Cutler 04 - Midnight Whispers

didn't you?" I accused Richard. "I did not. I couldn't care less about your stupid mail."
    I shifted my eyes to Melanie and she looked down quickly.
    "You did it then," I said. She shook her head.
    "If they said they didn't do it, they didn't. Now are you going to stop this, or do I have to send for your uncle?" she threatened.
    "Send for the President of the United States, for all I care," I told her. "If you ever touch a piece of my mail or any of my things," I threatened Melanie, "I'll tear out your hair strand by strand."
    "Christie!"
    With that I rushed from the parlor and hurried upstairs to read the letter I had never received. That night our usually depressed dinner conversation was even more so. Every once in a while I caught Uncle Philip staring at me. Whenever I did, his lips would quiver into a small smile. Afterward, when I retired to my room for the night, he came to my door.
    "May I speak with you a moment?" he asked after he knocked softly.
    "Yes."
    "Betty Ann told me what happened today. I'm sorry someone took your mail, but you shouldn't accuse anyone unless you're sure. It's as bad as what happened to Jefferson," he added quickly.
    "Melanie looked very guilty," I said in my defense.
    "Maybe, but Jefferson looked very guilty too and had a record of committing pranks and being a nuisance. Oh, nothing as serious as vandalizing the piano, I suppose, but still . . ."
    "Someone took my letter," I moaned. "It didn't walk its way into our garbage can."
    "No, it didn't. But it might have happened by accident."
    "It was opened; it couldn't have been an accident. And there are other letters missing, too," I said. He nodded, his face tightening, his eyes growing smaller.
    "All right. I'll see what I can learn about it, but please, let's try to live in peace for a while. Okay?" he asked, smiling. "Everything's going fine with the rebuilding of the hotel. The insurance covered a lot more than I first expected. We're going to do all right and be an important family in Cutler's Cove once again."
    I wanted to tell him none of that was important to me. I didn't care if I ever walked back into that hotel. The hotel had betrayed my parents, killed them. It was never a great love of mine, but now it was something evil. But I didn't say any of this. I knew he wouldn't understand or he would stay and try to convince me otherwise.
    Instead, I did what he asked. I avoided controversies, practiced the piano and took long walks on the beach. In the evening I read, wrote my letters, spoke to some of my friends and watched some television. I had a calendar on my wall and marked off the days until Gavin's arrival. That and my music were the only reasons I got up in the morning.
    Things did quiet down and I became friendlier with Mrs. Stoddard. After all, I thought, it wasn't her fault Aunt Bet had driven Mrs. Boston away and she was asked to replace her. Jefferson got to like her more, too, and I could see she began to favor him. The twins saw it as well and before long, they were complaining about Mrs. Stoddard, and Aunt Bet was finding fault with the way she cleaned and cooked.
    No one could work for these people, I thought. They were despicable.
    I still made nocturnal gravesite visits and cried and complained to Mommy and Daddy. It usually left me feeling better. I never caught Uncle Philip there again at night, but one evening, after I had returned from the cemetery and quietly entered the house as usual, tiptoeing up the stairway, the interlude of family peace came to an abrupt and explosive end.
    Aunt Bet burst out of my room just as I reached the second floor landing.
    "Where were you?" she demanded. She had her hands behind her back as if she were holding something she didn't want me to see.
    "I went for a walk," I said. "What were you doing in my room?"
    "What walk? Where? Who did you meet? You met someone, didn't you?" she fired.
    "What?"
    "I told you," she said to Uncle Philip, who had come to their bedroom doorway. He stared out at me, not with a look of anger on his face as much as a look of genuine surprise. "You have a secret boyfriend, don't you? You meet him somewhere." She shook her head in disgust. "You're just like Fern."
    "Aunt Bet, I don't know what you're talking about, but I'd like to know why you were in my room. What do you have behind your back?" I demanded.
    She smiled gleefully and slowly brought her arms around.
    "Disgusting," she said and held out my copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover, the marker I