Seeds of Yesterday (Dollanganger 4)

Bart wasn't listening to Jory. He still had his eyes glued on Melodie, who glided from one piece of furniture to another, running her long, graceful fingers over the slick, polished tops before she glanced into the adjacent sitting room and then went on into the magnificent bath with an old-fashioned walnut tub lined with pewter. She laughed to see the tub. "Oh, I'm going to enjoy that. Look at the depth--water right up to your chin if you want it that way."

"Fair women look so dramatic in dark settings,", said Bart almost without realizing he'd spoken. No one said a word, not even Jory, who gave him a hard look.

In that bath was also a walk-in shower and a lovely dressing table of the same walnut with a threewinged gold-framed

mirror, so the occupant seated on the velvet-covered stool could see herself from every angle.

We dined early and sat outside on a terrace in the twilight hours. Joel didn't join us, and for that I was grateful. Bart had little to say, but he couldn't keep his eyes off Melodie in her frail blue dress that molded to every delicate curve of thigh, hip, waist and bust. I felt a sinking sensation to see him studying her so closely, with desire written clearly in those dark, blistering eyes.

At the breakfast table on the terrace outside the dining room, the daisies were yellow. We had hope now. We could look at yellow and not fear we'd never see sunlight again.

Chris was laughing at something funny Jory had just reported, while Bart only smiled, still keeping his eyes on Melodie, who picked at her breakfast without appetite. "Everything I eat comes up sooner or later," she explained with a small look of embarrassment. "It's not the food, it's me. I'm supposed to eat slowly and not think about losing the meal . . . but that's all I'm thinking of." Just beyond her shoulder, in the shadows of a giant live palm planted in a huge clay pot, Joel had his gaze riveted also on Melodie, studying her profile. Then he was looking at Jory, narrowing his eyes again.

"Joel," I called, "step forward and join us for breakfast."

He advanced reluctantly, cautiously, whispering his soft-soled shoes over the flagstones, holding his arms crosswise over his chest, as if he wore an invisible coarse, brown, homespun monk's habit, and his hands were tucked neatly out of sight up the wide sleeves. He seemed a judge sent to weigh us in for Heaven's pearly gates. His voice was slight and polite as he greeted Jory and Melodie, nodding in answer to their questions that plied him for information on what it was like to live as a monk. "I couldn't bear life without women," said Jory, "without music and lots of different types of people all around. I get a little from this person, something else from another. It takes hundreds of friends to keep me happy. Already I'm missing those in our ballet company.

"It takes all kinds to make the world go round," said Joel, "and the Lord giveth before he taketh away." Then he ambled off, his head bowed low, as if he whispered prayers and fingered a rosary. "The Lord must have known what he was doing when he made each of us so different," I heard him murmur.

Jory swiveled about in his chair to stare after Joel. "So that's our great uncle, who we presumed died in a skiing accident. Mom, wouldn't it be odd if the other brother turned up as well?"

Jumping to his feet, Bart's face flamed furious. "Don't be ridiculous! Malcolm's eldest son died when his motorcycle went over a precipice, and they found his body and buried it. It's in the family cemetery that I've visited often. According to Uncle Joel, his father sent detectives looking for his lost second son, and that's one reason my uncle had to stay hidden in that monastery, until eventually he grew used to it and began to fear life on the outside." He flicked his eyes at me, as if to recognize the fact that we, too, as children, had grown accustomed to our imprisoned life, fearing the outside.

"He says when you are isolated for long periods, you begin to see people as they really are--as if distance gives you better perspective."

Chris and I met eyes. Yes, we knew about isolation. Standing, Chris gestured to Jory and offered to show him around. "Bart's planning horse stables, so he can have fox hunts like. Malcolm used to have. Perhaps one day we may even want to join in that kind of sport."

"Sport?" queried Melodie, rising gracefully and hurrying to catch up with Jory. "I don't call a pack of hungry hounds chasing a cute little harmless fox a true sport--it's barbaric, that's what!"

"That's the trouble with those in the ballet--too sensitive for the real world," Bart retorted before he stalked off in a different direction.

Later on in the afternoon, I found Chris in the foyer watching Jory work out before the mirrors, using a chair for a barre. The two men shared the kind of relationship I hoped would develop one day between Chris and Bart. Father and son, both admiring and respecting the other. My arms crossed over my breasts to hug myself. I was so happy to have all my family together, or at least it would be when Cindy arrived. And the expected baby would be more cement to bind us together .. .

Jory had warmed up enough and began to dance to The Firebird music. Whirling so fast he was a dazzling blur, whipping his legs, leaping into the air, bounding to land as light as a feather so you didn't hear his feet hit the floor. His muscles rippled as he jeteed again and again, spreading his legs so his outstretched arms allowed his fingertips to touch his toes. I filled with excitement, watching him perform, knowing he was showing off for our benefit.

"Would you look at those fetes?" said Chris when he caught sight of me. "Why, he clears the floor by twelve feet or more. I don't believe what I'm seeing!"

"Ten feet, not twelve," corrected Jory as he whirled by, spinning, spinning, covering the immense space of the foyer in mere seconds. Then he fell breathlessly down on a quilted floor mat put there so he'd have a place to rest without his body sweat fading the delicate and fancy chair coverings. "Damned hard floor if I fall . . ." he gasped as he lay back and rested on his elbows.

"And the spread of his legs when he leaps, it's unbelievable he can be so supple at his age."

"Dad, I'm only twenty-nine, not thirty-nine!" protested Jory, who had a thing about growing older and losing the spotlight to a younger danseur. "I've got at least eleven good years ahead before I begin to slide."

I knew exactly what he was thinking as he sprawled there on the mat, looking so much like Julian. It was as if I were twenty or so again. The muscles of all male dancers approaching forty began to harden and become brittle so that their once magnificent bodies weren't as attractive to the audience any longer. Off with the old, on with the new . . . the fear of all performers, although ballerinas with their layer of fat under their skin could hold on longer. Falling on the mat beside Jory, I sat crosslegged in my pink slacks.

"Jory, you are going to last longer than most danseurs, so stop worrying. It's a long and glamorous road you have to travel to reach forty, and who knows, maybe you'll be fifty before you retire."

"Yeah, sure," he said, tucking his hands behind his curly head and staring up at the distant ceiling. "Fourteenth in a long line of dancers has to be the lucky number, doesn't it?"

How many times had I heard him say he couldn't live without dancing? Since he was a small boy of two, I'd put his feet on the road to where he was now.

Down the stairs Melodie glided, looking beautiful and fresh from a recent bath and shampoo, seeming a fragile spring flower in her blue leotards. "Jory, my doctor said I could keep on with light practice, and I want to dance as long as possible to keep my muscles supple and long . . . so dance with me, lover. Dance and dance, and then let's dance some more."

Instantly Jory bounded to his feet and whirled to the foot of the stairs, where he fell upon one knee in the romantic position of a prince seeing the princess of his dreams. "My pleasure, my lady . . ." and swinging her off her feet, he whirled with her in his arms before he put her down with the skilled practice and grace that made her seem to have the weight of a feather. They whirled around, always dancing for the other, as once Julian and I had danced for the pure delight of being young, alive and able. Tears came to my eyes as I stood beside Chris and watched them.

Sensing my thoughts, Chris put his arm about my shoulder and drew me closer. "They're beautiful together, aren't they? Made for each other, I would say. If I squint my eyes and see them hazily, I see you dancing with Julian . . . only you were far prettier, Catherine, far prettier . . ."

Behind us Bart snorted.