Web of Dreams Read online

  It was a very bright and unusually warm day. Daddy said we were having an extended Indian summer and if it continued like this, we wouldn't see snow until January. I hoped we would see it for Christmas. It made such a difference to hear the sound of sleigh bells or hear the singing of carols while snowflakes fell. When I mentioned that to Momma, she laughed and said, "Tony Tatterton is planning to have a Christmas party and if Tony Tatterton wants to see snow on Christmas and it hasn't snowed, he'll have it flown in."

  "He must be very, very rich!" I exclaimed. "When you feast your eyes on Farthy, and see the sports cars and Rolls-Royces, the Arabian horses and the grounds with the olympic-size pool, you'll understand why even that is an understatement," she said. We left the city and headed toward the ocean.

  "Farthy? What's Farthy?"

  "Oh," she laughed again, a thin, short laugh, the kind of sound people make when they are thinking of something quite private, something only they or someone close to them would appreciate. "It's Tony's nickname for his home. I told you, it's called Farthinggale Manor."

  "It sounds like a storybook place. Only in stories do people name their homes."

  "Oh no," Momma explained. "People with histories, with houses that have histories, really do name their homes. You'll see other grand estates, and I hope you'll meet these sorts of people more often now."

  "Did you always want to live in a grand style, Momma, even when you were my age back in Texas?" I asked. I had never dreamed about living on an estate or going to parties with aristocratic people whose homes were so old and famous they had their own names like Tara in Gone With the Wind. Was I supposed to want these things? Or was this something that happens when you get older, more mature? I wondered.

  "Hardly," Momma said. She laughed at a private thought again. "I wanted to live in a garret, be the lover of a poor poet in Paris and be a starving artist displaying her works along the iver Seine. At night I would sit at outdoor cafes and listen to naylover read his poetry to friends, but when I told my mother these things, she laughed and ridiculed them. She thought it was silly for me to want to be an artist. A woman had only one purpose in life--to be a wife and a mother."

  "But couldn't she see how talented you were? Wasn't she proud of your paintings and drawings?" I asked, even though it was very hard for me to imagine Momma living in a garret and not having fine clothes and jewels and all her makeup.

  "She didn't even want to look at them and yelled at me for spending too much time drawing or painting. My sisters were not above sabotaging something I had drawn or painted. You have no idea how I suffered when I was your age, Leigh."

  How horrible, I thought, for your own mother to ignore you and not support you. Poor Momma, living with those terrible sisters and a mother who didn't care about the things that were her passion and most important to her. She was really all alone until Daddy arrived to sweep her away, to rescue her so she could become an artist and still have the things she loved and wanted.

  "But now you're happy, aren't you, Momma? You have all the things you want, right? And you're able to be an artist, aren't you?" I asked, pressing for her to agree. She took a while to respond, but I kept silent because I sensed that she would.

  "I have many expensive things, Leigh, but I did think my life would be different." She smiled softly. I loved this smile, the way her eyes twinkled because of some precious memory. Daddy was so right when he said memories are more precious than jewels.

  "I used to imagine going to all sorts of gala events, parties, christening ships while the newsreel cameras and reporters surrounded me," she said.

  "But you've done some of that. I saw the pictures, the newspaper clippings."

  "Yes, yes, here and there, we had an event, but I always had to talk your father into doing such things. He comes from such a practical, puritanical

  background. Look at how he keeps his office at home. Everything in it is all right, according to him. Everything's good enough because it was good enough for his father, who probably died with the first nickel he ever made still clutched in his fist. Honestly, I have to keep his office door closed whenever I have anyone at the house, but he doesn't care. Do you know anyone who loves to work more than he does?" she asked.

  "He's just trying to make his business successful so we'll be happy," I said in his defense.

  "Yes, yes. So we'll be happy," she said and let her voice trail off. "We're getting closer, Leigh. Now turn your head to the right and look for a break in the tree line. The first glimpse of Farthinggale Manor is a sight to remember," she added, her voice full of excitement.

  The sun was just over the tops of the trees now and as we made a turn to the right on a private road, the rays lit up an enormous wrought-iron gate that arched overhead and spelled out with ornate embellishments the words FARTHINGGALE MANOR. I gasped at the imps and fairies and gnomes that peeked between the iron leaves. I did feel as if I were entering a special place, a magical kingdom. Even before I saw the great house looming ahead, understood Momma's excitement. Our town house in the city was large and luxurious, but there was something different about having acres and acres of land with fields and hills and great fences around you. Back in Boston, we lived in a rich part of the city, but here . . . here we would have our own private city, our own private world.

  "Farthinggale Manor," I whispered. Those words had an enchanted ring to them. It was as if uttering them changed the world around me. The grass did look richer, greener and thicker here. Most of the lawns in the city had already begun to turn yellow and brown. Along the way, I had seen many trees that had already lost their autumn gold and brown leaves, but the trees on the grounds of Farthy still clung to their precious leaves, made more precious by the way the sunlight caressed them and lit them like jewels in the bright light. A part of Farthy was nestled protectively in the embrace of surrounding hills, protecting the trees from the harsh winds off the ocean. Some of the leaves were so still, they looked painted on the branches.

  I saw at least a half-dozen grounds people raking, trimming and nurturing plants and saplings. Some were on their hands and knees around sparkling fountains with small statues of Cupid and Neptune and Venus at their centers. Elsewhere, workers were trucking wheelbarrows of landscaping stone and dust to new locations. There was such a sense of activity and life on the grounds, it was hard to believe that we were at the end of October and approaching winter. Riding down the long driveway, I felt as if Momma and I were reentering spring, as if we had turned back time or entered a kingdom that never experienced a bleak, dreary day.

  And then I looked up at the great house and thought I was right to think of this place as a storybook realm. The huge building made of gray stone did resemble a castle. The roof was red and soared, forming turrets and small red bridges connecting portions of the high roof that would have been inaccessible otherwise. I could just imagine the views from the windows on the upper floors. Surely, you could see the ocean from there.

  As we drew closer and closer, the house seemed to grow taller and wider. I thought it was at least as big as half a city block. Our town house could easily fit inside it with room for a few more. As we got closer, Momma cut her eyes toward me, watching for my reaction. She stayed silent but drove right up to the wide stone steps that led to an enormous arching front door, a door that looked so heavy and thick, I imagined it must have taken ten men to bring it there.

  "We're here," Momma declared and shut off the engine. Almost instantly, an attendant came around to open her door for her. He was a tall, dark man, perhaps only in his early twenties. He wore a chauffeur's uniform and took his hat off as we stepped out of the car.

  "Good afternoon, Miles," Momma said. "This is my daughter Leigh."

  Miles looked at me quickly. I thought he was rather shy, but cute, and quickly tried to imagine what it would be like to have him as a boyfriend. I wondered nervously whether he thought I was pretty and I couldn't keep my face from turning crimson. I wondered if Momma noticed.

&nb
sp; "Pleased to meet you, Miss Leigh," he said and nodded. It sounded so funny and so stuffy to be greeted so formally, but before I could even think of smiling, Momma shot a look of expectation at me.

  "Thank you, Miles," I said. "I'm pleased to meet you, too." He moved quickly behind the steering wheel to park our car.

  "Miles is Mr. Tatterton's chauffeur," Momma explained as we started up the steps. "He's only been here two weeks."

  Before we reached the door, it was opened by the butler, a very tall, thin man with a sad, deeply creased face that made me think of Abraham Lincoln. He had his thin, dark brown hair brushed back and lying flat with a part nearly at center.

  He moved so slowly and so softly, he made me think of an undertaker.

  "Good afternoon, Curtis," Momma said. "This is my daughter Leigh."

  "Good afternoon." Curtis nodded, his eyes down as if he were greeting royalty, and then stepped back to let us enter. "Mr. Tatterton is awaiting you in the music room."

  "Thank you," Momma said and we moved down the enormous entryway. "He's only in his late twenties, but he looks like someone's grandfather," she whispered and then giggled. Momma was acting more excited than I'd ever seen her, almost like a little girl, or someone my very own age. It made me nervous, almost scared, but I didn't know why. I only knew I wanted her to stop, to act like a mother again.

  Trying to take my mind off my silly uneasiness I looked at the dozens of enormous ancestral portraits we were passing, as well as pictures of beautiful horses, pictures of the ocean, pictures, pictures, pictures, and great drapes spread over the marble walls, too. Against the walls were white and black marble tables and ornamental stone benches, obviously far too uncomfortable and cold to sit upon. Ahead of us was a long, circular staircase twice, no, three times as long and as wide as ours. Above us was a tremendous chandelier with so many bulbs in it, I imagined it was as bright as the sun whenever it was turned on. The floors of the entryway were covered with enormous Persian rugs that looked so clean and new, it seemed sinful to walk over them.

  "Come along," Momma urged, and I followed beside her as we walked past an enormous living room. I caught a glimpse of a grand piano. We stopped at the doorway of the music room and I gazed up at the domed ceiling arching overhead. There was a tall ladder with scaffolding hanging just at the point where the paintings still had to be completed.

  So far, Momma had painted a bright blue sky with terns and doves flying. At the center was a man riding a magic carpet and just ahead of him was the drawing of a mystical air castle, half hidden by clouds. That had yet to be painted.

  I looked at the murals on the walls and recognized some of the scenes because they were pictures she had done to illustrate various children's books. The far wall consisted entirely of a shadowed woods with sunlight drizzling through and winding paths leading into misty mountain ranges topped with castles.

  "What do you think?" she asked softly.

  "Oh Momma, it's beautiful, just beautiful. I love it!"

  I had been so entranced by the murals and paintings on the ceiling, I hadn't noticed the man sitting on the small sofa with an elaborately decorated frame. The sofa was facing the doorway, so that he had been looking at the two of us while I had been turning in slow circles, my breath caught, my eyes wide, gaping in awe.

  "Oh," I said retreating a step closer to Momma. I couldn't help blushing with embarrassment.

  The handsome young man with the brightest blue eyes I had ever seen laughed. He was dressed in a burgundy velvet smoking jacket and dark slacks and had thick, rich dark brown hair. His lips were full and even I could see they were more than a little sensual, and his face was as tanned as a movie star's. I thought he had an air of elegance and celebrity about him.

  When he stood up, I saw that he was stronglooking with wide shoulders. He was tall, maybe an inch or so taller than Daddy, and had long, gracefullooking hands. There was power emanating from him and a confidence and certainty he seemed too young to possess.

  "Forgive me," he said, "but I had to look at the two of you freely for a moment. There is no question this is your daughter, Jillian. She has inherited your joie de vivre and her eyes sparkle with your exuberance." I looked at Momma to see how she reacted to such lavish compliments. Oh, she seemed to blossom under them, like a flower in a warm summer rain. "Welcome to Farthy."

  "This is Mr. Tatterton, Leigh," Momma said, not taking her eyes from him.

  Mr. Tatterton? I was astonished. From the way Momma had spoken about him, I just assumed he was a much older, gray-haired man. I thought all millionaires somehow looked like the men in our history texts: the Rockefellers and Carnegies, and oil barons--stuffy old men who cared only about Wall Street or cartels and monopolies.

  I looked at Momma and saw from the brightness in her face that she was amused with my reaction and she liked Tony Tatterton very much.

  "Hello, Mr. Tatterton," I said.

  "Oh, please, please, call me Tony. So, how do you like your mother's work?" he asked gesturing toward the ceiling and then toward the walls.

  "It's wonderful. I love it!"

  "Yes." He turned back to me and gazed at me with a sharp, penetrating look that made my heart pound and brought a warmth to my neck. I hoped I hadn't broken out in blotches. Ever since I was a little girl, the slightest bit of excitement could make me do that.

  "I love it too," Tony said, "and I am forever indebted to Mrs. Deveroe for bringing your mother around. Well," he said, clasping his hands together. "First things first. I'm sure you want a tour of Farthy."

  "Me, too," I heard a small voice cry and turned to my left to see a small-boy with dark, inquisitive eyes as big as half dollars staring up at me from the corner of the couch. He had obviously been hiding behind it. He had the very same dark brown hair that Tony Tatterton had and he wore it long, but cut neatly around, making him look like a little prince. He was dressed in a dark blue sailor suit.

  "Come over here, Troy," Tony Tatterton urged, "and let me introduce you properly. Come on."

  The little boy hesitated and continued to stare up at me. "Hi," I said. "My name's Leigh. Want to shake hands?" He nodded quickly and stood up to rush over.

  "Well, we can see that Troy has already developed good taste at the age of four. Troy is my little brother," Tony explained as I took Troy's little hand into mine. Troy looked up at me anxiously. "I suppose you might say I'm more like a father than a brother to him since both our parents are gone," Tony added.

  "Oh." I looked down at this cute little boy and felt sorry for him. He looked as fragile and as tiny as a small bird that had fallen from its test and lost the warmth and care of its a other. There was a longing in his eyes, a cry for someone warm and loving.

  "Troy, meet Jillian's daughter Leigh. Leigh, this is Troy Langdon Tatterton," Tony said and smiled widely, for Troy had not let go of my hand. I knelt down to look into his face.

  "You want to go on the tour, too?" I asked and he nodded quickly and reached out for me to take him into my arms. I hugged him to me and lifted him. I looked up and caught Tony Tatterton staring at me with his intense blue eyes. His eyes held mine for a moment, making me very uncomfortable, then he laughed.

  "A lady-killer. I knew it," Tony said. "You must be someone very special though, Leigh. He's usually rather shy around people he first meets."

  I blushed and looked away quickly. If anything, I was the shy one, I thought. But little Troy looked so delicate, I didn't want to do anything to hurt his feelings.

  "Oh he won't be shy around me. Will you, Troy?" He shook his head.

  "Great," Tony said. "Let's tour the house and then go outside to see the pool and the horses. After lunch, we'll all take a walk to the beach. But Leigh can't carry you everywhere, Troy. You're too big and heavy now."

  "It's all right," I said. "I'm sure Troy will want to walk by himself soon anyway, right Troy?" He nodded and studied me closely. I saw a fear in his eyes, a fear that I would drop him and ignore him. "Maybe Troy can tell me
about things and show me things too. Can you, Troy?" He nodded. "Okay, we're ready."

  Tony laughed again and he and Momma led us out. Perhaps no room in the big house was as impressive as the dining room. It was as big as a banquet hall with the longest table I had ever seen. While we were there, the cook came out of the kitchen and Tony introduced him to us. I could see Tony was very proud of him. He had discovered him on a trip to New Orleans and brought him back to be his personal chef. His name was Ryse Williams and he was a very warm and happy black man who had a way of speaking that made his words sound like music. He promised to fix us "a lunch so special, our stomiks wouldn't stop thankin' us fer days."

  My arms got so tired I thought they might have stretched several inches and I put Troy down for our walk up the marble staircase. He was anxious for me to see his room. All the bedrooms upstairs were really suites, each with its own sitting room. Troy's sitting room was so filled with toys, it looked like a toy store.

  "Hasn't your mother told you about my business?" Tony asked, seeing my astonishment. I shook my head. "You mean, she didn't tell you you were going to see the king of the toy makers?" He and Momma looked at each other as if that were a private joke. I shook my head again, confused by both the conversation and the amused looks between Momma and this intense, handsome young man.

  "Why would she call you king of the toy makers?" I asked while Troy went to his pile of toys to pick out something special to show me.

  "It's how we've built our fortune," he said. He saw the way my eyes widened with interest and he smiled, a small tight smile . . . amused. "I can see you have been a deprived child, not to have ever been given a Tatterton Toy. Jillian, you should be ashamed of yourself," he kidded.

  "Please, I have enough trouble getting her father to buy her the proper things for a young girl," Momma replied archly. Tony and she stared at each other for a moment as if they had discussed this before and then he turned back to me.