Cutler 03 - Twilight's Child

only after storms, and this was to be no different.
    When Grandmother Cutler had died unexpectedly, we feared we might never find Christie. However, Mr. Updike had been involved and knew of her whereabouts. Before we had left Cutler's Cove he had told us the couple who had Christie, Sanford and Patricia Compton, were expecting us and were fully aware of the situation. However, we found a different reality when we went calling on them.
    Saddle Creek was a prim and proper suburb of Richmond where the homes looked like dollhouses, everything perfect—the lawns fresh and green, the magnolias, roses and petunias bright and colorful. The bright late-summer day, with its fluffy white clouds pasted here and there on the soft blue sky, made it seem as if we had entered a make-believe world. Everything was clean and freshly painted. For a moment I remember thinking that maybe Christie was better off here after all. It was certainly a happier world than the one to which I would bring her.
    But then I recalled how painful it had been for me to learn about my real family. Nothing—not even wealth and high position—was worth more than the truth when it came to who you were and where you belonged. That was a lesson I had to learn at the end of a trail of pain and suffering. I was determined that my daughter would never face such a fate.
    A kind policeman sitting in a patrol car on a corner gave us exact directions to the Comptons' house. Sanford Compton owned and operated the biggest business in the area, a linen factory. The Comptons' home was one of the prettiest and largest houses on the street: a two-story, red-brick colonial with a set of triple windows on each side of the first floor front.
    After we parked we got out and walked in between two square white posts crowned with brass balls and then started up a slate walkway. On both sides were waist-high hedges. There were fountains with cupids in them and fountains with marble birds, the water streaming out of their beaks. Everywhere we looked we saw beds of roses: yellow, red, pink and white. I had never seen such perfect lawns and hedges.
    "Is this a home or a museum?" Jimmy wondered aloud. "A home like the one I hope we will live in one day," I said wistfully.
    "Home? I thought we decided we're going to live in the hotel," Jimmy reminded me.
    "Yes, but someday we'll build a house like this and live off the hotel grounds," I promised. "Wouldn't you rather we did that?"
    "Sure. Why not?" Jimmy said, smiling, his dark eyes twinkling with mischief. "I'll start building it myself."
    We both laughed. We couldn't have been in better spirits. In moments I would have Christie again.
    The door chimes seemed to go on forever and ever, playing what sounded like the Nutcracker Suite.
    "That beats any old ding-dong," Jimmy said. Finally the tall, light-oak door was opened by a butler, a thin black man.
    "My name is Dawn Cutler," I said. "And this is Jimmy Longchamp. We're here to see Mr. or Mrs. Compton."
    "That's all right, Frazer," we heard a deep male voice say. "I'll handle this."
    The butler stepped back, his eyes wide with surprise, as a tall man with short carrot-red hair appeared from behind. His face was speckled with freckles, and he looked out at us with ice-blue eyes. His nose was quite thin and a bit too long, which caused his eyes to look as if they sank deeper. Although he was easily over six feet two or three, his shoulders turned in and downward, making him appear shorter.
    He seized the door handle to pull it open farther with an abruptness that made Jimmy and I look quickly at each other.
    "You're Lillian Cutler's grandchild?" he snapped at me.
    "Yes, I am," I said.
    He stared at me for a moment and nodded softly. "Well, come in, and we'll make this fast," he said, stepping back with a show of reluctance.
    A ripple of apprehension shot down my spine. I reached for Jimmy's hand, and we walked into the marble-floor entryway. The house had a perfumed, flowery scent, redolent of dozens and dozens of roses. We looked down the corridor and saw a slightly curved stairway with paintings all along the wall going up. Just about all the paintings were of children—some simply portraits, while others were pictures of children at play or children reading. The steps of the stairway were covered with a soft-looking blue velvet carpet.
    "Into the sitting room, please," Mr. Compton said in a tone of command, and he gestured toward the doorway on the right. Jimmy and I moved