Free Dollenganger 03 If There Be a Thorns by V. C. Andrews

all?"
"Always, always . . ."
"You will give me everything I want, no matter what?"
"Always, always . . . Bart, my dear love, the next time you come over you will find waiting for you--your heart's desire."
"You'd better have it here!" said Bart in a hard way that surprised me. All of a sudden he sounded years older. But he was always changing his way of talking, walking. Playacting, always pretending.
I'd go home and tell Mom and Dad. Bart really needed friends his own age, not an old lady. It wasn't healthy for a boy not to have peers to play with. Then again, I wondered why my parents never asked any of friends to our home the way other parents had their friends over occasionally. We lived all to ourselves, isolated from neighbors--until this Moslem woman, or whatever she was, came to win my brother's affections. I should be glad for him; instead, I was uneasy.
Finally Bart got up and said, "Goodbye, Grandmother." Just his ordinary little boy voice--but what the heck did he mean by grandmother?
I waited patiently until I was sure Bart was in our yard before I circled the huge old house and banged hard on her front door. I expected to see that old butler come shambling down the long hall to the foyer, but it was the old lady herself who put an eye to the peekhole and asked who it was.
"Jory Marquet Sheffield," I said proudly, just as my dad would.
"Jory," she whispered. In another moment she had flung open the door. "Come in," she invited happily, stepping aside to admit me. Way back in the shadows I thought I glimpsed someone who quickly dodged out of sight. "I'm so happy to have you visit. Your brother was here and has depleted our supply of ice cream, but I can offer you a cola drink and cake or cookies."
No wonder Bart wasn't eating Emma's good cooking. This woman was feeding him junk food. "Who are you?" I asked angrily. "You have no right to feed my brother anything."
She stepped back, appearing hurt and humble. "I try to tell him he should wait until after his meals, but he insists. And please don't judge me harshly without giving me a chance to explain." Her gesture invited me to take a chair in one of her fancy parlors. Though I wanted to decline, my curiosity was aroused. I followed her into what must have been the grandest room outside of a French palace! There was a concert grand piano, love seats, brocade chairs, a desk, and a long marble fireplace. Then I turned to look her over good. "Do you have a name?"
Floundering, she managed a small voice. "Bart calls me . . Grandmother."
"You're not his grandmother," I said. "When you tell him you are, you confuse him, and Lord knows, lady, if there is one thing my brother doesn't need, it is more confusion."
A slow redness colored her forehead. "I have no grandchildren of my own. I'm lonely, I need someone . . . and Bart seems to like me . . ."
Pity for her overwhelmed me, so I could hardly say what I'd planned beforehand, but I managed nevertheless. "I don't think coming over here is good for Bart, ma'am. If I were you I would try to discourage him. He needs friends his own age . ." and here my voice dwindled away, for how could I tell her she was too old? And two grandmothers, one in a nut house, and the other a ballet nut, were more than enough.
The very next day Bart and I were told that Nicole had died in the night, and from now on her daughter, Cindy, would be our sister. My eyes met Bart's. Dad had his eyes on his plate, but he wasn't eating. I looked around, startled, when I heard a young child crying. "That's Cindy," said Dad. "Your mother and I were at Nicole's side when she died. Her last words were a request for us to take care of her child. When I thought about you two boys being left alone like Cindy, I knew I could die feeling more at peace knowing my children had a good home . . . so I let your mother say what she's been wanting to say ever since Nicole's accident."
Mom came into the kitchen. In her arms she carried a small girl with blonde ringlets and