We turned into the old section of the hotel and headed for the stairway, my pulse throbbing harder and harder with each forward step.
The upstairs had new-looking wallpaper with light blue polka dots, and the corridor had a plush cream carpet. A large window at the far end made it airy and bright.
"This is Philip's room," my father explained as we came to a door on the right, "and the next door is Clara Sue's. Our bedroom suite is right down here on the left. Your grandmother's suite is just around the corner."
We paused outside the closed door to his and my mother's bedroom, and my father took a deep breath, closing and opening his eyes as if he had a weight on his chest.
"I must explain something to you," he began. "Your mother is a very delicate woman. The doctors say she has frayed nerves, and so we try to keep tension and pressure away from her. She comes from a fine old southern family, aristocrats, and she was well protected all her life. But that's why I love her. To me she's like . . . a work of art, fine china, fragile, beautiful, exquisite," he said. "She's someone who needs to be protected, cherished, and held dearly. Anyway, you can imagine what all this has done to her. She's a little afraid of you," he added.
"Afraid of me? Why?" I asked.
"Well . . . bringing up our two children has been a strain on her as it is. To suddenly be confronted by a long-lost child who has lived an entirely different sort of life . . . it frightens her. All I ask is that you be patient.
"All right," he said, taking another deep breath and reaching for the doorknob, "here we go."
It was like entering another world. First we stepped into a sitting room with a burgundy velvet carpet. All of the furniture, although shiny, clean, and new-looking, was obviously antique. Later I would learn how valuable it was. It was all original and dated back to the turn of the century.
On the left was a fieldstone fireplace with a long, wide mantel. Atop it at the center was a silver frame with a picture of a young woman holding an umbrella and standing on the beach. She was dressed in a light-colored dress with a long hem. On both ends of the mantel were slim vases with a single rose in each.
Above the mantel was a painting of what must have been the original Cutler's Cove Hotel. There were people gathered on the lawn and people sitting on the wraparound porch. A man and a woman stood together at the front door. I wondered if they weren't supposed to be my grandparents. The sky behind and above the hotel was dotted with small puffy clouds.
To my immediate left was a piano. There was a sheet of music on it, but it looked as though it had been placed there simply for show. In fact, the entire sitting room looked unused, untouched, like a room in a museum.
"Right this way," my father said, indicating the double doors before us. He took hold of both handles and opened both doors with one graceful motion. I stepped forward into the bedroom and nearly gasped in astonishment. It was so big, I thought it was larger than most of the apartments I had lived in. The thick sea-blue carpet rolled on forever until it reached an enormous canopy bed at the far end. There were large windows on each side of the bed, with white lace curtains draped over them. The walls were covered with dark blue velvet. To the right was a long milk-white marble vanity table with cherry-red streaks running through it. There were two high-back matching cushioned chairs. Vases filled with jonquils were spaced along the table. A floor-to-ceiling mirror ran the entire wall behind the vanity table, which made the bedroom look even longer and wider.
A door on the left opened to a walk-in closet bigger than the room I now slept in. There was another closet down from that. The bathroom was on the right. I had only a glimpse of it, but I was able to see the gold fixtures in the sinks and the enormous tub.
My mother was almost lost in the enormous bed. She sat up against two jumbo fluffy pillows. She was wearing a bright pink silk robe with a lace cotton nightie. As we drew closer, she looked up from her magazine and put a chocolate back into the box that was beside her on the bed. Even though she was still in bed, she wore pearl earrings and lipstick and eyeliner. She looked as if she could get out of bed, slip into a fancy dress, and go dancing.
"Laura Sue, we're here," my father sang, stating the obvious. He stopped and turned to me, gesturing for me to come farther forward. "Isn't she a pretty girl?" he added when I stepped up beside him.
1 looked at the woman I had been told was my real mother. Yes, there were resemblances, I thought. We were both blondes, my hair the same shade of yellow and as bright as the morning sun. I had her blue eyes, and I had her peaches-and-cream complexion. She had a graceful neck and slight shoulders, and her hair rested softly on those shoulders and looked as if it had been brushed a thousand strokes, it was so soft and shiny.
She looked me over quickly, her eyes darting from my feet to my head, and then she gasped deeply as if trying to catch her breath. She brought her hand to the heart-shaped locket between her breasts and fingered it nervously. There was an enormous diamond ring on her hand, the stone so large it looked awkward and out of place on her slim, short finger.
I took a deep breath, too. The room was permeated with the scent of the jonquils, for there were vases of them on the end tables and one on the table in the far corner.
"Why is she in a chambermaid's uniform?" my mother asked my father.
"Oh, you know Mother. She wanted her to get used to the hotel life immediately," he replied. She grimaced and shook her head.
"Eugenia," she finally said in a whisper, directing herself to me. "Is it really you?" I shook my head, and she looked confused. She turned quickly to my father. A worried frown drew his eyebrows together.
"I must tell you, Laura Sue, that Eugenia has known only Dawn as her name, and she is a little uncomfortable being called anything else," he explained. A puzzled expression flashed through her face and creased her brow. She battered her eyelashes and pursed her lips.
"Oh? But Grandmother Cutler named you," she said to me, as if that meant it had been written in stone and could never be changed or challenged.
"I don't care," I said. Suddenly she looked frightened, and when she looked to my father this time, it was to ask for help.
"They named her Dawn? Just Dawn?"
"However, Laura Sue," my father said, "Dawn and I did just agree she would give Eugenia a chance."
"I never said I agreed," I said quickly.
"Oh, this will be so difficult," my mother said, shaking her head. Her hand hovered near her throat; her eyes darkened. Something frightening burgeoned in my heart just from watching her reactions. Momma had been deathly ill, but never looked as weak and helpless as my real mother did.
"Whenever anyone calls her Eugenia, she won't know they're calling her. You can't call yourself Dawn now," she said to me. "What would people think?" she moaned.