11.10 The Abyss of WonderLand
Oh my. I couldn’t see any of that, so where was my mental image coming from? Why did I have a sudden desire to rip off the man’s clothing in order to confirm my predictions? Perhaps I was simply recalling the images of the statue that Cara had painted endless editions of. That must be what it was. Timothy had stopped moving forward. His eyes stared down at me. The smile he cast was knowing, as if he were cognizant of my thoughts. That wasn’t possible. I wasn’t indicating in any way that I was thinking of a certain nude statue. “Yes,” he said. “I modeled for Michaelangelo, you know. That is exactly what I look like beneath this shirt and pants. Would you like a peek?” Oh, my. I wanted to break my handhold and fan my face. Heat was burning me up. I’d turned into a dragon, full of flame. Embarrassment kicked me in the stomach. I should tear my hand from his, dash away, curl up and hide. Yet, I did none of those. I just stared at him, speechless. It was crazy the things he’d said. Modeling for Michaelangelo? He was pulling my leg while searing me with the heat of desire at revealing what I yearned to see. Because despite his brag, I knew, as sure as coffee was the right drink to start off each morning, that underneath his clothes, Timothy did look like the statue of David. “You blush like a virgin. I find that enchanting, my dear. Do not fear my words. I will woo you slowly. Flowers and chocolates. Many nights out on the town. We will dance and see movies. We will dine in the finest restaurants. I will take my time with you, my love, but know this: from this moment, you are mine.” Timothy walked a zombie to the table where we found Judy and Ed sipping brandies. They didn’t look angry or even impatient at the lateness of the hour. “Are you alright, Penelope?” Judy asked. What could I say? I was overwhelmed, happy, confused, frightened, and ecstatic. Which should I say? I glanced at Timothy and said nothing. I’m not sure I could have spoken anyway, not with his hand holding mine and our recent conversation about the statue of David in my mind. Plus there was that other thing he’d said — the possessive nature of it, the way my body reacted to his words, and the fact that I hadn’t argued with his statement, nor wanted to.
11.9 The Abyss of WonderLand
But that was a subject I wasn’t about to go into. For one thing, I was sitting in the living room of Mr. Sandars’ house, which I instantly reminded Timothy. Suggesting I find another job while I was sitting on the couch, inside my employer’s own house, was certainly not appropriate. And, for another, I didn’t have the educational background for working in art. No art courses, no BA in Art History. Everything I knew was self-taught, spurred on by my interest in what Cara was working on and then by my friends’ and my joint explorations of the various local art museums. (We’d taken every tour they offered in multiple museums from San Jose to San Francisco. We’d even planned a trip to the two Getty museums in Los Angeles and were going to go to LACMA, as well, but then Sammy got the offer for Bakersfield and Carmel with its artsy lifestyle had drawn Cara’s attention, and she’d suddenly hitched a ride with one of the guys in her art class and just like that, they were both gone.) My stomach suddenly growled, reminding us that we’d come for dinner. “Sorry,” Timothy said. “I guess I need to apologize to Judy and Ed. I was very discourteous to them, but something hit me at the sight of you. I couldn’t hold onto politeness at that moment. I had to get to know you.” My brain was in a haze of endorphins, the kind that come from the first stirrings of infatuation. I didn’t know how that had happened. I hadn’t even liked the man an hour ago. I’d thought him cruel and rude, but in our conversations, in his appreciation for my sharings, something had wedged itself inside me. It was an awakening, an opening up of secret wishes and the buried hope for a relationship that I’d never suspected I possessed. When Timothy reached out and took my hand, I didn’t quibble. I accepted his fingers enclosing mine. There was a rightness to it, a feeling that this was the way life was meant to be. I abruptly felt like I needed to spend the rest of my life with my hand inside Timothy’s. A strange thought struck me, coming out of nowhere. It said that the two of us were now bound by this simplest of touches, the warmth of our hands, our entwined fingers, the contact of skin against skin. How ridiculous. Besides, none of this made sense. Love at first sight. No — it most definitely hadn’t been like that. I’d been repelled at my first glimpse of Timothy, his sophisticated and arrogant attitude, his hair, his David nose, his full lips . . . Did I mention that his body matched that of Michaelangelo’s David, as well? Burly shoulders, bulging arms, a stomach flat as iron, and . . .
11.8 The Abyss of WonderLand
That brought a smile to the man’s face. Not the fake or polite kind, but a genuine Duchenne smile, one that lit up his face, invoking laughter lines at his eyes, cheek movement, and of course, an open-mouthed, teeth-displaying genuine expression of enjoyment. I eased the stiffness of my back and relaxed slightly. Caldwell might be rude and dictatorial, but he had a nice laugh, one that had some residue of warmth in a city of hardness and an abundance of fakery. Timothy: My chauffeur, Andrew, who was also my best and only friend, would have made some snide comment about love at first sight. He knew my heritage and my supposed abilities. He’d even seen me exhibit some of them, but concerning the knowing within five minutes (or at the touch of a hand bit,) he’d be as skeptical as a barber whose client said he wasn’t losing any hair. (No, male baldness didn’t run in my family line. Even the aged males, if there were any still alive in some backwoods settlement, would probably have every hair they were born with.) What hit me first with the lass, was that my forewarning system had failed me. I’d met my future bride with an attack of rudeness. Not a good way to stage a first encounter. She’d been suspicious for a good half hour, until her enthusiasm for art had eased her resistance to the magnetism in my genetics. My saliva on her palm should have crept into her blood to some extent, but the fated one was always resistant to such things. It would take great skill and perfect wooing to win this woman to my side, but I was up the challenge. Besides, I had no choice. She was the one. Penelope: We talked about artists and trips to various museums. He told me about visiting different countries, which galleries were his favorites, and the ones he planned to return to soon. He wanted to know about my job with Ed. Since my boss was a friend of his, I tried to be diplomatic about my lack of enthusiasm. Timothy, never Tim, he’d told me, suggested that I might be happier as an art curator or in the management of a gallery.
11.7 The Abyss of WonderLand
“Does that mean you find me pleasing?” he asked as he moved a chair closer and sat down in it, directly across from me. Being less than a foot from a person of such overwhelming beauty played havoc with my already unbalanced senses. I tried to scoot back, but the couch permitted not even an inch of retreat. “If you haven’t been to Florence, why are you so familiar with the statue?” he asked in a manner that showed he was interested. I noted the way his body suddenly leaned forward, and his eyes fixed on mine as if he could read the answer there if I failed to respond adequately. “My artist friend and my former roommate, a nurse studying for her exams, introduced me to various subjects such as the analysis of body movements, facial expressions, and the labeling of numerous body parts. It was serious for them due to their chosen fields of study, but it was also a game to see how much I’d processed while helping them learn what they were studying, They often quizzed me on my knowledge. Not that I objected. I like to learn. Only such things are not a common thread of most conversations.” Had I jabbered on too long? By now most of the men Judy had drawn into her web for matchmaking purposes would have been yawning and scooting their eyes about the room in search of someone more interesting. I had very few social skills and a stark inability to lie. When someone asked me something, I told the truth. Not wise in today’s world. But Mr. Caldwell seemed intrigued. “Do you still have the nursing roommate and the artist friend in your realm? You spoke of them in past tense.” My, he was a good listener. How had he picked up on that? “They’re still good friends, but sadly, no. My roommate, Sammy, got a job in a hospital out in Bakersfield. The artist friend moved to Carmel where there’s a whole community of people painting al fresco. Since Cara never gained any skill with David, she decided to dedicate her art to ocean scenes, to become a real Turner, or at least she’d like to be.” “Ah, yes. Fishermen at Sea. Turner liked angry waves, sea monsters, dark and doubt — chaos, even.” “Yes,” I said, surprised that this man even knew of Turner’s art work. “His paintings seemed to scream for order, yet he couldn’t find any, thus the shadows and vortexes of troubled waves haunted his paintings.”
11.6 The Abyss of WonderLand
I suppose that once my eyes were finally freed from the couch’s design and texture, it was only natural that my glance moved from the raised, commanding hand to the man’s face. Exquisite. I can’t thoroughly understand what makes someone’s face look model perfect. Symmetry, I’d once read, but wouldn’t that require some special instrument to measure the exact twinness of each side? This man’s face carried an aquiline nose, not an overdose of one and definitely not one with a bump on it. His was the purest of all Roman noses, the very image of Michaelangelo’s David. His cheeks were not as pudgy though. His brow was not as brooding or as dark. He was not a carbon copy of anyone I’d ever seen, only gorgeous to the extreme. Beyond the clear skin, the lack of an evening shadow, stubble, or shaving tics on his chin and face, the fine ebony hue of his full head of hair, and a perfect mouth that . . . I gulped and moved on with my examination. His eyes seemed brilliantly golden making me think of sunflowers in the sunshine. Yet, as I stared into them, I saw a ring of bronze. I suppose the man’s eyes weren’t truly gold. Such a thing wasn’t even possible. It must have been the lamp’s light which had cast a flash of light. Perhaps, his eyes were hazel with that hue’s ability to change color as light reflected off them. “Are you finished absorbing?” the man asked with a voice that sent a second batch of goosebumps up and down my back. I coughed, wiggled my bottom, trying to find a more comfortable position, but I couldn’t feel my body, not really. I was too busy absorbing as Mr. Caldwell had put it. “I’m sorry. I was just analyzing how much you looked like the statue of David in Florence, Italy. I’ve never actually been there to see it in person, but my artist friend drew it often, or tried to. You look like you could have modeled for that statue. Perhaps Cara’s sketches would have improved if she’d had your body to draw.” Why had I said body? Too much verbiage. I felt my face accumulating heat as it did when I became embarrassed and fell into the nervous babble syndrome.
11.5 The Abyss of WonderLand
The man was amazingly quick. With the rapidity of a viper, he seized my open palm, turned it over, then bent to kiss the soft part, the median palmar region, I’d once learned when I was helping Sammy study for her nursing exam. (She failed the first few times, but her efforts had given me the knowledge of the proper names of numerous body parts which remained in my brain cells even when I tried to push them out.) The man’s lips tingled against the fleshy part of my palm where he was touching me. I felt the touch of those lips clear down to my genital area. Oh, my goodness. My heart raced, my breathing sped up until I wanted to dog pant my interest. My nipples suddenly strained to poke through the dainty material of my silky new bra. I jerked my hand free and tried to restrain my bodily reactions. My eyes dropped to study the rolled arm of the Sanders’ luxurious couch. The leather felt soft to my fingers and as smooth and pleasing as butter left out on the table, at the exact temperature when it smoothed perfectly over your piece of toast without breaking the bread. My fingers stroked the nail head trim of the couch, finding comfort in that as well. “She’s shy,” Judy said, breaking the spell that had come over me: the touch of languor, the appalling nature of my arousal, and my sudden case of goosebumps. I glanced in Judy’s direction, looking for meaning, I suppose, or more likely seeking an explanation for this strange reaction to a man I’d only just met. “Leave us,” the man ordered, and as a strange as everything else that had happened, Judy and my boss suddenly stood up and walked out of the room. I think I would have obeyed Mr. Caldwell’s commanding voice if he hadn’t raised up his left hand in the well-known police gesture that required all traffic to stop. Like most drivers, I went into automatic, halting any movement forward.
11.4 The Abyss of WonderLand
Timothy: (back story, move forward in book?) My dinners with Judy and her husband, Ed, were becoming tedious. Judy had decided that I needed a wife and was determined to find me one. I wasn’t against that idea, in fact, I would be delighted to find the right woman to share my life, but so far, she’d introduced me to gold diggers and simpletons. I know how that makes me sound. I’m not a conceited jerk. I do appreciate that women have their own interests and might not come across exactly as I desired on their first meeting, but so far, I hadn’t met even one that I wanted to have a second date with. I hated insipid, dead eyes, women who constantly checked a mirror, and those who dropped names of the rich and famous as if that should impress me. Those who wanted to marry me for a meal ticket and a swimming pool were automatically out. Judy insisted that none of the ladies she’d introduced me to fit that pattern. They worked for Ed at the legal firm, which means that they were educated and highly intelligent females on the financial ladder of success. Good for them, but none of them fit. As to looks, I was less inclined to choose the thin as a clothes hangar type. I preferred softer, more fragile women. Whether they did or did not lift heavy weights at the gym was nothing I cared about. I wanted well-read, slightly old-fashioned in a modesty sense (No boobs hanging out or enticements that offered me everything the moment I met her,) and . . . well, someone who was just right. I’d know. Instantly. At least that was my genetic pattern. In my family, we chose mates for life and knew exactly who that was in the first five minutes of meeting our fated. “This is the one,” Judy had said, inviting me in, although I doubted her words. How could she know which one would click when I didn’t? I had no premonition, although sometimes that was something common in my family. In fact, I was in general, absolutely negative about the whole evening. This was the last dinner for me. I’d told that to Judy. I was only in attendance because I’d promised her earlier. One more time, and then Fini. I didn’t even look at the young lady they tried to introduce me to. I was frankly rude, put off by this whole mandatory staged stranger date. Knowing it was my final and last disappointing dinner, I was as interested in meeting Judy’s choice as in falling off a cliff. And as I walked into the living room and did glance over at her, I saw another breathtaking model type. Disappointment immediately raised its head, saying, “What did you expect?” Angry at any carefully suppressed expectations I might have held, I demanded to know the woman’s name. I addressed my reaction to Ed, not wanting to openly berate his wife for another failure. She’d hear about my immediate rejection later, but, truthfully, this would give me the perfect excuse to close the door on all further match-making opportunities Judy wanted to shovel in my face. I’d officially crossed the border of no return.
11.3 The Abyss of WonderLand
“A diet coke?” I said, hating the way my voice always added a question mark at the end of every one of my sentences. I needed to work on being more assertive. I’d been told that by my roommate, Sammy and her friend, Cara, but I had trouble following through. Sometimes it did seem like the world was a big question mark. Ed Sanders, my boss, was still staring at me with a look of horror. I’d thought he was part of the beautification process, granting me a half day so I could go see Simone, but I guess, he wasn’t expecting the process to be so complete, to find me so completely changed. It took several moments of him clearing his throat and sipping at his drink, which was probably whiskey, his drink of choice, before he finally managed to say, “Did Simone treat you okay?” I smiled. Did Simone have a habit of beating her clients? Did she spank them until their hair curled? I knew that jokes were not my stronghold, but I enjoyed my own sense of humor. I just made sure I didn’t speak my thoughts out loud. Weird looks always ensued otherwise. The doorbell rang. The esteemed Timothy Caldwell had arrived. Christina met him at the door and walked him into the living room where we were sitting. Ed was on the leather chair that he favored. It seemed to fit with his whiskey drinking. Judy was sitting on the chair next to her husband. Timothy took two steps into the room and halted, one foot paused in transit as if someone had turned him into an ice sculpture. “Who is this?” he finally said, enunciating distinctly like people did when English was not their first language. He was staring at me as he asked that question, but since his question wasn’t actually addressed to me, I chose not to speak. I found the man’s rudeness inexplicable. Judy rushed forward with introductions. I barely nodded to Mr. Caldwell, not at all sure that I wanted to make the man’s acquaintance, but he finally found his footing and sped over. He clicked his heels together like some old time German soldier, then extended a hand for me to take. It would have been impolite not to offer up mine, but still I hesitated a moment. And then I noticed the challenge in his eyes. He was almost daring me, as if I might not be brave enough to shake his hand. Despite the odd positioning of his pose, I touched his hand with a quick movement to allow my speedy withdrawal should the handshake be rough or overly long in duration.
11.2 The Abyss of WonderLand
It was not a long ride to Judy’s house. I had no time to recall the hours I’d spent in the WonderLand of Caroon’s Hairstyling. I was still fuzzy about that, and I suspected that the tea Simone had given me had been drugged, for I was still unsure of the reliability of my brain. Perhaps I’d hallucinated when I’d looked into the mirror. Was that how hallucinogenic drugs worked? Did they show you what you wished for? The chauffeur again helped me. This time when he seized my elbow, he walked me to the door, rang the bell, then stepped away. “I will leave you here, Miss. Enjoy your evening.” Although my boss, Ed Sanders, had plenty of money for servants, he personally greeted me at the door. The funny thing is that he appeared not to recognize me. “Yes, may I help you?” he said. I could see he was preparing to slam the door in my face. “Boss, it’s me, Penelope.” I laughed, even though the whole scene was a bit spooky. Had a bit of hair growth, some dye, and Simone’s professional application of makeup completely changed me? “Penelope,” came the other voice I was familiar with. Judy gently pushed aside her husband, patting him on the shoulder. “Why are you blocking her way in? I told you I invited her here for dinner.” “Um, um,” was all he seemed able to say. Judy swung the door wider, then gasped. “Oh, my! Simone has done wonders. You are beautiful, Penelope. I mean, you always were. But now, you’re a super model.” Her arm swung around my shoulder, and she pulled me inside. I expected to see a huge group of people. Judy loved to entertain. But I must have arrived too early, for I didn’t see anyone else as the three of us walked into the living room. “What did you do to her, Judy? She was perfect before. Now she may not want to do her job. She may too busy primping like some of the other young ladies.” “I would never do that, Boss,” I told him with a serious face and the assertion of knowing I could never be a kick back worker. “Of course you wouldn’t, Penelope.” He laughed, a low-pitched fake laugh that told me he was extremely concerned that his wife’s interference might change more than my looks. “What can I get you to drink?” he added, and called out for Christina, who was the usual maid during social events at the Sanders’ house.
11.1 The Abyss of WonderLand
Simone finally issued her statement. “Yes. The red dress is the best. The shoes fit you best, too, although you will need to be careful as you walk. It would not be a successful endeavor if you fell flat on your face in front of Timothy.” “Thanks for the encouragement,” I said under my breath. Simone must have the ears of a young person. She flashed a smile at me and nodded. “You will be returning often, my dear. We shall work on your poise, your grace, and keep up on the facials, as well as tend to the needs of your new hairstyle.” As if that had opened my concentration, I suddenly became aware of the length of my hair. Had I been given extensions? I started to reach back and touch it, but Simone stopped me. “Enough,” she said. “Judy has said you will be Timothy’s choice, so that is enough for me. Luckily, the red dress can remain on. You are ready. Your driver is waiting.” “But,” I said, flustered. “Can’t I see what I look like? What have you done with my hair?” “We have improved you everywhere, my dear. You are a changed woman.” She clicked her fingers, and a mirror was carried out by one of the workers, Gabby, I think.” But when I looked in the mirror, it wasn’t me who stared back. My hair was as long as I’d felt it to be when I’d swished it back and forth. But it was blonde streaked. My bangs were mere whisps. How had a solid line turned into a whisper of youth? Dang, whoever the person in front of me was that was staring back at me, she looked good. Even her cheekbones were pronounced. Her eyes were bluer. Her lashes long and curved. She wore lipstick and had perfect eyebrows. I turned to gasp at Simone. “What have you done? I don’t look like me? I think it’s wonderful, but I’m not sure. I think it’s impossible to do this, isn’t it?” “It is time to go, Penelope. Good luck tonight. May fortune be in your favor.” The driver in his almost military-like uniform took my elbow in his hand and walked me out the door before I’d realized it. Too much had happened. It was a dream. No more than a bizarre dream, yet, when I sat down in the limo, the seats felt real. The white leather was smooth and soft against the back of my knees.