share your life in words before you share your body. Only then do you start seriously thinking about having sex with that person. You begin to dream about it. Still you put it off, waiting, waiting for the right moment. You want this love to stay, to never end. So you go slowly, slowly toward the ultimate experience of your life. Day by day, minute by minute, second by second, and from moment to moment you anticipate that one person, knowing you won't be disappointed, knowing that person will be faithful, dependable . . . even when she's out of sight, or you're out of sight. There's trust, contentment, peace, happiness when you have genuine love. To be in love is like turning on a light in a dark room. All of a sudden everything becomes bright and visible. You're never alone because she loves you, and you love her."
I paused for breath, saw his continued interest that gave me the courage to go on. "I want that for you, Bart. More than all the billions of tons of gold in the world, more than all the jewels in vaults, I want you to find a wonderful girl to love. Forget money. You have enough. Look around, open your eyes and discover the joys of living, and forget your pursuit of money."