Seeds of Yesterday

  "There are some who do," said Joel

  enigmatically.

  I threw him a wondering glance, then looked again at that small red car that had cost a small fortune. Every year Bart bought a new car, never any color but red; he'd tried all the luxury cars to find which he liked best. This one was his favorite so far, he'd informed us in a brief letter.

  Squealing to a stop, he burned rubber and spoiled the perfection of the curving drive with long black streaks. Waving first, Bart threw off his sunglasses, shook his head to bring his dark tumbled locks back into order, ignored the door and jumped from his convertible, pulling off driving gloves and tossing them carelessly onto the seat. Racing up the steps, he seized me up in his strong arms and planted several kisses on my cheeks. I was stunned with the warmth of his greeting. Eagerly I responded. The moment my lips touched his cheek he put me down and shoved me away as if he tired of me very rapidly.

  He stood in full sunlight, six feet three, brilliant intelligence and strength in his dark brown eyes, his shoulders broad, his well-muscled body tapering down to slim hips and long legs. He was so handsome in his casual white sports outfit. "You're looking great, Mother, just great. His dark eyes swept over me from heels to hair. "Thanks for wearing that red dress . . . it's my favorite color."

  I reached for Chris's hand. "Thank you, Bart, I wore this dress just for you." Now he could say something nice to Chris, I hoped. I waited for that. Instead, Bart ignored Chris and turned to Joel.

  "Hi, Uncle Joel. Isn't my mother just as beautiful as I said?"

  Chris's hand clenched mine so hard it hurt. Always Bart found a way to insult the only father he could remember.

  "Yes, Bart, your mother is very beautiful," said Joel in that whispery, raspy voice. "In fact, she's exactly the way I would imagine my sister Corrine looked at her age."

  "Bart, say hello to your--" and here I faltered. I wanted to say Father but I knew Bart would deny that rudely. So I said Chris. Turning his dark and sometimes savage eyes briefly to stare at Chris, Bart bit out a harsh hello. "You don't ever age either, do you?" he said in an accusatory tone.

  "I'm sorry about that, Bart," answered Chris evenly. "But time will do its job eventually."

  "Let's hope so."

  I could have slapped Bart.

  Turning around, Bart ignored both Chris and me and surveyed the lawns, the house, the luxurious flower beds, the lush shrubbery, the garden paths, the birdbaths and other statuary, and smiled with an owner's pride. "It's grand, really grand. Just as I hoped it would be. I've looked the world over and no mansion can compare with Foxworth Hall."

  His dark eyes moved to clash with mine. "I know what you're thinking, Mother, I know this isn't truly the best house yet, but one day it will be. I intend to build, and add new wings, and one day this house will outshine every palace in Europe. I'm going to concentrate my energies on making Foxworth Hall truly an historic landmark."

  "Who will you impress when you accomplish that?" asked Chris. "The world no longer tolerates great houses and great wealth, or respects those who gain it by inheritance."

  Oh, damn it! Chris so seldom said anything tactless or rude. Why had he said what he did? Bart's face flamed beneath his deep bronze tan. "I intend to increase my fortune with my own efforts!" Bart flared, stepping closer to Chris. Because he was so lean, and Chris had put on weight, especially in the chest, he appeared to tower over Chris. I watched the man I thought of as my husband stare challengingly into my son's eyes.

  "I've been doing that for you," said Chris.

  To my surprise, Bart seemed pleased. "You mean as trustee you have increased my share of the inheritance?"

  "Yes, it was easy enough," said Chris

  laconically. "Money makes money, and the

  investments I made for you have paid off

  handsomely."

  "Ten to one I could have done better."

  Chris smiled ironically. "I could have predicted you'd thank me like that."

  From one to the other I looked, feeling sorry for both of them. Chris was a mature man who knew who and what he was, and he could ride along on that confidence with ease, while Bart was still struggling to find himself and his place in the world.

  My son, my son, when will you learn humility, gratitude? Many a night I'd seen Chris working over figures, trying to decide on the best investments, as if he knew that sooner or later Bart would accuse him of poor financial judgment.

  "You'll have your chance to prove yourself soon enough," Chris responded. He turned to me. "Let's take a walk, Cathy, down to the lake."

  "Wait a minute," called Bart, appearing furious that we'd leave when he'd just come home. I was torn between wanting to escape with Chris and the desire to please my son. "Where's Cindy?"

  "She'll be coming soon," I called back. "Right now Cindy is visiting a girlfriend's home. You might be interested to learn that Jory is going to bring Melodie here for a vacation."

  Bart just stood there staring at me, perhaps appalled with the idea, and then came that strange excitement to replace all other emotions on his handsome, tanned face. "Bart," I said, resisting Chris's desire to hurry me away from a known source of trouble, "the house is truly beautiful. All that you've done to change it has been a wonderful

  improvement."

  Again he appeared surprised. "Mother, you mean it's not exactly the same? I thought it was . . ."

  "Oh, no, Bart. The balcony outside our suite of rooms wasn't there before."

  Bart whirled on his great-uncle. "You told me it was!" he shouted.

  Smiling sardonically, Joel stepped forward. "Bart, my son, I didn't lie. I never lie. The original Hall did have that balcony. My father's mother ordered it put there. And by using that balcony, she was able to sneak in her lover without the servants seeing. Later she ran off with that lover without waking her husband, who kept their bedroom door locked and the key hidden. Malcolm ordered the balcony torn down when he was the owner . . . but it does add a certain kind of charm to that side of the house."

  Satisfied, Bart turned again to Chris and me. "See, Mother, you don't know anything at all about this house. Uncle Joel is the expert. He's described to me in great detail all the furniture, the paintings, and, in the end, I'll have not only the same, but better than the original."

  Bart hadn't changed. He was still obsessed, still wanting to be a carbon copy of Malcolm Foxworth, if not in looks, in personality and in determination to be the richest man in the world, no matter what he did to gain that title.

  My Second Son

  . Not long after Bart arrived home, he began making elaborate plans for his upcoming birthday party. Apparently, to my surprise and delight, he'd made many friends in Virginia during the summer vacations he'd spent here. It used to hurt that he spent such a few of his vacation days with us in California, where I had considered he belonged. But now it seemed he knew people we'd never heard of, and had met young men and women in college that he intended to invite down to help him celebrate.

  I'd only spent a few days at Foxworth Hall and already the monotony of days with nothing to do but eat, sleep, read, look at TV, and roam the gardens and woods had me on edge and eager to escape as soon as possible. The deep silence of the mountainside gripped me in its spell of isolation and despair. The silence wore on my nerves. I wanted to hear voices, many voices, hear the telephone ring, have people drop in and say hello, and nobody did. There was a group of local society members that had known the Foxworths well, and this was the very group Chris and I had to avoid. There were old friends in New York and California that I wanted to call and invite to Bart's party, but I didn't dare without Bart's approval. Restlessly I prowled the grand rooms alone, and sometimes with Chris. He and I walked the gardens, strolled through the woods, quiet sometimes, garrulous others.

  He had his old hobby of watercoloring to begin again, and that kept him busy, but I wasn't supposed to dance anymore. Nevertheless I did my ballet exercises every day of my life just to keep mys
elf slim and supple, and willingly enough I'd pose when he asked me to do that. Joel came upon me once as I held on to a chair in our sitting room, exercising in red leotards. I heard his gasp from the open doorway and turned to find him staring at me as if I were naked. "What's wrong?" I asked worriedly. "Has something terrible happened?"

  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."