1.4 The Abyss of WonderLand
Simone laughed. “This is my friend, Gregor. I think Penelope is only entranced by his eyes. Nothing else, Timothy. She is as faithful as . . .” Simone rolled her eyes then finished it, “Old Faithful in Yellowstone!” Then she laughed again. “Not that I’m suggesting you are old, my dear. You are a mere sprout of green, a bud just waiting for the sunshine.” “Enough, Simone,” Gregor growled, shaking his head. “I didn’t come to hear someone slaughtering a delicate poetry reading.” If first impressions could be trusted, I was pegging Gregor in the likes only men category. I’d already theorized that Simone was in the opposite camp, having observed that she liked to touch the fanny of her favorite employee, and Shannon seemed to like that touch as much as Simone. This was the first time I’d ever seen Simone with a man in tow, other than with Timothy, and he’d assured me that the two of them were just good friends, childhood friends. Gregor was eyeing my dress. “Turn around, Miss Penelope. Let me see that gorgeous gown.” I unfastened myself from Timothy’s embrace and twirled. Gregor was nodding. “Superb,” he said. “Utterly divine.” “Simone picked it out,” I told him. “I agree. It’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen.” “Only on you, my darling,” Timothy interjected. “Now, what do you think of the gallery, Simone? Is it everything you imagined?” “Don’t crow so loudly,” Simone needled him. “Of course, it’s marvelous. I knew it would be. Don’t you agree, Gregor?” Gregor’s opinion went unstated because he had edged away from our chat to move closer to a very Renoir looking piece. In the artist’s painting, the river water sparkled with patches of white, and the characters on a boat, although they wore modern day dress, were standing on a flatbed boat as it drifted meanderingly down the river. It was definitely an impressionistic painting, but I thought it copied Renoir’s La Genouillere too much. The same tiny-leafed willow tree obscured the upper left side, providing shade for those assembled. “Is this not a Renoir?” Gregor asked, turning back to face Timothy. “Christopher Tuma is the artist. He is a local and most surprisingly, he’s a senior citizen who has just begun dabbling in oils. I thought this piece showed incredible promise.”
1.3 The Abyss of WonderLand
Timothy looked puzzled when I mentioned that. “You? I don’t know about your friends since I haven’t yet met them, but you would never do such a thing. There’s an aura about you of earnestness and devotion to the art. How remarkable that those docents didn’t see that.” We were entering what Timothy had called the blue room, and an entry into modern art. Timothy might not have hung any Joan Miro or Picasso paintings, but he had found some very interesting pieces, most of which he was right that I’d never seen. One piece drew me. As I walked toward it, Timothy said, “Yes, that’s another local artist. It is a painting that describes the feel of rain.” I saw the turbulence inside it. I could feel the roar of thunder, the wetness of the chilling rain, and the sudden streaks of light off in the distance. The jaguar painting I would be delighted to live with. This piece I could not. It spoke of the unsettled nature of life, the way that it pummeled you with the elements, shouting in your ear. When I said that to Timothy, he laughed. “You are right. It does have the stormier elements of life, but I admire the patch of blue showing that the storm will end soon and the day will quickly brighten. And in the lower corner, see the touch of green. The plants have enjoyed this riot of rain. They are eager to burst through the trauma and send their leaves skyward. I nodded, liking his viewpoint. It was the Yin and Yang, which always seemed to balance each other. I smiled up into Timothy’s eyes, accepting his positivity on this piece and on life. It was at that moment that a photographer flashed his spot light on the scene of our sharing. I was so startled by it that I cringed from having my soul so abruptly displayed. But Timothy only smiled. “Send me a copy,” he ordered the photographer. We toured the gallery slowly and with great pleasure. Once, we were greeted by Simone who had come with a friend, a tall, handsome blonde, well-muscled but lithe as if he were a ballet star or a gymnast. His eyes were the purest blue I’d ever seen. Azure like lapis lazuli — no, that had a touch of green. Perhaps blue tanzanite? I guess I stared so long that Timothy felt the need to become more demonstrative, or was it territorial? Anyway, his arm wrapped around my upper body and moved me closer.
1.2 The Abyss of WonderLand
Next I noticed a hawk-like bird with his beak slightly open, peering out over his kingdom. His black outer feathers made it seem like he was wearing a cape. His neck held a patch where the top of a tie would be, and his chest was the white shirt of a business man. I collapsed on the bench in the center of the room. It was luxurious — cushy, soft, and perfectly suitable for staring at the picture on the wall. The light blue color of its padded seat blended well with the room’s carpeting, which was a mottled blue and black. But, after a second of reflection over such an elegant bench, my eyes returned to the jaguar picture. A hummingbird, with wings flicked back in a hover position was posed at a purple bloom, sucking in some flavor. His neck was a burnished green. I wished I could hear his characteristic hum. Another hummingbird was attacking a pinkish flower, his beak at the ready as his blue wings fluttered. The longer I sat there, the more I saw. A bright orange frog, his legs black, as were the spots all over him. A snake with splotches of yellow was wrapped around a branch of a tree, his body draping down as if he might fall. Over to the right, I discovered, hanging upside down, a small head and greenish fur — a sloth. The whole painted canvas was a textured painting full of life, and I absolutely loved it. Meanwhile, Timothy had been watching me. “I don’t have to ask which is your favorite painting.” “But the two ocean scenes by Turner . . .” I closed my mouth and turned back to the jaguar. Timothy was right. This was my favorite painting, “Are there any others by this artist? Is he a local? What’s his name?” “Yes, he’s a local. Yes, he has other paintings, but none of this quality. He’s young. Perhaps his future work will reflect the depth of this painting. His name is Juan Carlos de Santo. And as much as I see that you are taken with this piece, I think there might be a few more paintings I slipped in at the last moment, all local artists. Care to take the tour?” I gave one more glance to the jaguar, then joined my hand with Timothy’s. The other couple who’d been checking out the paintings had already left, but as we exited, a crowd of people drifted in, and a guard stepped back into place. Apparently, since Timothy owned the gallery, he could visit unobserved. The freedom of such exploration was thrilling. Museum guards had always followed the three of us women around, fearing that our enthusiasm for the art might lead to soup tosses at the paintings, I guess.
1.1 The Abyss of WonderLand
“And the media who know nothing about paintings?” Timothy prodded. “They won’t learn anything by my extolling the uniqueness of each painting due to the artist’s use of light, the depth of the image, or the drama of the piece.” “I agree,” I said. “A painting needs to be appreciated on its own, from the way it makes you feel and the emotion it pulls out of you.” “Bella,” the man said, “You are exquisite.” “Enough, Danny. Go do your job.” With an arm suddenly enfolding me, Timothy guided me over to the right side and into a chamber that I actually hadn’t seen yet. “These are some new paintings I encountered at the last moment. I hope they meet your approval.” I almost didn’t hear him. I was staring at the one that had captured me from the moment I entered the room. A jaguar stared into my eyes, entreating me, his whiskers so detailed, I could almost reach out. His painted face itself was a work of art. He stood at the side of a forest, a rain forest, I presumed, but he wasn’t hiding. He was brazen, fierce, and challenging anyone who entered the room. I inhaled my breath and stepped forward, already lost in the enchantment of the piece. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t look away. The jaguar beckoned. “Yes, I thought so,” Timothy murmured, which was such an odd thing to say that I actually turned and glanced at him, breaking my trance with the cat. “He is wonderful. This is the picture that rules the room. He is so splendid all the other paintings must be jealous.” As I said that, another couple walked in. The woman spotted a painting on the right, one with a huge oak tree that seemed to age as the viewer looked. It was a lovely piece, but it didn’t call to me. I went back to the jaguar, soaking up his aura, feeling his greatness, and his vast courage. A hazy light filtered in from the left of the painting. I could see that it was approaching dawn. The sun was almost ready to rise above the trees. I could feel the moisture in the air due to the patches here and there of low clouds. But none of that bothered the cat. His eyes continued to stare into mine. The beauty of the rosettes on his body of tawny-yellow made me yearn to pet him. But his front leg displayed rippling muscles as if telling me that he could charge me if he wanted. I could almost hear him, that low growl of subtle challenge. He was peeking through a dense group of ferns. Above his head grew a slightly smaller tree with a banana-shaped leaf. I guessed it might be a rubber plant. And there in the canopy behind the jaguar, that dense green layer that enclosed the jungle like a roof, I spotted a blackish spider monkey, his tail wrapped around the branch of a large Brazilian nut tree. As I stared at the forest, I found a tapir, a pig-like animal that really shouldn’t be anywhere near the jaguar. Did he sense that the cat wasn’t hungry at the moment?
12.31 The Abyss of WonderLand
I took a step back, but his hand went to mine to stop me. “I know, no talk of marriage. But, you know I adore you. Is it wrong to want to be with you always?” Danny Franco, the gallery’s new manager who I hadn’t met before, interrupted us then. “Sorry to break in, but I think it’s time for an introduction to this lovely lady.” Mr. Franco looked Italian. He was tall, handsome, and wore a suit like he was born to it. His hair was black as obsidian and just as shiny, although not in a greasy way. The man was smooth, sophisticated, and smiled with such charisma, it was impossible not to grin back at him. “Enough of that. Turn the charm down,” Timothy growled, as if he should ever worry over competition. I gave him a quick smile, a mocking one, I’m afraid, and he took it with only a hint of chagrin. “All right, you two. Danny Franco, this is Penelope, no last name necessary because she’s going to be taking mine as soon as possible.” “You are consistently persistent,” I laughed. “But I bet the day I said yes, you’d run off screaming.” “Not likely, my dearest,” Timothy said, kissing my hand. “But shall we try it, and see if you’re right?” I pulled my hand back and held it out to shake hands with the new gallery manager. “Hi, Mr. Franco. My name is Penelope Casey,” I said, shaking his hand. The man had on Italian shoes that probably cost more than my weekly salary. I reckoned maybe $1,000, but I once read that the really high quality men’s shoes went from $5,000 to $10,000. How could I tell? Rich color with a natural sheen that almost glowed, stitching that was small, fine, and delicate, and the fact that they looked sleek and timeless. How did I know all this? One of Cara’s friends, well, roommates, actually. James had gone on and on about fine quality men’s shoes, telling me more than I ever wanted to know. “You like my shoes?” Mr. Franco asked with an amused look. “Shouldn’t you be attending the guests,” Timothy asked. “That’s what you’re paid to do.” “The guards will see to their behavior, and the guests don’t need me pointing out my favorite paintings. The connoisseurs must savor the art work on their own, without a curator breathing down their neck.”
12.30 The Abyss of WonderLand
“Thank you for coming to the opening of Caldwell Fine Arts Gallery. All the paintings displayed here are original art. Some may be known to you. Others are from local artists, chosen by their paintings’ appropriateness to the room and, of course, by the artist’s use of color and light which is part of what makes a painting superb. The talent in each work of art will be obvious to all of you. “Each painting here has gone through an entire panel of expert opinions with ample discussions, and in some cases, a splash of argument. This committee, who mainly wish to be anonymous, or I’d be introducing them, came to a consensus about which pieces would be shown first. Other paintings wait for their chance to shine. Those pieces will be rotated a room at a time, probably monthly. All of these paintings were approved by Danny Franco, who you’ve all met. He will be the manager of this institution. Penelope, myself, Danny and others feel that the quality of the pieces needs no further explanations. I know you will enjoy your tour of the Caldwell Fine Arts Gallery. “But before you go on your way, I must remind you, that all food and drink must remain in this room only.” That was the announcement they’d been waiting for. No one rushed, but the general feeling is that the crowd heaved forward, placing drinks and semi-empty plates down on a vacant table set up for that purpose. I smiled at Timothy. “You were marvelous,” I said, “and all this is amazing. Thank you for dragging me here. I’m glad I got to see you in action.” Despite the fact that there were a few guests still finishing their drinks and snacks, not ready to join the eager herd, Timothy pulled me close and touched his lips to mine. “This is the highlight, my darling Penelope. This.” He kissed me again, more lingeringly. Then he sighed. “I own a castle in Ireland, which I’ve restored most pleasingly and several flats in other cities, but this gallery was a yearning fulfilled. Your assistance made it a true labor of love.” “A castle?” I sputtered. “You own a castle? Wow.” “And a flat in London and one in Paris. I will take you there when you agree to marry me.” I chuckled. I wasn’t sure if he was teasing me or not. Was he really that rich? If so, what was he doing with me?
12.29 The Abysss of WonderLand
“Penelope, how did you two meet?” an elderly man asked as he attempted to shove his microphone into my face. Timothy kept that from happening. “Distance,” he ordered, giving the man a look that seemed to temper the guy’s aggressiveness. “At a party,” I said. “He was rude, but he got better.” Several of the reporters chuckled. Timothy nodded his head and looked chagrined. “Yes, that was the worst mistake of my life.” The banter continued for several minutes, then Timothy cut them off. “This is a night about art, my friends,” he said, “not about relationships, no matter how enchanting Penelope is. First, sample the refreshments. Then mingle among the paintings. Choose your favorite and write about it. I shall enjoy reading which painting or paintings you’ve chosen to share with the readers of San Jose.” Timothy started to move forward, but then stopped and looked back at the man who’d asked Timothy his reason for building another art gallery. Addressing the man primarily, but loud enough that others could hear, Timothy said, “There are more than fifty art museums and galleries in New York City. The last I heard, San Jose was listed as having between ten and fifteen, but several of those specialize in glassware or other areas of work. My gallery is, right now, only paintings. Did San Jose need another art gallery? I think so. Otherwise I wouldn’t have opened Caldwell Fine Arts.” As if he’d said what he wanted to say, Timothy steered me forward. The reporters seemed willing to open a path for us after we’d had our little chat with them. Several of them smiled at me. One woman praised my dress. A huge buffet table was spread with glasses of bubbly. Timothy had said no alcohol, so I figured it must be sparkling apple juice. There were crackers, cheese, and vegetable platters. Oh, and huge platters of fresh fruit all sliced for easy nibbling. Napkins and small plates were available, as well as abundant glasses. Neither the glasses nor the plates were plastic or paper. I guessed that Timothy’s team had set up an arrangement with a catering service for their dishes. I hoped the service also washed up afterwards. I was certainly not suitably dressed to be on the clean-up team. “If I may have your attention,” Timothy announced to the assembled crowd. His voice was so loud that not even the chatter of so many people kept everyone from hearing him. They all turned, stopped talking, and prepared to listen.
12.28 The Abyss of WonderLand
There were news vans in front of the gallery, just what Timothy wanted. I’d have preferred to be invisible, but I stopped when he did and resumed my forward motion when his feet moved us on. No one asked me anything. I was merely the arm candy, as Timothy had put it. When we walked inside, we saw that a lot of the guests had already arrived. Danny Franco was the museum’s new manager. He’d greeted them. But it was obvious they knew who buttered the bread. A new group of TV newscasters rushed forward, cameras flashing, microphones thrust in Timothy’s face. “What is your reason for building another art gallery?” someone asked. The reporter looked slightly angry, but I didn’t understand why. Timothy chose not to respond to such an ignorant question. A woman, looking like she’d just come from a Paris fashion show, tossed back her blondish hair, thrust out her boobs and said, “Tell us who you are, Timothy Caldwell.” I thought Timothy would ignore her, too, but he grinned. “I’m an art lover. Of course, I felt a need to assemble paintings to show to San Jose. All this week, the entrance to the gallery is free for the general public. I hope that people will come to see the collection. There are fourteen rooms. I even purchased two Turners, a very, very famous painter, and one that my adviser here suggested.” To be the center of seventeen microphones, plus videos, photos, and prying eyes, was definitely not the spice of my life, but I smiled and nodded. Another journalist pushed forward. “And is she more than an adviser? Introduce her to the world.” And there it was. Me, tongue-tied and wishing I were anywhere else. “You’re so right,” Timothy said. “This is Penelope, and I hope she’ll become my wife one day, but no pressure, please. She’s shy, especially of marriage,” he said, laughing easily as if all this were a daily sport that he was participating in. Was I the volleyball or the fuzzy, yellow tennis ball? Would he take a racket or his fist to make the ball go higher? Timothy’s eyes were focused on me. He threw his arm over my shoulder and tugged me closer, then whispered into my ear. “It isn’t that bad, is it, my darling? They’re just people wanting to know about us. Most of them are friendly. Smile, and they’ll love you as much as I do.” The media had paused, wanting to hear what Timothy was whispering. I knew they couldn’t hear his words. I tried to see the media through Timothy’s eyes, just folks doing their job, trying to earn a living. I sighed and unstiffened.
12.27 The Abyss of WonderLand
I laughed. That didn’t go with the majesty of the dress, but oh, well. I felt like me, once again. “I will see you later, Simone. Thank you for helping Penelope to prepare. You have outdone yourself in choosing this gown. It is perfect for my darling one. It brings out her well-deserved splendor.” I bubbled a laugh at Timothy’s remark, sighed because I was really glad about him coming to get me, so I didn’t have to go to the gallery opening by myself, and inserted my hand in his. His smile grew broader, and he kissed my cheek. Simone must have stepped out as the kiss moved to my lips, and we greeted each other properly. Andrew was downstairs, ready to chauffeur us. The limo sparkled in the night lights of the apartment. Several people on the sidewalk stopped and gawked. Limos weren’t seen that often. This wasn’t Hollywood. After my grand slam of Timothy praise at the apartment, the big event was almost inconsequential. When I’d seen the praise in Timothy’s eyes and heard the words that flowed out of him like a gushing oil well . . . (Okay, not a good descriptive, since oil is icky, black, and stinky, but, he certainly had gushed, and the flow of his words had been rich with the wonder of his sight of me in this unbelievable dress.) And then in the car, (yes, the limo,) he’d added to that praise. “I would enfold you in an embrace and kiss you until you were faint with delight, but I dare not mess with your hair or that stunning dress. But afterwards, I promise you . . .?” Oh, my. Another breathless moment when I needed an old time hand fan to take away the heat of my embarrassment. Well, not exactly embarrassment, I had to admit, but unrequited lust? (Jane Austin would never forgive such an outburst even if unexpressed.) Timothy groaned and fidgeted in the seat beside me. Was that a case of nerves? I wanted to assure him that everything would be fine, but when I took his hand in mine and tried to soothe away his anxiety, he only smiled at me. “I was not thinking about the event to come, my darling, but of what comes after. I adore you, my sweetness,” he said, and he lifted up my hand and kissed it.
12.26 The Abyss of WonderLand
But then she wrapped me in the silver dress. At least, I’d thought it was silver, but when it was placed on me, I saw that it flashed with subtle colors. I was no longer an academy winner, but a mermaid with a slinky full-length skirt in a dress beyond all dresses. Shapely, modest, yet, enticing. It was everything that went with a fairy tale. Hans Christian Anderson would have been enchanted. I wore no jewelry. Not even earrings. The dress was the accessory that carried enough sparkle, ripple, and drama to only be diminished by any additions. I thanked Simone ravingly until she laughed and commanded me to stop. But then I was back to looking in the mirror. I almost wept at the beauty of the dress and what Simone had done to my face and hair. I looked the part of a gallery owner’s date. I was ready to fulfill my duty. I’d told Timothy that I’d meet him at the gallery. I didn’t want him to waste his energy on collecting me or worrying about arriving in time to do any last minute primping in the gallery, but the doorbell rang, and Simone skipped over to the button granting entry. “I’m not expecting anyone. That’s dangerous,” I chided her, but she only laughed and buzzed the person in. When the doorbell to my apartment rang, I hung back, nervous that it would be another delivery of chocolates, fruit, or flowers. But no delivery person stood at the door. It was Timothy. In spite of my telling him I’d meet him there, he’d come to pick me up. There was no point in arguing. I thanked Simone again and turned to prepare to leave. “Stop!” Timothy cried out. I’d been reaching for my purse, the one with my apartment key in it, a handkerchief, and various small items like a pad of paper and pen. I spun about to look at him. “You . . . you are a treasure. A work of art. I should be displaying you in my gallery. You look beautiful. No, not merely beautiful. You are magnificent.” What does one say to that? Probably my mouth dropped in stunned amazement. I bet my face changed into a beet head, and words all fled into the mists of Avalon. Timothy couldn’t be talking about me, plain Jane. He strode forward, surrounded my jaw with his hands, and kissed me lightly on the lips. “I won’t be able to concentrate on anything tonight, ma Cherie. I will be too afraid that an ogre might steal you away.”