Cutler 01 - Dawn

keep a cheerful face to help keep Jimmy cheerful and Daddy happy. But there was no one to keep happy here, no one to care about right now but myself.
    "I'm not hungry," I said. My heart felt like an iron weight, and my stomach was all twisted and tight.
    "Well . . . Mrs. Cutler wanted you to eat," she said and looked troubled. "I'll stop by later and take you to the kitchen," she decided, nodding. "But don't forget, I got to bring you to Mr. Stanley and get you a uniform. Mrs. Cutler told us."
    "How could I forget?" I said. She stared at me a moment and pressed her lips together firmly. Why was she so annoyed with me? I wondered. Then it occurred to me—my grandmother had said she had let someone go to make a position for me.
    "Who was fired so I could have this job?" I asked quickly. The expression on Mrs. Boston's face confirmed my suspicions.
    "Agatha Johnson, who had been working here five years."
    "I'm sorry," I said. "I certainly didn't want her fired."
    "Nevertheless, that poor girl is gone and walking the streets looking for something new. And she got a little boy to raise," she said with disgust.
    "Well, why did she have to fire her? Couldn't she keep her on along with me?" I asked. My grandmother had put me in a horrible position, fixing it so the help would resent me for being discovered and returned as much as she apparently did.
    "Mrs. Cutler runs a very tight ship," Mrs. Boston said. "No excess, no waste. Whoever don't pull his load goes. She got just as many chambermaids as she needs, just as many waiters and busboys, just as many kitchen help and service people. Not a single one more. That's why this hotel goes on and on while other places have peeled off over the years."
    "Well, I'm sorry," I repeated.
    "Um," she said, still without much sympathy. "I'll be back in a while," she added and left.
    I sat down on the bed. The mattress was old and had lost any firmness it might have had and the springs squeaked with complaint. Even my little weight was too much. I took a deep breath and opened my suitcase. The sight of my simple belongings brought back a flood of memories and feelings. How my heart ached. The tears started to flow. I sat there and let them run down my cheeks and drip off my chin. Then I saw something white peeking out of the cloth pocket inside my suitcase. I reached inside and pulled out Momma's wonderful string of pearls. They had been in my dresser drawer at home—because of the confusion after the concert and Momma's death, I had never given them back to Daddy to put away. The policeman who had packed my bag must have thought they were mine. Now I hugged them to me, crying ten oceans of tears as memories came crashing over me, dragging me down to drown within their depths. How I longed for Momma now to hold me and stroke my hair, to see Jimmy's face full of pride and anger, to have Fern's eyes light up at the sight of me and her little arms reach up to be held. The pearls brought back all of this and more till my heart was an aching ruin.
    Daddy, how could you do this? How could you do this? I screamed inside.
    Suddenly there was a knock on my door. I quickly hid the pearls in a drawer, wiped my face with the back of my hands, and turned.
    "Who is it?"
    The door opened slowly and a handsome man dressed in a tan sport jacket and matching slacks peered in. His light brown hair was brushed back neatly at the sides, but he had a small, soft wave in the front. There was a tinge of gray at his temples. His rich, dark tan emphasized the blue in his eyes. I thought he looked as debonair and as elegant as a movie star.
    "Hello," he said, gazing in at me. I didn't respond. "I'm your father," he said as if I should have known. He stepped in. "Randolph Boyse Cutler." He held out his hand for me to shake. I couldn't imagine ever being introduced to Daddy and shaking his hand like a stranger. Daddies were supposed to hug their daughters, not shake their hands.
    I gazed up at him. He was tall, at least six feet two or three, but he was slim. He had Philip's gentle smile and soft mouth. Everyone was telling me that the man standing before me was my real father, so I searched for resemblances to myself. Had I inherited his eyes? His smile?
    "Welcome to Cutler's Cove," he said squeezing my fingers gently. "How was your trip?"
    "My trip?" He was acting as though I had been away for a holiday or something. I was about to say, "Horrible," when he spoke.
    "Philip has already told me a lot about you," he