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?”
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.