Petals on the Wind by V. C. Andrews
No. I couldn't.
But Paul was here. Chris and Carrie were here. How could I leave them?
"Cathy, come with me to where you belong, behind the footlights, on stage, with roses in your arms. Come with me, Cathy, and make my dreams come true too."
Oh, he was winning that night, and I was heady with my first success, and even when I wanted to say no, I nodded and said, "Yes . . . I'll go, but only if you come down here and fly with me. I've never been on a plane, and I wouldn't know where to go once I landed."
He took me in his arms then, tenderly, and held me as his lips brushed my hair. Over his shoulder, I could see both Chris and Paul staring our way, both of them looking astonished and more than a little hurt.
In January of 1963 I graduated from high school. I wasn't particularly brilliant, like Chris, but I'd made it through.
Chris was so smart it was more than likely he'd finish college in three years rather than four. Already he'd won several scholarships to help take the financial burden of his education from Paul's shoulders, though he never mentioned a word about any of us paying him back--for anything. It was understood, though, that Chris would become an associate with Paul when he had his M.D. I marveled that Paul could keep spending on us and never complain, and when I asked, he explained. "I enjoy knowing I'm helping to contribute to the world the wonderful doctor Chris will make-- and the super ballerina you will be one day." He looked so sad when he said that, so terribly sad. "As for Carrie, I hope she decides to stay home with me and marry a local boy, so I can see her often."
"When I'm gone it will be Thelma Murkel for you again, won't it?" I asked with some bitterness, for I wanted him to stay faithful, no matter how many miles I put between us.
"Maybe," he said.
"You won't love anyone else as much as you love me, say you won't."
He smiled. "No. How could I love anyone as much as I love you? No other could dance into my heart the way you did, could she?"
"Paul, don't mock me. Say the word and I won't go. I'll stay."
"How can I say the words to make you stay when you have to fulfill your destiny? You were born to dance, not to be the wife of a stodgy, small-town doctor."
Marriage! He'd said wife! He'd never mentioned marriage before.
It was more than awful to tell Carrie I was leaving. Her screams were deafening and pitiful. "You cannot go!" she bellowed, tears streaming. "You promised we would all stay together, and now you and Chris both go away and leave me! Take me too! Take me!" She beat at me with small fists, kicked at my legs, determined to inflict some pain for what Chris and I were giving her--and already I felt pain enough for the world in leaving her. "Please try and
understand, Carrie, I will be coming back, and Chris will too--you won't be forgotten.
"I hate you!" she screamed. "I hate both you and Chris! I hope you die in New York! I hope you both fall down and die!" It was Paul who came to save me.
"You've still got me every day, and Henny," he said, hefting Carrie's slight weight up in his arms. "We're not going anywhere. And you'll be the only daughter we have when Cathy is gone. Come, dry your tears, put a smile on your face and be happy for your sister. Remember this is what she'd been striving for all those long years when you were locked up."
I ached inside as I wondered if I really wanted a dance career as much as I had always thought. Chris threw me a long, sad look then bent to pick up my new blue suitcases. He hurried out the front door trying not to let me see the tears in his eyes. When we all went out, he stood near Paul's white car, his shoulders squared off, his face set, determined not to show any emotion.
Henny had to pile in with the rest of us; she didn't want to be left home to cry alone. Her so eloquent brown eyes spoke to me, wishing me good luck as her hands were kept busy wiping the tears from Carrie's face.
At the airport Julian paced back and forth, constantly glancing at his watch. He was afraid I'd back out and wouldn't show up. He looked very handsome in his new suit as his eyes lit up when he saw me approach. "Thank God, I was thinking I flew down here for nothing--and I wouldn't do this twice."
The evening before, I'd already said a private good-bye to Paul. His words rang in my ears to haunt me even as I boarded the plane. "We both knew it couldn't last, Catherine. From the beginning I warned you, April just can't marry with September. '
Chris and Paul followed us up the ramp to help with the many pieces of hand luggage I wouldn't trust to the baggage compartment, and once more I had to hug Paul close. "Thank you, Catherine," he whispered so neither Chris nor Julian could overhear, "for everything. Don't look back with any regrets. Forget about me. Forget all the past. Concentrate on your dancing and wait before you fall in love with anyone--and let it be someone near your own age."
Choking, I asked, "And what about you?"
He forced a smile and then a chuckle. "Don't worry about me. I've got my memories of a beautiful ballerina and that's enough."
I burst into tears! Memories! What were they? Just something to torture yourself with, that's all! Blindly I turned to find myself locked in Chris's arms. My Christopher Doll who was six feet tall now, my knight so gallant, chivalrous and sensitive. Finally I could pull away and then he took my hands, both of them, as our gazes met and locked. We too had shared a great deal, even more than Paul and I. Good-bye my walking, talking, cheerful, chiding, and living set of encyclopedias, my fellow prisoner of hope. . . . You don't need to cry for me. . . . Cry for yourself . . . or don't cry at all. It's over. Accept it, Chris, like I have, like you have to. You're only my brother. I'm only a sister, and the world is full of beautiful women who'd love you better than I can, or could.
Every word I didn't speak I knew he heard, and still he kept on looking at me with his heart in his eyes, making me hurt all over.
"Cathy," he said hoarsely, loud enough for Julian to hear, "it's not that I'm afraid you won't make it, I'm sure you will if you don't get so damned impulsive! Please don't do anything reckless that you'll regret later on. Promise to think of all the
ramifications first before you jump in with both feet. Go easy on sex and love. Wait until you're old enough to know what you want in a man before you choose one."
I'm sure my smile was crooked, for already I'd chosen Paul. I flicked my eyes from Paul who looked serious, to Julian who was frowning and glaring at Chris, then at Paul. "You go easy on sex and love too," I said jokingly to Chris, making sure my tone was light.
I hugged him tight once more, hurting to let him go. "And write to me often, and come to New York with Paul, Carrie and Henny whenever you can--or come alone, but come--promise?"
Solemnly he promised. Our lips met briefly, and then I turned to take my seat near the window. Since this was my first plane trip, Julian graciously gave up that privilege. I waved like mad to my family who I couldn't even see from the plane window.
Julian, so adroit and adept on stage, was at a loss when it came to handling a girl who sobbed on his shoulder, trembling, already homesick, wishing she wasn't going even before the plane was five thousand feet up. "You've got me," he said smoothly. "Didn't I swear to take care of you? And I will, honest to God. I'll do everything possible to make you happy." He grinned at me and kissed me lightly. "And, my love, I'm afraid I exaggerated the charms of Madame Zolta just a wee, wee bit, as you'll soon find out."
I stared at him. "What do you mean?"
He cleared his throat and without the slightest embarrassment he told me about his first meeting with the once-famous Russian dancer. "I don't want to spoil the surprise in store when you meet up with this great beauty, so I'll save that and let you see for yourself. But I'll warn you about this, Madame Z. is a toucher. She likes to feel you, your muscles, how hard and firm they are. Would you believe she put her hand directly on my fly to find out the size of what was
underneath?"
"No! I don't believe that!"
He laughed merrily and threw his arm about me. "Oh, Cathy, what a life we're g
I laughed too--and shoved him away. "If you aren't the most conceited, arrogant person I've ever met. And I suspect you can be quite ruthless too when it comes to getting what you want."
"Right on!" he said with a following laugh. "I'm all of that and more too, as you'll soon find out. After all, wasn't I ruthlessly determined to get you where I want you?"
New York, New York
. It was snowing hell-bent when our plane landed in New York. The cold in my nostrils stunned me. I'd forgotten bitter winters like this. The wind howling down those narrow canyonways seemed to want to rip the skin from my face. Ice seemed to enter my lungs and shrivel them with constricting pain. I gasped, laughed, turned to glance at Julian who was paying the cab driver, and then I pulled from my coat pocket a red knitted scarf Henny had made for me. Julian took it and helped me swath it about my head and neck so it half-covered my face. Then I shocked him by pulling from the other pocket a red scarf I had knitted for him.
"Gosh, thanks I never thought you cared." He seemed very pleased as he wrapped his neck and ears.
On this day of days the cold had made his cheeks as red as his lips, and with that blue-black hair that curled just above his coat collar and those sparkling dark eyes the sheer beauty of him was enough to steal anyone's breath. "Okay," he said, "pull yourself together, and prepare to meet ballet
personified--my sweet, delicate, delicious dance instructor whom you will positively adore."
Just to be here had me on edge, so I clung as close as possible to Julian, staring at all the people who dared to brave such ferocious weather.
The luggage we'd brought was left in a waiting room of the huge building, and in the flurry of scurrying after Julian I didn't notice much of anything until we were in the office of our ballet mistress, Madame Zolta Korovenskov. Her stance, her arrogance immediately reminded me of Madame Marisha. But this woman was much older, if all those wrinkles could be counted as tree-rings to indicate her age.
Queenly stiff she rose from behind a desk that was impressively wide. Coolly, all business, she stalked over to us and looked us over with bead-black eyes as small as those of a mouse. What hair she had was skinned back from her dry brittle face like fine white floss. She wasn't five feet tall, but radiated six feet of authority. Her half-moon glasses perched precariously on the end of an astonishingly long thin nose. Above those half-disks she peered at us, squinting, so her minute eyes almost disappeared in the crow's feet. Julian was so unlucky as to gain her scrutiny first.
Her puckered little prune mouth drew up like a drawstring purse. I watched and waited for a smile to come and break her parchment skin. I expected her voice to crackle, cackle, witchlike
"So!" she spat at Julian. "You take off when you want, and come back when you want and you expect me to say I'm glad to see you! Bah! Do that one more time and out you go! Who is this girl with you?"
Julian gave the old hag a charming smile, and quickly put his arm about her. "Madame Zolta Korovenskov, may I introduce you to Miss Catherine Doll, the wonderful dancer I've been telling you about for months and months--and she is the reason why I left without your permission."
She looked me over with very interested gimlet eyes. "You come from some nowhere too?" she whiplashed. "You've got the look of another place, like my black devil here does. He's a very good dancer, but not as good as he thinks Can I believe him about you?"
"I guess, Madame, you'll just have to watch me dance and judge for yourself."
"Can you dance?"
"As I said before, Madame, wait and judge for yourself."
"See, Madame," Julian said eagerly, "Cathy's got spirit, fire! You should see her whip her leg doing fouettes. She's so fast she's a blur!"
"Ha!" she snorted, then came to encircle me and next she gave my face such a close scrutiny I was blushing. She felt my arms, my chest, even my breasts, then put her bony hands on my neck and felt the cords. Those audacious hands roamed down the length of my body while I wanted to scream out I wasn't a slave to be sold in the marketplace. I was grateful she didn't put her hand on my crotch as she'd done to Julian. I stood still and endured the inspection and felt all the while a deep, hot blush. She looked up to see it and smiled sarcastically.
When she'd done and I'd been physically appraised and evaluated, she delved the depths of my eyes to drink up my essence. I felt she was trying to absorb my youth with her eyes and drain it from me. Then she was touching my hair. "When do you plan to marry?" she shot out.
"Sometime when I'm near thirty, maybe, or maybe never." I answered uneasily. "But most certainly I'm going to wait until after I'm rich and famous, and the world's best prima ballerina."
"Hah! You have many illusions about yourself. Beautiful faces don't usually go with great dancers. Beauty thinks it needs no talent and can feed on itself, so it soon dies. Look at me. Once I was young and a great beauty. What do you see now?"
She was hideous! And she couldn't have ever been beautiful, or there'd be some evidence.
As if sensing my doubt to her claim, she gestured arrogantly to all the photographs on the walls, on her desk, on the tables, bookshelves. All showed the same lovely young ballerina. "Me," she proudly informed. I couldn't believe it. They were old photos, brownish in color, the costumes outdated, and yet she had been lovely. She gave me a wide, amused smile, patted my shoulder and said, "Good. Age comes to everyone and makes everyone equal.
"Who did you study with before Marisha Rosencoff?"
"Miss Denise Danielle." I hesitated, fearful of telling her about all the years I'd danced alone and been my own instructor.
"Ah," she sighed, looking very sad, "I saw Denise Danielle dance many times, such a brilliant performer, but she made the old mistake and fell in luv. End of promising career. Now, all she do is teach." Her voice rose and fell, quivering, gaining strength, then losing it. She pronounced "luv" with a long `u," making the word sound foreign and silly. "Big-head Julian says you are a great dancer, but I have to see you dance before I believe, and then I will decide if beauty is its own excuse for being." Once more she sighed. "You drink?"
"No."
"Why is your skin so pale? Do you never go in sun?"
"Too much sun burns me."
"Ah . . . you and your lover boy--afraid of the sun."
"Julian is not my lover!" I said between clenched teeth, shooting him a fierce look, for he must have told her we were.
Not an element of our expressions missed the keen observation of those ebony-bead eyes. "Julian, did you or did you not tell me you were in luv with this girl?"
He flushed and lowered his eyes, and had the decency to look embarrassed for once. "Madame, the love is all on my side, I'm ashamed to admit. Cathy feels nothing for me . . . but she will, sooner or later."
"Fine," the old witch said with a birdlike nod. "You have a big passion for her, she has none for you--that makes for sizzling, sensational dancing on your part. Our box office will overflow. I see it coming!"
That was, of course, the reason she took me on, knowing Julian had his unsatisfied lust and knowing I had a smoldering desire to find someone else offstage. Onstage, he was everything beautiful, romantic and sensual--my dream lover. If we could have danced through all our days and nights, we could have set the world on fire. As it was, when he was only himself, with his glib and often smutty tongue, I ran from him. I went to bed each night thinking of Paul prowling his lonely gardens, and refused to let myself dream of Chris.
I was soon ensconced in a small apartment twelve blocks from the dance studio. Two other dancers shared the three small rooms and one tiny bath with me. Two floors above, Julian shared an apartment with two male dancers in rooms no bigger than those we three girls had. His roommates were Alexis Tarrel
My roommates were as different as night and day. Yolanda Lange was half British, half Arab, and the strange combination made for one of the most exotic, dark-haired, sloe-eyed beauties I'd ever seen. She was tall for a dancer, five eight, the same height as my mother. Her breasts, when I saw them, were small hard lumps, all large dark nipples, but she wasn't ashamed of their size. She delighted in walking about naked, showing off, and soon I found out her breasts mirrored her personality--small, hard and mean. Yolanda wanted what she wanted when she wanted it and she'd do anything to get it. She asked me a thousand questions in less than an hour, and in that same hour told me her life story. Her father was a British diplomat who'd married a belly dancer. She'd lived everywhere, done everything. I immediately disliked Yolanda Lange.
April Summers was from Kansas City, Missouri. She had soft brown hair, blue-green eyes; we were both the same height, five feet four and a half inches. She was shy and seldom did she raise her voice above a whisper. When loud, raucous Yolanda was around, April seemed to have no voice at all. Yolanda liked noise; at all times the record player or the television had to be turned on. April spoke of her family with love, respect and pride, while Yolanda professed hatred for parents who'd pushed her into boarding schools and left her alone on holidays.
April and I became fast friends before our first day together was over. She was eighteen and pretty enough to please any man, but for some strange reason the boys of the academy didn't pay April one whit of attention. It was Yolanda who made them hot and panting, and soon enough I learned why--she was the one who gave out.