Dawn by V. C. Andrews
"Hi," he said. "How are you doing? You getting enough to eat?"
I nodded. He had asked me the same question three times in two days.
"Well, tomorrow you will have more to do and more fun. Philip and Clara Sue are coming home. School's out."
"Tomorrow?" I had forgotten the date. Time had lost its meaning for me.
"Uh-huh. I'd better get back in there. Lunch is about to begin. As soon as I get that free moment, we'll talk," he added and left me quickly.
Tomorrow Philip was coming, I thought. I was afraid of seeing him. How would he feel about all this? Would he be embarrassed? Maybe he wouldn't be able to look me in the face. How many times had he recalled kissing me, touching me? Did it disgust him now? None of this was his fault, nor was it mine. We didn't deceive each other; we had been deceived.
And then there was Clara Sue to think about. I would never be able to face the reality of her being my sister, I thought, and with the way she hated me . . . tomorrow . . . just the thought of it made me sweat and tremble.
Later that day I went exploring through the hotel. After I finished working with Sissy, afternoons usually belonged to me. The only problem was that there was usually nothing to do. I was all alone, without anyone to talk to. Sissy always had other jobs to do, and there was no one else my age among the guests since the summer season hadn't started yet. Part of me was looking forward to Philip and Clara Sue's arrival. Granted, things would be awkward at first, but we'd all adjust. We had to. After all, we were a family.
Family. It was the first time the word had entered my mind with regards to the new people in my life. We were a family. Philip, Clara Sue, Grandmother Cutler, my real mother and father, and me, were a family. There would never be any changing of that. We belonged to each other, and no one would ever be able to take them away from me.
Although the thought of the Cutlers as my real family gave me a sense of comfort and security I had never thought possible, it also made me feel guilty. I instantly envisioned Daddy and Momma, Jimmy and Fern. They were my family, too, no matter what anyone said. I would always love them, but that didn't mean I couldn't learn to love my real family, too, did it?
Not wanting to dwell on my two families anymore, at least for the moment, I concentrated on my exploration trek. I went from room to room, floor to floor, really paying attention to my surroundings. The extravagance and opulence of Cutler's Cove was dazzling. There were plush carpets, Oriental rugs, rich tapestries, sleek leather sofas and chairs, lamps with glittering shades of Tiffany glass, polished book-shelves with rows upon rows of books.
There were paintings and sculptures; delicate figurines and vases overflowing with lush, fragrant flowers. The beauty of it all left me speechless, but the most amazing thing of all was that I belonged here. This was my new world. I had been born into the wealth of the Cutler family, and now I had been returned to it. It was going to take some getting used to.
Each room outshined the next one that I stepped into, and soon I lost track of where I was. Trying to get my bearings so that I could return to the hotel's lobby, I rounded a corner. Yet instead of stairs, there was only a door in the wall. There were no other rooms. Intrigued by my discovery, I opened the door. It creaked on its hinges, and a musty smell drifted out. Darkness stretched before me. I reached out a hand, searching for a light switch. Finding one, I turned it on. The bath of light put me at ease and gave me the courage to walk down what seemed to be an unused corridor.
I reached the end and another door. Biting my lip I opened it and stepped inside. Surrounding me were packed boxes, trunks, and covered piles of furniture. I was in some sort of storage room. Suddenly I became excited. The perfect place to learn about one's family—one's past—was by going through what was left behind by one's ancestors.
Eagerly I knelt before a trunk, not caring about the dust on the floor, consumed only by thoughts of what I would discover. I couldn't wait!
Trunk after trunk was opened as the afternoon flew by. There were photos of Grandmother Cutler as a young woman, looking just as stern as ever. There were photos of my father from the time he was a child until he married my mother. There were photos of my mother, too, but for some reason she didn't look happy. In her eyes there was a sad faraway look. I turned to the back of the photos of her, noting the dates. The photos had been taken after I had been kidnapped. No wonder she looked the way she did.
There were photos of Clara Sue and Philip and photos of the hotel in its various stages of growth as Cutler's Cove became more and more prosperous.
A look army watch showed me that it was six o'clock. Dinner would be in half an hour and I was a mess! A mirror across the room provided a reflection of my dusty self. I'd have to hurry to get myself ready. Gathering up the folders the photos had been in, I prepared to put them back in the trunk I had opened. As I was about to replace the folders, I noticed a folder I had missed in the bottom of the trunk. Although I knew I was cutting things close timewise, I couldn't resist taking a peek. Putting aside the other folders, scooped up the one I had missed. After pouring out the contents, I was stunned.
There were newspaper clippings . . . newspaper clippings of my kidnapping!
Forgetting about having to be ready for dinner, I pored over the clippings. Each account was exactly the same, telling no more and no less than what was already known. Photos of Daddy and Momma, along with my real mother and father, accompanied the articles. I looked into their young faces, searching for answers, trying to understand how they all felt.
Reading about myself . . . about my kidnapping . . . was strange. A part of me still hadn't wanted to believe that Momma and Daddy had done such a terrible thing. Yet in my hands, in black and white newsprint, I held the proof. There was no longer any denying what had happened.
"So there you are! Just what do you think you're doing up here?" a steely whisper demanded.
There was no mistaking that voice. Startled, I fell to the floor, the newspaper clippings scattering from my hand. I turned around and my blood chilled as I stared up into the angry wrath of Grandmother Cutler.
"I asked you a question," she hissed. "What are you doing up here?"
"I was just looking," I managed to answer.
"Looking? Only looking? Don't you mean snooping! How dare you rummage through things that don't belong to you." She gave an indignant snort. "I shouldn't be surprised. You were raised by a thief and kidnapper."
"Don't you say such things about Momma and Daddy," I said, instantly coming to their defense.
Grandmother Cutler ignored me. "Look at this mess!"
Mess? What mess? The trunks were only open . . . their contents as neatly arranged as when I had found them. All that needed to be done was a closing of the trunk lids.
I felt like contradicting her, but one look at her face made me change my mind. Her face was turning red; she was barely controlling herself.
"I'm sorry," I said, nervously playing with the pearls I had chosen to wear around my neck that morning. When I had woken up this morning, I had suddenly missed Momma more than I ever had. Putting on the pearls had made me feel better. I knew I had broken my promise to myself, but I had been unable to help it. Besides, I'd kept the pearls hidden under my blouse. Momma would have liked seeing me wear them.
Grandmother Cutler's eyes suddenly bulged. "Where did you get those?"
Shocked, I looked up at her, shivering as she drew closer. "Get what?" I didn't know what she was talking about.
"Those pearls," she hissed.
Puzzled, I looked at the pearls. "These? I've always had them. They belonged to my family."
"Liar! You stole them, didn't you? You found those pearls in one of the trunks."
"I did not!" I hotly answered. How dare she accuse me of stealing. "These pearls belonged to my momma. My daddy gave them to me to wear on the night of the concert." I gave Grandmother Cutler a defiant look, despite the fact that I was quivering inside. She wasn't going to scare me. "These pearls are mine."
"I don't believe you. You've never worn them before. If they're so special," she sneered, "then why is this the first time I'm seeing them around your neck?"
I was about to answer when Grandmother Cutler raced forward. With lightning speed she reached for the pearls, ripping them from my neck. Momma's beautiful pearls, each one individually knotted, didn't scatter or break. But they were still gone. She held them up in one hand, triumphantly tightening a fist. "They're mine now."
"No!" I protested, jumping to my feet and grabbing for her fist. "Give them back!" I couldn't lose Momma's pearls. I couldn't! They were all I had left of her after Grandmother Cutler had hatefully torn up her photo. "I'm telling you the truth. I swear I am."
Grandmother Cutler gave me a vicious shove, pushing me to the floor. I landed on the dusty attic floor with an "oomph," my bottom aching with soreness.
"Don't you ever raise a hand to me again! Do you understand?"
Glaring at her defiantly, I refused to answer. My silence only infuriated her further.
"Do you understand?" she repeated, snatching up a handful of my hair and twisting it painfully. "When I ask you a question, I expect an answer."
Tears sprang to my eyes, desperate to be free, but I wouldn't release them. I wouldn't give Grandmother Cutler the satisfaction. I wouldn't!
"Yes," I said, gritting my teeth. "I understand."
Amazingly, my answer returned her to some semblance of normalcy. She let go of my hair, and I rubbed my aching head. "Good," she purred. "Good." She gave a look at the open trunks. "Fix this place as you found it." She swept up the fallen newspaper clippings. "These will be burned," she stated, sending me a glare I had already become familiar with.
"You know I'm telling the truth," I told her. "You know those pearls belonged to Sally Jean Longchamp."
"I know nothing of the sort. All I know," she spat out, "is that I haven't seen these pearls since the day you disappeared."
"What are you saying?" I gasped.
She gave me a smug look. "What do you think I'm saying?"
"Those pearls belonged to my momma!" I cried out. "They did! I won't believe what you're insinuating. I won't!"
"I've always believed in the truth, Eugenia. Sally Jean and Ormand Longchamp stole these pearls. There's no escaping that fact, just like there's no escaping the fact that they stole you."
What she was saying couldn't be true. It couldn't! How could I bear this final stain against Momma and Daddy's memory? It was just too much to bear!
With her final words Grandmother Cutler left, taking away my last connection to my past. I waited for my tears to fall, but they didn't. That was because I had realized something. It didn't matter what had come with me from my former life. I had my memories and my memories of life with Daddy and Momma, Jimmy and Fern, were something that Grandmother Cutler could never take away.
The following morning I threw myself into my work, trying desperately not to think about what was soon to come or what had happened the previous day. I didn't linger around the other chambermaids and staff at lunch, either. Most of them were still very incensed about my taking Agatha's job. If I tried to speak or act friendly, one of them brought up Agatha and asked if anyone had heard anything about her. A few times I felt like standing up and shouting at them: "I didn't fire her! I didn't ask to be made a chambermaid! I didn't even ask to be brought back here! You're all so cruel and heartless. Why can't you see that?"
The words were tickling the tip of my tongue, but I was afraid to scream them, for I knew the moment I did, I would be even more isolated than I was now. Not even Sissy would speak to me, and my grandmother would have another reason to chastise me and make me feel lower than an insect. Not that I could feel much lower being stuffed away in some cubbyhole of a room in a distant part of the hotel as if I were a disgrace and an embarrassment my grandmother wanted hidden and forgotten.
I was beginning to feel like someone caught in limbo—not really accepted as a Cutler yet, and not accepted by the staff. My only real companion was my own shadow. Loneliness draped itself over me like a shroud. I felt invisible.
I was spending my break after lunch in my room alone when there was a knock on my door and Mrs. Boston appeared, her arms laden with a pile of clothing and a bag of shoes and sneakers.
"Little Mrs. Cutler asked me to bring this down to you," she said as she entered my bedroom.
"What is it?"
"I just finished getting Miss Clara Sue's room in order. That girl's the worst when it comes to being neat and organized. You would think a young lady from a good family like this would take a little more pride in her things and her living quarters, but that girl . . ." She shook her head and dropped everything at the foot of my bed.
"This here is everything Clara Sue don't use no more. Some of it is from a year or so back, so even though she's a mite bigger than you everywhere, this stuff might fit.
"Some of it she never even wore. That's how spoiled she is. Why, just look here," she added, reaching into the pile. She lifted a blouse up. "See, this still has the tag on it."
It did look brand-new. I began to sift through the things. It would certainly not be the first time I had worn used clothing. It was just the idea that it was Clara Sue's clothing, Clara Sue's hand-me-downs, that disturbed me. I couldn't help remembering all the terrible things she had done to me at school.
On the other hand, my mother, whom I really hadn't spoken to since our first meeting, was thinking about me. I supposed I should be grateful.
"My mother picked all this out for me?" I asked. Mrs. Boston nodded and raised her hands.
"She didn't pick it out exactly. She asked me to gather all the things I knew Clara Sue didn't use or want and see if you could make use of it."
I tried on one of the sneakers. Clara Sue was a year younger than me, but she was a lot bigger. The old sneakers and shoes were a perfect fit. All of the blouses and skirts would fit, too. There was even a bag of underwear.
"Everything in that is far too small for her now," Mrs. Boston said. I was sure all the panties would fit, but the year-old bra was still too big for me.
"You can sort out what works and what don't. Let me know what you don't want. There are plenty of poor people I know who would really appreciate most of this," she said, raising her eyebrows. "Especially Agatha Johnson."
"Well, I don't have time to work on this right now," I snapped. "I have to go to the card room. I'm supposed to clean it up between one and two while most of the guests are away." I put the clothing aside.
Mrs. Boston grimaced and then left. I followed her out and went to do my afternoon chores.
I had just finished polishing the last table in the card room and put back the chairs when I heard Philip call, "Dawn." I turned and found him standing behind me in the doorway. He wore a light blue shirt with a button-down collar and khaki-colored slacks. With his hair brushed neatly, every strand in place, he looked his usual unperturbed self.
I had lost interest in my own appearance from the day I had arrived at Cutler's Cove. In the morning I would simply pin up my hair and then tie a bandanna around it the way the other chambermaids did. My uniform was dirty from cleaning the card room.
It was the first dark rainy day since I had arrived at the hotel. The brooding sky had made this particular day even more dreary and tedious for me. The air was cool and clammy, and I worked harder and faster to keep the chill out of my bones.
"Hello, Philip," I said, turning about completely.
"How are you?" he asked.
"All right, I guess," I replied, but my lips began to tremble and my shoulders started to shake. When I looked at him now, it made me think that my days at Emerson Peabody were all part of some dream, a dream that had turned into a nightmare the day Momma died.
"I set out looking for you as soon as I arrived," Philip said, not taking a step closer. "I haven't even unpacked. I just threw down my things and asked Mrs. Boston where I could find you. She told me Grandmother
He paused again. The silences between our sentences were deep, and the small distance between us seemed like miles. Rapid and dramatic events had made him feel like a stranger to me. I was having trouble thinking of things to say and how to say them.
But suddenly he smiled the same way he always had with that twinkle in his eyes, that impish grin in his face. He shook his head.
"I can't think of you as my sister. I can't. This is too much," he said.
"What can we do, Philip? It's true."
"I don't know." He kept shaking his head. "So," he said, stepping closer, "how do you like the hotel? It's quite a place, isn't it? The grounds are beautiful. When it's not raining like this," he added.
"I've only been able to explore the inside of the hotel. I haven't had much of a chance to explore outside," I said. "Mostly, I've been working and spending time alone in my room."
"Oh." His smile widened. "Well, now that I've arrived, you will have more to do. I'll show you every nook and cranny. I'll re-explore everything with you, show you my favorite places, my old hiding places . . ."
For a moment we let our gazes lock. My face felt hot, my heart raced. What did he see when he looked at me? Did he still think me the nicest and prettiest girl he had met?
"On your day off," he continued quickly, "we'll walk along the beach and look for seashells and—"
"I don't have a day off," I said.
"What? No day off? Of course you do. Everybody gets a day off. I'll speak to Mr. Stanley right away about it."
I shrugged and put my polishing cloth and polish in my little cart. He came closer.
"Dawn," he said, reaching for my hand. When his fingers touched mine, I pulled away instinctively. I couldn't help it. What had once been thrilling now seemed as soiled as the linens I changed every morning. It felt wrong to look deeply into his eyes, wrong to hear him speak softly to me, wrong to have him care about me. I even felt guilty talking to him alone in the card room.