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"Cindy!" I stormed, furious now. "How dare you talk to Bart that way? Now, say you're sorry . . . say it!"

"No, I won't say it, for I'm not sorry!" she yelled not at me but at Bart. "He's a brute, a maniac, a crazy, and he's trying to drive us all as batty as he is!"

"STOP!" I yelled, seeing Bart's face go very pale.

Then he lunged forward and caught her by her hair. She tried to run, but he had her held too securely. I rushed forward to prevent him from striking her by clinging onto his free arm. Above her he towered. "If you ever so much as speak to me again, little girl, you'll rue the day. You're very proud of your body, of your hair, of your face. One more insult and you'll hide in closets and break all the mirrors."

His deadly tone of voice said he was serious. I moved to help Cindy stand. "Bart, you don't mean that. All your life you've tormented 'Cindy. Can you blame her for wanting her revenge?"

"You take her side, after what she said to me?"

"Say you're sorry, Cindy," I pleaded, turning to her. Then I turned appealing eyes on Bart. "You say it, too, please."

Indecision flashed in Bart's fiery dark eyes as he saw how upset I was, but it vanished the moment Cindy screamed out, "NO! I'm not sorry! And I'm not afraid of him! You're just as creepy and senile as that old jerk who wanders around muttering to himself. Boy, do you have a thing for old men! Maybe that's your hang-up, brother!"

"Cindy!" I whispered, very much shocked, "apologize to Bart."

"Never, never, NEVER!--not after what he did to Lance!"

The anger on Bart's face frightened me.

Just then Joel ambled into the room. He stood with his long arms crossed over his chest and met Bart's fiery eyes. -"Son . . . let it go. The Lord sees and hears all and, in time, wreaks his own justice. She's a child like a bird chirping in the trees, led by instincts that know nothing of morality. She acts, speaks, moves, all without thinking. She's nothing compared to you, Bart. Nothing but a hank of hair, a bone and a rag--you are born to lead."

As if transfixed, Bart's anger simmered down. He followed Joel from the room without looking our way. To see Bart follow that old man so obediently and without question filled my head with fresh fears. How had Joel gained such control?

Cindy fell into my arms and began to cry. "Momma, what's wrong with me, with Bart? Why do I say such hateful things to hurt him9 Why does he say them to me? I want to hurt Bart. I want to pay him back for every ugly thing he's done to hurt me."

In my arms she sobbed out her anxieties until she was limp.

In many ways Cindy reminded me of myself, so eager to love and be loved, to live a full, exciting life even before she was mature enough to accept the emotional responsibilities.

I sighed and held her closer. Someday, somehow, all family problems would be resolved. I held to that belief, praying that Chris would come home soon.

Christmas

. As it had in the past, Christmas Eve arrived with its charm and festive peace to reign over troubled spirits and gave even Foxworth Hall its own beauty. The snow still fell, but it was not so wild and wind driven. In our favorite room for getting together, Bart and Cindy, with Jory directing, were decorating the gigantic Christmas tree. Cindy was up on a ladder on one side, Bart was on the second ladder, as Jory sat in his wheelchair, fiddling with strings of lights meant for our door wreaths. Decorators were working in other rooms to make them festive enough for the hundreds of guests Bart expected to entertain at the ball. He was terribly excited. To see him happy and laughing added joy to my heart, especially when Chris came in the door loaded down with all he'd purchased at the last moment, as was his customary

procrastinating way.

I ran to greet him with hungry arms and eager kisses that Bart couldn't see from his position behind the tree. "Whatever took you so long?" I asked, and he laughed, indicating the beautifully wrapped gifts.

"Out in the car I've got more," he said with a happy smile. "I know what you're thinking, that I should do my shopping earlier, but I never seem to find the time. Then all of a sudden it's Christmas Eve, and I end up paying twice as much, but you're going to be very pleased--and if you're not, don't tell me."

Melodic was crouched down on a low stool near the fireplace in the salon just off the foyer, looking miserable. In fact, when I studied her more closely she appeared to be in pain. "Are you all right, Melodie?" I asked. She nodded to say she was fine, and I foolishly took her word for that. When Chris questioned her, she stood and denied anything was wrong. She threw Bart an imploring glance he didn't see, and then she was heading for the back stairs. In her shapeless, dull- colored garment, she seemed a drab thing that had aged ten years since July. Jory, who always kept a close eye on Melodic, turned to watch her drift away, a terrible haunted sadness in his eyes that stole his pleasure from the happy occupation at hand. The string of lights slid from his lap to entangle the wheels of his c

hair. He didn't notice, only sat with clenched fists, as if he'd like to smash Fate in the face for taking away the use of his marvelous body, and in so doing stealing from him the woman he loved.

On the way to the stairs, Chris stopped to clap Jory heartily on the back. "You're looking fit and healthy. And don't worry about Melodic. It's normal for a woman in the last trimester-to become irritable and moody. So would you if you were carrying around all that extra weight."

"She could at least speak to me occasionally," complained Jory, "or look at me. She doesn't even cozy up to Bart anymore."

I looked at him with alarm. Could he know that only a short while ago Bart and Melodie had been lovers? I didn't believe they were anymore, and that was the true explanation of Melodie's miserable state. I tried to read his eyes, but he lowered his lids and pretended to be interested in decorating the tree again.

Long ago Chris and I had established a tradition of opening at least one gift on Christmas Eve. When night came, Chris and I sat alone in the best of our downstairs salons, toasting one another with champagne. We lifted our glasses high. "To all our tomorrows together," he said with his warm eyes full of love and happiness. I repeated the same words before Chris handed me my "special" gift. I opened the small jewelry box to find a two-carat pear-shaped diamond suspended on a fine gold chain.

"Now, don't object and say you don't like jewelry," Chris said hastily when I just stared at the object that glittered and refracted rainbow colors. "Our mother never wore anything like this. I really wanted to buy you opera-length pearls like the ones she used to wear, because I think they are both elegant and understated. But knowing you, I forgot the pearls and settled for this beautiful diamond. It's tear-shaped, Cathy--for all the tears I would have cried inside if you had never let me love you."

The way he said that put tears in my eyes and swelled my heart with the guilty sadness of being us, the special joy of being us; the complications of being us sometimes were just too overwhelming. Silently I handed him my "special" gift--a fine star-sapphire ring to fit his forefinger. He laughed, saying it was ostentatious but beautiful.