Shooting Stars: Cinnamon/Ice/Rose/Honey

Shooting Stars: Cinnamon/Ice/Rose/Honey

by V. C. Andrews

Paperback(Mass Market Paperback - Omnibus Edition)

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Cinnamon...She escaped her family's turmoil by dreaming of imaginary worlds. But it's her talent for the theater that gives Cinnamon a truly escape.
Ice...To her mother's dismay, she was a silent wallflower, not a social butterfly. Now, her secret gift — her solid-gold singing voice — may become her saving grace.
Rose...When she danced, she could dream — and when her father's secrets threatened to destroy her world, a most unlikely person gives Rose the courage to follow her heart.
Honey...Raised on her strict grandfather's farm, her natural-born talent for the violin gave her a new life — and love with a handsome soul mate. Will a shocking revelation shatter her newfound happiness?

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780743449021
Publisher: Pocket Books
Publication date: 11/26/2002
Series: Shooting Stars Series
Edition description: Omnibus Edition
Pages: 656
Sales rank: 660,829
Product dimensions: 6.56(w) x 11.02(h) x 1.10(d)

About the Author

One of the most popular authors of all time, V.C. Andrews has been a bestselling phenomenon since the publication of Flowers in the Attic, first in the renowned Dollanganger family series, which includes Petals on the Wind, If There Be Thorns, Seeds of Yesterday, and Garden of Shadows and now Beneath the Attic, Out of the Attic, and Shadows of Foxworth as part of the fortieth anniversary celebration. The family saga continues with Christopher’s Diary: Secrets of Foxworth, Christopher’s Diary: Echoes of Dollanganger, and Secret Brother. V.C. Andrews has written more than seventy novels, which have been translated into twenty-five foreign languages. Join the conversation about the world of V.C. Andrews at

Date of Birth:

June 6, 1923

Date of Death:

December 19, 1986

Place of Birth:

Portsmouth, Virginia

Place of Death:

Virginia Beach, Virginia

Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1: Darkness Descends

"What's wrong? Why have you come for me?" I asked her.

Once I had arrived, she had simply started out of the principal's office and begun her stomp through the corridor to the exit for the parking lot. As usual she expected me to trail along like some obedient puppy.

She continued to walk, ignoring my questions. She always fixed herself on her purpose or destination as if she were a guided missile. Getting her to pause, turn or stop required the secret abort code only her own private demon knew and was reluctant to relinquish or reveal. You just had to wait her out, calm yourself down and be patient as difficult as that was. Grandmother Beverly could spread droplets of poison frustration on everyone around her like a lawn sprinkler.

But this was different. She had ripped me out of school and sent my head spinning. I would not be denied.


"Just let's get out of here," she said sharply, not looking at me. She lowered her voice and added, "I don't want anyone hearing about this, if I can help it."

My heart was racing now, galloping alongside my unbridled imagination.

"Your foolish father," she muttered. "I warned him. No one can say I didn't warn him."

We passed through the doors and headed toward her vintage Mercedes sedan.

"Grandmother," I cried, planting my feet firmly in the parking lot. "I'm not taking another step until you tell me exactly what is going on."

She paused finally and turned to me, hoisting those small shoulders like a cobra preparing for a deadly strike.

"Your mother has gone mad and you're the only one who can talk to her. I certainly can't. Of course, I can't reach your father," she said, "and there's no time to wait for him anyway. I don't want to call an ambulance if I can help it."


"You know how one thing leads to another and in this community there's enough gossip about this family as it is," she continued. "Maybe you can get her to stop."

"Stop what?"

"I can't even begin to describe it," she said, wagging her head as if her hair had been soaked. "Let's just get home," she insisted and hurried to get into the car. Now that she had sharpened my curiosity and raised the level of my anxiety like mercury in a thermometer, I rushed to get in as well.

Once I was seated, my head bowed with the panic I felt.

"I must tell you," she continued after starting the engine and pulling away from the school parking lot, "I have always felt your mother was unbalanced. She had tendencies I spotted from the first moment I set eyes on her. I warned Taylor about her minutes after he had brought her around for me and your grandfather to meet her.

"She was coming to see us for the first time, but she wore no makeup, draped herself in what looked to be little more than a black sheet, kept her hair miles too long like you do and had enough gloom in her eyes to please a dozen undertakers. She could have worked constantly as a professional mourner. I could count on my fingers how many times I've seen a smile on that face, and even if she did smile at me, it was the smile of a madwoman, her eyes glittering like little knives, her wry lips squirming back and into the corners of her cheeks like worms in pain. How many times have I asked myself what he could possibly have seen in such a woman?"

I had heard a similar lecture before.

"Maybe he was in love, Grandmother."

"Love," she spat as if the word put a bitter taste in her mouth. "How could he be in love with her?"

She glanced at me and then put her eyes back on the road. She was a good driver for someone in her early seventies, I thought, but then again, she was good at everything she did. Failure wasn't in her personal vocabulary.

"Your mother was certainly never what I would call beautiful. I'm not saying she doesn't have pleasing features, because she does, but she does nothing to enhance them. In fact, what she does is diminish them just like you do with that silly makeup you wear.

"Of course, it didn't help that she had the personality of a pallbearer. Believe me," she said, "that takes the light from your eyes, the glow from your smile. It's no wonder to me that she never made any friends. Who wants to listen to the music she likes or read those poems about loss and death and insanity? She has no social graces, doesn't care about nice clothes or jewelry. She was never interested in your father's work or helped him meet business associates."

"Then what do you think it was, Grandmother," I asked dryly, "a magic spell?"

"You think you're being facetious, I know, but let me tell you that woman can cast spells of sorts. I'll tell you what it was," she said, after a short pause, never wanting to admit to not knowing something. "She was probably his first love affair. Men, foolish men, often mistake sexual pleasure for love. Sex is like good food. You can eat it with anyone, Cinnamon. Remember that," she ordered.

"Then what's love?" I asked her.

"Love is commitment, responsibility, dedication. It requires maturity."

"Sounds boring," I said. "If that's love, I'll take good food."

She opened her mouth wide and glared at me, shaking her head.

"You'd better be careful of your thoughts," she admonished. "Insanity can be inherited, you know. The genes from our side of the family just might not be enough."

I wanted to laugh at her, but I kept thinking about what awaited me and how it might make her right.

No one could tell anything about the inhabitants of our home by simply driving up, especially this time of the day. The front faced east so that all morning the windows were turned into glittering slabs, impenetrable crystals, twisting, turning and reflecting the sunlight. In fact, if it wasn't a day for the gardeners, and today wasn't, there was a look of abandonment about the place. Our cars were always left in the rear, out of sight. Two tall weeping willows on the northeast end painted long shadows over one side of the structure, adding to the sense of desertion.

There was a swing under a maple tree to the right on the west side. I noticed it was going back and forth, which made me smile. Anyone looking at it would be convinced there was a ghost sitting on it. I imagined one myself, one of the Demerest girls, smiling.

Fall had just lifted its head and begun to blow the cooler winds over the landscape, waving a magical hand to change the greens into yellows, browns and oranges. The grass, however, seemed happier, waking to heavier dews every morning. It was a deeper green. I loved the aroma of freshly cut lawns, the freshness traveled into my brain and washed away the cobwebs and shadows from my darker thoughts.

As Grandmother Beverly turned up the drive, she finally revealed the situation in detail.

"I was in the living room, watching a good Cary Grant movie, when I heard her humming in the hallway. What is she doing downstairs? I wondered. The doctor had specifically told her that if she was going home, she was to remain in bed, resting, getting stronger. I offered to be her nurse, to march up and down those stairs as many times as need be, so she couldn't use that as any excuse.

"But your mother never listens to wiser voices. She hears only what she wants to hear. Secret voices out of the shadows," she muttered.

"Anyway, I went to the family room doorway. At first, I didn't see her. Then I heard her talking to her plants."

She paused, smirked and shook her head.

Mommy often spoke aloud to her plants as if they were her little children. She said when she was sad, which was far too often, the leaves were limp and dreary, but when she was happy, they were crisp and alive.

Anyway, I didn't think much of that.

"She's always talking to flowers, Grandmother. Many people do that."



"She was standing there in the hallway, watering those plants naked, and she was using a bed pan to water them," she said, her voice rising. "Who even knows if it was water?"

I felt the blood drain a bit from my face and looked at the house as we started around back.

"But that wasn't the horror of it, Cinnamon. 'What are you doing, Amber?' I asked, and she turned slowly toward me, a crazed smile on her face."

Grandmother stopped the car and turned to me before shutting off the engine.

"Over her stomach, with a stick of red lipstick, she had drawn the outline of a baby, a fetus!" she cried with a grimace. "I screamed, 'Oh, my God!' I nearly fainted at the sight, but she continued to smile at me and then went back to watering the plants, humming and watering.

"So, I got into the car and went for you."

I swallowed back the rock that had risen into my throat and got out of the car. All I could think of was Ophelia's mad scene in Hamlet. With my head down, my feet feeling like they had turned into marshmallows, I charged toward the rear entrance and quickly went inside, through the rear entryway and down the corridor to the stairway, gazing in each room to be sure Mommy wasn't downstairs.

Then I pounded up the stairs and paused when I reached the top. I could hear her humming and talking to herself. It was coming from the room that had been set up to be the nursery. Slowly, I approached it and looked in. It was just as Grandmother Beverly had described: Mommy was naked, the imaginary baby crudely drawn over her stomach in her apple red lipstick.

She was folding and unfolding the same little blanket at the side of the bassinet.

"Mommy," I said.

She stopped humming and looked at me.

"Cinnamon, you're home. Good. I was having labor pains this morning. It won't be long now," she said.

"Labor pains? But Mommy — "

"It's expected, I know, but it's still very difficult, Cinnamon. Most wonderful things are difficult," she muttered, "and worth the pain," she added with a new

How could she have forgotten she had just had a miscarriage? It was so sad, so tragic, I thought, and then: Maybe that's why she's forgotten. She doesn't want to remember. She and I have done so much pretending in this house. This comes easily to her.

"Mommy, you've got to return to bed."

"I will as soon as I do this. I want everything to be ready when we come home with little Sacha," she said, gazing around the nursery.

"Come back to bed, Mommy," I said, moving to her. I gently took her by the elbow. She smiled at me and put the blanket in the bassinet.

"My grown-up little lady, taking care of me. You're going to be such a big help with Sacha, I know. I'm as happy for you as I am for Daddy and me," she said. "Did you know I always wished I had a sister, especially a little sister who would look up to me for everything?

"Sacha's going to idolize you, Cinnamon. She'll want to do everything you do just the way you do it, I'm sure. You mustn't be short with her or impatient," she warned, her face full of concern. "Always remember she's just a little girl who doesn't understand. Explain things; make sure you and she always talk and never hide anything from each other. A sister can be your best friend in the whole world, even more than your mother. I'm sure mine would have been."

She started out with me, but she didn't stop talking.

"It's all right for her to be a better friend to you than I am. I'll never be jealous of the two of you, honey. I realize you will have more in common with her than you will with me. You don't ever have to worry about that."

"Please get into bed, Mommy," I said when we entered the master bedroom.

Mommy and Daddy had a king-size, oak four-post bed with an oversized headboard on which two roses with their stems crossed were embossed. Mommy loved roses. The comforter and the pillow cases had a pattern of red roses, which made the room cheerful. When they were younger and more affectionate toward each other, I used to think of their bed as a bed that promised its inhabitants magical love, a bed that filled their heads with wonderful dreams when they slept afterward, both of them, smiling, contented, warm and secure, those four posts like powerful arms protecting them against any of the evil spirits that sought to invade their contentment.

I pulled back the comforter and she got into the bed, slowly lowering her head to the pillow. She was still smiling.

"I want you to help take care of her right from the start, honey. You'll be her second mother, just as Agatha Demerest was a second mother to her younger brothers and sisters," she said. "Remember?"

Mommy was referring to a story she and I had actually created during one of our earliest visits to the attic.

When I was a little more than fourteen, she decided one day that we should explore the house. She had been up in the attic before, of course, and told me that shortly after she and Daddy had moved into the house, she had discovered an old hickory chest with hinges so rusted, they fell off when she lifted the lid. The chest was filled with things that went back to the 1800s. She had been especially intrigued by the Demerest family pictures. Most were faded so badly you could barely make out the faces, but some of them were still in quite good condition.

Daddy, who works on Wall Street and puts a monetary value on everything in sight, decided that much of the stuff could be sold. He took things like the Union army uniform, old newspapers, a pair of spurs and a pistol holster to New York to be valued and later placed in a consignment store, but Mommy wouldn't let him take the pictures.

"I told him family pictures don't belong in stores and certainly don't belong on the walls of strangers. These pictures should never leave this house and they never will," she vowed to me.

She and I would look at the women and the men and try to imagine what they must have been like, whether they were sad or happy people, whether they suffered or not. We did our role-playing and I would assume the persona of one of the women in a picture. Mommy would often be Jonathan Demerest, speaking in a deep voice. That was when we came up with the story of Agatha Demerest having to take on the role of mother when her mother died of smallpox.

But Mommy was talking about it now as if it were historical fact and we had no concrete information upon which to base our assumptions, except for the dates carved in a couple of tombstones.

"Okay, Mommy," I said. I was thinking about washing the lipstick drawing off her stomach, but I was afraid even to mention it.

I have to try to get in touch with Daddy, I thought.

"Oh," Mommy suddenly cried. "Oh, oh, oh, Cinnamon, it's happening again!" She clutched her stomach. "It's getting worse. I'm going into labor. You'd better call the doctor, call an ambulance, call your father," she cried.

She released a chilling scream that shook my very bones.


I didn't know what to do. I ran from the room. Grandmother Beverly was already at the top of the stairway.

"What is it?" she asked, her hand on her breast, her face whiter than ever.

"She thinks she's in labor. I think she really is in pain!"

"Oh dear, dear. We'll have to call the doctor. I was hoping you could calm her down, get her to sleep and be sane," she said. Another scream from Mommy spun her around and sent her fleeing down the stairway.

Mommy continued to moan.

I glanced at my watch. Daddy had to be at his desk. Why did Grandmother Beverly say before that she certainly couldn't reach him? He should be easy to reach.

I rushed to my room and tapped out the number for his office quickly. It rang and rang until his secretary finally picked up and announced his company.

"I need to speak to my father immediately," I practically screamed.

Mommy was crying out even louder now, her shouts of pain echoing down the hallway and through the house.

"He's not here at the moment," the secretary said.

"But he has to be. The market is still open."

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Where is he?"

"He didn't leave a number," she said.

"It's an emergency," I continued.

"Let me see if he answers his page," she relented. Why hadn't she said that first? I wondered. I held on, my heart pounding a drum in my ears.

"I'm sorry," she said. "He's not responding."

"Keep trying and if you get him, tell him my mother is being taken to the hospital."

"The hospital? Oh, dear. Oh," she said. "Yes, I'll keep trying."

I hung up just as Grandmother Beverly came up the stairs, looking more her age.

"The doctor has called the ambulance," she said. She swallowed and continued. "It's no use. She has to return to the hospital. When I told him what she had done, he said he'd have her brought to the mental ward."

"Mental ward?"

"Of course. Look at her behavior. That's exactly where she belongs," she added with that damnable look of self-satisfaction I hated so much.

She put her hands over her ears, but Mommy's heart-wrenching scream drove Grandmother Beverly back down the stairs to wait.

I was hoping it would drive her out of our lives.

Copyright © 2001 by the Vanda General Partnership

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Shooting Stars: Cinnamon/Ice/Rose/Honey 3.9 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 21 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Wonderful read!!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Love vc andrews novels
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
It's totally normal to think like this! But if you tell your mom or your friend, I'm sure they'll be totally cool about giving you some pads ;) Every girl goes through this at some point, and sometimes, you can have really good convos about them (sonds weird, I know. Just trust me.) And for the public speaking thing, just remember that no matter how scared you are, so is everyone else! They just can hide it a bit better. If you want to get rid of the blood on your clothes, soak them in COLD water (with ice cubes if possible) for about a half hour, then scrub out all the remaining blood, and you're golden! I've gone through the same exact thing you are, so really, don't worry about it, you'll be great! And if you need any more help, don't hesitate to ask me! -Your understanding buddy, Rea-
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Alright. There's nothing to be ashamed of. Every girl experiences it. It's just part of the cycle. With your parents, their bound to find out, just tell your mom. With the bleeding alot, you just have a heavy period. The best thing to do is to avoid leakage, keep your legs closed at all times. Like when you're sleeping, don't have one leg open and the other straight, it ruins clothes. v.v Though, with the school part, just check your pa<_>d every time you can. And if you have cramps, either take painkillers or get some pepermint exract and put some in a cut of water and drink it. It helps alot! Also, keep track of when your period ends and when it's gonna come back. Like, use a calender. Mark off the day it came, and then count three weeks after and mark that as the day you're gonna start it again. And you don't have to write on the calender 'period ends' & 'period starts' just simply put a star or x on the box. Just be brave and tel your mom. She either will get excited that her daughter is growing up or mad that you didn't tell her. But, she'll be supportive and tell you all the things you need to know about periods. Hope this helped. c:
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Sorry dont know just be brave
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
That helped alot!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
The penalty of crossing the border sllows us to kill you. And im not one to forgive and forget. Im also only at the clan because starclan sent me to protect it. And i intend to..
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Bug off
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
All yal are major life seekerd
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Guest More than 1 year ago
I read the books Rose and Honey and since I can't comment on them seperatly I'll come here. Rose is a girl who's father is involved in a tragic accident in the beginning of the book. Soon his world of lies comes to the surface and Rose is swept up into a life of somewhat luxury. Rose's mother, like in all the books when the poor mother's get money, becomes distant from her daughter. This causes Rose to dance and soon she is discovered and accepted to a dancing school in New York City. Rose is an ok book. It really leaves a lot of loose ends and I never really understand what happened to her mother. Honey is an excellent book. She's a girl who lives in Ohio with her parent's on their grandfather's farm. She is very close to her uncle, who in the beginning dies in a plane crash. Honey has always had a knack for playing the violin and when her uncle dies it seems like her only escape from the pain. Honey is tutored by a private teacher and ends up hitting it off with one of his students. While all of this is going on Honey is being chastised and ridiculed by her grandfather, a religious zealot who also resides on the farm. In the end Honey is accepted to a prestigious performing arts school in New York City where no one can hurt her heart again. Honey is an excellent book that shows how a family bond can pull even the most stubborn people together. It is a must read.
Guest More than 1 year ago
The story is about four girls trying to make careers out of their outstanding talents; singing, daincing, acting, and playing musical instuments. When they are all accepted to a highly respected school, they weren't prepared for what was in store for them. They found frightening secrets about their administrator's life. This book was very good and I never wanted to put it down. V.C. Andrews may very well be my new favorite author.
Parker Ruiz More than 1 year ago
I have been reading VC Andrews books since flowers in the attic. I have been dissapointed in a few books by Andrew but this one by far is the worse one. it goes on and on about nothing. the entire contents of interesting information could have been put in a pamphlet. Very disappointing.
vdhrbh More than 1 year ago
it was ok, not one of the better ones