1.16 The Abyss of WonderLand
“Timothy, I have work to do, and this is ridiculous. No one is going to bother . . .” He placed a finger over my mouth. “Trust me, please.” I sighed. “Okay about the day off, if Mr. Sanders agrees, but . . .” “Penelope, Andrew has the limo and is waiting for us. Pack a bag of essentials, and let’s get out of here. It would be better to beat the rush.” I thought the whole situation was laughable. The worry that newsmen would attack for a story was about equal to flying saucers landing in the middle of the city. But, I scrambled to toss in a few necessaries, grabbed another set of clothing and dashed into the shower. I don’t think Timothy expected me to take the time to do that, but I was absolutely not going to go with him in an old tee and sweat pants coated in sweat drippings. When I came out, duffle bag packed and my hair clean but wet, I found him pacing back and forth like the zoo tiger we’d seen. Timothy growled out something that was in the mumble range, then herded me to the door. I stopped, checked that all the lights were out, then locked up. We took the elevator downstairs, then climbed into the limo. Just as Andrew was pulling out of the parkway, a local news station van pulled up. I figured it had nothing to do with me, but as I looked back, I saw another one. “Is there a total lack of world news? How is this possible? Why would anyone think I’d be worth a moment of their time?” Andrew snorted, a half smothered chuckle. I glanced at him, but all I saw was the back of his head. Timothy reached forward and put up the window between the driver and us. “You didn’t have to do that. I like Andrew.” Timothy smiled. “Yeah, he’s a good guy, but I’d prefer that no one intrude on our conversation. I need to explain some things that I don’t think you quite understand.” “Okay. But what did Mr. Sanders say about my playing hooky today?” “He was fine with it, Penelope. He said to take today and next week off.” “Wow. He’s not firing me, is he?” “He won’t fire you, Penelope. Ed seems extraordinarily pleased with your work. He may even give you another raise. He mentioned moving you up into a higher position when I spoke to him a few days ago.” “I don’t have seniority. He can’t do that.”
1.15 The Abyss of WonderLand
“Probably because more people are interested in romance than in a bunch of old paintings,” Timothy chuckled. “However, nothing the man said is untrue, so he can’t be sued for liable.” “Yeah, well, how about how he let the cat out of the bag and invaded our privacy? Nobody at the office knew about us, and I thought we had time to ourselves before . . . well, something like this.” Timothy sighed heavily. “It would have come out anyway, darling. Maybe in a way this is beneficial. Now you have no choice but to come to my place and spend time with me.” I laughed, a rather stiff and kind of sick laugh. In fact, I wasn’t sure whether it was a laugh or a wail. “I want to see your apartment, Timothy. I was wondering when you were going to show it off, but I don’t see why you think this means that I have to stay with you for several days. I work, remember?” Timothy shook his head, looked up at the ceiling, then down at me. “How long do you think it would take to track you down? You’re beautiful. Every male up to no good will see this picture and WANT you.” I shook my head and glanced up at the ceiling so he wouldn’t (hopefully) see me rolling my eyes. Then, I laughed. This time it sounded more like a regular laugh, not an excited laugh or one that spoke of great joy. This one was the kind of snorting laugh that argued with the ridiculousness of life. “They’d be very disappointed to see the reality of me. Timothy,” I said. “When I’m not Simone-painted and fitted into movie stars gowns, I look like this.” I glanced down, realizing, once again, how horrible I looked. “Well, not usually this bad.” That brought Timothy closer, and he gave me another embrace and a kiss, which was not what I’d intended, but I didn’t argue about it being unwanted.” When I came up for air, he said, “Please don’t argue about this. I’ll call Sanders and let him know about the possible threat so you can take off today. It may be a matter of concern for him at the office, too. Once someone tracks you to his firm, a possible media invasion could occur. I’m going to recommend that you lie low for a good, solid week.”
1.14 The Abyss of WonderLand
“I brought the newspaper so you can see the picture and what was said in the article. It’s bad, I’m afraid, not only because the reporters researched you, but because they dangerously named your residence. I will be calling to complain about that, but meanwhile, I think it would be better if you stayed with me for a few days. Will you do that for me?” Wow. He was inviting me over finally! Inside me, chimes were pealing because it was finally happening; he was ready to show me where he lived. But I didn’t express my enthusiasm for the idea at the moment. I simply said, “May I?” and stretched out my hand for the paper Timothy passed it over. A huge picture took up most of the newspaper’s front cover — of us in full color, staring at each other. In the newspaper photo, I was gazing up into Timothy’s eyes, looking entirely love-struck. His expression mirrored mine. We’d been caught at a moment of full-throttled emotion. The photographer might as well have captioned it: Enamored With Each Other. But, instead, he had only stated our names and the information that the photo had been taken at the Grand Opening of the Caldwell Fine Arts Gallery. I wished that the article hadn’t given my full name, but I didn’t see what Timothy was so rattled about. I began reading the accompanying article. It was supposed to be a story about the art show, but the writer had invested more space for the relationship between Timothy and me than in any discussion of the quality of the gallery’s holdings. In fact, the man had written, “Timothy Caldwell may fancy himself an expert in the arts, but right now it seems that his full attention is on Penelope Casey, whom everyone will admit, outshines every single painting in the brand-new gallery. “And for all those wondering where Caldwell found this particular piece of art; Penelope is a product of our own San Jose, California, residing in an apartment only a short distance from the Caldwell Fine Arts Gallery. Although she works for a well-known investigation’s firm, I suspect that Penelope will be spending many hours otherwise preoccupied in dating the very eligible bachelor, Timothy Caldwell. Looking at this picture, one has to wonder: are wedding bells in the future for this couple?” I groaned. “It’s so cheesy,” I said. “Why in the world did he have turn the whole gala into a love fest between you and me?”
1.13 The Abyss of WonderLand
“Yes, I’m Penelope Casey, but how did you know my name?” He grinned with a huge smile that flashed sparkling white teeth, the kind that I bet had been medically whitened. “We thought so. Your picture is plastered over the front page of all the newspapers. We never realized you were someone famous.” I stopped my machine and stepped down. “You saw me where?” “You didn’t know,” he laughed and called over to his friends. “Any of you guys have the paper?” They all shook their heads in between grunts and heaves. Stan gave him a look, not of jealousy, but perhaps irritation for being bothered? Apparently, Jesse was the only one taking any interest on whether I was or wasn’t the woman in question. “What paper?” I asked, grabbing my towel to swab off the machine and then my face. I wasn’t finished exercising, but I decided that this was more important. I thanked Jesse and took off for my apartment. I figured I could search on the Internet and find the info. I was just about to take a look when my cell rang — Timothy. “Have you finished your gym work? he asked. “Yeah, I quit early. I needed to investigate something. You haven’t seen the local paper, have you?” “Ah, you’ve seen it?” “No, but one of the guys, Jesse, told me about it.” “I’m in the limo parked in front of your apartment. Will you buzz me up?” “I’m all sweaty and . . .” With little choice in the matter since Timothy was already just outside, I buzzed him in, then waited for the doorbell. I hoped I didn’t smell. Timothy barged right in and swooped me into an embrace, despite my sweat drips and ragged appearance. His kiss didn’t seem to mind. “Ah, I needed that. This separation of residences is killing me,” he said. That was one thing I’d been meaning to ask about. Where did Timothy live? He’d never once invited me over. He showed up at my apartment almost every day, but not once had he offered to let me see his residence. What was up with that? If I didn’t know Judith’s thoroughness at checking out potential beaus, as she’d put it, I’d suspect that Timothy had a secret wife and children.
1.12 The Abyss of WonderLand
Did he regret his trade? I asked him once. Andrew turned serious, his face strained by sadness. “Only the once,” he said, and, of course, I knew he was referring to the day his wife left him because of what he was. But most of the time Andrew admits that the bargain was fair. Yet, he still insists that it was the pooka ride that corrupted him, and then he winks and slugs me in the arm. Penelope That morning when I went down to the gym, the usual weight-lifting guys suddenly eyed me as if they’d never noticed me “intruding” on their space. I walked over to the treadmill and started my workout, but the guys’ furtive glances didn’t stop. I darted a peek down at my outfit, making sure that I had my tee shirt on. I patted my hair, then wondered if my face was splotchy or something. Did I have a pimple bursting into reds? But the music on my phone was playing something I especially liked, and I tuned out my surroundings and worked on getting up a sweat, which was what the latest reading I’d done on getting fit said was required. I wasn’t singing along, except mentally, but one of the big, tall, buffs walked over my way and waited for my awareness. I stopped the music, looked over at him, and said, “Hi.” “You’re Penelope Casey, right?” he said. “We’re all wondering.” My first name wasn’t listed on anything public. The mailbox and call box were labeled P. Casey. I felt an inkling of fear creeping up my spine, but the guy was looking rather quizzical, not seriously dangerous. Besides, I was pretty sure these weightlifters were gay. As if realizing that I was looking a little anxious, he held out his hand and said, “My name’s Jesse. My husband over there is Stan.”
1.11 The Abyss of WonderLand
The sky was dark, but the moon shone down. It was a lovely night for a ride. I told him so, calling the horse, Timothy, and he replied, “Any night I am with you would be an enchanted night, my darling.” He broke into a faster walk. It had a rocking motion. I didn’t feel unsafe on his back. I felt secure, even though I clung to his mane, just in case. At one point he insisted that I let go, raise my arms into the air, and shout out, “I love you, Timothy.” It was no more than a silly dream, so I did. But then I was suddenly back in my bed, snug under my blankets. The room was dark, and I realized that I’d only been dreaming. In a way, I was disappointed, but I closed my eyes and went back to sleep. I don’t think I dreamed anything else that night. Timothy It is said that to entice a young maiden one must offer her a ride. My research on Penelope told me that she was probably not a maiden, due the hardhearted idiot who’d maltreated her, but the principle should be the same. Touch was a key component of knowing, and a gentle ride through the countryside was hopefully an inducement for enhanced feelings toward me. I didn’t want her magicked, but a little help from the power of the pooka couldn’t hurt. As I’d known it would be, our journey together was exquisite. I could feel her body shifting as my muscles moved us forward. Her seat was poor and more than once I had to swing myself to the right or left, but a pooka knows its rider, whether they are a fated one or not. “No rider ever comes to harm on a pooka ride, my father had told me long ago.” Back then, when Andrew and I were just kids, my best friend had begged me to take him on a midnight ride, and I had. He said the aftereffects of that ride was what convinced him to give his pledge to me. I suppose it could be true, but Andrew then was a mere slave boy, stolen away from his tribe. What I offered him in exchange for his long term friendship was a life of an unknown length and a chance to be free. Of course, he chose to join me and stay by my side. After I bit him, I did try to free him, but there were no papers stating such a fact during that era, and no one could read anyway. By custom, most villagers accepted me at my word and despite the darkness of his skin, the people treated Andrew as an equal.
1.10 The Abyss
I mentally kicked myself. I was turning into a gloom-filled Turner. I must stop that, I decided as I scrubbed my face and brushed my teeth. Then I donned pajamas and threw myself into bed. Timothy “She was perfect, Andrew. You saw the way she looked — so beautiful, but it was more than that. She is kind, and she feels everything so greatly. Those are qualities that seem rare in this age, maybe in all ages. But you are definitely wrong, Andrew. She is the one.” “I am happy for you,” he said rather stiffly. I glanced over at him, trying to read his face, but Andrew had lived as many years as I had. He concealed his thoughts skillfully. “You still have doubts about her?” I prodded. “I will continue to doubt your relationship until you tell her.” I sighed. He was right, but I wasn’t ready yet. Penelope wasn’t equipped to take the leap into my world. She needed time to fall in love with me first. I wanted her to trust me implicitly. Penelope The dreams I had that night were strange, filled with pookas. The rabbit was there, his ears pouncing as he nodded his head. The tiny fox jumped on my bed and brushed against my cheek. He didn’t speak, just looked at me with sad eyes. An owl visited and a strange cat. Last of all was the black as night wild stallion. He spoke to me. “Come for a ride, my darling.” I knew his voice and the way he said darling. It was Timothy, which made no sense, since Timothy was definitely not a horse, but then dreams often don’t apply logic. I’d once had a nightmare where I was on a cooking show, attempting to prepare an edible meal, except the ingredients I needed kept running away, scurrying across the floor before I could dump them into the large mixing bowl I’d been given. Then, even the eggs I’d just cracked and added, reassembled themselves, spread their wings, which were poking out of the shells, and soared upwards toward the ceiling. But in this dream, the horse was standing over my bed, pawing at the ground. He was a beautiful animal, and I wanted to please him, but what he was asking was ludicrous. I had no idea how to ride a horse. I’d never ridden. I explained that to him, and he nodded his head. “I will always be gentle with you. You are to be my bride.” I stood up then, slid onto his back from the bed, draping one leg over the horse’s back and sort of pulled and scooted myself into place. The huge horse stood perfectly still, waiting for me to get adjusted. Strangely, I didn’t wonder the presence of a horse in my bedroom, or how he’d gotten upstairs into my apartment. Dreams are magical. Everyone knows that. Thus, when the carpet turned into grassy knolls and gray boulders of rock, I didn’t comment on it. This was dreamland, the WonderLand of fantasy.
1.9 The Abyss of WonderLand
“Yes, definitely,” I said, envisioning it. Then I stopped. “Sorry. I just get super excited when coffee is mentioned.” “You heard it from Penelope. A coffee shop is needed. Any ideas where to find the space?” “What about the backroom where you store the extra paintings? Could they be shifted elsewhere?” I asked. Both Timothy and Danny looked thoughtful for a moment. “Dainty sandwiches, some pastries, iced tea, perhaps, but definitely coffee,” I continued. We’d need another guard stationed to prevent food and drink from leaving the area,” Timothy said. “But, yes, let’s move forward. I actually bought the building next door. I was thinking we might want to expand someday. We can shift the overflow there. Get in architects for next week. We’ll need workers to cart the stuff, workers who’ll take orders about being careful with the paintings.” I was smiling at Timothy, so impressed with his forethought and the confidence he had that all this would be a success. Were galleries money makers? But it wasn’t the time or place for such questions, and my feet hurt. “Is Andrew here?” I asked, smothering a yawn. Timothy nodded, then smiled. “Yes, he’s waiting for us. You look ready to crash.” With that, we turned about and went out through the huge glass doors, and just as Timothy had said, the big limo was parked in front. Andrew drove us home, and when we arrived, Timothy insisted on going upstairs with me, riding the elevator as if that were a dangerous thing to do. But I loved him for it. He must be exhausted, too. And the pressure on him to get everything right, even with Mr. Franco in charge of a lot of the details, must have been enormous. Yet, Timothy remained uncomplaining and simply dabbed a kiss on my forehead and wished me a goodnight. I wished that he could stay, sit on the couch for a bit, perhaps give me a few of those very special kisses he’d promised me, but I thanked him for a lovely evening and locked my door. I was careful with the gorgeous gown I was wearing. I hung it up in my now overly crowded closet. I supposed I could shift some of my things to the spare bedroom, but I hated to do that, in case I needed a roommate, in case something bad happened at work or . . .
1.9 The Abyss of WonderLand
“Yes, definitely,” I said, envisioning it. Then I stopped. “Sorry. I just get super excited when coffee is mentioned.” “You heard it from Penelope. A coffee shop is needed. Any ideas where to find the space?” “What about the backroom where you store the extra paintings? Could they be shifted elsewhere?” I asked. Both Timothy and Danny looked thoughtful for a moment. “Dainty sandwiches, some pastries, iced tea, perhaps, but definitely coffee,” I continued. We’d need another guard stationed to prevent food and drink from leaving the area,” Timothy said. “But, yes, let’s move forward. I actually bought the building next door. I was thinking we might want to expand someday. We can shift the overflow there. Get in architects for next week. We’ll need workers to cart the stuff, workers who’ll take orders about being careful with the paintings.” I was smiling at Timothy, so impressed with his forethought and the confidence he had that all this would be a success. Were galleries money makers? But it wasn’t the time or place for such questions, and my feet hurt. “Is Andrew here?” I asked, smothering a yawn. Timothy nodded, then smiled. “Yes, he’s waiting for us. You look ready to crash.” With that, we turned about and went out through the huge glass doors, and just as Timothy had said, the big limo was parked in front. Andrew drove us home, and when we arrived, Timothy insisted on going upstairs with me, riding the elevator as if that were a dangerous thing to do. But I loved him for it. He must be exhausted, too. And the pressure on him to get everything right, even with Mr. Franco in charge of a lot of the details, must have been enormous. Yet, Timothy remained uncomplaining and simply dabbed a kiss on my forehead and wished me a goodnight. I wished that he could stay, sit on the couch for a bit, perhaps give me a few of those very special kisses he’d promised me, but I thanked him for a lovely evening and locked my door. I was careful with the gorgeous gown I was wearing. I hung it up in my now overly crowded closet. I supposed I could shift some of my things to the spare bedroom, but I hated to do that, in case I needed a roommate, in case something bad happened at work or . . .
1.8 The Abyss of WonderLand
Some say that Turner found pleasure in these opposites and believed that in painting them, his shame was lifted. Maybe. But with Turner, a painting was not something a viewer just glanced at. Anyone who stared into that darkness and light had questions, questions that could only be answered from inside their soul, questions that were perhaps different for each person. Timothy smiled and shook his head. “It puzzles me how you are so drawn to Turner’s melancholy. You are not like that, I have seen no darkness inside you.” I laughed quietly. “Perhaps seeing so much chaos in his pictures jerks me out of the shadows. All of my loved ones have left me. My two friends took off for other places. I suppose I have a lot to be depressed over, but I won’t wallow in that doom. I choose the brightness, but I can understand Turner’s despair. Perhaps he had no light in his life and no vision of the promises of the future.” “And you do? What is the future you see, my darling Penelope?” It wasn’t the right time to ask such questions, A herd of people cavalcaded in our direction in their rush to complete their journey through the gallery. We stepped aside and then retreated. When we returned to the entryway where the sparkling beverage and the snacks had been, we saw that the tables were cleared. The clean-up crew was at work, carting dirty dishes and glasses off to be washed. As we stood, observing, the lovely pink tablecloth was whipped off the table and tossed in the bottom of the cart to be washed and presumably used elsewhere. Just as I commented on that, the lights dimmed and then did a quick blink on and off. It was closing time for the grand opening of Caldwell’s Fine Arts Gallery. Timothy and I remained in the foyer, bidding the guests goodbye. Franco was there, as well, doing a wonderful job of PR. He seemed to know everyone’s name, offered handshakes, and gave brilliant smiles to all the ladies. Several appraised him with the same enthusiasm. I was sure that the general manager of the gallery would profit from this gala with enough dates to last him several months. “Are you jealous?” Timothy asked, but I saw that he was teasing and just shook my head. When the last of the stragglers had made their way out the doors, Timothy played the nice boss role and praised Danny’s success in setting up the event. The two chatted for a moment, but then Timothy reminded him that the gallery would be opening at ten in the morning. “Are we set up for that as well?” “Of course, boss,” Mr. Franco said. “Guards, docents, ticket takers, and gift shop clerks. All is ready. Except, one of the patrons suggested a coffee shop was needed. Any thoughts on that?”