Cutler 03 - Twilight's Child

now, not for a long time. But at least you will have that memory when I do tell you, I reasoned, and I kissed her a second time.
    "Sleep tight," I said.
    I closed her door behind me and stood there in the hallway for a few moments. I couldn't help being a little terrified of meeting Michael again. How would I react when I first saw him? What would come out of my mouth? Words of fury and anger, or words of sadness? Can you have been so in love with someone and then years later look at him and feel nothing at all? I wondered.
    Tomorrow I would find out.
     
    I was on pins and needles all day until Christie and Fern were brought back from school. I had already instructed Julius about taking Christie and me to Virginia Beach. When he pulled up in front of the hotel with her in the backseat I hurried down the steps and slipped into the vehicle as quickly as I could. I couldn't help feeling sneaky about it. I had told Jimmy I intended to do some shopping, claiming Christie needed some things. He didn't question me; I even asked him if there was anything he needed.
    "No. I wish I could get away to go with you," he said, "but we have that problem with the oil burner in section four."
    "That's all right, Jimmy. It's just a fast trip," I said, afraid that he might find a way to join me later.
    Now, as I sat in the limousine and we drove off, all my fabrications came home to roost, and I felt just horrible.
    "Aunt Fern wanted to know why I wasn't getting out of the car, Momma," Christie said.
    "What? Oh . . . what did you say?"
    "I told her I was going to the hotel. She looked at me funny," Christie added.
    "It's all right, honey. It's better this way," I assured her. "Where are we going?"
    "Oh, just to do some shopping, and to stop by and see an old friend who's staying at a hotel in Virginia Beach," I added as casually as I could.
    "Why didn't this old friend stay in our hotel?" Christie asked quickly. She was so sharp.
    "He had business in Virginia Beach and is staying only one day," I replied. I'm sure I was imagining it, but she looked skeptical.
    I had Julius drive us directly to the Dunes. My intention was to see Michael and get it over with immediately. Then I would take Christie to a department store and buy her some new underwear and stockings, as well as a new sweater. Winter was just around the corner. We had already had cold mornings with flurries, and the clouds that came rolling in from the northwest looked angrier and darker than ever. The period between the end of fall and the heart of winter always depressed me. Trees had lost their leaves and looked bare and still but had not yet taken on sleeves of snow over their branches. They looked most gloomy in the moonlight, until they had either snow or ice crystallized on them. Then they would twinkle and make me think of Christmas.
    "Here we are," Julius announced. The doorman at the Dunes shot forward and opened our doors before Julius could. Christie stepped out, thanking him, and I followed, my heart beginning to pound against my chest like a sledgehammer. I had to stop to catch my breath. Christie looked up at me quizzically.
    "We'll be no more than fifteen minutes, Julius," I said firmly.
    "Very good, Mrs. Longchamp. I'll be right out here."
    "Okay, Christie, honey." I took her hand and started for the front door. My legs felt as if they had turned into rubber. I was positive I was wobbling and looked every which way to see if people were staring at me, but no one was looking. The doorman opened the door for us, and we entered the posh lobby.
    For a long moment I didn't see him—or, more correctly, didn't recognize him—for he was seated on the sofa directly ahead of us, reading a newspaper. He lowered it and smiled. My heart stopped and then started again, the blood draining from my face so quickly, I thought I would embarrass all of us by falling into a faint.
    But when Michael stood up my trepidation turned to surprise and curiosity. Approaching us was a man who looked years and years older than I remembered him. His dark, once-silky hair was dull and spotted with gray. He was still six feet tall, of course, but his shoulders turned in, and he didn't have that arrogant, confidant gait. He looked a great deal thinner, his face almost as lean as Daddy Longchamp's; and although he wore a dark blue sports jacket and slacks, I thought he looked seedy: the pants not pressed, the jacket stretched and out of shape. Even the knot in his tie looked clumsily made.