1.26 The Abyss of WonderLand
I let out a smothered scream since I’d thrown my hand over my mouth, like that would stop the terror inside me. I bolted up. My instinct said to run, to head for the door, and to thunder down the stairs in an avalanche of fear, but my feet were frozen. Trembling frozen, if that makes any sense. My mouth was opened, yet I struggled for breath. I thought for a moment that this magic trick, or whatever it was, had emptied all the air from the room, but then I took in a feeble breath, a shallow one, but with enough air to reassure my parched lungs that I could still breathe. I hadn’t somehow been transported into the vacuum of outer space or . . . My mouth opened wider, then closed. My hand had fallen, clutching air. I think I was trying to speak, but what could I say? A horse was standing in my bedroom, looking at me. A horse in an upstairs bedroom, right inside Timothy’s house. A black horse like the one I’d ridden in my dream. I still thought there was some trick to this. I suspected it was like in a magic show when the magician has a box that allows his helper to slip away so he can ram his knife into the box. But there was no disappearing box. The closet was on the other side of the room. The huge picture window, equally far away, was open. I could see out, see past the room and across the grass. A golfer was nearby, striking at his little white ball. “Timothy, how did you get a horse up here?” I asked, pretending to a calm that my racing heart was not feeling. The truth was that I was a mere breath away from screaming, a breath away from hysteria, a breath away from calling 911. The stallion took a step closer, too close if you asked me. Horses had teeth that bit and hooves that stamped or kicked. Horses weighed a thousand pounds. They were unpredictable and dangerous. They . . . this horse had Timothy’s eyes, that strange color: gold, bronze, hazel. Against all wisdom, I reached out and touched the beast. His coat was smooth and soft. I wouldn’t have thought a male horse would have soft fur, but then I’d never touched a horse before, except the one in my dream. But dreams didn’t count, did they? My mother had said she was allergic to horses, so the only horse I’d ever gotten close to was on a carousel. Those shiny steeds had gentle expressions. They were bolted to a metal platform and sentenced to an existence melded to a large metal pole that lifted up and down. Carousel horses weren’t loose like this huge animal. The stallion seemed to like my petting him. He nickered softly. Then he spoke. “I am the pooka from your dreams, Penelope. When it is night, I can carry you on my back if you like. Would you enjoy another ride?” The horse’s lips weren’t moving, but his eyes were fastened on me. They were intelligent eyes, eyes as I’d said that matched the exact hue of Timothy’s. “Are you tame?” I asked. I know that was a strange question with so many exclamations swimming about in my mind: What! How! It’s not possible! I’m imagining this! I’ve fallen asleep! This is a trick! Timothy! The animal gave a quiet horse laugh for my spoken question, then said, I am not tame, except for you. A pooka cannot be tamed except by his fated mate, which is you, Penelope. I shook my head and glared up at the ceiling. “Horses don’t talk. I’m going mad. The stress must have been too much for me,” I exclaimed.
1.25 The Abyss of WonderLand
“I love you as I have not loved any woman for centuries. In fact, never. If you marry me, I will bite you, not hard, just enough to break the skin. That will give you the same span of time as I have left. Then, we will live centuries together.” I would have pulled away if he weren’t blocking my way. I scooted backwards. “You’re serious, then. You think you are a shape changing animal that can become a wild black stallion or a cat or a . . .” “Yes,” he said, nodding his head and looking completely serious. “Would you like me to show you? What would you like me to become? My most prevalent changeover is the stallion you met, but I can be something else if you’d feel better about that.” I shook my head. “I’d feel better if you saw a psychiatrist, Timothy. I know you can afford one.” Ok, that was a cheap shot, but this whole line of conversation was dropping all my hopes into the dumpster. I was going from high on the beginnings of love to ” just get me out of here” — and fast. Timothy let go of my hands and stepped away. “I will change into the stallion, then. You are acquainted with him, but remember, I won’t hurt you.” I couldn’t take my eyes away, spellbound by his air of drama. I didn’t believe him, of course, but there was still the panicky question about what he’d do when his fantasy didn’t materialize. Would he go berserk then, or would he believe he’d actually transformed into an animal? It was called illusional lycanthropy, which I’d learned about through my roommate, Cara. That was where a person thought he could turn into a wolf. Would the psychiatrist call it lycanthropy when his patient thought he could become a horse? Maybe this psychosis was the beginning of schizophrenia? There were meds for that. Perhaps, Timothy could be helped. I saw a brief blurring in the air. Not a color change or a wind. It was just the oddest sensation, like looking in a mirror that rippled, if such a thing were possible. I’d once seen a silly TV movie where the werewolves were changing their shapes. They were human until the moon came out, but then their bodies contorted. Pain wracked them. Their faces turned nightmarish from the agony their bodies were undergoing, all that twisting, bone breaking, and transforming into something they weren’t supposed to be. But that didn’t happen with Timothy. As I said, there was nothing more than a ripple of air, something I’d never seen before and couldn’t really describe. Timothy had been human, standing right in front of me, his eyes focused on me, then, that strange wave-like flash of air, and what was in his place was no longer Timothy, but the black stallion from my dreams.
1.24 The Abyss of WonderLand
He sighed, long and heavy. That sigh told me more than mere words could have. It said that he was afraid of the truth. But I needed to hear it. Unfortunately, he went into silence mode. “How did you get so rich?” I asked. That was a simple question. Perhaps it would bridge whatever horror he was keeping from me. Had he been an assassin for the FBI, a mafia hitman, a jewelry thief? My mind kept turning over possibilities, but not the one he gave me. “I invested wisely, Penelope. That’s the main part, but it also helped that I’ve lived a long time. And that’s the mystery your brain wants to weasel out of me. That’s what I’m afraid to tell you.” “You’re not that old. Did you inherit from your parents to get your starter funds?” “No.” Timothy picked me up and set me down on the bed, then he kneeled down on the carpet in front of it. “I’m going to explain, Penelope. I was hoping to put it off, but I can’t. You need to know now. But promise me, please promise me, that you won’t make a run for it and beg Andrew to take you home. That would be dangerous. No matter what I tell you, promise me, even if you don’t want to see me anymore, that you’ll stay here until it’s safe.” “What you did must be really, really bad if you think I’m going to run from you. Did you kill someone? What did you do that is that horrific? What is your deep, dark secret?” Timothy took my hands in his and searched my eyes. “I promise you that I have not killed anyone, other than during battle, and I’ve never worked with the mafia in any capacity.” “You’re a computer geek who stole from the government or from banks, then?” “Penelope, I can’t explain if you don’t let me. Are you prepared to listen?” I nodded my head, He hadn’t gotten a promise from me not to run if I thought there was a need for it, but I was hoping the secret wasn’t something so dark that I couldn’t accept it or accept him. “Do you remember the special room at the Caldwell Fine Arts Gallery?” Did he mean about the pookas? “Yes. It’s strange. I dreamed about that black stallion. He let me ride him through the moors.” “Yes, I did.” I froze. Was he joking? Was this meant to make me laugh? “You asked me how I became rich, my darling, and I told you that it was from living a long time. A pooka seems to live a very, very long time.” “But you’re not a horse, or a rabbit. I don’t understand. What are you trying to say? Is this a metaphor for something?”
1.23 The Abyss of WonderLand
I sighed again. It wasn’t exactly that. I think it was more that I had so little confidence in myself. Timothy was, as the newspaper had said, “San Jose’s most eligible bachelor,” and I was just a glorified secretary of sorts, one who was not sophisticated, well-traveled, or model gorgeous. I just didn’t fit. His hold on me suddenly tightened, and he squeezed me, then released. “What can I do to make you feel more secure in our relationship, Penelope? Should I get Judy to vouch for me again, to explain that I’m not a playboy or someone who flits through girlfriends like I need to verify my virility. I have nothing to prove. I’m yours. I knew that the moment I saw you and talked with you. You are the person I’ve been waiting for.” He was silent then, not arguing further about my indecision or my fears. I rested my head at the crook of his neck. “I’m not the innocent you think I am, Timothy. I was involved with someone, but he hurt me badly. It is difficult for me to have faith in someone again.” “I know.” Timothy was so calm and so encouraging that I reached forward and pressed my lips to his. He accepted the kiss, then pulled me down into his lap and just held me. I’d never had anyone do that before, or at least not since I was a small child. “My parents loved each other,” I said suddenly, pulling that thought out of the air as if we’d been discussing my childhood. “They were always touching each other: a tap on the shoulder, a pat on the back, or a quick kiss. I remember that so clearly. It’s how I want love to be — an always thing. A surety. “But love isn’t like that anymore. It’s a quickie in the dark, a secret afternoon rendezvous in a hotel room. It’s an addition to the marriage, a casual affair, sometimes a disturbed drama that ends in heartbreak.” “The Sanders have a loving marriage,” Timothy said with a quiet, comforting voice. “And that’s exactly what I want.” “You say that now, but you’d get tired of me. I don’t belong in your realm. I’m not a model. I’m not sophisticated. I don’t know how to be the wife you need, one who can deal with CEO’s or class rich businessmen from other countries.” Timothy dabbed a kiss on my forehead, then across my left cheek, the one facing him. “That’s what you don’t understand, my darling. You are exactly the person I want you to be. If you feel that you lack certain qualifications, you can get that experience at my side. I’ll hire tutors for foreign languages or for anything else you want if that’s important to you. But none of that matters to me. It’s the essence inside you that has brought me to my knees. I love you. Simply. Completely. Forever.” How many women ever found a guy who would say that to them. I was lucky, and I knew it. Timothy was holding me as if I were fragile, as if this were the perfect moment, well, almost perfect since I kept sticking my nose up in the air and saying more or less that I wasn’t worthy or that I didn’t trust in him enough to make this a permanent relationship. I lay in his lap, surrounded by the warmth of his body, by the strength of him, and the lips that occasionally kissed whatever part of me he could reach. I was thinking, turning it all over in my mind. Why did I resist so hard? What was causing my indecision? But I knew. Some instinct inside me told me to journey cautiously, a subconscious warning that there were untold secrets. Timothy was too perfect. It was probably five minutes or more before I finally spoke. “I want to believe in you, Timothy. I want to give you my heart, but something inside me says that there are things you’re not telling me, skeletons in your closet that might break my heart. Am I right?”
1.22 The Abyss of WonderLand
“And how or what is that?” I asked, hoping he’d suggest something that would permanently halt the blitz he was talking about. “Marry me.” “Do you ever stop?” I whirled about and rushed over to the window, half-expecting to see newsmen in the yard, but there was no one there. In fact there was nobody on the velvet green of the golf course. My room might not have the sliding glass door vista with a balcony that Timothy’s room had, but I still had a nice view. I was looking at more green than I’d seen since my friends and I picnicked at the Japanese Friendship Garden. “I usually get what I want in the end. And what I want is you at my side. Willingly, of course.” I turned to look at Timothy. His words were frightening, but he was grinning ear to ear, which told me that he was mostly joking, I think. “Thank you for adding the willingly bit. It still feels a little like a kidnapping, bringing me here, flooding me with new clothes and fancy shampoos that you’d prearranged to fulfill my every desire.” I might have been laying it on a little thick, but this whole thing was a bit spooky. When had Simone done all this? “No pressure. If I’d been wanting to bully you, I’d have insisted you join me in my room.” That was the first time Timothy had ever made a sexual reference to the future of our relationship. With a bed in the room, and the way I was stranded in this rich person’s world without a single soul who knew me, the goosebumps ran up and down my spine with a little Twilight Zone music playing quietly in my ear. “Come here,” Timothy ordered, spreading out his arms so I could walk into them if I felt like doing so. “Please.” I didn’t want to. I stood there staring at him, reassessing, I suppose. I think I wanted to march into his embrace, but my feet were frozen. My body said wait. “I will never hurt you, Penelope. Not physically or emotionally. I am prepared to wait until you are ready. I suppose I shouldn’t have said what I did. I see that it frightened you. I didn’t mean it that way. I was trying to show you that I wasn’t pressuring you. I guess I failed at the subtleties. Andrew will take you back to your apartment anytime you ask.” That was the key to unlocking my feet. They moved me forward. I buried myself in Timothy’s hold, but he kept his arms loose. No firmness in his grip. It was if he sensed I was only one step from running away, screaming as I bolted down that gorgeous staircase, out into the green of golf country. “You are not a prisoner. I offer you a relaxing stay with me, and I will not again suggest anything else.” I sighed. “It’s just that everything has happened too quickly. I trust you . . .” “But you don’t know me, right?”
1.21 The Abyss of WonderLand
Chapter Eight Penelope Our late breakfast was delish. We were given a blueberry compote for the pancakes, plus offerings of three different syrups, whip cream, nuts, and fresh fruit, which neither of us wanted. Timothy had told Chef Stevens that the eggs were to be well done and with bacon bits. It was all yummy. Afterwards, the tour continued. I finally got to see the room that Timothy had chosen for me to occupy. It was not as fancy or as big as Timothy’s room, and there was no balcony to linger on with a cup of coffee, but the bathroom was exactly like his. It had a whirlpool tub and was stocked with shampoo, cream rinse and all the makeup that Simone thought I might want, most of which I didn’t use. After studying this amazing luxury, I explored the closet. There were sundresses, fancy dresses, skirt suit sets, and even three formal gowns, plus a winter coat, raincoat, and two sweaters. A fluffy robe was supplied, and at the bottom of the closet were about twelve different pairs of shoes, including a pair of fuzzy bunny-eared house slippers. “Unbelievable!” I said and withdrew laughing. I’d seen my simple bag with the one outfit of spare clothing, placed on the table beside the bed, probably brought upstairs by Andrew. It looked entirely out of place in the tastefully decorated white room with its brand-new, pale blue bedspread. A swank desk was positioned on the opposite side of the room. It and the other furniture were all built out of genuine walnut, as was the bookcase that already held an assortment of books. “Whatever you want can be added to the room, of course,” Timothy said. “Or it can be ripped apart and redesigned, as you’d prefer.” “For a week stay?” I snorted, most rudely, but really, this was all too much. The fact that Timothy had supplied me with a full bathroom of goodies plus designer clothes was almost overload. “No, really, it’s all wonderful,” I said. “Perfect, actually.” I moseyed over to the wooden chest of drawers. Inside, in the top, I discovered all the underthings I’d ever need . . . for months. I poked into the other drawers and located tee shirts, long sleeved shirts, jeans and trousers rolled up so they wouldn’t wrinkle, plus socks and pajamas. In the bottom drawer, I found the bathing suits that Timothy had mentioned. Throughout my inspection, Timothy deposited himself in a chair and watched me glancing through my clothing options. “Do you approve of Simone’s taste?” he asked. I turned around to look at him. “Timothy, why did you do all this? How did you know I’d need to stay with you?” He smiled broadly, untangled his sturdy and most attractive legs, and said, “I hoped you’d visit me at some point in time. Of course, I never foresaw that it would happen this quickly. I hadn’t prepared you for the onslaught. I’m sorry about that. “But when a person has money, a lot of it, he is immediately prey to the media. I should have realized that you’d get roped into it, but I thought I had more time. I guess it was inevitable. The jealousies of the society world will be abuzz with speculations and investigations into your personal affairs. Again, I’m really sorry for that. “But there is one way to curb their bloodlust . . .”
1.20 The Abyss of WonderLand
The staircase looked like a work of art fit for Timothy’s gallery, (if he had staircases on display.) The marbling of the steps was exquisite. It seemed rather dangerous to me, however, since such a surface was precarious to ungraceful feet like mine. I was relieved to find that some kind of anti-slip treatment had been applied to each step to increase the grip. I commented on it, and Timothy nodded. “Yes, it wouldn’t be much fun to tumble down from the top. I almost selected no-slip mats, but I liked this solution better since we can still see the texture of the stone. The staircase was a winding one, with a handrail that provided slim spindles of black metal and a wooden runner at the top to reassure people lacking stability. To say that it was elegant and serviceable was a given. It was also a wow! So far, I’d admired everything about the house, I mean . . . the mansion. Timothy showed me his room first, a space nearly the size of my entire apartment. A two-seater leather couch, the back draped with a red plaid blanket for cozy sits, was perched against one wall with a table on both sides for holding the two manly lamps. The bed was covered with a simple white bedspread. No throw pillows, which was too bad. A bit of color might have spiced it up. The huge window/door looked out onto the front yard, giving a view of the golf course. I could see a lovely balcony overlooking the expanse of green. The balcony held a table and chairs, provisioned for those who wanted to sit and admire the golfers (or the scenery.) “Do you golf?” I asked. Timothy shrugged. “Only if it serves a purpose in working with a client,” He sighed. “Although I don’t embarrass myself out there, it’s not a sport I find particularly enthralling.” “Oh, which is the reason you bought a house on a golf course?” I kidded. “I bought this place because it was a good value for my money, met my needs, and acts as a suitable entertainment venue for fat cats who might like to invest in various projects I’m working on.” “Okay, perhaps some other time I can ask about those projects, but . . .” “Anything you want to know, my darling. It is my desire that one day soon we will have no more secrets between us.” “You have secrets? Like what?” “Right now, my secret is that my stomach is pealing the sound of its hunger. Shall we meet Chef Stevens in the private dining room?” I nodded, but as we walked, I couldn’t help saying, “You have a private and a nonprivate dining room?” “We could also eat out in the courtyard or on my balcony or . . .” I shook my head and placed a finger over his mouth, “Sh. I’m already on overload, Timothy.” Timothy She was on overload? My senses were reeling from having her in close proximity. We’d been standing in my bedroom, the bed right behind us, and the thought of it being so close . . . Patience. That is what Andrew kept telling me. I must be patient, And, I needed to tell her. But it still didn’t feel like the right time. We were too new. I’d almost told her in the gallery, and then Simone had interrupted. That wouldn’t have been a good place anyway. I don’t know why I thought I should do it there. Screaming at the opening of my gallery. Not appropriate. But, frankly, no place seemed right because the moment I revealed my secret, Penelope might leave me, and then I’d never see her again.
1.19 The Abyss
He cracked a smile and looked slightly less tense. I could see my opinion about his home was more important than it should be. Who was I to have an opinion on such matters? “I have several swimsuits in your size. You can dive in whenever you like,” he told me. I halted and turned to face him. “You have women’s bathing suits? Why is that? Do you have a lot of female visitors arriving here daily?” Okay, so I was suddenly bitten by the jealousy bug, but the idea of Timothy romancing me while he was entertaining a whole kingdom of model types really irked. His hand shot up. “Whoa, Penelope, you know better than that. I have swimsuits in your size because I hoped you’d visit. Only in your size, my dear. In fact, when we head upstairs, you will see an entire room with clothing for you, all chosen by the wondrous Simone. She said it was great fun, by the way, because you are always so appreciative and easy to please.” “So, Simone has been here?” “Simone helps me out with many things, but not the one I see in your worried brain. Believe me, Simone has no interest in me, nor I in her.” “Because she’s a lesbian?” He coughed in surprise, then shook his head and looked off into the distance. Not meeting my eyes, he responded, “You’d have to ask Simone about that. Her love life is none of my business,” he said with a bit of a frown. “Nor mine. Sorry. It’s only that she’s so beautiful, and . . .” Timothy shook his head a second time. “Did you not read the entire newspaper article? Like the part where the photography labeled you: “Venus clothed in a mermaid dress.” I scoffed. “Hyperbole. That was meant to sell newspapers, not to be a stated fact.” “No. You’re wrong, my Cherie. It is exactly how I felt when I first saw you in that dress. Actually, you represent a whole score of goddesses. The many faces and postures of my Penelope.” I was tired of the conversation. I wished Timothy would stop praising me. I was just short of plain. Why did he always sing my praises? Was Simone that magical with her transformations? “Okay, I’ll stop,” he said, scuffing his foot like a little boy. “Your face is already blooming in reds. Shall I escort you upstairs to see the rest of the house?” I nodded, not daring to say anything more. How did Timothy always know my mood changes? Was my face that transparent?
1.18 The Abyss of WonderLand
He chuckled again, but this time, he sounded sort of anxious. Was it that important what I thought? We walked through the grandiose double doors. Inside the house was a grand entry, all in muted colors, with a fresh bouquet of assorted flowers on a side stand. The floors were probably not real marble, but they looked like it. Toward the right, a grand staircase rose upwards into a second story like shades of Gone with the Wind. Timothy, not saying a word, took my hand, and led me into a living room. He informed me that there were three of living rooms, one for formal social occasions, one for sitting back and smooching in front of a big screen, as he put it, and a third for business meetings. I saw all three: each living room had a fireplace and chairs that looked so comfortable that if you sat down, you’d never want to get up. We continued the tour into the kitchen. Two employees stood there, giving a stiff nod with a smile in our direction. The one in a white chef’s uniform informed Timothy that a meal could be served whenever it was convenient for us. We were having roast beef, potatoes, and asparagus, with a butter lettuce salad. He added that there were also alternates: mushroom raviolis and butternut squash soup. “We haven’t had breakfast yet,” Timothy said. “Could we hold lunch and get some scrambled eggs and pancakes?” I gave Timothy a small smile for that, but I actually wasn’t sure I could eat. My stomach was already filled with a thousand butterflies, all complaining about the size of Timothy’s house. I glanced about, noting the beautiful and obviously new appliances. Even the dishwasher was shiny, as if someone had just polished it. The countertops were marbled with a tasteful stone of light browns and creams. The cupboards were walnut-hued or real wood, possibly. The refrigerator, unlike mine in my smallish apartment, looked like it was capable of holding food sufficient for an entire soccer team, plus their coaches. And the size of the kitchen — oh my! School cafeterias weren’t that big. Timothy, his hand now on my back, pushed me gently forward. “Ready to see the backyard?” Of course, I nodded. When in WonderLand, what else is there to do but admire the scenery? The walkway was stonework smoothed with a shiny finish that didn’t seem to be slippery. Plants everywhere were in full bloom. The gardener had arranged the pink fuchsia, slightly darker azaleas, and white hydrangeas perfectly in a stunning arrangement that looked professional. And then there was the pool, Olympic sized with a jacuzzi on one side. “You like to swim?” I asked. “Everyday. This is my gym,” “I should have brought my suit,” I mused. “I love swimming, and your house is lovely, Timothy.”
1.17 The Abyss of WonderLand
We were driving on the Capitol Expressway, or rather Andrew was. We’d already left the glass and concrete buildings of the city behind and were now invading the area of the strip malls. We’d passed Little Saigon with its colorful Vietnamese decorated shops and restaurants. I’d hardly noticed, too enwrapped with my conversation with Timothy. I stared out the window in awe. Andrew was taking us into an area with rolling hills, housing developments, and lots of gorgeous trees. The traffic had thinned. Nobody was out walking. Where were all the mothers with carriages, the old men playing chess, the children screaming on their slides and bars or in the sand with miniature buckets? “Where are we going? Are we leaving San Jose?” Okay, I wasn’t panicking. I knew Timothy (and Andrew) weren’t kidnapping me, but it was an odd sensation to be so far from home without a known destination. Heading for San Franciso had been completely different. I’d been prepared for that. But this trip was frankly nerve-racking. “Relax, my darling. My house is only about ten miles from yours. Not that far. We’re almost there. It’s in the foothills inside a gated community with a golf course and various other athletic activities. I think you’ll like it.” “A house? Are you serious, Timothy? I thought you lived alone.” “Yes, it’s a very lonely house. It needs a cat, the one we were going to go pick out, and, you, of course. A few minutes later, we passed through the gate, one with a single horizontal white pole like at a train crossing. On the side of it was a huge emerald, green sign with an elegant horse sketched in black. In fancy script the sign announced: Silver Falls Country Club. Timothy was waved through, no ID required. I guess he and Andrew were well known since Timothy said he lived inside its boundaries. The guard hardly looked at either of them. Maybe riding in a limo had something to do with that. How many other residents drove about in one? On both sides of the street were the greens and in the distant eucalyptus trees twenty to forty feet in height. Palm trees were scattered everywhere, doing their scenic thing. We passed a club house, then a small lake with an incredible waterfall. Timothy smiled as I oohed and aahed over how beautiful it all was. Andrew turned down a side street and then drove into a circular driveway. The house where he’d stopped was humongous — Mediterranean style in a soft beige color and artistically beautiful, but a monster-sized mansion. “No. You can’t live here. This is gigantic! You’d need twenty kids and several wives plus the staff of a king or a president. It’s too much!’ Timothy laughed, but it was a laugh tinged with worry. “If you don’t like it, we’ll sell it, Penelope. As to having twenty kids. I think that’s a bit too much. Having several wives is illegal, even if I wanted them, which I don’t. As to the staff. Yes, I have caretakers, gardeners, and a personal chef. But, well, come see. I’m sure you’ll let me know what you think,”