Twilight's Child (Cutler 3)

I stared at her a moment.

"A formal dinner?"

"Yes. It will be wonderful, I assure you. And I would like so much for you to see Beulla Woods. Also," she added, her eyes narrowing, "it would be smart to accept an invitation from the man who is president of the bank holding the mortgage on the hotel."

"If I agree to go, it won't be because I feel threatened not to," I snapped back. She pulled herself up as if I had spit in her face.

"I didn't mean . . . it's just good sense to do the proper things now that you are a woman of some position, Dawn," she explained.

"All right," I said. "I'll speak to Jimmy about it." "Well, why shouldn't he want to go?" she asked quickly. "Jimmy's not impressed with these things, Mother, but I don't anticipate him refusing, so relax."

She brightened immediately.

"That's very nice, Dawn. I so want us to become good friends, despite all the unpleasantness that has occurred between us in the past."

Unpleasantness? I thought. Her permitting Grandmother Cutler to arrange for my kidnapping, and then her not coming to my defense while the dreadful old woman made my life miserable after my return? Unpleasantness? Her never coming to see me in New York or doing anything to interfere with Grandmother Cutler's sending me to give birth at The Meadows, under the control of that horrible sister, Emily? Unpleasantness? Her failure to do anything about poor Randolph and her permitting her children to fall away like pieces of some delicate china?

"I have to get ready for dinner, Mother," I said, turning away so she couldn't see the two tears that had lodged themselves in the corners of my eyes.

"Of course." She started out and turned in the doorway. "Isn't it remarkable," she said, "how well you are doing?" She laughed. "Grandmother Cutler is surely spinning around in her grave." Her laughter trailed after her.

Perhaps Mother was right about that, I thought. Perhaps that was really why I was working as hard as I could to fill her shoes, and maybe even do better. I wanted to keep her spinning in her grave.

"Forgive me, Jimmy," I whispered, "but I can't help wanting sweet revenge."

To my surprise, Jimmy was more than just willing to go to dinner at Bronson Alcott's home. He was looking forward to it.

"I've heard so much about that house," he told me, "especially from Buster Morris, who does some grounds maintenance there as well."

I smiled. Jimmy had become very popular with the hotel staff, especially the men and women directly under his authority. He put on no airs of superiority and didn't act as if he knew everything. He relied heavily on the advice of the old-timers and didn't attempt to change anything they had been doing for years and years.

"What have you heard about Beulla Woods, Jimmy?" I asked. Curiosity filled me. I couldn't help but be interested in Mr. Alcott, not only because of Mother's friendship with him, but because of the debonair and suave way he had swept into my life, flashing that charming smile, drinking me in with those laughing blue eyes. Whenever I saw him he seemed to have an alluring and provocative grin.

And there was a mystery about him. He was a handsome and engaging man who carried himself with the self-confidence of a famous movie star. Well-to-do, important and obviously well educated, he presented a striking figure. Why, then, had he remained unmarried all these years? Was it what Mrs. Boston thought—he was too brokenhearted over not marrying Mother?

"Well, for one thing, Buster says that the house is enormous for one man to be living in it alone. He's got some servants, of course, but the house has ten bedrooms, a sitting room, a formal living room, a library and an office. He says the kitchen's half as big as our hotel kitchen, and it's all on one hundred and fifty rolling acres with a view of the cove and the sea that will take your breath away. He has a pool and a tennis court in the rear, too.

"Buster says his father built the house after he returned from the First World War. It's one of those Norman cottages."

"Cottage?"

"Well, that's what they call the style. It's French, but it looks a little like English Tudor, too," he added, proud of his new knowledge.

"It sounds like you and Buster talked a lot about Mr. Alcott's home," I teased.

"Yeah, well, I'm interested in houses and construction and stuff. I told you," he added, his face a little crimson, "I intend to build us a house someday. I've even got a piece of the hotel property picked out—up on a little rise at the northwest end. Buster says it's perfect for the sort of house I'm designing."

"Really? Oh, Jimmy, that would be wonderful." He beamed.

"Anyhow," he said, "I don't mind looking at Beulla Woods close up."

And so on Tuesday we got dressed up to accompany Mother in the hotel limousine. I hadn't really bought any new clothing since my days in New York City attending the Sarah Bernhardt School of Performing Arts. At Mother's suggestion I took off Monday afternoon and went shopping for something appropriate to wear to a formal dinner. I found an elegant-looking black satin gown with spaghetti straps and a black silk sash. Mother was literally ecstatic when she saw what I had bought.

"It's perfect," she cried, holding it up against herself and gazing in my mirror. "Absolutely perfect. We're almost the same size," she commented. "Maybe you'll let me borrow it one day."

"Of course, Mother," I replied.