"But it's not a healthy, nutritious lunch, or even filling, Jillian!" I exclaimed after our third lunch together. "Quite honestly, even after I eat six of your tiny sandwiches, I'm still hungry, and I don't really care for champagne."
Her delicate eyebrows rose as if in
exasperation. "What kind of food do you and Tony eat when you lunch together?"
"Oh, he lets me have anything on the menu. In fact he encourages me to try foods I've never tasted before."
"He indulges you, just like he indulged Leigh." She sat for long moments with her head bowed over her dainty meal, and then waved her hand, as if in dismissal. "If there is one thing that really disgusts me, it's to see a young girl eat with a ravenous appetite--and do you realize, Heaven, that's the only way you know how to eat? Until you can control your need for so much food, I think it best that you and I never eat lunch together again. And when we are in the dining room, I will make an effort to pay as little attention as possible to your dining habits."
Jillian was as good as her word. She never asked me to play bridge with her again. We never shared another luncheon, and when we were seated in their elegant dining room with Tony, she addressed all her remarks to him. And if out of pure necessity she had to say something to me, she didn't turn her head my way. Because I wanted so much to please her, I tried to turn down second and third helpings, and I even made my first servings very small. Now I was hungry all the time, so I took to stealing to the huge kitchen, where Ryse Williams, the stout black chef, welcomed me into his domain.
"Why girl, you are just like your mother, sweet Jesus, I never saw a girl so much like her mother-- even if your hair is dark."
In that gleaming kitchen, with copper pans and thousands of kitchen tools I'd never seen before, I spent many an hour listening to Rye Whiskey and his tales of the Tattertons, and though I tried many a time to force him to talk of my mother, he always grew uncomfortable and busied himself with his cooking when I asked. His smooth, brown face would go blank, and very quickly he'd change the subject. But one day, one day soon, Rye Whiskey was going to tell me everything he knew--for already I suspected from his expressions of shame and embarrassment that he knew a great deal.
In the privacy of my bedroom I wrote to tell Tom all about it. So far I'd written him three letters and had warned him not to reply until I could send him a "safe" address. (It hurt me to imagine what he had to be thinking.) In those letters I described Farthinggale Manor, Jillian, and Tony, but I didn't say a word about Troy. Troy was naggingly on my mind. Too much on my mind. I wanted to see him again, and was afraid to see him again. I had a thousand questions to ask Tony about his brother, but Tony scowled each time I approached the subject of the man who lived in the cottage beyond the maze. Twice I tried to talk about Troy to Jillian, who turned her head and waved her hand, dismissing the subject. "Oh, Troy! He's not interesting. Forget him. He knows too much about everything else to appreciate women." And, while I thought too much about Troy, I decided it was time to write the most difficult letter, to the one who truly belonged in my future, to find out if he'd let me back in his again.
But how did I write to someone who had once loved and trusted me, and now no longer did? Did I ignore what had brought about the end of our long relationship? Should I discuss it openly? No, no, I decided, I had to see Logan and watch his expression before I went into more detail about Cal Dennison.
Finally I managed a few words that didn't seem adequate.
.
Dear Logan,
At last I am living with my mother's family as I always hoped to do. Soon I will be attending a girls' private school called Winterhaven. If you have any feelings for me left, and I hope and pray you do, then please try to forgive me. And perhaps we can start over.
Fondly,
Heaven
.
The return address I put on the envelope was the post office box I had secretly opened the day before, while Tony purchased clothes for himself in the shop down the street. I chewed the end of my pen thoughtfully before I finally put that single small sheet into its envelope, with a small prayer. Logan, with all his strength and fide
lity, could save me from so much if he would, if he still cared enough.
The very next day I had a chance to mail my letters. I told Tony I needed to use the ladies' room, then I dashed out of the store's side door and ran to drop my letters in a mailbox. There, I sighed with relief. I'd made contact with my past. My forbidden past.
Then back again to Farthy, which was beginning to seem like home, now that I had possessions I could call my own. I was up early each morning to swim with Tony in the indoor pool, and after drying off and changing my clothes, I'd eat breakfast with him, already I had grown accustomed to Curtis the butler, so I could ignore his presence almost as well as Tony did--until I needed
something. I saw very little of Jillian, who wasted half her day in her room before she came flitting out, looking gorgeous, on her way to her hairdresser or some luncheon party (where I hoped she ate more substantial meals than tiny sandwiches with
champagne).
As for Tony, soon after breakfast he left for Boston to conduct his business at the Tatterton Toy Corporation. Sometimes he'd call from his city office and invite me to lunch in an elegant restaurant, where I felt like a princess. I loved the way people turned to stare at us, as if we were father and daughter. Oh, Pa, if only you'd had half the manners Tony displayed as second nature.
Then came the hard days, the surprising days, when I had to drive off with Tony early each morning, while he was on his way to work, and he'd let me out in front of a tall and forbidding-looking office building where I was to take tests that I would have to pass even to be admitted to Winterhaven. "The first tests will get you in to Winterhaven," Tony explained, "the others will determine whether or not you will qualify for the best universities. I am expecting you to receive high scores, not merely average ones."
I sat one evening in Jillian's room watching her put on makeup, wishing I could talk to her as a mother, or even a grandmother, but the moment I brought up the difficult tests I'd taken that day, she flung her right hand out impatiently. "For God's sake, Heaven, don't bore me with talk of school! I hated school, and it was all Leigh could talk about. I don't know what difference it makes anyway, when beautiful girls like you are so quickly snatched off the market they seldom have use for what brains they have."
My eyes widened with shock when she said this--what century did Jillian live in, anyway? Both parents worked in most marriages nowadays. Then, looking Jillian over gain with more perception, I guessed she had always believed her good looks would win her a fortune--and so they had.
"And furthermore, Heaven, when finally you enter that hateful school, try never to bring home any friends you might make there--or if you feel you have to, please warn me at least three days in advance so I can make other plans for myself."
I sat silent and stunned and deeply hurt. "You are never going to let me be part of your life, are you?" I asked in a pitifully small voice. "When I lived in the Willies I thought when finally I met you, my mother's mother, that you would love me, and need me, and want us to be a close, loving family."
How oddly she looked at me, as if at some circus freak. "Close, loving family? What are you talking about? I had two sisters and one brother, and none of us got along. All we did was fuss and squabble and find reasons to hate one another. And have you forgotten what your mother did to me? I have no intentions of allowing you to win your way into my affections, so that I'll be hurt again when you leave."