Dawn (27 page)

"I know it's hard for you, but Mother's been in this business for more years than even I've been alive, and her instincts about people and things are excellent. Look what she's built here and how many people come back every year," he said in a soft, reasonable tone of voice through the crack.

"I'm not going to wear that dumb nameplate," I insisted, my eyes burning with determination.

He was silent again, this time for so long that finally I thought he had left.

"Father?"

"When you were stolen away from us, you weren't just taken away from your mother and me; you were also taken away from Grandmother Cutler," he said, his voice now louder. "When you were stolen, her heart broke, too."

"I can't believe that," I declared. "Wasn't she the one who decided to put a monument in the cemetery with my name on it?" I couldn't believe I was talking to him through a door, but in a way it made it easier for me to say what I wanted.

"Yes, but she did that only to save my sanity. I thanked her for it later on. I couldn't work; I was no good to Laura Sue or to Philip. All I did was call police departments and chase around the country whenever there was a slight lead. So you see, it wasn't such a terrible thing."

Not a terrible thing? To symbolically bury a child who wasn't dead? What sort of people were these? What kind of family had I inherited?

"Please, open the door. I don't like being locked in."

"I have an idea," he said instead of opening the door. "People who don't know me well call me Mr. Cutler and other people, close friends and family, call me Randolph."

"So?"

"Think of Eugenia the way I think of Mr. Cutler and Laura Sue thinks of Mrs. Cutler. How's that? Your friends are always going to call you by your nickname."

"It's not a nickname; it's my name."

"Your informal name," he said, "but Eugenia could be your . . . your hotel name. How's that?"

"I don't know." I stepped back from the door, my arms folded under may breasts. If I didn't agree, they might never open the door, I thought.

"Just do this little compromise, and you'll bring peace and tranquillity back. We're right in the middle of the season, and the hotel is full, and—"

"Why did you give her my letter to Ormand Longchamp?" I snapped.

"She still has that letter?"

"No," I said. "I have it. She returned it and forbid me to have anything to do with him. She likes to forbid things," I said.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I . . . I thought she was going to get the letter delivered. We had discussed it, and although she wasn't happy about it, she said she would get the police chief of Cutler's Cove to take care of it. I guess she got so upset, she—"

"She was never going to have the letter delivered," I said. "Why couldn't you do it yourself?"

"Oh, I guess I could. It's just that Mother and the police chief are good friends, and I thought . . . I'm sorry," he said. "I'll tell you what," he said quickly. "If you agree to wear the nameplate, I'll take the letter to the chief myself and see to it that it's delivered. How's that? Is it a deal? I'll even make sure there's a receipt so you can see that it was delivered."

For a moment I was caught in a storm of confusion raging through my mind and heart. The kidnapping had put an ugly stain on Momma and Daddy. I could never forgive them for what they had done, but deep inside I still clung to the hope that there was some explanation. I had to have Daddy tell me his side of it.

Now I had to pay a price to have any contact with him. One way or another Grandmother Cutler got her way at Cutler's Cove, I thought. But this time I was going to get something, too.

"If I agree, will you find out what has happened to Jimmy and Fern?"

"Jimmy and Fern? You mean the Longchamps' real children?"

"Yes."

"I'll try. I promise, I'll try," he said, but I recalled what Mother had said about his promises and how easily he made them and then forgot them.

"Will you really try?" I asked.

"Sure."

"All right," I said. "But people who want to can call me Dawn."

"Sure," he said.

"Will you open the door?"

"Where's the letter?" he replied.

"Why?"

"Slip it under the door."

"What? Why won't you open the door?"

"I don't have the key," he said. "I'll go get it and tell Mother about our agreement."

I slipped the letter under, and he took it quickly. Then I heard him walk of leaving me feeling as though I had just made a deal with the devil.

I sat down on the bed to wait, but suddenly I heard the turning of the key in the lock. The door opened and I faced Philip.

"How come your door's locked?"

"Grandmother did it. She thinks I stole a necklace."

He shook his head.

"You better get out of here. Grandmother doesn't want us to be alone together. Clara Sue told her stories and—"

"I know," he said, "but I can't help it this time. You must come with me."

"Come with you? Where? Why?"

"Just trust me," he said in a loud whisper. "Hurry."

"But—"

"Please, Dawn," he pleaded.

"How come you had the key to my room?" I demanded.

"Had the key?" He shook his head. "It was in the door."

"It was? But . . ."

Where had my father gone? Why did he lie about the key? Did he have to get permission before opening the door to let his own daughter out?

Philip seized my hand and pulled me out of the room. He started down the corridor to the side exit. "Philip!"

"Quiet," he ordered. We rushed out and around the building. When I saw he was leading me to the little cement stairway, I stopped.

"Philip, no."

"Just come, will you. Before someone sees us." "Why?" I demanded, but he tugged me forward. "Philip, why are we going in there?" I demanded. Instead of answering, he opened the door and dragged me into the darkness with him. I was about to shout angrily when he reached up and pulled the light cord.

The contrast between pitch darkness and blazing brightness hurt my eyes. I closed them and then opened them.

And there, standing before us, was Jimmy.

13

"Jimmy! What are you doing here?" I asked, half in shock, half in delight. I had never been so happy to see anyone as I was to see him. He stared at me, his dark eyes twinkling impishly. I could see just how happy he was to set his eyes on me, too, and that warmed my heart.

"Hi, Dawn," he finally said.

We both faced each other awkwardly for a moment, and then I embraced him. Philip watched us with a half smile on his face.

"You're drenched to the bone," I said, pulling back and shaking out my palms.

"I got caught in it just outside of Virginia Beach." "How did you get here?"

"Hitched all the way. I'm getting to be real good at it," he said, turning to Philip.

"But how . . . why?" I squealed, unable to cloak my joy.

"I ran away. Couldn't take it anymore. I'm on my way to Georgia to find our . . . to find my relatives and live with them. But I thought I'd stop by here and see you one more time."

"One of the guys came into the hotel looking for me," Philip explained. "They said someone from Emerson Peabody wanted to see me outside. I couldn't imagine . . . anyway, there he was."

"I thought I should get a hold of Philip and have him find you. I didn't want to take any chances. I'm not going back," he declared firmly, pulling back his shoulders.

"I told him he could stay here in the hideaway for a few days," Philip said. "We'll get him some food, warm clothing, and some money."

"But, Jimmy, won't they just come after you?"

"I don't care if they do, but they probably won't. No one really cares," he said, his eyes small and determined and full of anger. "I didn't know when you and I would ever see each other again, Dawn. I had to come," he said.

Our gazes locked warmly on each other's, and in that gaze I saw all our happier times together, saw his smile, and something inside me became warm. Suddenly I felt safer here at Cutler's Cove.

"I'm going back to the hotel and sneak into the kitchen to get him something to eat," Philip said. "I'll also get him some dry clothes and a towel. We've just got to be careful that no one discovers him," Philip emphasized. He turned to Jimmy. "My grandmother would blow her stack. Don't go out without checking carefully to see that no one's around, okay?"

Jimmy nodded.

"Give me about fifteen minutes to get the food and the clothing," he said and hurried out.

"You'd better start taking off those wet clothes, Jimmy," I advised. It was as if we had never been apart and I was still looking after him.

He nodded and pulled off his shirt. His wet skin gleamed under the light. Even in the short time we had been apart, he looked changed—he was older, bigger, with broader shoulders and thicker arms. I took his shirt and draped it over a chair as he sat down to take off his soaked sneakers and socks.

"Tell me what happened to you after we were taken to the police station, Jimmy. Do you know anything about Fern?" I added quickly.

"No, I never saw her after we were brought to the station. They took me to what they called a holding house where there were other kids waiting to be assigned to foster homes. Some were older, but most were younger than me. We slept on bunk beds not much bigger or nicer than this one," he said, "and we were crowded four in a room. One little boy kept whimpering all night. The others continually shouted at him to shut up, but he was too frightened. I got into a fight with them because they wouldn't stop terrorizing the kid."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" I said, smiling.

"Well, it made them feel big to bully him," he said angrily. "Anyway, one thing led to another, and I was put in the basement of the house to sleep. It had a dirt floor and lots of bugs and even rats!

"A day later I was told they had already found a home for me. I think they were determined to get rid of me first. The others were jealous, but that was only because they didn't know where I was going.

"I went home with this chicken farmer, Leo Coons. He was a stout, grouchy man with a face like a bulldog, and he had a scar across his forehead. It looked like someone had hit him with an ax. His wife was half his size, and he treated her like another kid. They had two daughters. It was his wife who encouraged me to run away. Her name was Beryle, and I couldn't believe she was only in her thirties. She had gray hair and looked as worn down as an old pencil. Nothing she did made Coons happy. The house was never clean enough; the food never tasted right. Complain, complain, complain was all he did.

"I had a nice room, but he had come to the holding house to get a foster kid my age to make into a slave. First thing he did was show me how to candle eggs and had me up before dawn working alongside his two daughters, both older than me, but both as skinny as scarecrows and both with big, sad dark eyes that reminded me of frightened puppy dogs.

"Coons moved me from one job to the next—shoveling chicken manure, lugging feed. We worked before the sun rose until an hour or so after it went down.

"At first I didn't care what happened to me; I was that depressed, but after a while I got so tired of the work and hearing Coons shouting this and shouting that . . .

"What did it, I suppose, was the night he hit me. He was complaining about the supper, and I said I thought it was pretty good, too good for him. He hit me with the back of his hand, but so hard, I fell off the chair.

"I was going to just punch and kick at him, but Dawn, this guy is big and he's as hard as bricks. Later that night Beryle came to me and told me the best thing I could do for myself was run away like the others. Seems he's done this before—go fetch a foster kid and make him work until he drops. They don't care back at the home, because they get so many kids, they're glad anyone comes to get one."

"Oh, Jimmy . . . if Fern was given to mean people . . ."

"I don't think so. It's different with babies. Lots of good people want babies because they can't have their own for one reason or another. Don't look so glum," he said, smiling. "I'm sure she's all right."

"It's not that, Jimmy. What you just said reminded me of something terrible. They tell me that's why Momma and Daddy stole me—she had a baby right before, and the baby was born dead."

His eyes widened, and then he nodded as if he had always known it.

"So Daddy talked her into taking you," he concluded. "It was just like him. I don't doubt any of it. Now look what a mess he got us all in. I mean, I'm in. You ain't in such a mess, I guess."

"Oh, Jimmy," I said, sitting beside him quickly. "I am. I hate it here."

"What? With this big, fancy hotel and all? Why?"

I began by describing my real mother and her continuous nervous condition. Jimmy listened intently, his eyes full of wonder as I related the story of my kidnapping and how it had affected her and made her into some kind of invalid soaked in luxury.

"But weren't they glad to see you when you were brought here?" he asked. I shook my head.

"As soon as I arrived here, I was made a chambermaid and put into a little room away from the family. You won't have much trouble imagining how mean Clara Sue has been," I said. Then I told him about being accused of stealing and related the horrible search I had been put through.

"She made you take off your clothes?"

"Strip to the bone. Afterward, she locked me in my room."

He stared at me in disbelief.

"What about your real father?" he asked. "Did you tell him what she did?"

"He's so strange, Jimmy," I said and told him how he had come to the door and refused to do anything until I had agreed to the compromise over my name. "Then he left, claiming he had to get the key, but Philip said the key was in the door when he came to fetch me to bring me to you."

He shook his head.

"And here I thought you were living high on the hog."

"I don't think my grandmother's ever going to let up on me. For some reason she hates me, hates the sight of me," I said. "I just can't get it through my head that Daddy did this. I can't." I shook my head and stared down at my hands in my lap.

"Well, I can," Jimmy said sharply, drawing my eyes to his. Fiery anger filled his eyes. "You don't want to believe it; you never liked believing bad things about him, but you gotta now."

I told Jimmy about my letter to Daddy.

"I hope he writes back and tells me his side of it."

"He won’t," Jimmy insisted. "And even if he does, it'll be all lies."

"Jimmy, you can't go on hating him like this. He's still your real father, even if he's not mine."

"I don't want to ever think of him as my father. He's dead with my mother," he declared, his eyes burning with such fury, it brought an ache to my heart. I couldn't keep the tears trapped under my eyelids; they burned so.

"No sense in crying about it, Dawn. There's nothing we can do to change things. I'm going down to Georgia and maybe live with Momma's side of the family, if they'll have me. I don't mind working hard, as long as it's for my own family."

"I wish I was going with you, Jimmy. I still feel those people are more my family than these people, even though I never met them."

"Well, you can't. If you came with me, we'd be hunted down for sure."

"I know." My tears kept coming. Now that Jimmy was here, I couldn't help myself.

"I'm sorry you're not happier, Dawn," he said and slowly brought his arm up and around my shoulders. "Whenever I lay awake thinking about how terrible all this was, I would cheer myself a bit by thinking you were safe and comfortable in a new and richer life. I thought you deserved it and maybe it was good it all happened. I didn't mind what happened to me as long as it meant you would have better things and be with better people"

"Oh, Jimmy, I could never be happier if you were unhappy, and just thinking about poor little Fern in a strange place—"

"She's little enough to forget and start new," he said, his eyes dark with a wisdom beyond his years, a wisdom forced upon him by hard times. He was older in mind and body. Hard, cruel times had dragged him out of childhood.

He sat inches from me, his arm still around my shoulders, his face so close I could feel his breath on my cheeks. It made me dizzy, confused. I was trapped on a runaway merry-go-round of emotions. Jimmy, whom I had thought to be my brother, was now just a boy who cared for me, and Philip, a boy who had cared for me, was now my brother. Their kisses, their smiles, and the way they touched and held me had to have different meaning.

Just a little while ago I would have felt strange and guilty about the feelings that passed through me when Jimmy touched me. Now, when the tingle traveled up and down my spine and made me shudder pleasantly, I didn't know what to do, what to say. He cupped my face between his palms and tenderly kissed away my tears. I felt so warm all over. Before this I would have forced that warmth to stop its journey to my heart. Now it rushed over the highways along my skin and curled up comfortably inside my breast.

His face remained close to mine, his serious eyes so delving, worried, and intense. A lump came in my throat as I wondered where the boy was I used to know. Where was that brother, and who was this young man staring so long into my eyes? Greater than any pain or ache or hurt I had ever felt before or since was the pain caused me by the suffering I saw in his tortured eyes.

We heard Philip's footsteps on the cement stairway, and Jimmy pulled his arm off my shoulders and continued to take off his sneakers and socks.

"Hi," Philip said, coming in. "Sorry the food's not hot, but I wanted to rush in and out of the kitchen before someone caught me and wondered what I was doing."

"Food's food. I don't care whether it's hot or cold at this point," Jimmy said, taking the covered dish from Philip. "Thanks."

"I brought you some of my clothes—should fit—and this towel and blanket."

"Get the wet clothes off and dry yourself before you eat, Jimmy," I advised. He went into the bathroom and slipped out of his pants and underwear, wiped himself down, and returned in Philip's clothes. The shirt was a little big and the pants too long, but he rolled up the cuffs. Philip and I stood by and watched him gobble the food, scooping one mouthful into his mouth before he had swallowed the one he already had.