Cutler 03 - Twilight's Child

me, isn't he?" she asked quickly. "No, he's not mad; he's worried. Why don't you go downstairs and talk to him?" I suggested.
    "Okay," she said, sliding off the bed. Then she paused at the doorway and turned to me. I thought she was going to thank me for the little talk, but instead she asked, "Someday will you tell me how you let yourself fall in love and get pregnant at such a young age?"
    "Someday," I said. She smiled and walked out quickly, leaving me struck nearly breathless by her request.
    It had been a while since I had thought much about Michael Sutton. Occasionally, when Trisha would call or visit, she would bring me some tidbits about him and his career, things she had heard or read in the trade magazines. But Fern's request to tell her about my tragic love story seemed like some magical spell cast by a wicked witch, for less than a week later I received the most shocking phone call—a call from Michael himself.
     
    "Hello, Dawn," he said, and I knew immediately that it was he. I would never forget that melodic, resonant voice, the voice that had called to me in dreams while I was living in New York and attending the Sarah Bernhardt School of Performing Arts. For a moment I couldn't respond. My heart lodged somewhere in my throat. It was as if all the time between us had been a dream. "It's Michael," he finally said.
    "Michael?"
    "Yes." He laughed. "I know you never expected to hear from me again, and you probably don't want to, but I couldn't stop myself from calling you. I'm in Virginia Beach."
    "Virginia Beach!"
    "Yes, only a few miles away. After all this time," he continued, "only a few miles away. How have you been?"
    "How have I been?"
    This was the man who had said he loved me and wanted me with him always, and when he found out I was pregnant he had told me he was happy about it; this was the same man who had deserted me and left me crying on a city street in a snowstorm.
    "How have I been?" I repeated, as if I had to have him confirm he was actually asking such a question.
    He laughed again, a nervous laugh. The great Michael Sutton, nervous? I thought. How unlike him; how especially unlike him to show it.
    "I made some inquiries about you after I returned to the States and traveled to Virginia. From what I've been told, you've inherited quite a well-known resort, one frequented by well-to-do vacationers," he said.
    "That's true, Michael," I replied in a voice so formal Grandmother Cutler would have been jealous. "I'm also happily married."
    "I know, I know." He laughed again, a thin, weak laugh this time. "You married that soldier boy you thought was your brother, right?"
    "Who has been a wonderful and loving father," I added pointedly. My words were as sharp and as pointed as darts, all falling on a bull's-eye.
    "Really," he said. "Well, I'm glad about that. Anyway, I would like to see you."
    "See me? What for, Michael?" I demanded. "Why would you want to see me now?" My voice dripped with anger and sarcasm.
    "I know you have a right to be furious with me, Dawn," he said quickly. "But if you will give me a chance to explain—"
    "Explain?" I started to laugh.
    "And tell you things I couldn't tell you then," he added in a louder voice, "you will at least understand.
    "Besides," he said in a softer, more solicitous tone, "I'd like to see our child."
    "Our child? She's not our child anymore, Michael; she's mine and Jimmy's. We've gone through all the legal steps. Jimmy has formally adopted her."
    "I understand," he said. "I just want to see her, just once, that's all."
    "Why would you suddenly care about her now, Michael? Where have you been all these years?" I asked sharply.
    "As I said, you will understand once we meet. It's not the sort of thing one can explain over a telephone. I'm staying in this nice hotel, the Dunes."
    The two contradictory parts of myself began a desperate struggle. Everything good in me, everything mature and sensible told me to scream back at him, to tell him how despicable, insensitive and irresponsible I thought he was and then hang up on him, forbidding him ever to call again. But that softer part of me begged me to be compassionate and merciful. Why shouldn't he see his daughter, and she see him? Perhaps he had come to suffer remorse for his actions and wanted, sought, craved a way to make some sort of amends, at least to her. Who was I to deny him that? Also, I couldn't help being curious about him and his story. What could he possibly tell me that would justify