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eBook. Sign up for our newsletter and receive special offers, access to the attic. Paper flowers. Born so brightly colored, and fading duller through all. downloads Views KB Size Report. DOWNLOAD EPUB Andrews, V C - Dollanganger 01 - Flowers In The Attic · Read more. Read "Flowers In The Attic" by V.C. Andrews available from Rakuten Kobo. Sign up today and get $5 off your first purchase. **Nominated as one of America's.


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The Flowers in the Attic Series: The Dollangangers by V.C. Andrews - This eBook Flowers in the Attic, Petals on the Wind, If There Be Thorns, Seeds of Resources and Downloads Get a FREE e-book by joining our mailing list today !. Flowers in the Attic is V.C. Andrews's first and most famous novel. its publication in and was the first book in the Dollanganger Family series, followed by. This eBook boxed set contains the previously published bestselling Dollanganger series by V.C. Andrews, including: Flowers in the Attic, Petals on the Wind.

This eBook boxed set contains the previously published bestselling Dollanganger series by V. Andrews, including: There are more than 70 V. Andrews novels in total, which have sold over million copies worldwide and have been translated into 25 foreign languages. Join the conversation about the world of V.

He sighed, then came to sit on the edge of my bed. This is the first time in your life you have ever glared at me like that. He had his son, and now heaps of wailing babies on the way. I still believed the two of you would have run for me like crazy, and welcomed me home, anyway.

I believed you loved me and not my gifts. I flung myself into his arms, and clung to him for dear life. And Cathy, real babies are much more fun than dolls. In the beautiful box was a silver music box made in England. The music played and a ballerina dressed in pink turned slowly around and around before a mirror.

And with this ring, I do vow to forever love my Cathy just a little bit more than any other daughter—as long as she never says that to anyone but herself. For two weeks Daddy had been hanging around home, waiting for those babies to show up. Momma seemed irritable, uncomfortable, and Mrs. Bertha Simpson was in our kitchen, preparing our meals, and looking at Christopher and me with a smirky face.

She was our most dependable baby-sitter. She lived next door, and was always saying Momma and Daddy looked more like brother and sister than husband and wife. She was a grim, grouchy sort of person who seldom had anything nice to say about anybody. And she was cooking cabbage. I hated cabbage. Around dinnertime, Daddy came rushing into the dining room to tell my brother and me that he was driving Momma to the hospital. Everything will work out fine.

Mind Mrs. He was unshaven, tired looking, his suit rumpled, but he grinned at us happily.

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Boys or girls? I wanted boys, too. They were so tiny! Their heads were no bigger than small apples, and small red fists waved in the air. One was screaming like pins were sticking it. And yet, as they began to grow and smile, and their eyes lit up when I came in and lifted them, something warm and motherly replaced the green in my eyes.

The first thing you knew, I was racing home to see them; to play with them; to change diapers and hold nursing bottles, and burp them on my shoulder. They were more fun than dolls. I soon learned that parents have room in their hearts for more than two children, and I had room in my heart to love them, too—even Carrie, who was just as pretty as me, and maybe more so.

They grew so quickly, like weeds, said Daddy, though Momma would often look at them with anxiety, for she said they were not growing as rapidly as Christopher and I had grown. This was laid before her doctor, who quickly assured her that often twins were smaller than single births. We had a funny surname, the very devil to learn to spell.

Soon everyone in our neighborhood was calling us the Dresden dolls; certainly it was easier to say than Dollanganger. When the twins were four, and Christopher was fourteen, and I had just turned twelve, there came a very special Friday. Momma looked like a fairy-tale princess with her freshly washed and set hair. His many gifts were piled high on the buffet.

It was going to be a small, intimate party, just for our family and our closest friends. I gave them both baths before their naps, but as soon as they were up, they took off for the sandbox, and now they need another bath.

She looked far too fancy to give two dirty four-year-olds splashy baths that would ruin her hair, her nails, and her lovely dress. And, Christopher, no blue jeans, please. I want you to put on a dress shirt and a tie, and wear that light blue sports jacket with your cream-colored trousers.

You know he does a lot for you; the least you can do is make him proud of his family. Good golly, how can the two of you get so dirty so quickly? For, after all, they were going to a party—and, after all, this was Friday, and Daddy was coming home. First I dressed Cory in a pretty little white suit with short pants. Strangely enough, he was more apt to keep himself clean than his twin. When I had them both dressed, and looking like dolls come alive, I turned the twins over to Christopher with stern warnings to keep an ever observant eye on them.

Now it was my turn to dress up. The twins wailed and complained while I hurriedly took a bath, washed my hair, and rolled it up on fat curlers. I peeked around the bathroom door to see Christopher trying his best to entertain them by reading to them from Mother Goose. Is that the best you can manage? The invited guests sat around and tried to keep up a cheerful conversation, as Momma got up and began to pace around nervously.

Usually Daddy flung open the door at four, and sometimes even sooner. The wonderful meal Momma had spent so much time preparing was drying out from being too long in the warming oven. My stomach was growling, and I was beginning to feel as worried as Momma looked.

She kept pacing back and forth, going to the wide picture window and staring out. And on the top was one of those spinning red lights. Momma smothered a cry when two policemen dressed in blue uniforms approached our front door and rang our doorbell. Momma seemed frozen.

Her hand hovered near her throat; her heart came up and darkened her eyes. Something wild and frightening burgeoned in my heart just from watching her reactions.

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All they had to do was glance into the dining room and see the festive table, the balloons suspended from the chandelier, and the gifts on the buffet. Christopher Garland Dollanganger? Our mother nodded slightly, stiffly. I drew nearer, as did Christopher. The twins were on the floor, playing with tiny cars, and they showed little interest in the unexpected arrival of police officers. The kindly looking uniformed man with the deep red face stepped closer to Momma.

I could feel her quivering all over, just as I was. But it seems your husband must have seen the accident coming, for he swerved to avoid a head-on collision, but a piece of machinery had fallen from another car, or truck, and this kept him from completing his correct defensive driving maneuver, which would have saved his life.

Even the young twins looked up from their innocent play, and stared at the two troopers. Her eyes went bleak, dark, haunted. Despair washed the radiant color from her beautiful face; it resembled a death mask. I stared up at her, trying to tell her with my eyes that none of this could be true. Not Daddy! Not my daddy! Death was for old people, sick people. Yet there was my mother with her gray face, her stark eyes, her hands wringing out the invisible wet cloths, and each second I watched, her eyes sank deeper into her skull.

I began to cry. We saved what we could. Get out of here! He tried to hold me off, and Christopher came up and pulled me away. People were murmuring in shocked voices, and whispering, and the food in the warming oven was beginning to smell burned.

Only Christopher came to put his arm about my waist, so we three were in a huddle,—Momma, Christopher, and me. It was Christopher who finally found a voice to speak and such a strange, husky voice: If the green Cadillac caught on fire, then the man inside must have been badly burned, so it could have been someone else, not Daddy.

She believed! She believed those two men were speaking the truth! Daddy was really dead. We were never going to see him alive again. Numbered the same, but for the year. Someone kind had taken them into the kitchen and was preparing them a light meal before they were tucked into bed.

He seemed as caught in this nightmare as I was, his young face pale and shocked; a hollow look of grief shadowed his eyes and made them dark.

One of the state troopers had gone out to his car, and now he came back with a bundle of things which he carefully spread out on the coffee table.

I stood frozen, watching the display of all the things Daddy kept in his pockets: Everything was blackened and charred by smoke and fire. Last came the soft pastel animals meant for Cory and Carrie, all found, so the red-faced trooper said, scattered on the highway.

A plushy blue elephant with pink velvet ears, and a purple pony with a red saddle and golden reins—oh, that just had to be for Carrie. I knew those suits, those shirts, ties, socks. There was the same tie I had given him on his last birthday. Now I knew positively. It was real, our father would never come home without presents for all of us—even on his own birthday. I ran from that room! Ran from all the things spread out that tore my heart and made me ache worse than any pain I had yet experienced.

I ran out of the house and into the back garden, and there I beat my fists upon an old maple tree. I beat my fists until they ached and blood began to come from the many small cuts; then I flung myself down on the grass and cried—cried ten oceans of tears, for Daddy who should be alive.

I cried for us, who would have to go on living without him. And when my tears were over, and my eyes swollen and red, and hurt from the rubbing, I heard soft footsteps coming to me—my mother.

She sat down on the grass beside me and took my hand in hers. A quarter-horned moon was out, and millions of stars, and the breezes were sweet with the newborn fragrances of spring. For, you see, I found it hard to believe too. Your father is dead, Cathy. I thought you were in the house with the others, and the others thought you were in your room, or with me.

I could tell by her tone, by the very bleakness that had sunk deeper into her eyes.

Flowers in the Attic (Dollanganger)

Someone, some adult, should have warned us that the young, the handsome, and the needed can die, too. How do you say things like this to a mother who looked like fate was pulling her through a knothole and stretching her out thin and flat? Nor did she want to attend to our needs. It was a good thing the kindly neighborhood women came in and took us over, bringing with them food prepared in their own kitchens. Our house filled to overflowing with flowers, with homemade casseroles, hams, hot rolls, cakes, and pies.

They came in droves, all the people who loved, admired, and respected our father, and I was surprised he was so well known. Yet I hated it every time someone asked how he died, and what a pity someone so young should die, when so many who were useless and unfit, lived on and on, and were a burden to society. From all that I heard, and overheard, fate was a grim reaper, never kind, with little respect for who was loved and needed. Spring days passed on toward summer.

And grief, no matter how you try to cater to its wail, has a way of fading away, and the person so real, so beloved, becomes a dim, slightly out-of-focus shadow. One day Momma sat so sad-faced that she seemed to have forgotten how to smile. You are not to find solace in pretending. Do you hear that! Your father is dead, and his soul has gone on to heaven, and you should understand at your age that no one ever has come back from heaven.

Life holds all sorts of surprises, Cathy, and some of them are unpleasant, as you are finding out. But remember always you were blessed to have for almost twelve years a father who thought you were something very special.

She threw me a glance as she rambled through the contents of the jam-packed fridge. You look very much as I did at your age, but you are not like me in your personality.

You are much more aggressive, and much more determined. Your father used to say that you were like his mother, and he loved his mother.

He should have lived to be an old man! Your father will never grow old, or infirm. They sat in the sandbox with small shovels and sand pails.

Over and over again they transferred sand from one pail to another, gibbering back and forth in the strange language only they could understand. Cory and Carrie were fraternal rather than identical twins, yet they were like one unit, very much satisfied with each other.

They built a wall about themselves so they were the castle-keeps, and full guardians of their larder of secrets. They had each other and that was enough. The time for dinner came and went.

She frowned as she wrote in longhand, pausing every so often to lift her head and stare off into space. The twins are growing hungry.

The neighbors have brought us food enough for a week—you could put one of the casseroles in the oven, Cathy. I had the table set, and the casserole heating, and the milk poured, when Momma came in to help.

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It seemed to me that every day after our father had gone, our mother had letters to write, and places to go, leaving us in the care of the neighbor next door. Nothing felt good anymore, nothing.

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Often now my brother and I bathed the twins, put on their pajamas, and tucked them into bed. Then Christopher would hurry off to his room to study, while I would hurry back to my mother to seek a way to bring happiness to her eyes again.

A few weeks later a letter came in response to the many our mother had written home to her parents. Immediately Momma began to cry—even before she had opened the thick, creamy envelope, she cried.

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Clumsily, she used a letter opener, and with trembling hands she held three sheets, reading over the letter three times. All the while she read, tears trickled slowly down her cheeks, smearing her makeup with long, pale, shiny streaks. She had called us in from the backyard as soon as she had collected the mail from the box near the front door, and now we four were seated on the living room sofa.

As I watched I saw her soft fair Dresden face turn into something cold, hard, resolute. A cold chill shivered down my spine. Maybe it was because she stared at us for so long—too long. Then she looked down at the sheets held in her trembling hands, then to the windows, as if there she could find some answer to the question of the letter. Momma was acting so strangely. Why did she look at us so oddly? Finally, she cleared her throat and began to speak, but in a cold voice, totally unlike her customary soft, warm cadence.

She is willing to let us come and live with her. Just what we had been waiting to hear—and we should have been happy. But Momma fell into that moody silence again, and she just sat there staring at us. What was the matter with her?

She seemed on the verge of tears. And I felt sorry, so sorry for poor Momma, without a husband. But thirty-six is so young to die. People have a way of believing nothing terrible will ever happen to them, only to others.

Why, your father and I thought we would grow old together, and we hoped to see our grandchildren before we both died on the same day. Then neither of us would be left alone to grieve for the one who went first. We spent money before we had it. He knew all about poverty. I knew nothing about it. You know how he used to scold me. If Apple Books doesn't open, click the Books app in your Dock. Already have iTunes?

Click I Have iTunes to open it now. The Flowers in the Attic Series: View More by This Author. Description This eBook boxed set contains the previously published bestselling Dollanganger series by V. Customer Reviews Great series. Best book ever. Flowers In the Attic Series. Other Books in This Series. Flowers in the Attic: A Stage Play Flowers in the Attic Petals on the Wind If There Be Thorns Seeds of Yesterday Garden of Shadows Christopher's Diary: Secrets of Foxworth Echoes of Dollanganger Secret Brother