Web of Dreams (Casteel 5)

"Where?"

"To that mansion I told you about, the one called Farthinggale Manor."

"Where you're painting the murals in the music room?" I asked. She had told me abo

ut it very quickly one day. Momma was doing illustrations for children's books, working for Patrick and Clarissa Darrow, the husband and wife owners of a publishing company here in Boston, who were neighbors of ours. Their decorator, Elizabeth Deveroe, was hired to do some work in a fabulous mansion outside of Boston. Momma and Elizabeth were good friends and Momma had accompanied her out there one day and made suggestions, which the owner apparently loved. She and Elizabeth then asked her to carry out the order, which was to paint murals depicting scenes from fairy tales, something Momma had been doing on the covers of books.

"Yes. I'm more than half done and I want you to see that as well as meet Tony."

"Tony?"

"Mr. Tatterton, the owner, and I want you to see this estate. If you would like to go, of course."

"Oh, I do! I can't wait to see what you've painted."

"Good." She smiled. "Now we both better get dressed before your father walks a hole in the floor."

I laughed, thinking about poor Daddy and how it would be for him to have to live with two mature women now, instead of only one. But I could never be cruel to Daddy, I thought. I could never deceive him or not tell him what I was really thinking. Wasn't there ever a time, I wondered, a time after you were in love and married, when you could trust your husband and be honest with him?

I put on the new bra and one of my new cashmere sweaters and the matching skirt. I brushed my hair back and put on the lipstick just the way Momma had instructed and then I found the shoes with the high heels and stood before my mirror to gaze at myself.

I looked so different. It was as if I had grown up overnight. People who didn't know me might not be able to guess my true age. How exciting, I thought, and yet, in a way it was a little scary. I looked older, but could I act older? I always watched Momma in public, how she seemed to slip in and out of parts, become this and become that, sometimes giggle and act silly and sometimes look so elegant and

aristocratic anyone would think she was a member of royalty.

Always, she was beautiful; she was the center of attention. Whenever she walked into a room, men stopped their conversations and spun their heads around so quickly, they nearly snapped them off their necks.

It made me nervous to think that the moment we entered the restaurant for my birthday dinner, all eyes would be turned our way and men and women would gaze closely upon me, too. Would they laugh? Would they think there's a young girl trying to be like her mother?

When I finally walked downstairs to Daddy's enlace, I was filled with apprehension. He would be the first man to see me so dressed up and he was the most important man in my life right now. Momma was still getting ready.

He was behind his desk, reading one of his reports. Two years ago, Momma had redesigned and redecorated the entire house, except for his office. That was the one room he wouldn't let her touch, even though its floor was covered with a rather wornlooking rectangular rug Momma considered an embarrassment. His desk had been his father's and was scratched and chipped, yet he would permit nothing to be done with it. His office looked cluttered because he had shelves of models of ships and nautical books on all the walls. There was one small, dark-brown leather settee and a worn hickory rocker with an oval maple table beside it. He worked by the light of a brass oil lamp.

The only art in the room consisted of pictures of ships: Yankee Clippers and some of the first luxury liners, and some dried and treated driftwood pieces he had on his cluttered desk and on the oval table. On the wall behind him was a portrait of his father. Grandpa VanVoreen, who had died two years before I was born, had a hard stern face with deep wrinkles and weathered-looking cheeks. Daddy always said that he took after his mother, who had also died before I was born. In her photographs she looked like a diminutive, soft woman, from whom Daddy had probably inherited his quiet, conservative manner.

I often studied the photographs of Daddy's parents, searching for some resemblances to myself. I thought his mother's eyes were like mine in some pictures, but in others, they looked quite different.

He looked up slowly from his desk when he realized I had entered his office. For the first few moments, it was as if he didn't recognize me. Then he stood up quickly, his face filled with amazement.

"How do I look, Daddy?" I asked tentatively.

"You look so . . . grown up. What has your mother done to you?"

"Is it all right?" I asked anxiously.

"Oh, yes. I didn't realize how beautiful you were becoming, Leigh. I guess I'd better stop thinking of you as being a little girl." He simply stared a little longer. It made me very self-conscious. I felt myself blush. "Well now," he said finally, coming around his desk to me. "I'll have two beautiful women on my arms tonight. How wonderful." He hugged me to him, and warmed my cheeks with kisses.

"Are you sure I look all right, Daddy?"

"Of course, I'm sure. Come on now, let's see how many more hours it will be before your mother comes down those stairs." He put his arm around me and we walked out to the staircase hall and looked up at the scaled, suspended staircase because Momma was descending.

She looked as pretty as ever. Her eyes were sparkling so brightly, they were luminous. Her color was radiant and her hair had an angelic sheen to it. She winked at me as she made the turn.

"Good grief, Cleave, you could have at least changed into a different suit from the one you wore all day," she said stepping down.

"I did!" Daddy protested.

Momma shook her head.