Twilight's Child (Cutler 3)

"We'll be no more than fifteen minutes, Julius," I said firmly.

"Very good, Mrs. Longchamp. I'll be right out here."

"Okay, Christie, honey." I took her hand and started for the front door. My legs felt as if they had turned into rubber. I was positive I was wobbling and looked every which way to see if people were staring at me, but no one was looking. The doorman opened the door for us, and we entered the posh lobby.

For a long moment I didn't see him—or, more correctly, didn't recognize him—for he was seated on the sofa directly ahead of us, reading a newspaper. He lowered it and smiled. My heart stopped and then started again, the blood draining from my face so quickly, I thought I would embarrass all of us by falling into a faint.

But when Michael stood up my trepidation turned to surprise and curiosity. Approaching us was a man who looked years and years older than I remembered him. His dark, once-silky hair was dull and spotted with gray. He was still six feet tall, of course, but his shoulders turned in, and he didn't have that arrogant, confidant gait. He looked a great deal thinner, his face almost as lean as Daddy Longchamp's; and although he wore a dark blue sports jacket and slacks, I thought he looked seedy: the pants not pressed, the jacket stretched and out of shape. Even the knot in his tie looked clumsily made. This was not the immaculate, debonair man with whom I had fallen so quickly and so deeply in love. This man couldn't even sweep one of my chambermaids off her feet, I thought.

"Dawn," he said, extending his hand. Gone was the impressive gold pinky ring and the glittering gold watch. His fingers seemed to tremble in my grasp. "It's so good to see you after all these years." Although his face was ashen, his dark sapphire eyes still had that impish glint.

"Hello, Michael."

"And this," he said, stepping back and looking down, "must be Christie. I couldn't have missed you in a crowd of schoolgirls your age," he added. "She's beautiful," he said, lifting his eyes to me. "You've done a wonderful job. Hello, Christie." He offered her his hand, and she took it and shook it like a little lady. He laughed. "I bought you something," he told her, and he fished in his jacket pocket to produce a small box.

"Oh, Michael," I said.

"It's all right; it's nothing special," he said.

"Yes, but I'll have to explain it," I said.

"I'm sorry. I couldn't resist getting her something."

"What is it?" Christie asked. Michael winked at me.

"I'm a jewelry salesman," he said, "and I thought you might like a sample of what I sell."

She took the gift.

"What do you say, Christie?"

"Thank you. Can I open it? Can I?"

"Sure," Michael said. "Let's go right in here and have a cup of tea or something," he said, indicating the lounge.

"We can't stay long. I have my chauffeur outside," I told him.

"I know. We'll sit for just a few minutes and visit. Christie," he said, extending his hand. She took it, and he led her toward the lounge. I took a deep breath and followed. We sat in a booth, and Michael ordered Christie a Shirley Temple.

"Would you like tea, or something stronger?" he asked. "Tea would be fine."

"Tea, and a scotch and soda for me," he said. He smiled at me across the table. "Remember that first day when I took you for cappuccino?"

"I remember. But more important, I remember the day you weren't there," I said pointedly. Michael's aged and disheveled look diminished the magic I feared would blind me to the truth and cause me to overlook the effects his mean and cruel behavior had had on me and my life. Looking at him now, I saw him as only a man. He didn't walk in a spotlight; there was no music in the background. His face was no longer the face enshrined on magazine covers.

"Oh, look, Momma," Christie exclaimed after she opened the box. She had lifted a gold chain and a locket from it; the locket had a musical note on the outside.

"Oooh," Christie exclaimed with admiration as she dangled it before herself.

"I once gave a locket like that to someone I loved very much," Michael said, gazing at me.

I remembered; it was on a Thanksgiving, but I had left that behind with so many other things when I had been whisked off to The Meadows to give birth.

"The note looks like an A," Christie declared. Michael laughed.

"Don't tell me she's a musician, too."

"She's taking piano lessons," I said.