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,”
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?”