But such a little of it . . though I didn't express my thoughts. I had to tread warily until I'd gained a friend in this house, and as I looked at Tony, I suspected he'd be the one whom I'd see more than Jillian. At that moment I knew I was going to ask for his help, the moment I knew he liked me enough to give . . .
"You look tired. Come, let's settle you in, so you can relax and rest up a bit." And without further ado, we retraced our steps and soon were on the second floor. Dramatically he threw open two wide, double doors. "When I married Jillian I had two rooms redone for Leigh, who was twelve then. I wanted to flatter her, so I gave her feminine rooms that weren't girlish. I hope you enjoy them . . ."
His head was turned in a way that kept me from reading his eyes.
The sunlight through the pale ivory sheers was misted and frail and gave the sitting room an unused, unreal quality. In comparison to the rooms I'd seen below, this one was small; still, it was twice as large as our entire cabin had been. The walls were covered in some delicate ivory silk fabric, woven through subtly with faint oriental designs of green, violet, and blue, and the two small sofas were covered with the same fabric, the accent pillows soft blue to match the Chinese rug on the floor. I tried to picture myself at ease in this room, cuddled down before that little fireplace, and failed completely. Rough clothes would snag fabric so fine. I'd have to be so particular not to fingerprint the walls, the sofa, the many lampshades. Then I half laughed. Here I wouldn't be living in the hills and working in the garden and scrubbing the floor, as I had at the cabin and at Kitty and Cal Dennison's house in Candlewick.
"Come, see your bedroom," called Tony, moving on ahead of me. "I have to hurry and dress for that party Jillian doesn't want to miss. You have to forgive her, Heaven. She did make the plans before she knew you were coming, and the woman throwing the party is her best friend and worst enemy." He chucked me under the chin, amused at my expression, then headed for the door. "If you need anything, use the telephone there, and a maid will bring it up. If you'd rather eat in the dining room, call the kitchen downstairs and tell them that. The house is yours, enjoy."
He was out the door and closing it before I could reply. I turned in circles, staring at the pretty double bed with four posters and an arching canopy of heavy lace. Blue and ivory. How these two rooms must have suited her. Her chaise was blue satin, while the other three chairs in her bedroom matched those in the sitting room. I wandered on into the dressing and bathroom area, thrilled by all the mirrors, the crystal chandeliers, the hidden lighting that lit up the huge walk-in closet spaces. Framed photographs lined the long dressing table. Soon I was sitting and staring at a pretty little girl sitting on her father's knee.
The child had to be my mother! And that man my true grandfather! Excited and trembling I picked up the small silver frame.
At that very moment someone rapped softly on my bedroom door. "Who's there?" I called.
"It is Beatrice Percy," answered a stiff, female voice. "Mr. Tatterton sent me up to see if I could help you unpack and organize your things." The door opened and into my bedroom stepped a tall woman in a black maid's uniform. She smiled at me vaguely. "Everyone here calls me Percy. You may do that as well. I will be your personal maid while you are here. I have training that qualifies me to do your hair and give you manicures, and if you wish I will draw you a tub now." She waited with an air of urgency.
"I usually bathe before going to bed, or shower first thing in the morning," I said with embarrassment. I was not used to talking about intimate things with a strange woman.
"Mr. Tatterton ordered me to check on you." "Thank you, Percy, but I don't need anything right now."
"Is there anything that you cannot eat, or shouldn't eat?"
"My appetite is very good--I can eat anything, and like most everything." No, mine wasn't a finicky appetite, or else I would have starved to death.
"Would you like dinner to be sent here?"
"Whatever makes it easier for you, Percy."
Her frown came fast but slight, as if such an easygoing mistress unsettled her. "The servants are here to make life as comfortable as possible for those in this house. If you dine up here or in the dining room, we will be there to serve your needs."
Thoughts of dining alone in that huge room downstairs, seated at that long table with all those empty chairs, washed me over with loneliness. "If you will bring me up something light about seven, that will be enough."
"Yes, miss
," she said, appearing relieved she could do something for me, and then she was gone.
And I'd forgotten to ask her if she knew my mother!
Again I turned to complete my search of my mother's rooms. It seemed to me that everything had been left as it had been the day she ran, though it had been freshly aired, vacuumed, and dusted. One by one I began picking up the silver-framed photographs, studying them closely, trying to find the side of my mother Granny and Grandpa had known nothing about. So many snapshots. How beautiful Jillian was, seated with her daughter, her devoted husband standing behind her. Faded and faint, a childishly written caption was on the rim of the photograph: "Daddy, Mommy, and me."
A drawer revealed a fat photo album. Slowly, slowly I turned the heavy pages, staring at the snapshots of a girl growing up, growing prettier through the years. Birthday parties blossomed in full color, her fifth, sixth, seventh, on up to her thirteenth. Leigh Diane VanVoreen, over and over again it was written, as if she delighted in her name. Cleave VanVoreen, my daddy. Jillian VanVoreen, my mommy. Jennifer Longstone, my best friend. Winterhaven, soon to be my school. Joshua John Bennington, my first boyfriend. Maybe my last.
And already, long before I'd turned even half the pages, I was jealous of this beautiful blond girl and her wealthy parents and her fabulous clothes. She'd had trips to zoos and museums and even foreign countries, when I'd had only pictures of Yellowstone Park shown in worn-out, dirty copies of National Geographic or in school textbooks. A lump came in my throat to see Leigh with Daddy and Mommy on a steamship heading for some distant port. There she was, Leigh VanVoreen, frantically waving goodbye to someone who took her picture. More pictures of Leigh on board ship, swimming, or with Daddy teaching her to dance and Mommy taking pictures. In London before Big Ben, or watching the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace.
Somewhere long before my mother changed from child to adolescent, I lost most of my pity for a girl who had died too young. She had experienced in her short life ten times more fun and excitement than I had known, or would likely know in twenty of my years yet to come. She'd had a real father in her most important years, a kind and gentle man from the look of his pictures, to tuck her into bed at night, to hear her prayers, to teach her what men were all about. How had I ever presumed to think that Cal Dennison had loved me? How could I presume now that Logan would ever want me again, when it was more than likely they'd see in me the same thing that Pa had.
No, no, I tried to tell myself. Not to love me had been Pa's loss, not mine. I hadn't been
permanently damaged. Someday I'd make a good wife and mother. I wiped at my weak tears and told them never to come again. What good was self-pity? I'd never see Pa again. I didn't want to see Pa again.
Again I studied the photographs. I had never known young girls could wear clothes so fine, when my fondest dreams at nine and ten and eleven had been to own something from the sale racks in Sears. And Kitty had taught me about the K Mart. I stared at photos of Leigh riding a shiny brown horse, her riding clothes showing off her blond fairness to perfection, and with her was Daddy. Always with her was Daddy.
I saw Leigh in school pictures, swimming at the beach, in private swimming pools, proud of her developing figure. Her posture told me she was proud, and all about her were admiring friends. Then, abruptly, Daddy disappeared from the pictures.
With Daddy gone, Leigh's happy smiles also vanished. Darkness troubled her eyes now, and her lips lost their ability to smile. There was Mommy with a new man, a much younger and handsomer man. I knew immediately this very tanned and blond man was twenty-year-old Tony Tatterton. And strangely, the beautiful, radiant girl who had smiled with confident candor-1Mo the camera lens before could not manage even a faint, false smile. Now she could only stand slightly apart from her mother with her new man.
I quickly turned the last page. Oh, oh, oh! The second wedding of Jillian. My mother at twelve wearing a pink junior bridesmaid's long dress, carrying a bouquet of sweetheart roses, and, standing slightly to her side, a very young boy who tried to smile, though Leigh VanVoreen made no effort at all.