If There Be Thorns (Dollanganger 3)

It was like waiting for a ship to be launched. I grew sort of breathless in anticipation, even more so because she had such a look on her face . . . as if she couldn't wait for me to see the contents. Was she giving me a gift, like she gave Bart anything he wanted? He was the greediest little boy ever born, needing double the amount of affection most people required.

I gasped then and stepped backwards. It was an oil painting the men unwrapped.

There stood my beautiful mother in a formal white gown, pausing on the next to the bottom step with her slender hand resting on a magnificent newel post. Trailing behind her lay yards and yards of the shimmering white fabric. The curving stairs behind her rose gracefully and faded into swirling mists through which the artist had cleverly managed to give the impression of gold and glittering jewels, hinting at a palace-like mansion.

"Do you know whose portrait that is?" she asked when the men had hung it in place in one of the parlors she didn't seem to use often. I nodded, dumbfounded and speechless.

What was she doing with my mother's portrait?

She waited for the two men to go. They smiled, thrilled with the tip she gave them. I was panting, hearing my heavy breathing and wondering why I felt sort of numb. "Jory," she said softly, turning again to me, "that's a portrait of me that my second husband commissioned shortly after we were married. I was thirty-seven when I posed for that."

In the portrait the woman looked just like my mother looked today. I swallowed and wanted to run, suddenly needing the bathroom badly, but still I wanted to stay. I wanted to hear her explain, even though I was paralyzed with the fear of what she might tell me.

"My second husband, who was younge

r, was named Bartholomew Winslow, Jory," she said quickly, as if to make sure I heard before I got up and ran. "Later on, when my daughter was old enough, she seduced him, stole his love away from me, just so she could hurt me with the child she gave him. The child I couldn't have. Can you guess who that child is, can you?"

I jumped up and backed away. Holding out my hands to ward off any more information I didn't want to hear.

"Jory, Jory, Jory," she chanted, "don't you remember me at all? Think back to when you lived in the mountains of Virginia Think of that little post office, and the rich lady in the fur coat. You were about three then. You saw me and smiling, you came to stroke my coat, and you told me I was pretty-- remember?"

"No!" I cried more stoutly than I felt. "I have never seen you before in my life, not until you moved here! And all blondes with blue eyes look somewhat alike!"

"Yes," she said brokenly, "I suppose you're right. I just thought it would be amusing to see your expression. I shouldn't have played a trick on you. I'm sorry, Jory. Forgive me."

I couldn't look at those blue, blue eyes. I had to get away.

I felt miserable as I slowly trudged home. If only I hadn't stayed. If only the portrait hadn't been delivered while I was there. Why did I have to sense that that woman was more a threat to my mother than my stepfather? What had I accomplished? Was it you, Mom, who stole her second husband's love? Was it? Didn't it make good sense when Bart had the same name as him? Everything she'd said confirmed the suspicions that had been sleeping in my mind for so many years. Doors were opening, letting in fresh memories that almost seemed like enemies.

I climbed the stairs of the veranda Mom jokingly called "Paul's kind of southern veranda." Certainly it wasn't the customary California patio.

There was something different about the patio today. If I had been less troubled, perhaps I would have spotted immediately what was missing. As it was, it took me minutes to realize Clover wasn't there. I looked around, distressed, calling him.

"For heaven's sake, Jory," called Emma from the kitchen window, "don't yell so loud. I just put Cindy down for a nap and you'll wake her up. I saw Clover a few minutes ago heading into the garden, chasing a butterfly."

Of course. I felt relieved. If one thing brought out the puppy in my old poodle, it was a fluttery yellow butterfly. I joined Emma in the kitchen and asked, "Emma, I've been wanting to ask for a long time, what year did Mom marry Dr. Paul?"

She was leaning over, checking inside the refrigerator, grumbling to herself. "I could swear there was some fried chicken in here, left over from last night. Since we're having liver and onions tonight I saved what was left of the chicken for Bart. I thought your finicky brother could eat the leftover thighs."

"Don't you remember the year they were married?"

"You were just a little one then," she said, still rummaging through covered dishes.

Emma was always vague about dates. She couldn't remember her own birthday. Maybe deliberately. "Tell me again how my mother met Dr. Paul's younger brother . . . you know, the stepfather we have now."

"Yes, I remember Chris, he was so handsome, tall and tan. But not one whit better looking than Dr. Paul was in his own way . . . a wonderful man, your stepfather Paul. So kind, so soft-spoken."

"It's funny Mom didn't fall for a younger brother instead of an older one--don't you think it's odd?"

She straightened and put a hand to her back, which she said hurt all the time. Next she wiped her hands on her spotless white apron. "I sure hope your parents aren't late tonight. Now you run and hunt up Bart before it's too late for him to take a bath. I hate for your mother to see him so filthy."

"Emma, you haven't answered my questions."

Turning her back she began to chop green bellpeppers. "Jory, when you need answers, you go to your parents and ask. Don't come to me. You may think of me as a family member but I know my place is that of a friend. So run along and let me finish dinner."

"Please, Emma, not just for my sake, but Bart's too. I've got to do something to straighten out Bart, and how can I when I don't have all the facts?"

"Jory," she said, giving me a warm smile, "just be happy you have two such wonderful parents. You and Bart are very lucky boys. I hope Cindy grows up to realize how blessed she was the day your mother decided she had to have a daughter."