Bittersweet Dreams by V.C. Andrews Read Free Book Online

he said. “You should know why better than I do.”
    Even though he was right, I hated it when he saw something wrong with me. My fear was that perhaps he would love me less, although I would never admit to that fear. I believed that admitting to any fear gives that fear more power over you. “Stuff it” was my motto. I would never show that I was afraid of the dark or of being alone when I was little. And there wasn’t another girl or even a boy who could make me cower and retreat. They could see the resistance in my eyes, and they’d usually be the ones who backed off. But it was always different when it came to my father. I could defeat him in an argument, frustrate him with my logic, but it never made me feel any better. The truth was, it always made me feel worse.
    I turned away so he wouldn’t see my eyes burn with tears. I took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes, Daddy. I’m sorry. You’re right.”
    â€œOkay,” he said, and came up behind me to kiss me softly and pat my hair. I watched him walk away, slouching like someone in defeat. What had happened to all those wonderful predictions for me, for our family, when I was younger and something of a star not only at school but at home and everywhere we went as a family? I was sure he was wondering where he had failed and that he was troubled with the thought that my mother would be very disappointed.
    I packed faster. I owed it to my mother to make it easier for him, I thought. I could just imagine her watching the two of us and looking disappointed in my behavior. That was all she ever had to do, look disappointed. I could practically feel her thoughts. Don’t hurt him, Mayfair. Please , she would think. It’s not easy for him, either. Help him get through it.
    I was still trying to do that now in the car as we drew closer to Spindrift. I hid any displeasure or regret and acted quite indifferent about it all. I wasn’t going to give Julie any satisfaction by pleading for mercy or promising to improve my behavior toward her. To me, promises were like colorful bubbles, pretty but quick to pop and disappear, especially if they came from someone like her. If she had half a brain, which I didn’t think she had, she would be able to see through my false face, which I couldn’t help but have. After all, as Shakespeare wrote in Macbeth , False face must hide what the false heart doth know. And when it came to agreeing to all of this with any resemblance of enthusiasm, I had a false heart.
    She should have been able to see that easily. Didn’t it take one to know one, and who better to see a phony than a phony? That was why my father couldn’t see through her. He was too trusting and honest, despite the work he had to do. He was desperate for happiness since my mother’s death. I didn’t like it, but I had to forgive him. I had to make myself understand and accept.
    My stepmother sat with her shoulders hunched up, which made the skin at the back of her neck crinkle like cellophane. She would lower her chin and cramp up tightly when she was nervous. I could imagine all the organs inside her crowding together like frightened mice. And when she was very, very nervous, she would hold her breath until her face turned red. Right now, it was as if she felt that if she made a sound or moved a muscle, it would all go bad, and my father would take my side, turn the car around, and blame it all on her. All the way home, she would think, So close. There I was, so close to getting rid of her, and I screwed up.
    I knew the silence in the car was driving her bonkers, however. My father wasn’t his talkative self. Julie didn’t want the radio on, because the chatter made her even more nervous, and I certainly had nothing to say to her. I hadn’t said anything to either of them after we had left Los Angeles. I was sure she thought I was just being spiteful, my old spoiled self. I wasn’t, but I