"Well, what could they do? They need space," he said.
"She kept some of my mother's jewelry, but I know each and every piece . . ." Bronson smiled as my words slowly drifted to a stop.
"I doubt that they'll be a problem with jewelry, Christie. Betty Ann comes from a rather wealthy family. She doesn't need to keep someone else's things."
I folded my arms and sat back, my failure to impress him expanding like a balloon about to burst.
"I know this isn't easy for you. On top of losing two wonderful parents, you have to get used to living with another family, and that's difficult even though the family's your uncle and aunt," Bronson said softly. I stared at his kindly face for a moment.
"Bronson, you told me you would tell me everything you knew about my family," I said.
"Whatever I can," he replied, sitting back, his soft smile becoming a serious expression.
"When Mommy went to that fancy public school with Daddy, she met Uncle Philip and they became boyfriend and girlfriend, didn't they?"
"She didn't know Philip was really her half-brother," he said quickly.
"Were they. . . were they in love?" I asked tim-idly.
"Oh," he said smiling again. "They were young, teenagers, just infatuated. It was nothing," he added, shaking his head.
"Uncle Philip doesn't think so," I blurted with-out thinking. I didn't want to tell Bronson about my visit to my parents' graves at night and my overhearing Uncle Philip's conversation with my dead mother. He might think I was spying on my uncle.
Bronson's eyes grew small again and he leaned forward. "What makes you say such a thing?"
"Just the way he talks about her and something Mommy said to me not long before . . . before the fire," I replied.
"What did she say?"
"She said Uncle Philip's never gotten over their young romance and the discovery they were brother and sister," I said. He nodded thoughtfully.
"Well, it had to have been quite a shock. I don't know any more about it than I've been told, Christie, by both your mother and Philip. And of course, what your grandmother knew. As far as I've been told, it was a very short, school crush. They had barely gotten to know each other before the police arrived to take her back to Cutler's Cove. What sort of things does Philip say?" he wondered.
I hesitated and then blurted.
"He always talked about how beautiful she was and how much he loved her."
"Well, she was very beautiful," Bronson said. "And a very easy person to love. There's nothing wrong with his saying that, Christie," Bronson added smiling.
"He says I'm getting to look more and more like her."
"You are," Bronson agreed. "I'm sure you're not upset about that, are you?"
"No, but . . ."
"But what, Christie?" We stared at each other. "Well?"
"He's . . . strange. He's always hugging me and kissing me and . . ."
"He's just trying to give you the love he thinks you need. Philip's very devoted to both you and Jefferson," Bronson said. "You're lucky to have him."
"He bought me a nightgown and gave it to me last night," I revealed.
"Oh? Did he say why?"
"He said it was a surprise to cheer me up because of some of the things that happened."
"So? That's very nice of him, isn't it?" Bronson asked.
"But a nightgown?"
Bronson shrugged.
"He probably thought it was something a young girl would want. I can't fault him for that. I'm always confused and stupid when it comes to buying gifts for your grandmother." He paused to study me a moment. "Why does this upset you so?" he asked. "What are you thinking?"
Everything I said sounded so silly. I didn't know how to explain my real feelings. Bronson would just have to see it, witness it, I thought, and even then, he might not feel what I do.
"Aunt Fern told me the romance between Mommy and Uncle Philip was more serious," I said. "She upset me very much."
"Oh," Bronson said sitting back again. "I see. Well, I'm afraid I wouldn't listen to anything your Aunt Fern had to say about anyone." He shook his head. "She's quite a problem for everyone these days."
I dropped my gaze to the floor. I wanted to tell Bronson more—how I had overheard Uncle Philip's plea for forgiveness at the gravesite and how he had come in on me while I was bathing and offered to wash my back, but I was too embarrassed and afraid that I was sounding more and more ridiculous. I sighed deeply.
"Christie, your uncle is just trying to be a father to you now. I'm sure that's it. He feels all the responsibility has fallen on his shoulders. You shouldn't be afraid of him or read anything more into it.
"Matter of fact, I spoke with him just the day before yesterday," Bronson continued. I looked up sharply.
"Oh?"
"And he told me how much your deep sorrow pained him. He pledged to do all he could to make your life as pleasant as possible and help you do the things you want to do. It has become a major goal for him. You'll see," Bronson continued, smiling and coming around his desk to me. "Everything will work itself out eventually . . . Aunt Bet, the twins."
Maybe he was right, I thought. Maybe everything was just a product of my imagination, a result of all these emotional peaks and valleys. Bronson put his arm around me when I stood up.
"I'm sorry, Christie, so sorry this tragedy has befallen you and your little brother, but your uncle and your aunt and I will always be here to do what we can."
"Thank you, Bronson," I said. Then a new thought came. "Bronson, has anyone told my real father about this?"
"Your real father? As far as I know, no. Unfortunately, he is not someone I would care to know. The only time he showed any interest in you, he was really trying to squeeze money out of your mother."
"I know. She told me. I vaguely remember him coming to see me that time."
"If he found out what's happened, he would only try to profit from the situation, I'm sure," Bronson said. "No, dear, you are with the people who love you the most now. Bear with them. Give Philip and Betty Ann a chance. I know they're not what Dawn and Jimmy were to you, but they want to try. They really do," he said.
I nodded. What he was saying was not unreasonable.
We walked out together and went to see if Grandmother Laura had woken up. She had, but she was very confused and in the same breath referred to me as Dawn and then Clara. She babbled about some new skin cream and then suddenly fixed her eyes on me and said, "But you have a long, long time to go before you have to worry about wrinkles.
"Wrinkles!" she cried and lifted her eyes toward the ceiling. "They are a slow death for a beautiful woman."
The thought and the outburst exhausted her again and she closed her eyes and dropped her chin to her chest so quickly, I thought she had snapped her neck. I looked up anxiously at Mrs. Berme, who only shook her head. There was nothing else to do; Grandmother had fallen back into a deep repose once more. Unfortunately, she was no one I could confide in and look to for advice and help. My parents were gone; Mrs. Boston was gone; Aunt Bet was too insensitive; Aunt Trisha was too far away and too involved in her own career; and Bronson, as loving and concerned as he was, was too distant from my immediate world and had his hands full with Grandmother Laura.
When I stepped out to get back in the limousine and return to my house, I felt as alone and as powerless as the small cloud sliding helplessly across the light blue sky, abandoned and left behind by the bigger, thicker clouds that had already arrived at the horizon and were slipping over the world into someone else's tomorrow.
The slow, warm days of early summer that followed seemed gray and gloomy to me no matter what the weather. Gradually, we all fell into a daily routine. Aunt Bet spent a large part of her day breaking in the new cook and housekeeper, Mrs. Stoddard, a short, stout woman in her early sixties who kept her dull pewter gray hair tied in a loose bun behind her head, strands curling every which way like broken wires. She had small brown age spots over her forehead and cheeks which were
so pudgy they made her nose look sunken. Her smile was warm enough and she had a pleasant manner when she spoke to us, but for Jefferson and me no one could take the place of Mrs. Boston. During the first few days, Mrs. Stoddard trailed through the house behind Aunt Bet as if Aunt Bet had tied one end of a string around the new servant's waist and the other around her own.
For the most part, the twins kept to themselves. They organized their days rigidly, breaking them up into periods of recreation (mainly thought-provoking parlor games like chess and Scrabble), reading, and their educational tapes. They had tapes to advance them in vocabulary and geography and they were both studying French. Despite the melancholy I continually endured, I couldn't help but laugh to myself whenever I walked past the living room and saw them sitting in a lotus position on the floor, facing each other, and practicing their French pronunciations, each mimicking the way the other's lips formed vowels and consonants.
Although it was summer and most children their age were enjoying the sunshine and the beach, outdoor sports and the company of friends, the twins spent most of their time indoors with each other. Even I, who felt too down most of the time to do more than take walks through the tattered remains of our once-beautiful gardens and an occasional walk on the beach, had more color in my cheeks than they did. But none of that bothered them. What others did was either stupid or wasteful. I had never realized just how arrogant and snobbish they were.
Fortunately, Jefferson was interested in the rebuilding of the hotel. Buster Morris had become his pal. Jefferson would go off with Uncle Philip after breakfast, but he would spend the day beside Buster, sometimes riding along with him on a bulldozer or in a pick-up truck. Often Aunt Bet was at the door waiting for him when he returned after the day's work. She would always make him take off his shoes, but one day, she insisted he strip off his pants and shirt as well because they were so dirty. Jefferson disliked doing it and disliked her even more, but he tolerated her and did what she asked, afraid that she would stop him from being with Buster.
I did a great deal of reading myself and wrote my daily letter to Gavin. We spoke on the telephone a few times, too. He had taken a job as a stockboy in a grocery store to earn enough money for his plane fare to Virginia. He was planning on visiting in late August. I wanted to send him some money, but I knew only the suggestion of doing that would ruffle up his feathers. It was just that I was so anxious to see him again. He had become the only person in whom I could confide.
Aunt Trish phoned as often as she could, but the second time she called, it was bad news. Her show had flopped on Broadway and she had decided to take a position with a traveling show. In a week they were to be off cross-country. She promised to call as often as she could, but I was so disappointed. I had hoped to go visit her in New York City very soon.
Finally, more to fill my days than out of a deep desire to return to music, I began playing the piano again. Mr. Wittleman had phoned to see how I was doing and when I wanted to resume my lessons. I told him I would let him know. I thought it would be better if I practiced for a while on my own and brought myself at least back to the level I had been at before the tragedy had befallen us.
At first it was very difficult for me to sit down and run my fingers over the piano keys. I couldn't help but see Mommy's proud smile every time I tapped out a page of sheet music. I had never realized just how much of a part she had played in my musical development and just how important it had been for me to please her. Now, with her gone, there was such a great emptiness around me and an even greater emptiness in the pit of my stomach. To me, my music sounded mechanical, lifeless, hollow, but apparently, not so to Uncle Philip.
One afternoon, when I was trying to relearn a Beethoven sonata, I finally felt the notes take over and for a while provide a kind of escape from my unhappy world. I was so involved in it that I didn't hear Uncle Philip come in and sit down, but when I finished the piece, he clapped. I spun around on the stool and saw him sitting there, smiling.
"I'm so happy you've gone back to the piano," he said. "Your mother would be happy too, Christie."
"It's not the same for me," I replied. "Nothing is."
"It will be," he promised. "Give it time and keep practicing."
He was so happy about my playing that he made it the chief topic of conversation at dinner that night. Aunt Bet smiled and said encouraging things, too. Only the twins looked glum. Jefferson, as usual, ate quietly, kept to himself, and left the table as soon as he was permitted. Dinners would never be the same for him, never hold the magic and warmth they had when Mommy and Daddy and the two of us sat around and talked and teased each other lovingly. Mrs. Boston wasn't coming out of the kitchen to chide Daddy for teasing me or Jefferson. She had been as protective of us as Mommy.
Anyway, I continued to practice and two days later took my first lesson with Mr. Wittleman. He said I had remarkably maintained and even improved some of my skills. That night, at dinner, Uncle Philip begged me to play something for the family afterward. I tried to refuse, but he pleaded and pleaded until it became embarrassing. Finally, I agreed. After dessert had been served, everyone, including Jefferson, came into the parlor and sat behind me. I played a nocturne by Chopin I had been practicing with Mr. Wittleman.
When I was finished, Uncle Philip stood up and applauded. Aunt Bet did too. Richard and Melanie clapped quickly, both looking annoyed.
"That was spectacular, absolutely fantastic!" Uncle Philip exclaimed. He turned to the twins. "Your cousin is going to be a very famous pianist some day and you will be proud to be related to her," he told them. Neither seemed impressed.
"I can't wait for the hotel to be rebuilt and a new season to start," Uncle Philip continued, "so that Christie can play for our guests. We'll be the envy of every coast resort from Maine to Florida."
He rushed over to give me a kiss, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Melanie look down. Uncle Philip's over-exuberant accolades embarrassed me, but there was nothing I could say or do to stop him once he had begun. Finally, Jefferson asked to watch some television and we were able to escape. The twins rarely watched television with us. They usually read and listened to music or played one of their board games.
But late the next afternoon, when I went into the parlor and sat down to prepare for my next lesson with Mr. Wittleman, I touched the piano keys and then screamed in shock. Both Mrs. Stoddard and Aunt Bet came running in from the kitchen. And the twins came flying down the stairs.
"What's wrong?" Aunt Bet asked grimacing. I was holding my hands up, bent at the wrist, my fingers dangling.
"Someone . . ." I couldn't speak for a moment. "Someone poured gobs and gobs of honey over the piano keys!" I cried. "They've ruined my piano."
Richard and Melanie approached and stared down at the keys. Melanie touched one and smelled the tip of her finger.
"Ugh," she said, turning to show Mrs. Stoddard and Aunt Bet.
"Oh dear," Mrs. Stoddard said, shaking her head. "How dreadful."
Aunt Bet's face turned pink with rage.
"That's a horrible, horrible prank," she declared. "I must tell Philip immediately." She marched out of the house. Mrs. Stoddard ran to the kitchen for some washcloths, but it was futile to try to repair the damage, for the honey had dripped down in between the keys and under them, making them stick.
"It's no use, Mrs. Stoddard," I said. "We've got to have someone come to take it all apart."
"I'm so sorry, dear. It's such a cruel and vicious thing for anyone to do."
I nodded and gathered up my sheet music, and then I went to phone Mr. Wittleman to tell him so he could make other arrangements for me and find someone to repair the piano. He couldn't believe what I told him. He was outraged.
"It's an inexcusable violation," he declared. "Whoever did such a thing is barbaric."
A few minutes after I spoke with Mr. Wittleman, Aunt Bet returned with Uncle Philip and took him into the parlor to show him the piano. He shook his head and grimaced with disgust.
/>
"I'm sorry about this, Christie," he said. "We'll get to the bottom of it fast."
"I just spoke with Mr. Wittleman. He's getting someone to clean the keys."
"Good."
We all turned at the sound of Richard and Melanie pounding down the stairway. They both appeared in the parlor door, out of breath with excitement.
"Father," Richard said, "look what I found." He held up a small dish towel. Aunt Bet took it from him slowly.
"It's full of honey," she said. "Someone's wiped his hands in it. Where did you find this, Richard?"
"On Jefferson's side of the closet," he said smugly and nodded as if he had always known.
"That can't be," I said. "Jefferson would never do this."
"That's where I found it," Richard insisted. "You're lying. My brother wouldn't do this." Aunt Bet turned to Uncle Philip.
"Where is he?" she demanded.
"With Buster," he replied.
"Go get him this instant," she commanded. Uncle Philip glanced at me and then nodded. "No!" I shouted. "I'll go get him myself." I fixed a hateful gaze on Richard, who continued to look quite smug and confident.
I turned away and ran out of the house to fetch my little brother. It was true that Jefferson could be mischievous, but his pranks were always pranks of fun and never vicious and mean. He hated to make anyone else cry and I knew he loved me more now than ever and would never do anything to upset ne so. I found him by the tool shed. Buster had put him to work shellacking a new door. He was obviously very proud of his assignment and work.
"Jefferson, you've got to come home with me right away," I said. He looked up disappointed.
"Why?"
"Someone poured honey over the piano keys and ruined them," I said. He widened his eyes. "Richard found a dish towel on your side of the closet filled with honey and he's got Aunt Bet and Uncle Philip believing you did it."
"I did not!"
"I know you didn't. I'm sure he did it," I said. "We'll go back there and make them see the truth."
"I don't wanna," Jefferson said. "I gotta finish this door." I could see the fear in his eyes.