Thanks to Becci Bennett for reading my prologue and checking it makes coherent sense!
( Go read her fiction! Her username is Mmegiry )

Disclaimer
I own none of the characters that are taken from the original series of books.
Those belong to Ms V.C.Andrews
I do, however, take responsibility for all the made up characters!

-------------------------

Father's Stories

I was exactly fifteen and a half years old when, on a cool autumn night, I asked my father to tell me a story of our family history; as I had done so often at that age when mystery is everything. My father, who was named after his own father, Julian Marquette, my grandmother's first husband; chose that night to tell me, as he had many times before, all about his years living close-by to where we were at the time, in New York – a place my father had apparently sworn never to return to. Whenever I asked him why he wished not to return to a city I thought to be so beautiful – he would only say that it was all down to "bad memories" and that it "wasn't a place for the weak minded". Whenever I asked my mother why father had hated this place so much; she always said: "You're father see's New York as his enemy. As though it stabbed him in the back. This city gave your father everything he could ever wish for. But so easily it took everything straight back…the very second he left this place."

Then, she'd always try to change the subject by saying "Now, come one, young lady, it's time for beauty sleep," or: "Let's have some biscuits and muse over your math homework." My parents were wonderfully supportive of me throughout school. My father may sometimes have been a little too obsessed with my schooling; but I knew it was only because he didn't want me to end up with nothing – something he said he would suffer if he hadn't had "the most amazing family God could give." And my father wasn't particularly religious.

My father much preferred telling me the story of his younger years in New York when my mother wasn't around – he seemed to think it hurt her a little too much talking about his life before her. Maybe it did. I couldn't be sure – my mother, although an amazing woman, was always so careful in how she acted; as though she were worried something may happen that would have a bad effect on something, be it small or major.

It was hard to describe my mother. She was old fashioned in a way. She did everything exactly how my father wished. She was a devoted wife and mother. Yet she was also an amazing friend to me – she could talk to me in a way that sometimes made me forget she was an adult. She knew exactly how to make me talk about my emotions. In that respect, she was the perfect modern mom.

But, yes, my father loved telling me about his years here in New York and how he had been a ballet dancer (which he'd inherited from his own mother – "the best dancer there ever were.") and had done well in the profession. What my father disliked talking about was his first marriage – to a woman I have never personally met – Melodie Richarme. He had told me on one occasion how much he had adored his wife Melodie for so many years and how he thought her the perfect woman. They had met at such a young age – when they were both teenagers; and had stayed together for a decade of their lives. Only when he was talking about living in New York, did my father refer to Melodie Richarme as "the woman I loved with all my heart." I saw the pain in his eyes when he said that. He said it on that night to me, again.

I found it difficult to vision my father with anyone else except my amazing mother…but, of course, I had to. Otherwise there would be no explanation for my half brother and sister. Darren and Deidre were my father's two children to his first wife Melodie. To them he would talk much more about Melodie, for obvious reasons – which, of course, I understood and respected.

I couldn't possibly imagine how difficult it must have been for the twins to have to grow up with their father. Of course, they did see their mother – but it was only once every three or four months. I couldn't stand being away from my own mother for that long. And maybe because of that – their hurt of not being close with their mother – was their reasoning for taking out their anguish on me.

Oh yes, Darren and Deidre were "as thick as thieves", as my mother once referred to them, with each other. But they definitely did not like me. As far as I know, I hadn't tormented them in any conscious way. But they seemed to think that I was an alien being – purely because my mother was different to theirs. A stupid, child-like notion – as I saw it. Of course, after years of the twins little quips against me, I learned to harden myself against their tormenting; and so it slowly died down over the years. But nevertheless it remained. And, surprisingly, I only felt the full force of their emotions when my parents were out of earshot. Heaven forbid that the twins would give my father yet another reason to be mad at them. They weren't as stable as I had come to be – especially in school. They'd had problems adapting to the society of school and so hadn't done as well as I were. Although, in all fairness – everyone knew that Darren would just do everything Deidre asked of him. He worshipped his sister because she was so much stronger than he was, not that I would downplay his own capability. For some reason I never understood, Deidre seemed to have the upper hand. In a way, I found it slightly empowering that Deidre seemed to be the leader – as if she was sort of a vision of the powerful woman.

I sat right next to my fathers chair that night, listening to intently to his story of fame and fortune in New York; whilst the twins sat across the room; half listening. I couldn't understand how they couldn't be completely in awe of my father's stories. They only seemed to listen when Melodie Richarme was mentioned. Father told of the beauty of the dance art, and how it was the most perfect way he could possibly spend his life. And he told me of how cruelly it was taken away from him.