Unfinished Symphony by V. C. Andrews

ever
known," Dorothy said shaking her head. "He reviews
the household accounts once a month and makes
brilliant suggestions to save money. He says he does it
for his clients, why can't he do it for himself? I
suppose that's true. Well, do you want to find
something to read? You can look in our library. I try
to keep up with everything. I belong to three book
clubs."
"First, I'd like to try to call Gina Simon," I
explained.
"Oh. Well then, why don't you use the phone in
the parlor. You'll have some privacy there," she
suggested.
"Thank you," I said, trying to remember where
the parlor was in this big house. She must have read
that in my face.
"Just go down the corridor to the third doorway
on the left, dear. There's a phone book on the shelf of
the small table."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. I'll be in after a while and
then we can go to the den and watch some television
if you like. Desperate Lives is on tonight. Do you
watch it? Philip calls it nothing more than a soap
opera, but it's so much more than that, it's . . . just
more," she said.
"No, I haven't heard of it," I said.
"Haven't heard of it? Oh dear. Well, maybe
you'll like it," she said and I went to the parlor. I
found the phone book and discovered three Gina
Simons, but the address pointed out the right one.
With my fingers trembling again, I lifted the receiver.
It was an antique brass and ivory dial phone and I
misdialed the first time and got a phone number that
was disconnected.
I dialed correctly the next time, but after only
three rings, an answering machine came on. "This is Gina Simon. I'm sorry I'm not able to
take this call. Please leave your name, the time of
your call and a brief message at the sound of the
beep," the voice directed. I listened closely. It did
sound like Mommy, but there was an affectation, an
attention to diction I didn't recognize. I waited and
called again just to hear the voice. It sounds like her, I
told myself. It must be Mommy.
Dorothy entered the parlor, a small white
angora cat in her arms.
"This is Fluffy," she said. "Isn't she beautiful?"
"Yes, she is."
"Philip won't let me keep her in the house
proper. She stays with Selena. He says whenever she's
permitted to run through the house, she leaves hairs
everywhere. He's so finicky about the house. If a
piece of dust is out of place, Philip knows it." She sighed and sat in the soft cushioned chair
across from me, the cat purring in her lap.
"So, did you try calling that woman?" "I got an answering machine," I said. "It sounds
like my mother."
"Did you leave a message?"
"No. I wasn't sure what to say."
"She might have been there, listening," Dorothy
said, nodding. "People often do that here. They wait to
see if it's someone important and then they answer. If
it's not someone important enough, they let the
machine take the call. It's a power thing, Philip says." "Power thing?"
"Yes, you just don't speak to anyone. It
diminishes your importance."
"I can't imagine my mother thinking that way." "Well, if this woman wants to be someone in
the industry, she behaves that way, believe me. I've
met enough of them."
I thought about it. What was it Billy Maxwell
had told me just before I had left New York . . . be
prepared to find a very different woman, even if she
was my mother. Perhaps that was very true. "I wish the world we lived in wasn't so
conscious of every little thing," Dorothy said, dreamyeyed as she petted the purring cat in her lap. "Philip
wants me to be perfect, to remain perfect. If I have a
hair out of place, he asks why I didn't go to the beauty
salon this week," she said a bit more mournfully than
I would have expected.
"He doesn't seem like that," I told her. She
snapped out of her reverie and raised her eyebrows. "He's a man, isn't he? They're all the same,
waving a magnifying glass over you, checking for
wrinkles, for age spots, measuring your bosom, your
waist, your hips, looking for an ounce of ugly fat. "I have a personal trainer," she continued, "who
comes to the