If There Be Thorns (Dollanganger 3) - Page 73

"I'm lonely, Jory, I need to be near you, near her too." Remorse like evening shadows came to darken her eyes, putting additional years on her face. "The worst thing about growing old is being lonely, feeling so alone, so purposeless, so used up."

"Oh, Grandmother!" I cried, throwing my arms about her. "You don't need to ever feel lonely or purposeless again. You have us." I hugged her tighter, kissed her again. "Isn't this the most beautiful house? You can live here with us. Have I told you before my mother designed it herself?"

Madame looked with great curiosity around the family room. "Yes, this is a lovely home, so like Catherine. Where is she?"

"She's in her room writing."

"Writing letters?" She looked hurt, as if Mom should be a better hostess and not attending to trivialities. "Grandmother, Mom is writing a book."

"A book? Dancers can't write books!"

Grinning, I jumped up and did a few practice steps out of habit. "Madame Grandmother, dancers can do anything they set their minds to. After all, if we can endure the kind of pain we do, what else is there to fear?"

"Rejections," snapped Madame. "Dancers have sky-high egos. One rejection slip too many and Mommy will come crashing down."

I smiled, thinking that was a good one. She'd never come crashing down even if the mailman brought her a thousand rejection slips.

"Where's your father?" she asked next.

"Making his evening rounds at his hospitals. He said to give you his apologies. He wanted to be here and welcome you to our home, but you didn't show up on schedule."

She snorted, as if that were his fault somehow. "Well," she said, getting up and looking around the room somewhat more critically, "I guess it's time I went in and said hello to Catherine--though certainly she must have heard my voice."

Certainly she should have, it was shrill enough. "Mom gets very engrossed, Grandmother. Sometimes she doesn't even hear her name spoken from a foot away."

"Har-rumph!" she snorted again. Then she followed me down the hall. I rapped softly on Mom's closed door, and cautiously opened it when she mumbled something like . . . "Yes? . . ."

"You've got company, Mom."

For a second it seemed I saw dismay in my mother's eyes before Madame stalked arrogantly into her bedroom. Grandmother flung herself down, without an invitation to sit, on the velvet chaise longue.

"Madame M.!" cried Mom. "How wonderful to see you again. At last you've decided to come and see us instead of the other way around."

Why was she so nervous? Why did she keep glancing at the portraits on her nightstand? Same old portraits of Dad and Daddy Paul. Even my father was there, but in a small oval frame, not wide silver ones.

Madame glanced at the nightstand too--and frowned.

"I have many wonderfully framed portraits of Julian," Mom hastily explained, "but Jory likes to keep them in his room."

Again Madame snorted. "You're looking well, Catherine."

"I'm feeling well, thank you. You look well too." In her lap her hands worked nervously, just as her feet kept the swivel deskchair in constant motion.

"Your husband, how

is he?"

"Fine, fine. He's making hospital rounds. He waited for you, but when you didn't show up . . ."

"I understand. I'm sorry I'm late, but people in this state are robbers. I had to pay eight hundred for a piece of junk, and it dripped oil all the way here."

Mom ducked her head. I knew she was hiding a laugh. "What else can you expect for eight hundred?" Mom finally managed.

"Really, Catherine. Julian never paid much for any car he owned, you know that." Her strident voice grew reflective. "But then he knew what to do with the junk and I don't. I guess I let sentiment run away with my common sense. I should have bought the better one for a thousand, but I'm also thrifty." Next came her question about my mother's knee. Was it healed? How soon would she be dancing again?

"It's fine," said Mom testily. (She hated for people to question her about her knee.) "I only notice a little pain when it rains."

"And how is Paul? It's been so long since I saw him last. I remember after you married him I felt so angry I never wanted to see you again, and I gave up teaching for a few years." Again she glanced at the portrait of Dad. "And does your brother still live with you?"

Tags: V.C. Andrews Dollanganger Horror
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