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"Wrinkles!" she cried and lifted her eyes toward the ceiling. "They are a slow death for a beautiful woman."

The thought and the outburst exhausted her again and she closed her eyes and dropped her chin to her chest so quickly, I thought she had snapped her neck. I looked up anxiously at Mrs. Berme, who only shook her head. There was nothing else to do; Grandmother had fallen back into a deep repose once more. Unfortunately, she was no one I could confide in and look to for advice and help. My parents were gone; Mrs. Boston was gone; Aunt Bet was too insensitive; Aunt Trisha was too far away and too involved in her own career; and Bronson, as loving and concerned as he was, was too distant from my immediate world and had his hands full with Grandmother Laura.

When I stepped out to get back in the limousine and return to my house, I felt as alone and as powerless as the small cloud sliding helplessly across the light blue sky, abandoned and left behind by the bigger, thicker clouds that had already arrived at the horizon and were slipping over the world into someone else's tomorrow.

The slow, warm days of early summer that followed seemed gray and gloomy to me no matter what the weather. Gradually, we all fell into a daily routine. Aunt Bet spent a large part of her day breaking in the new cook and housekeeper, Mrs. Stoddard, a short, stout woman in her early sixties who kept her dull pewter gray hair tied in a loose bun behind her head, strands curling every which way like broken wires. She had small brown age spots over her forehead and cheeks which were

so pudgy they made her nose look sunken. Her smile was warm enough and she had a pleasant manner when she spoke to us, but for Jefferson and me no one could take the place of Mrs. Boston. During the first few days, Mrs. Stoddard trailed through the house behind Aunt Bet as if Aunt Bet had tied one end of a string around the new servant's waist and the other around her own.

For the most part, the twins kept to themselves. They organized their days rigidly, breaking them up into periods of recreation (mainly thought-provoking parlor games like chess and Scrabble), reading, and their educational tapes. They had tapes to advance them in vocabulary and geography and they were both studying French. Despite the melancholy I continually endured, I couldn't help but laugh to myself whenever I walked past the living room and saw them sitting in a lotus position on the floor, facing each other, and practicing their French pronunciations, each mimicking the way the other's lips formed vowels and consonants.

Although it was summer and most children their age were enjoying the sunshine and the beach, outdoor sports and the company of friends, the twins spent most of their time indoors with each other. Even I, who felt too down most of the time to do more than take walks through the tattered remains of our once-beautiful gardens and an occasional walk on the beach, had more color in my cheeks than they did. But none of that bothered them. What others did was either stupid or wasteful. I had never realized just how arrogant and snobbish they were.

Fortunately, Jefferson was interested in the rebuilding of the hotel. Buster Morris had become his pal. Jefferson would go off with Uncle Philip after breakfast, but he would spend the day beside Buster, sometimes riding along with him on a bulldozer or in a pick-up truck. Often Aunt Bet was at the door waiting for him when he returned after the day's work. She would always make him take off his shoes, but one day, she insisted he strip off his pants and shirt as well because they were so dirty. Jefferson disliked doing it and disliked her even more, but he tolerated her and did what she asked, afraid that she would stop him from being with Buster.

I did a great deal of reading myself and wrote my daily letter to Gavin. We spoke on the telephone a few times, too. He had taken a job as a stockboy in a grocery store to earn enough money for his plane fare to Virginia. He was planning on visiting in late August. I wanted to send him some money, but I knew only the suggestion of doing that would ruffle up his feathers. It was just that I was so anxious to see him again. He had become the only person in whom I could confide.

Aunt Trish phoned as often as she could, but the second time she called, it was bad news. Her show had flopped on Broadway and she had decided to take a position with a traveling show. In a week they were to be off cross-country. She promised to call as often as she could, but I was so disappointed. I had hoped to go visit her in New York City very soon.

Finally, more to fill my days than out of a deep desire to return to music, I began playing the piano again. Mr. Wittleman had phoned to see how I was doing and when I wanted to resume my lessons. I told him I would let him know. I thought it would be better if I practiced for a while on my own and brought myself at least back to the level I had been at before the tragedy had befallen us.

At first it was very difficult for me to sit down and run my fingers over the piano keys. I couldn't help but see Mommy's proud smile every time I tapped out a page of sheet music. I had never realized just how much of a part she had played in my musical development and just how important it had been for me to please her. Now, with her gone, there was such a great emptiness around me and an even greater emptiness in the pit of my stomach. To me, my music sounded mechanical, lifeless, hollow, but apparently, not so to Uncle Philip.

One afternoon, when I was trying to relearn a Beethoven sonata, I finally felt the notes take over and for a while provide a kind of escape from my unhappy world. I was so involved in it that I didn't hear Uncle Philip come in and sit down, but when I finished the piece, he clapped. I spun around on the stool and saw him sitting there, smiling.

"I'm so happy you've gone back to the piano," he said. "Your mother would be happy too, Christie."

"It's not the same for me," I replied. "Nothing is."

"It will be," he promised. "Give it time and keep practicing."

He was so happy about my playing that he made it the chief topic of conversation at dinner that night. Aunt Bet smiled and said encouraging things, too. Only the twins looked glum. Jefferson, as usual, ate quietly, kept to himself, and left the table as soon as he was permitted. Dinners would never be the same for him, never hold the magic and warmth they had when Mommy and Daddy and the two of us sat around and talked and teased each other lovingly. Mrs. Boston wasn't coming out of the kitchen to chide Daddy for teasing me or Jefferson. She had been as protective of us as Mommy.

Anyway, I continued to practice and two days later took my first lesson with Mr. Wittleman. He said I had remarkably maintained and even improved some of my skills. That night, at dinner, Uncle Philip begged me to play something for the family afterward. I tried to refuse, but he pleaded and pleaded until it became embarrassing. Finally, I agreed. After dessert had been served, everyone, including Jefferson, came into the parlor and sat behind me. I played a nocturne by Chopin I had been practicing with Mr. Wittleman.

When I was finished, Uncle Philip stood up and applauded. Aunt Bet did too. Richard and Melanie clapped quickly, both looking annoyed.

"That was spectacular, absolutely fantastic!" Uncle Philip exclaimed. He turned to the twins. "Your cousin is going to be a very famous pianist some day and you will be proud to be related to her," he told them. Neither seemed impressed.

"I can't wait for the hotel to be rebuilt and a new season to start," Uncle Philip continued, "so that Christie can play for our guests. We'll be the envy of every coast resort from Maine to Florida."

He rushed over to give me a kiss, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Melanie look down. Uncle Philip's over-exuberant accolades embarrassed me, but there was nothing I could say or do to stop him once he had begun. Finally, Jefferson asked to watch some television and we were able to escape. The twins rarely watched television with us. They usually read and listened to music or played one of their board games.

But late the next afternoon, when I went into the parlor and sat down to prepare for my next lesson with Mr. Wittleman, I touched the piano keys and then screamed in shock. Both Mrs. Stoddard and Aunt Bet came running in from the kitchen. And the twins came flying down the stairs.

"What's wrong?" Aunt Bet asked grimacing. I was holding my hands up, bent at the wrist, my fingers dangling.

"Someone . . ." I couldn't speak for a moment. "Someone poured gobs and gobs of honey over the piano keys!" I cried. "They've ruined my piano."

Richard and Melanie approached and stared down at the keys. Melanie touched one and smelled the tip of her finger.

"Ugh," she said, turning to show Mrs. Stoddard and Aunt Bet.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Stoddard said, shaking her head. "How dreadful."

Aunt Bet's face turned pink with rage.

"That's a horrible, horrible prank," she declared. "I must tell Philip immediately." She marched out of the house. Mrs. Stoddard ran to the kitchen for some washcloths, but it was futile to try to repair the damage, for the honey had dripped down in between the keys and under them, making them stick.