Her head snapped up, her eyes glazed with tears and pain. "You two didn't wait to grow up," she charged. Jimmy's face reddened.
"That's not fair, Fern," I said softly. "We lived in different times, under entirely different circumstances."
"I think you owe us an apology," Jimmy said. "I really do."
She looked down, her shoulders sagging.
"I'm sorry," she muttered. "May I go upstairs now?"
"You're not finished with your dinner," Jimmy said.
"I'm not hungry anymore."
"Fern, it's better that you listen to us this time. We're just trying to do the right things for you," I said.
"Okay," she said, wiping her cheeks with the napkin. "I just want to go upstairs and read."
"Go on, then," Jimmy said.
As soon as she left the room Christie turned to me. "What's the matter with Aunt Fern?" she asked.
"She's growing up too fast," I said. Christie looked at me quizzically.
"Am I growing up too fast, Momma?" she asked.
"I hope not, sweetheart. I really hope not," I said. It brought a smile back to Jimmy's face, but he couldn't help turning toward the door and looking after Fern, worry drawing dark shadows around his eyes. I reached across the table and touched his hand. "I'll speak to her, Jimmy," I promised.
Afterward I went upstairs and knocked softly on her door. "Come in," she said. She was curled up on her bed, reading a library book.
"Fern," I began, "I think maybe you and I ought to have a heart-to-heart talk."
"You mean talk about sex?" she said, turning the corners of her mouth down.
"Yes. Apparently you are growing up very fast. Did Leslie ever sit down and discuss it with you?"
She laughed.
"Hardly," she said. Then she leaned toward me and said in a whisper, "I don't think she and Clayton even do anything together anymore. They have separate bedrooms, you know," she said, sitting back.
"That," she added, "is probably why he did what he did to me."
I was astounded. How could a girl this young be so sophisticated when it came to sex? And then I thought, maybe growing up in New York City did it. She was exposed to more and consequently learned faster.
"You seem to know a great deal more than I did when I was your age, Fern," I said. She shrugged. "Where did you learn it all, then, if Leslie didn't talk to you?"
"From friends at school and stuff," she said nonchalantly.
"What's 'stuff' mean?"
"Books and magazines and things. Just stuff," she said. "I see. Well, may I tell you something, some wise things I have learned, then?"
"Sure," she said. She finally looked intrigued, interested in something I had to say.
"Your body is just turning into the body of a young woman. Things are changing in you—"
"I know. I'm getting a bosom. Boys notice, too," she added, pleased with herself.
"It's not just getting a bosom, Fern. Becoming a grown woman involves a lot more. You have different feelings. Suddenly things—things you never expect to happen—happen. You cry for apparently no reason; you long to feel things, touch things, hear and see things that didn't interest you very much before.
"And boys . . . boys can become fascinating. You notice things about them that you've never noticed before, and you want to be around them a lot more.
"Mostly," I continued, "you want them to think of you as a young woman now, and not as a little girl, right? That's why you like hanging around the older boys at the hotel, and that's why you beg cigarettes and smoke with them in the basement," I added.
Her eyes widened.
"Who told you that? Robert Garwood, I bet. He's an ogre. I don't even like him. He's lying!"
"I know you smoked cigarettes down in the basement, Fern," I repeated, "but I've never told Jimmy. You shouldn't think I want to turn him against you. I don't, but you will turn him against you if you don't take your time growing up.
"I know it might sound silly to you, but you've got to be careful about your feelings. Sometimes they run away with you, and you do things you regret later."
"Like when you got pregnant with Christie?" she asked quickly.
"Yes, but I was lucky I had Jimmy to love me. Not everyone is so lucky, Fern. Instead of relying on being lucky, you should rely on being wise. If you throw yourself at older boys, they're going to think you're not wise, and they're going to take advantage of you. I think you understand what I'm saying, don't you?"
She nodded.
"It's just a dance," she muttered.
"Older boys don't think of it that way, and I think that this older boy saw something in you that gave him reason to believe you didn't, either. Otherwise he might not have asked you," I said.
"Why? I'm just as pretty as some of the girls in the ninth and tenth grades," she asserted.
"I'm sure you are—even prettier—but that's not the point, is it? Why didn't he ask one of those girls? All we're asking is that you take your time growing up. It will all come; you will have an army of boyfriends, I'm sure, and you won't miss a thing."
"Then when can I go to a dance?" she asked.
"Soon, I'm sure. And when the time is right, we won't stop you; we'll be happy for you." I patted her on the hand and got up.
"Jimmy's really mad at me, isn't he?" she asked quickly. "No, he's not mad; he's worried. Why don't you go downstairs and talk to him?" I suggested.
"Okay," she said, sliding off the bed. Then she paused at the doorway and turned to me. I thought she was going to thank me for the little talk, but instead she asked, "Someday will you tell me how you let yourself fall in love and get pregnant at such a young age?"
"Someday," I said. She smiled and walked out quickly, leaving me struck nearly breathless by her request.
It had been a while since I had thought much about Michael Sutton. Occasionally, when Trisha would call or visit, she would bring me some tidbits about him and his career, things she had heard or read in the trade magazines. But Fern's request to tell her about my tragic love story seemed like some magical spell cast by a wicked witch, for less than a week later I received the most shocking phone call—a call from Michael himself.
"Hello, Dawn," he said, and I knew immediately that it was he. I would never forget that melodic, resonant voice, the voice that had called to me in dreams while I was living in New York and attending the Sarah Bernhardt School of Performing Arts. For a moment I couldn't respond. My heart lodged somewhere in my throat. It was as if all the time between us had been a dream. "It's Michael," he finally said.
"Michael?"
"Yes." He laughed. "I know you never expected to hear from me again, and you probably don't want to, but I couldn't stop myself from calling you. I'm in Virginia Beach."
"Virginia Beach!"
"Yes, only a few miles away. After all this time," he continued, "only a few miles away. How have you been?"
"How have I been?"
This was the man who had said he loved me and wanted me with him always, and when he found out I was pregnant he had told me he was happy about it; this was the same man who had deserted me and left me crying on a city street in a snowstorm.
"How have I been?" I repeated, as if I had to have him confirm he was actually asking such a question.
He laughed again, a nervous laugh. The great Michael Sutton, nervous? I thought. How unlike him; how especially unlike him to show it.
"I made some inquiries about you after I returned to the States and traveled to Virginia. From what I've been told, you've inherited quite a well-known resort, one frequented by well-to-do vacationers," he said.
"That's true, Michael," I replied in a voice so formal Grandmother Cutler would have been jealous. "I'm also happily married."
"I know, I know." He laughed again, a thin, weak laugh this time. "You married that soldier boy you thought was your brother, right?"
"Who has been a wonderful and loving father," I added pointedly. My words were as sharp and as point
ed as darts, all falling on a bull's-eye.
"Really," he said. "Well, I'm glad about that. Anyway, I would like to see you."
"See me? What for, Michael?" I demanded. "Why would you want to see me now?" My voice dripped with anger and sarcasm.
"I know you have a right to be furious with me, Dawn," he said quickly. "But if you will give me a chance to explain—"
"Explain?" I started to laugh.
"And tell you things I couldn't tell you then," he added in a louder voice, "you will at least understand.
"Besides," he said in a softer, more solicitous tone, "I'd like to see our child."
"Our child? She's not our child anymore, Michael; she's mine and Jimmy's. We've gone through all the legal steps. Jimmy has formally adopted her."
"I understand," he said. "I just want to see her, just once, that's all."
"Why would you suddenly care about her now, Michael? Where have you been all these years?" I asked sharply.
"As I said, you will understand once we meet. It's not the sort of thing one can explain over a telephone. I'm staying in this nice hotel, the Dunes."
The two contradictory parts of myself began a desperate struggle. Everything good in me, everything mature and sensible told me to scream back at him, to tell him how despicable, insensitive and irresponsible I thought he was and then hang up on him, forbidding him ever to call again. But that softer part of me begged me to be compassionate and merciful. Why shouldn't he see his daughter, and she see him? Perhaps he had come to suffer remorse for his actions and wanted, sought, craved a way to make some sort of amends, at least to her. Who was I to deny him that? Also, I couldn't help being curious about him and his story. What could he possibly tell me that would justify what he had done to me?
But if Jimmy should find out, he would be furious with me, I thought. He would be more than furious—he would be deeply hurt. I couldn't decide.
"You don't have to tell her who I am," Michael suggested, anticipating some of my hesitation. "We'll pretend I'm an old friend visiting. That way no one need know," he said, and he added, "No one knows who I am here. I'm not in town to do any performing; I'm just passing through."
"I don't know, Michael. I—"
"What's her name?" he asked quickly.
"Christie," I said, realizing how terribly sad and tragic it was that her father hadn't known her name until now.
"Beautiful name. Did we pick that out? I can't remember."
"No, Michael, we didn't."
"Anyway," he said, wisely changing the subject, "for me to be so close to you and Christie and not to see you . . . it would be a sin," he said.
"Don't talk to me of sins," I snapped back.
"Oh, I wouldn't be blaming you. No, no. I'd be blaming myself. It would be another sin added to those I have unfortunately accumulated. Dawn, just for a few minutes, even just ten minutes . . ."
"It would have to be late in the afternoon tomorrow, after Christie returns from school," I said, relenting.
"Fine, fine. We'll have some tea at my hotel. What time?"
"Four o'clock," I said, not believing I was agreeing to this.
"Perfect. I'll do nothing but wait all day. Thank you.
Good-bye until then," he said, and he cradled the phone just as I had second thoughts.
"Michael, wait—"
The line was dead. Slowly I returned my receiver to its cradle and then sat back. I shouldn't do this without telling Jimmy, I thought. He would never understand. And yet I knew if I did tell him, he would be furious. He might even go down to the hotel in Virginia Beach before I did and pound Michael through the floor or throw him through a window.
No, it was better I did it without his knowing, quickly, staying only a few minutes. I would do just as Michael suggested—I would tell Christie we were visiting some old friend. I'd pretend we just happened to meet him.
I couldn't believe how my body was shaking. Was I trembling because of fear, or was I trembling because of excitement? Michael's handsome face flashed before me. I had done so well keeping those memories locked and buried in the deepest chambers of my heart, but in a moment Michael had burst into my new life and torn open the black chest of remembrances, permitting them to escape into my conscious thoughts. Once again I heard the music, saw his impish glint, heard his laughter and felt myself being swept up in his arms. Falling in love with someone so debonair, sophisticated and handsome had been overwhelming for a girl my age. The power of those recollections was enormous. They could still bring a flush to my face and take my breath away.
Try as I would, I couldn't put my impending rendezvous with Michael out of mind. Every moment of silence was filled with the sound of Michael's voice, the memory of his singing or his laughter. And if I stopped working, my mind drifted back quickly to some scene with him in New York, even just walking alongside him in the corridors of the school.
At dinner Jimmy noticed I was going in and out of daydreams, and finally he asked me if anything was wrong.
"You look so distracted at times," he said. "Are you worried about something new?" he asked, shifting his eyes toward Fern.
"Oh, no," I said quickly, realizing how guilty I looked. "I was just thinking about some of the suggestions Mr. Dorfman made concerning the hotel's expansion."
"I thought we were going to try to put the hotel behind us when we entered our sanctuary," Jimmy reminded me.
"You're right, Jimmy. I'm sorry," I said, and I immersed myself in the conversation he was having with Fern and Christie about school.
Later, when I went in to kiss Christie good night, I told her she and I were going to go shopping in Virginia Beach as soon as she returned home from school.
"Is Aunt Fern coming, too?" she asked.
"No, no, it's just us, honey. She has to do her schoolwork. In fact, you shouldn't tell her anything; it would just make her unhappy that she can't go," I said. I hated bringing Christie into this deception, but I still believed it was for the best.
"You mean like a secret," she said.
"Sort of. Yes. Think of it like that," I coached, and I kissed her. "Good night, sweetheart," I said, and I thought, Soon you will see your real father, and you won't even know it—not now, not for a long time. But at least you will have that memory when I do tell you, I reasoned, and I kissed her a second time.
"Sleep tight," I said.
I closed her door behind me and stood there in the hallway for a few moments. I couldn't help being a little terrified of meeting Michael again. How would I react when I first saw him? What would come out of my mouth? Words of fury and anger, or words of sadness? Can you have been so in love with someone and then years later look at him and feel nothing at all? I wondered.
Tomorrow I would find out.
I was on pins and needles all day until Christie and Fern were brought back from school. I had already instructed Julius about taking Christie and me to Virginia Beach. When he pulled up in front of the hotel with her in the backseat I hurried down the steps and slipped into the vehicle as quickly as I could. I couldn't help feeling sneaky about it. I had told Jimmy I intended to do some shopping, claiming Christie needed some things. He didn't question me; I even asked him if there was anything he needed.
"No. I wish I could get away to go with you," he said, "but we have that problem with the oil burner in section four."
"That's all right, Jimmy. It's just a fast trip," I said, afraid that he might find a way to join me later.
Now, as I sat in the limousine and we drove off, all my fabrications came home to roost, and I felt just horrible.
"Aunt Fern wanted to know why I wasn't getting out of the car, Momma," Christie said.
"What? Oh . . . what did you say?"
"I told her I was going to the hotel. She looked at me funny," Christie added.
"It's all right, honey. It's better this way," I assured her. "Where are we going?"
"Oh, just to do some shopping, and to stop by and see an old friend who's staying at a
hotel in Virginia Beach," I added as casually as I could.
"Why didn't this old friend stay in our hotel?" Christie asked quickly. She was so sharp.
"He had business in Virginia Beach and is staying only one day," I replied. I'm sure I was imagining it, but she looked skeptical.
I had Julius drive us directly to the Dunes. My intention was to see Michael and get it over with immediately. Then I would take Christie to a department store and buy her some new underwear and stockings, as well as a new sweater. Winter was just around the corner. We had already had cold mornings with flurries, and the clouds that came rolling in from the northwest looked angrier and darker than ever. The period between the end of fall and the heart of winter always depressed me. Trees had lost their leaves and looked bare and still but had not yet taken on sleeves of snow over their branches. They looked most gloomy in the moonlight, until they had either snow or ice crystallized on them. Then they would twinkle and make me think of Christmas.
"Here we are," Julius announced. The doorman at the Dunes shot forward and opened our doors before Julius could. Christie stepped out, thanking him, and I followed, my heart beginning to pound against my chest like a sledgehammer. I had to stop to catch my breath. Christie looked up at me quizzically.
"We'll be no more than fifteen minutes, Julius," I said firmly.
"Very good, Mrs. Longchamp. I'll be right out here."
"Okay, Christie, honey." I took her hand and started for the front door. My legs felt as if they had turned into rubber. I was positive I was wobbling and looked every which way to see if people were staring at me, but no one was looking. The doorman opened the door for us, and we entered the posh lobby.
For a long moment I didn't see him—or, more correctly, didn't recognize him—for he was seated on the sofa directly ahead of us, reading a newspaper. He lowered it and smiled. My heart stopped and then started again, the blood draining from my face so quickly, I thought I would embarrass all of us by falling into a faint.
But when Michael stood up my trepidation turned to surprise and curiosity. Approaching us was a man who looked years and years older than I remembered him. His dark, once-silky hair was dull and spotted with gray. He was still six feet tall, of course, but his shoulders turned in, and he didn't have that arrogant, confidant gait. He looked a great deal thinner, his face almost as lean as Daddy Longchamp's; and although he wore a dark blue sports jacket and slacks, I thought he looked seedy: the pants not pressed, the jacket stretched and out of shape. Even the knot in his tie looked clumsily made. This was not the immaculate, debonair man with whom I had fallen so quickly and so deeply in love. This man couldn't even sweep one of my chambermaids off her feet, I thought.