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"That's a nickname that will stick for sure," Philip said. "I even like it myself."
I could have predicted Mother's reaction to Betty Ann's giving birth to twins. Bronson was excited and happy for Philip and Betty Ann, but Mother looked dazed. The sight of two more grandchildren—two more reasons for her to be called a grandmother—depressed her. She smiled and kissed Philip. She even acted motherly toward Betty Ann, but she didn't want to linger over the babies. As if she needed to flee reality, she booked herself and Bronson on a cruise the day after and was gone for the next two weeks.
Philip hired a nurse to help Betty Ann after she and the children were brought home. The arrival of the golden-haired twins was a major event at the hotel. After they were old enough to wheel about they became a regular phenomenon, stopping the guests in the middle of whatever they were doing in the lobby or card room and drawing small crowds. The two seemed to understand their power. They smiled, cooed and grabbed fingers dangled before them. Everyone commented on their good nature.
Christie was never more in her glory than when Betty Ann or Philip would permit her to push the double stroller through the corridors of the main building or over the garden walkways. As soon as she woke up in the morning she would ask to go visit Richard and Mellon. Nearly five now, she was old enough to rush off by herself and go to the hotel. Betty Ann described and
I saw myself how seriously and maturely she handled her infant cousins. Mrs. Caldwell, the nurse, a pleasant middle-aged woman, told me she felt very confident about permitting Christie to hold the babies and even feed them.
"And they appear to love her as much as she loves them," Mrs. Caldwell said. "I've seen them stop crying the instant Christie has one of them in her arms. It amazes me how when one stops crying, the other follows suit. I've seen twins before, but never a pair so in tune with each other's feelings and wants."
That fall, when it came time to send Christie to grade school, she was in a terrible turmoil. She wanted to go to school very much, but she hated the idea that she would be away from the twins all day. Both Sissy and Mrs. Boston had started her reading, and she had a natural curiosity about everything. Her eagerness to learn was only harnessed by the energy of those around her who were forced to answer question after question. She could exhaust anyone with her inquiries. I couldn't help but recall poor Randolph talking to her for hours when she was barely old enough to form intelligible sounds. But she had a remarkable attention, span and great patience and persistence. When she wanted to do something she remained with it stubbornly until she satisfied herself.
This was especially true when it came to music. Milt Jacobs, our piano player, asked me if he could work with her on the piano; he was that impressed with her abilities. He wanted to do it during his free time, just for the pleasure of seeing her grow and achieve, but I insisted he be paid for the lessons. The result was that Christie had quite a full day for a five-year-old. She was in school until two-thirty. Julius would pick her up in the hotel limousine. At three-thirty she would go to the ballroom and take her piano lesson. Then she would rush out in time to help Mrs. Caldwell with the twins' dinner.
By now Christie was everyone's darling. I could come into the lobby and find her behind the receptionist's desk, standing on a stool, greeting people. They even taught her how to answer the phone and field reservation inquiries. The guests who called got a big kick out of hearing her tiny voice tell them the price of a room with a double bed or single bed. Of course, any other questions had to be referred to the receptionists.
In short, the hotel had become her playground. She knew all the bellhops by first name, as well as many of the waiters and busboys. She had gotten so she recognized and remembered the names of frequent guests, most of whom lavished affection and praise on her. I would never forget the first time she received a tip.
She came running into my office, all out of breath, her golden pigtails swinging over her shoulders, and held up the dollar.
"Look, Momma!" she cried.
"A dollar. Where did you get that?"
"Mr. Quarters gave it to me for bringing him a glass of warm milk in the card room," she said. "And I didn't spill a drop."
"Quarters?" I thought a moment. "Oh, you mean, Mr. Cauthers. Well, isn't that nice? You'll have to go show Daddy," I said.
"And Aunt Bet, too. I'm going right now," she cried, and she ran out holding her dollar tightly and proudly in her fist.
What a different sort of childhood Christie was having from the childhood Jimmy and I had had, I thought. We had been more like the guests, staying in one place or another for a short period of time, making friends and then moving off. Faces and names blurred in our minds after a while. I couldn't recall a single girlfriend I had had throughout grade school, even middle school. Christie, on the other hand, had developed an enormous extended family—the hotel family. She had dozens of people looking after her, loving her.
And she loved them. She had certainly inherited Michael's desire to be the center of attention. She craved society, wanted to perform in any way possible, be it playing her piano or singing or reciting something she had just learned. It didn't take much coaxing to get her to do any of it, just a request and applause.
The hotel had surely become a happy place for all of us. Thankfully, my fears about problems with Philip had diminished with every passing day. With his heavy involvement now in the hotel's business, and with the birth of his twins, Philip seemed to settle down to the life he had chosen and, like me, had accepted the cards fate had dealt. Whenever he and Betty Ann and Jimmy and I did anything together, he paid proper attention to Betty Ann, and although he looked at me longingly from time to time, he didn't disturb or frighten me with references to his undying love and his continual torment.
One warm summer day, however, when I was out in the gardens talking to Mrs. Caldwell, who had taken the twins out for a stroll, Philip came up beside me and whispered in my ear.
"You know why I am happy we had twins, don't you?" he said.
"Why?" I asked, expecting some sort of joke. He had a wide, soft smile on his face.
"Because it's as if there's one for you and one for Betty Ann. I know you and Jimmy have been trying to have another child and haven't been successful," he added quickly, before I could respond. "You would have been successful with me," he said. I felt the heat rise into my face. "Which one do you think would be ours?" he asked in all seriousness.
For a moment I couldn't speak, so he continued to talk as he gazed down at the twins.
"I often imagine Richard is our child. He reminds me of you. I don't know why; he just does."
I pulled him out of Mrs. Caldwell's range of hearing.
"Philip, that is a sick thing to say. Those children are yours and Betty Ann's. It would break her heart to think that you fantasize one of them to be mine."
"I can't help what I dream," he said.
"Well, you should try," I snapped, and I walked away from him, my heart pounding.
I think what terrified me the most was the way my inability to become pregnant had developed into community news. Of course, it was only natural for people to wonder why Jimmy and I hadn't had a child of our own since my miscarriage. In a community as small as Cutler's Cove it wasn't hard to imagine that most people knew there was no physical reason for me not to become pregnant. This old seaside town had its share of gossips, just like anywhere else. On more than one occasion, especially during our phone conversations, Mother confirmed that the topic was frequently on people's minds.
