Cutler 03 - Twilight's Child by authors_sort Page B
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putting her back to sleep."
"Thank you, Mrs. Boston. I know you have so much of your own work to do without adding mine."
"Oh, I don't consider this work, Dawn," she said, carefully placing Christie back in her cradle. "Has your mother's guest gone yet?" she asked.
"Yes, he just left," I said, catching some disapproval in her voice and eyes. "Do you know him, Mrs. Boston?"
"Everyone knows Mr. Alcott. At one time, a long time ago," she said, "he was a frequent visitor at the hotel."
"Is that right?"
"Yes. Your mother had many gentleman callers," she said, "but he was the only one who came around after she married Randolph."
"Isn't he married himself?" I asked. Now that I recalled, I hadn't seen a wedding ring on his finger.
"Oh, no. He's still one of the most eligible bachelors in Cutler's Cove."
"I wonder why he never married. He's a very handsome man," I said. Mrs. Boston had that look on her face that told me she knew the gossip. "Do you know why?"
She shrugged. "You know how it is around the hotel—people talk."
"And what do they say, Mrs. Boston?" I pursued.
"That your mother broke his heart so bad, he couldn't love anyone else if he wanted to. But that's enough of this idle chatter," she added quickly, pulling her shoulders back. "I do have work waiting."
"Mrs. Boston," I called as she started toward the doorway. She turned. "When did Mr. Alcott stop being a frequent visitor?" She tightened her lips as if she wasn't going to add any fuel to the fire.
"Right after you were born and stolen away," she said. "But that don't mean they stopped seeing each other," she added, and then she bit down on her lower lip as if to stop a runaway mouth. "Now don't make me into some gossip monger and ask me anymore." She pivoted before I could and was gone, leaving all sorts of questions dangling in my mind.
3
LEARNING THE ROPES
DURING THE MONTHS THAT FOLLOWED, CHRISTIE GREW RAPIDLY. The features of her tiny face became more and more distinct, as did her personality. She continued being a contented, happy baby who cried only to let us know her diaper was wet or that she was hungry, but she wasn't one who craved a great deal of attention and had to be doted upon, even though everyone in the hotel enjoyed doing so. Whenever I brought her down with me the receptionists, the chambermaids, even the dining room staff were drawn to her, eager to hold her or pinch her plump cheeks. She would smile and pummel their faces gently with her tiny pink fists.
Her curiosity and remarkable perception kept her occupied. There was nothing she looked at that didn't attract her interest. She could be content sitting for hours turning a toy in her hands, tasting it, testing its firmness and tracing its shape with the tips of her fingers. Whatever she reached, she explored, and when something made her laugh she slapped her hands together and widened her eyes, revealing a joy of life that made everyone around her feel good. On the grayest of days Christie brought sunshine and warmth.
When I sat her in my lap she would inevitably explore my face with her fingers, touching my nose, my lips and occasionally going "Ooooh." If I smiled, she smiled. If I stopped to gently chastise her, she would grow serious and always listen. Often I would play peekaboo with her, lowering the blanket to reveal my hair and forehead. But she would laugh only when she saw my eyes. Then she would explode in delight.
By the time she was nine months old her hair had grown down to the base of her neck, and I could comb and brush it. She was already very feminine, a little lady, eager to sit quietly to have her hair brushed, happy to be bathed, and attracted to any affection or loving caress. Whether it was I or Mrs. Boston who sang to her, she would lie quietly and listen intently, her eyes so still, we both felt she had already memorized our songs and was waiting to hear the parts she knew would come.
Any musical expression interested her, whether it be our
"Thank you, Mrs. Boston. I know you have so much of your own work to do without adding mine."
"Oh, I don't consider this work, Dawn," she said, carefully placing Christie back in her cradle. "Has your mother's guest gone yet?" she asked.
"Yes, he just left," I said, catching some disapproval in her voice and eyes. "Do you know him, Mrs. Boston?"
"Everyone knows Mr. Alcott. At one time, a long time ago," she said, "he was a frequent visitor at the hotel."
"Is that right?"
"Yes. Your mother had many gentleman callers," she said, "but he was the only one who came around after she married Randolph."
"Isn't he married himself?" I asked. Now that I recalled, I hadn't seen a wedding ring on his finger.
"Oh, no. He's still one of the most eligible bachelors in Cutler's Cove."
"I wonder why he never married. He's a very handsome man," I said. Mrs. Boston had that look on her face that told me she knew the gossip. "Do you know why?"
She shrugged. "You know how it is around the hotel—people talk."
"And what do they say, Mrs. Boston?" I pursued.
"That your mother broke his heart so bad, he couldn't love anyone else if he wanted to. But that's enough of this idle chatter," she added quickly, pulling her shoulders back. "I do have work waiting."
"Mrs. Boston," I called as she started toward the doorway. She turned. "When did Mr. Alcott stop being a frequent visitor?" She tightened her lips as if she wasn't going to add any fuel to the fire.
"Right after you were born and stolen away," she said. "But that don't mean they stopped seeing each other," she added, and then she bit down on her lower lip as if to stop a runaway mouth. "Now don't make me into some gossip monger and ask me anymore." She pivoted before I could and was gone, leaving all sorts of questions dangling in my mind.
3
LEARNING THE ROPES
DURING THE MONTHS THAT FOLLOWED, CHRISTIE GREW RAPIDLY. The features of her tiny face became more and more distinct, as did her personality. She continued being a contented, happy baby who cried only to let us know her diaper was wet or that she was hungry, but she wasn't one who craved a great deal of attention and had to be doted upon, even though everyone in the hotel enjoyed doing so. Whenever I brought her down with me the receptionists, the chambermaids, even the dining room staff were drawn to her, eager to hold her or pinch her plump cheeks. She would smile and pummel their faces gently with her tiny pink fists.
Her curiosity and remarkable perception kept her occupied. There was nothing she looked at that didn't attract her interest. She could be content sitting for hours turning a toy in her hands, tasting it, testing its firmness and tracing its shape with the tips of her fingers. Whatever she reached, she explored, and when something made her laugh she slapped her hands together and widened her eyes, revealing a joy of life that made everyone around her feel good. On the grayest of days Christie brought sunshine and warmth.
When I sat her in my lap she would inevitably explore my face with her fingers, touching my nose, my lips and occasionally going "Ooooh." If I smiled, she smiled. If I stopped to gently chastise her, she would grow serious and always listen. Often I would play peekaboo with her, lowering the blanket to reveal my hair and forehead. But she would laugh only when she saw my eyes. Then she would explode in delight.
By the time she was nine months old her hair had grown down to the base of her neck, and I could comb and brush it. She was already very feminine, a little lady, eager to sit quietly to have her hair brushed, happy to be bathed, and attracted to any affection or loving caress. Whether it was I or Mrs. Boston who sang to her, she would lie quietly and listen intently, her eyes so still, we both felt she had already memorized our songs and was waiting to hear the parts she knew would come.
Any musical expression interested her, whether it be our
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