Petals on the Wind (Dollanganger 2)

But as I reached the elevator, he had the door open again, and he cursed something so terrible I can't repeat it, except it ended with, "Damn you to hell, Cathy. . . . I've said it before, and I'll say it again .. . and you'll wish to God you were in hell before I'm done with you!"

After that terrible scene with Yolanda, then Julian, I sought out Madame Zolta and told her I just couldn't live any longer in an apartment with a girl determined to ruin my career.

"She afraid of you, Catherine, that's all. Yolanda was the superstar in my small company until you came along. Now she feels threatened. Make up with her. . . . Be a good girl, and go and say you're sorry for whatever it was."

"No, Madame. I don't like her, and I refuse to live in the same apartment with her. So if you don't give me more money, I'll have to go to another company and see if they will, and if they won't then I'll go back to Clairmont."

She groaned, bowed her skeleton head into her bony hands and moaned some more. Oh, how grand Russians were at expressing emotions! "Okay . . . you blackmail me, and I give in. I'll give you a small raise, and tell you where to find cheap apartment--but it won't be so nice as one you left."

Hah! That had been nice? But she was right. The only apartment I could find would fit in Paul's smallest bedroom, all two rooms of it. But it was my own. . . the very first place I'd had all to myself, and for a few days I exalted in fixing it up as best I could. Then I really began to sleep restlessly, waking up every few minutes to listen to all the squeaks and squeals the old building made. I longed for Paul. I longed for Chris. I heard the wind blow, and there was no one in another bed three feet from mine to comfort me with soft words and sparkling blue eyes.

Chris's eyes were in front of me as I got up and sat at my kitchen table to write a note to "Mrs. Winslow." I sent her my first rave review, one with a sensational photo of Julian and me in The Sleeping Beauty. And I wrote at the bottom of my letter,

It won't be long now, Mrs. Winslow. Think about that every night before you fall asleep. Remember somewhere I'm still alive, and I'm thinking of you, and planning.

I even mailed off that letter in the middle of the night before I had the chance to reconsider and tear it up. I raced home, threw myself on my bed and sobbed. Oh God, I was never going to be set free! Never! And despite all my tears I woke up again, thinking of how I could hurt her so she'd never be the same. Be happy now, Momma, for it won't be long!

I bought six copies of all papers that had anything to say about me. Unfortunately, most often my name was coupled with Julian's. Paul and Chris were also favored with my reviews; the others I kept for myself--or Momma. I pictured how she'd look when she opened the envelope, though it was my fear she'd just pitch it in the trashcan after she'd torn up the envelope with its contents unread. Not once did I call her Mother or Momma, but kept my salutations always formal and cold. There would come a day when she would see me face to face and I would call her Mother and I would watch her pale, then shudder.

One morning I was awakened by someone banging on my door. "Cathy, let me in! I have terrific news!' It was Julian's voice.

"Go way!" I said sleepily, getting up and pulling on a robe before I stumbled over to make him stop pounding on the door. "Stop that!" I yelled. "I haven't forgiven you--I never will--so stay out of my life!"

"Let me in or I'll kick the door down!" he bellowed. I unlocked the deadbolts, and swung the door open a crack. Julian barged in to sweep me up in his arms and plant on my lips a long, hot kiss while I was half yawning. "Madame Zolta . . . yesterday after you left, she broke the news! We're going on tour in London! Two weeks there! I've never been to London, Cathy, and Madame is so delighted they've taken official notice of us over there!"

"Really?" I asked, catching his excitement. Then I staggered off toward my minute kitchen. . . . Coffee, had to have coffee before I could think straight.

"God, are you always so disoriented in the mornings?" he asked, following me into the kitchen where he straddled a chair backwards and leaned on his elbows to watch my every move. "Wake up, Cathy! Forgive me, kiss me, be my friend again. Hate me al

l you want tomorrow, but love me this day--for I was born for this day, you too--Cathy, we're going to make it! I know we are! Madame Zolta's company was never noticed before we became a team! It isn't her success--it's ours!"

His modesty deserved a medal. "You've eaten breakfast?" I asked, and hoped. I had only two slices of bacon and wanted both for myself.

"Sure I have; I grabbed a bite before I came over, but I can eat again."

Naturally he could eat again! He could always eat . . . and that's when it hit me . . . London! Our company going to London! I spun around, crying, "Julian, what you said, you're not kidding? We're going over there--all of us?"

He jumped up. "Yes, all of us! It's a big break, our chance to make it big! We'll make the world sit up and take notice! And you and I, we'll be the stars! Because together we're the best, and you know it as well as I do."

I shared my meal and listened to him rhapsodize on the long and fantastic career we had just ahead. We'd be rich, and when we grew older, we'd settle down and have a couple of kids, and then teach ballet, I'd like that, wouldn't I? I hated to spoil his plans, but I had to say it. "Julian, I don't love you, so we can never be married. We'll go to London and dance together, and I'll do my best--but I plan to marry someone else. I'm already engaged. I have been for a long time now."

His long, glaring look of disbelief and pure hatred delivered and redelivered a series of visual slaps on my face. "You're lying!" he screamed. I shook my head to deny it. "Goddamn you to hell for leading me on!" he raged, then hurled himself out of my apartment. I'd never led him on, except when we were dancing, and that was my role to play. . . . That was all, all there was between us.

Winter Dreams

. I was going home for Chirstmas. The unpleasantness with Julian was forgotten in my happy anticipation of seeing Paul, and bringing with me such good news. Thank God I had Paul to escape to. And I wasn't going to let Julian take the joy from this Christmas. For this was the time Paul and I had agreed to announce our engagement, and the only person who could ruin my happiness now was Chris.

At two o'clock in the morning Chris and Paul met me at the airport. It was bitterly cold even in South Carolina. It was Chris who reached me first to catch me up in his strong arms, and he tried to put a kiss on my lips but I turned my face so his kiss landed on my cheek. "Hail to the conquering ballerina!" he cried, hugging me tight and looking at me with so much pride. "Oh, Cathy, you are so beautiful! Each time I see you, you make my heart hurt."

He made my heart hurt too, to see him more handsome than even Daddy had been. Quickly I looked in another direction. I tore away from my brother's embrace and ran toward Paul who stood and watched. He stretched out his hands to take mine in them. Careful, careful, warned his long look, mustn't let our news escape too soon.

That was our best Christmas ever, from beginning to end--or almost to the end. Carrie had grown half an inch, and to see her sitting on the floor on Christmas morning with her big blue eyes happy and glowing as she exclaimed over the red velvet dress I'd bought her, found after hours and hours of searching almost every shop in New York. She looked like a radiant, small princess when she tried the dress on. I tried to picture Cory seated cross-legged on the floor looking at his gifts too. It was impossible for me to leave the memory of him out of any happy occasion. Oh, many a time I'd glimpsed a small boy with blond curls and blue eyes on the streets of New York, and I'd run to chase after, hoping by some miracle it would be him--and it never was, never was.

Chris put a small box into my hands. Inside was a tiny gold heart-locket and in the center of the lid was a genuine diamond, a small one, but a diamond nevertheless. "Paid for by my own hard-earned cash," he said as he fastened the chain about my neck. "Waiting on tables pays well when you give good service with a smile." Then, furtively, he slipped a folded note in my hand. An hour later, when I had the chance, I read a note that made me cry:

To my lady Catherine,

I give you gold with a diamond you can barely