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.”
12.25 The Abyss of WonderLand
The last two pictures he had so far found for the ocean room exhibited the sea from the beach, looking out into the horizon. They were both morning reflections. One gave us a sea lion looking up, as if he were noting a person on the beach. But it was subtly done, the viewer had to draw close, to notice the seal. As a juxtaposition, the display was perfect. I couldn’t stop praising Timothy for the framings, his selection of paintings, and the way he’d displayed it all so brilliantly. He was a professional art connoisseur, yet he seemed pleased with my gushing praise. As Timothy filled up the rest of his rooms, he continued to ask for and receive my opinion about everything, and he was always encouraging when I gave it. We spent many evenings there as his gallery approached the perfection he desired, and I loved every moment and told him so. As the big opening arrived, Timothy, although I know he had a manager who was arranging the PR, catering, and all that went into planning such a big event, still I would imagine that Timothy must have been on pens and needles for the actual revealing. If the gallery was to be a success, then the reviewers must sing the paintings’ praises, the right people must be suitably impressed over the gallery, and the pros of the art world and their clientele would need to be overwhelmingly awe-struck, or at least give favorable appraisals that would convince people to come visit. It was quite a load to carry. But, despite all that, Timothy never grouched at me, nor snapped. He even made sure that Simone chose a magnificent dress so that I would feel good about being his arm candy (his words, not mine.) I’d have preferred to stay home and hear the results afterward, but that was not allowed. Timothy said, “I need you,” and that was that. I’d never been needed before. How could I turn him down? And so, the big night arrived. Simone helped me become the movie star character I needed to be, my hair a graceful fall with parts entwined like a wreath. My makeup shone with hints of silver shining above my eyes. The contours of my face were artfully designed a la glamour queen. When I looked in the mirror, it wasn’t me, which in a way helped, because the real me wouldn’t be the one in front of flashing cameras. I was in a costume, merely pretending. Simone laughed at that when I told her. “You are beautiful, you silly girl. Radiant, in fact. There is no play acting in your appearance.”
12.24 The Abyss of WonderLand
The orchids had stopped coming, but not the gifts. A plate of cookies “for the staff” arrived, a bouquet of flowers for the breakroom, fancy coffee flavors showed up one day, along with a new single serve coffee machine. I knew the source of all these goodies, and I appreciated that Timothy was no longer embarrassing me by putting me in the spotlight. If my co-workers guessed at the reason for these treats, they probably thought it was Mr. Sanders. I think he was showered with thanks, which he covered with curt nods and always absented himself immediately, as if we’d all ganged up to ask for a day off. And my paycheck! Mr. Sanders had doubled my salary. I thought the first time I peeked at my pay stub that there must have been some computing error, but when I went to bookkeeping, I was assured that it was the amount inputted by my boss. Of course, I never said anything to anyone, except Timothy. How could I? But it relieved a great deal of pressure from my shoulders. I actually began that retirement fund I’d been talking about. I set it to automatic so that I wouldn’t be tempted to splurge on anything. Although I continued to explain that I had no background in art, Timothy often showed me pieces that he liked at his under-construction-gallery. Sometimes, he asked me to sort through the albums of works he was considering. At first that felt like a vice squeezing my confidence, or lack of it, I guess, but when I discussed my choices, attempting a kind of nonchalance he wouldn’t allow, Timothy approved my judgements and actually seemed to enjoy hearing my opinions. Timothy’s art gallery was almost ready for its opening. It was the most incredible place. He obviously had good taste. Nothing was extreme, and he’d actually bought two genuine Turners, (something that should have been impossible since they were hoarded like a dragon’s gold.) I couldn’t wait to get to see them. When they arrived, I sat staring at them. Chaos and turbulence were often Turner’s theme, but I saw that these weren’t like that. They showed the artist’s interest in ships, the setting of the sky, and the ocean water. Sure there was darkness in the paintings, but he had appreciated that dichotomy, as if the darkness of ugliness could be overcome by the light of goodness. Timothy told me that he planned to balance them with a couple of ocean scenes by several local artists. Those new works showed the opposite of Turner’s pieces. For two of them, the ocean displayed the peacefulness of evening, with the sun sinking into the gentle swells of tranquility. Another let us experience the ocean during a rainstorm, but there was no darkness in the canvas. It was more about the water cycle, not in a scientific manner, but artistically. Something to be appreciated, something satisfying to the senses.
12.23 The Abyss of WonderLand
I have at my fingertips more magic than a thousand men. I have the wisdom of ages and the money of long term planning, which my darling was discussing so innocently — all that juicy long term interest that accumulates so readily when held in a fat trust account, monitored by those of a similar sort as Simone and me. I have more power than the president of this country, yet, one fair maiden leaves me trembling and unsure. It is a severe comeuppance for someone like me. And patience, which I know wise people historically say is a virtue, is not a quality that I was apparently supplied with. Penelope: In the days and weeks that followed, Timothy and I had numerous little dates, most of them insignificant, except we grew to know each other better. Often he would bring dinner by or pick me up at work and want to show me something, like San Jose at night. Sometimes, we’d go to a show and/or get a light dinner in a local café where big, fancy meals didn’t intimidate me. We visited the Sandors’ for a couple of meals. Judy, having fulfilled her plan for me, no longer pushed for me to meet eligible bachelors. I guess she could tell that I was completely happy with Timothy. I’m sure it was obvious because I couldn’t stop smiling at him, and we touched often. A closure of hands, a tap on the arm, the way he corralled me with his arm around my shoulders, even when we were sitting on the couch, they were lovers’ touches, weren’t they? But nothing was said. I think there were some exchanges between my boss and Timothy, but I assume they were chatting about business, while Judy and I discussed Simone and her miracle-working salon. I’d gone back there several times, too, on Simone’s insistence. She never accepted my money and always had a new outfit she wanted me to try on. The hair treatments she gave me made my hair shine and brought out the color, as she put it. Since there were no more drugged teas, I was content to chat with her. It was strange how she was always the one to work on me. Her “girls” as she called them, never did. I don’t know why I was treated so specially. I figured it must be connected to Timothy or Judy. But for whatever reason, even my co-workers always remarked about my hair after a visit with Simone. Obviously, the treatments did something for me since there was constant praise of my appearance among the ladies.
12.22 The Abyss of WonderLand
“But, the funny part, Timothy, is that when I did get called into the boss’ office, he gave me a raise! I’m not really sure how much that is. He might have told me, and I was too much in shock to hear, mainly because I was being praised instead of fired, but I’m getting a raise! It’s the coolest thing ever. Now, maybe, I won’t need to find a roommate. Although, I should because I need to start saving for retirement.” “Retirement?” Timothy said, raising an eyebrow. “Well, someday. We’re supposed to start early so that the interest will compound. All the financial advisements say that.” “Very true. But before you worry about retiring, let’s celebrate your success.” I think he meant by that to order champagne, but I was the one paying for this dinner, and I wasn’t about to add a fancy bottle of anything to the check. “I’ll tell you what,” I said. “Let’s just touch our water glasses and smile at each other. That’s my kind of celebration.” So we ate our enchiladas and refried beans and enjoyed the evening. And, as I said, when the check came, I paid the bill. Timothy: I swear this independent streak of hers is both adorable and irritating. I have never met anyone like her, which I guess is the reason why I’m madly in love. I firmly believe that wooing ought to be easier than this. I should be able to swoop her up in my arms and carry her off into the sunset (or her bed, since I’m now living in modern times.) Andrew says this slowness is good for me, that it will teach me patience and to appreciate Penelope more (once I have finally won her heart.) How would that be possible? She has already become the center of my being. Every moment is spent on wondering how I can speed up this process. I can see that she is now more relaxed around me. Her fears have subsided, mostly. But Andrew continually harps about how I have to tell her the truth. How can he say that after what happened to him? The truth is the reason his wife left him. Which is why I’m afraid to tell Penelope. What if she ran from me? What if telling her the truth meant that I’d lose her forever?