I guess that's the only ballet that has ever thrilled me."
I wasn't listening to Bart. I was staring at Joel, who leaned forward. Muscles near his thin lips worked almost spasmodically, hovering near a smirk or a laugh, I couldn't tell which. All of a sudden I didn't want Jory and Cindy to dance in that particular ballet, which included very brutal scenes. And it had been Bart's idea years and years ago . . . hadn't he been the one to suggest that the opera would provide the music for what he considered would make the most sensational ballet of all?
All through the night I thought and I thought of how to stop Bart from wanting that particular production. He'd never been easy to stop as a boy.
As a man . . . I didn't know if I had a chance. But I was going to give it a try.
The very next morning I was up early and running out into the yard to catch Bart before he drove off. He listened to me with impatience, refusing to change the theme of his party. "I can't now, even if I wanted to. I've had the costumes designed and they are almost finished, as are the sets and flats. If I cancel anything it will be too late to plan another ballet. Besides, Jory doesn't mind, why should you?"
How could I tell him that some small, intuitive voice was warning me not to let this particular ballet be performed near the place of our confinement--with Malcolm and his wife in the ground not so far away the music wouldn't fill their dead ears.
Jory and Cindy practiced and rehearsed night and day, both catching a certain excitement as they worked together and Jory found out that Cindy was good; certainly she wouldn't perform as well as Melodie would have, but she'd dance more than adequately, and she was so lovely with her hair bound up in classical ballerina style.
The morning of Bart's birthday dawned bright and clear, heralding a perfect summer day without rain or clouds.
I was up early with Chris, strolling in the gardens before breakfast, enjoying the perfume of roses that seemed to herald a beautiful, perfect birthday for Bart. He'd always wanted birthday parties, like the ones we threw for Jory and Cindy, yet when they came around, he somehow managed to antagonize every guest so that many left early, and usually in a huff.
He was a man now, I kept telling myself, and this time it would be different. Chris was saying that to me, as if we had some sort of telepathy, both with the same thoughts.
"He's coming into his own," I said. "Isn't it odd how he's hung onto that childish expression, Chris? Will the attorneys read the will again after the party?"
Smiling and happy looking, Chris shook his head. "No, darling, we'll all be too tired. The reading is set for the next day." A shadow came to darken his expression. "I can't remember anything in that will that would spoil Bart's birthday, can you?"
No, I couldn't, but at the time of our mother's will reading, I'd been too upset, crying, half hearing, not really caring if none of us inherited the Foxworth fortune that seemed to come with its own curse.
"There's something Bart's attorneys aren't telling me, Cathy . . . something they say indicates I must not have clearly understood at the time when our mother's will was read shortly after her death. Now they don't want to speak of it because Bart has demanded that I not be included in any legal discussions. They look at him as if he scares or intimidates them. It surprises me to see middle-aged men with years of experience yield under his pressure, as if they want to keep his good will, and mine be damned. It annoys me, and then I ask myself, what the hell do I care? Soon we'll be leaving and making a new home for ourselves, and Bart can take his fortune and rule with it . . ."
My arms went about him, angry because Bart refused to give him the credit he deserved for handling that vast fortune for so many years, and doing a darn good job of it, too, despite his medical practice that stole so much of his time.
"How many millions will he inherit?" I
I wasn't listening to Bart. I was staring at Joel, who leaned forward. Muscles near his thin lips worked almost spasmodically, hovering near a smirk or a laugh, I couldn't tell which. All of a sudden I didn't want Jory and Cindy to dance in that particular ballet, which included very brutal scenes. And it had been Bart's idea years and years ago . . . hadn't he been the one to suggest that the opera would provide the music for what he considered would make the most sensational ballet of all?
All through the night I thought and I thought of how to stop Bart from wanting that particular production. He'd never been easy to stop as a boy.
As a man . . . I didn't know if I had a chance. But I was going to give it a try.
The very next morning I was up early and running out into the yard to catch Bart before he drove off. He listened to me with impatience, refusing to change the theme of his party. "I can't now, even if I wanted to. I've had the costumes designed and they are almost finished, as are the sets and flats. If I cancel anything it will be too late to plan another ballet. Besides, Jory doesn't mind, why should you?"
How could I tell him that some small, intuitive voice was warning me not to let this particular ballet be performed near the place of our confinement--with Malcolm and his wife in the ground not so far away the music wouldn't fill their dead ears.
Jory and Cindy practiced and rehearsed night and day, both catching a certain excitement as they worked together and Jory found out that Cindy was good; certainly she wouldn't perform as well as Melodie would have, but she'd dance more than adequately, and she was so lovely with her hair bound up in classical ballerina style.
The morning of Bart's birthday dawned bright and clear, heralding a perfect summer day without rain or clouds.
I was up early with Chris, strolling in the gardens before breakfast, enjoying the perfume of roses that seemed to herald a beautiful, perfect birthday for Bart. He'd always wanted birthday parties, like the ones we threw for Jory and Cindy, yet when they came around, he somehow managed to antagonize every guest so that many left early, and usually in a huff.
He was a man now, I kept telling myself, and this time it would be different. Chris was saying that to me, as if we had some sort of telepathy, both with the same thoughts.
"He's coming into his own," I said. "Isn't it odd how he's hung onto that childish expression, Chris? Will the attorneys read the will again after the party?"
Smiling and happy looking, Chris shook his head. "No, darling, we'll all be too tired. The reading is set for the next day." A shadow came to darken his expression. "I can't remember anything in that will that would spoil Bart's birthday, can you?"
No, I couldn't, but at the time of our mother's will reading, I'd been too upset, crying, half hearing, not really caring if none of us inherited the Foxworth fortune that seemed to come with its own curse.
"There's something Bart's attorneys aren't telling me, Cathy . . . something they say indicates I must not have clearly understood at the time when our mother's will was read shortly after her death. Now they don't want to speak of it because Bart has demanded that I not be included in any legal discussions. They look at him as if he scares or intimidates them. It surprises me to see middle-aged men with years of experience yield under his pressure, as if they want to keep his good will, and mine be damned. It annoys me, and then I ask myself, what the hell do I care? Soon we'll be leaving and making a new home for ourselves, and Bart can take his fortune and rule with it . . ."
My arms went about him, angry because Bart refused to give him the credit he deserved for handling that vast fortune for so many years, and doing a darn good job of it, too, despite his medical practice that stole so much of his time.
"How many millions will he inherit?" I
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