Timothy

by Greg Herren

  As I stood there, turning my face up to the sun, the almost dreamlike state I’d been in since we drove through the gates faded and I became overwhelmed by a sense of unreality. I didn’t belong here, I would never fit in—this wasn’t the kind of place where people like me lived. I belonged back in my tiny apartment, or the dusty cluttered house back in Kansas. I was a fraud, an interloper, and no matter how I tried, I would never be comfortable thinking of Spindrift as my home.

  I gripped the railing so hard my knuckles turned white. I was trembling, and black dots danced in front of my eyes. I closed my eyes.

  As long as Carlo loves me, I can live anywhere.

  I took a deep breath and got my nerves back under control.

  I went back inside and closed the door, leaning back against it as I surveyed my enormous suite.

  It was, I reflected, so incredibly different from my little box of an apartment, with its water spots on the ceiling, the cracked plaster walls, and the roaches scurrying into cracks and crevices whenever I turned on a light.

  This was posh, for want of a better word. All the furniture was expensive, and most likely priceless antiques. My heart sank. I should probably be able to not only recognize whether something was an antique or not, I should be able to identify whether it was—I don’t know, a Hepplewhite or Louis XIV. I took some more deep breaths to ward off the rising panic. Well, you might not know now, but you can learn, I reassured myself. I can learn about all of these things. Antiques, wine—all of it can be learned. I just need to get some books. Timothy probably didn’t know any of this stuff before he came here, either.

  Timothy.

  A horrifying thought crossed my mind—surely this hadn’t been Timothy’s suite?

  Don’t be ridiculous, of course it wasn’t. Carlo wouldn’t do that.

  I bit my lip and pushed those thoughts out of my mind. Being paranoid wasn’t going to help me get settled—it was going to be hard enough getting used to all of this without worrying about Timothy.

  He was dead and gone.

  With that settled for now in my mind, I walked into the bathroom and glanced at my face in the huge mirror.

  I looked out of place in the enormous bathroom.

  “I belong here,” I said out loud, raising my chin defiantly. “This is my home now.”

  Feeling a little better, I opened the frosted glass shower door. The shower was enormous—there were showerheads on three of the walls, and the walls and floor were covered in tile the color of green jade. There was a dial on the wall directly opposite the shower door, and I turned it to the right, from Off through the blue to the red. Powerful jets of hot water sprayed me from the three sides. I stepped back out, dripping on the green tile floor, and opened the door to the linen closet. A long green robe hung on a hook on the inside of the door, and the shelves inside were piled high with fluffy green towels. I grabbed one and a washcloth and undressed quickly. I stepped back into the shower, the hot water caressing my body. Steam was rising, and a fan in the ceiling kicked on, sucking it all upward. Behind me the door fogged up, and I closed my eyes and just enjoyed the sensation.

  It was heavenly.

  Finally, my skin reddened and scrubbed raw, I turned the dial back to Off. With a gurgle, the water stopped flowing and I opened the door, reaching for the enormous towel I’d left just outside on the floor. I wrapped it around my waist and, dripping, stepped over to the sink. Amazingly, the mirror hadn’t fogged up. My shaving kit was sitting on the counter next to one of the sinks. I turned the hot water on and shaved. When I finished, I blew my hair dry before toweling off. I hung the towel over the shower door and pulled on the robe.

  Carlo was sitting on the bed when I walked back into the bedroom.

  He smiled at me. “How do you like your new home?”

  “It’s a little overwhelming,” I said honestly, returning his smile and feeling a little foolish. He was so handsome, and of course he loved me—I didn’t need to be so damned insecure. “But I’ll get used to it, I suppose.”

  I walked over to the dresser and opened the top drawer. All the underwear I’d bought at Macy’s on Thirty-fourth Street in the city was neatly folded, organized by style and color. I hesitated for a moment and berated myself again as a fool. He’s your husband, he’s already seen you naked.

  Still, I left the robe on as I pulled on a pair of pale blue boxer briefs—Calvin Klein, not Drawers. I hadn’t bought any of that brand, and never would again.

  “I wanted to let you know I won’t be here for lunch,” he went on. “I have a business meeting at the yacht club—I’d take you, but you’d just be bored, and I don’t know how long it will take.”

  I frowned and turned to face him. “I could never be bored around you, Carlo.”

  He laughed. “It’s a nice sentiment, but trust me, you’d be bored in a hurry. No worries, though—Joyce is coming by for lunch. She’s anxious to meet you.”

  It took me a moment to remember Joyce was his younger sister.

  “Now, now, Mouse, don’t look like that. She’ll love you. You look like you’re about to face a firing squad.”

  I smiled back at him, but my stomach was churning. “I’m looking forward to meeting her.”

  “She and her kids are my only family—besides you, of course.” He looked pensive for a moment, but then his face cleared. “And she’ll be around to keep you company when I have to go out of town.” He sighed. “I’m sorry to go away so soon.”

  I bit my lower lip. I’d forgotten he had to go to the West Coast on Monday morning for a board meeting—he’d mentioned it briefly over dinner one night in the city, the night I’d heard those horrible women comparing me to Timothy, which was why it had slipped my mind. He was only going to be gone a few days—and I’d be “bored” if I went with him.

  Get used to this, I reminded myself. He’s going to have business meetings and will have to travel without you plenty of times. Getting upset isn’t going to change that.

  It was true, but it didn’t make me feel any better.

  But I wasn’t going to let him see that. I was determined to be a good husband, and making him feel guilty about leaving me behind wasn’t a part of that plan. He already thought I was young—so I was definitely not going to behave in any way that could be construed as childish.

  But I had to know one thing.

  “This suite is amazing,” I said, pulling on a pair of tan cargo shorts. I tossed the robe on the bed and pulled on a pink pullover. “But why aren’t we sharing one?”

  He got up and put his arms around me, pulling me close and kissing me on the cheek. “Oh, Mouse, you surely don’t think I don’t want—” He laughed softly, and nuzzled my neck. “No, I get business calls at all hours of the night, and I’m also a bit of a restless sleeper—by keeping separate rooms, your sleep won’t ever be disturbed. But never worry, Mouse—I’ll be in here so often you’ll probably be relieved when I do have to go out of town.”

  “That’ll never happen,” I said sincerely.

  “Oh, dear Mouse,” he replied, kissing me on the cheek again. “All right, I need to stop dawdling and get to the club. I’m not sure when I’ll be home—but if I am going to be late for dinner, I’ll call.” He paused at the door. “Your new laptop is on the desk.”

  I turned and saw a gleaming MacBook Pro sitting on the rolltop desk. It was the most expensive version—far nicer than the battered old iBook I’d been using.

  “Of course, you have a desktop computer in your office downstairs, but I thought you might prefer writing in your room, and that laptop you were using—well, let’s just say it’s seen better days,” he went on.

  I looked back at him with a smile. “You’re spoiling me.”

  “That’s the plan. Have a good time with Joyce—and if you have any questions about anything, just ask Carson.”

  The door shut behind him, and I sat down at the desk and raised the lid, bringing it to life. I connected to the Internet and checked my e-mail—and s
miled as I deleted them all. They were all pertaining to Street Talk, or spam—absolutely nothing I needed to pay any attention to.

  But there was one from Valerie. I clicked it open.

  Hello,

  I hope you didn’t take the things I said to you in Miami the last time we saw each other too personally. I stand by what I said, of course—since your father is dead there isn’t anyone to look out for you. I still think this marriage is a big mistake—but stranger things have happened, and of course if you ever need someone to talk to, you have my numbers.

  Perhaps the next time you’re in the city, we could have lunch? I’d like that very much. I do care about you—even if you don’t think I do—and I feel like I owe it to your father to periodically check in and see how you’re doing.

  Fondly,

  Valerie

  I smiled to myself and clicked on the Reply button.

  I wasn’t fooled by her friendly e-mail—she clearly wanted something. I typed out the following reply:

  Valerie:

  Thank you for your kind e-mail. I’m getting settled into Spindrift—which is a bit overwhelming, in all honesty—and don’t worry; I appreciate your candor.

  I would love to have lunch the next time I’m in the city.

  Talk soon!

  I clicked Send just as there was a light knock on the door. “Come in,” I called, closing the laptop.

  Olivia poked her head in. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but I thought you should know that Mrs. Sullivan is here and waiting for you in the library.”

  Mrs. Sullivan? I drew a blank at first before remembering that was Joyce Romaniello’s married name.

  But before I could say anything a small black, white, and tan dog squeezed through the door and came flying across the room, jumping into my lap and trying to lick my face.

  “And who is this pretty girl?” I cooed, falling immediately in love as she put a paw on either shoulder, her tail wagging madly, and licked my right ear.

  “Minette! Get down, you bad girl! I’m so sorry, sir,” Olivia came hurriedly into the room, her face flushed. “She’s—”

  “Adorable.” I cut Olivia off. I smiled at her over Minette’s head. “Whose dog is this?”

  “Technically, I suppose she’s Mr. Carlo’s now.” She started to say something else but cut herself off.

  I knew what she had stopped herself from saying, and hugged the dog. I’d always wanted a dog, but my father had been allergic, and the tiny shoebox apartment I’d lived in was no place for a pet. And I didn’t care in the least that Minette had been Timothy’s dog. She obviously liked me, and she was without question the most adorable dog I’d ever seen. “What kind of dog is she? Some kind of spaniel, clearly.”

  “A King Charles Cavalier spaniel,” Olivia replied, smiling. “Oh, I’m so glad you like dogs, sir. Mr. Carlo is so rarely here—and she gets so lonely, you know. A dog needs affection.”

  Minette stopped trying to lick me and jumped up on the bed. She curled up on one of my pillows, sighing contentedly and closing her eyes.

  “I guess she’s going to stay here,” I said. “Mrs. Sullivan is in the library, you said? And the library is where, exactly?”

  “On the first floor, sir, it’s the last door before the foyer. You can either go down the west wing staircase and walk up the hallway toward the front door, or you go down the upstairs hallway and take the grand staircase—turn left at the bottom and it’s the first door, sir.” The door shut behind her.

  I took a deep breath and tried to remember what Carlo had told me about his sister, which wasn’t much.

  Joyce was a few years younger than Carlo and had made what he called a disastrous first marriage. It had ended badly, leaving her with two small children—I tried but couldn’t for the life of me remember their names. She had remarried, and the children were now off at college—the older, I remembered, was at Stanford and the younger was at Tulane in New Orleans. Her remarriage had been much more successful.

  But in truth, there was nothing Carlo could have said that would have prepared me for the force of nature that was his younger sister.

  I left my room and took the stairs down to the first floor. As I walked toward the library, I couldn’t help feeling overwhelmed again. Spindrift was enormous. The hallway was wide, and the floor was marble. Elegant antique tables and chairs were placed at intervals between enormous doors, and huge oil paintings hung on the walls. Antique statuary occupied the occasional alcove. It was like walking down the hallway of an art museum, decorated tastefully for the enjoyment of people who paid the price of admission to be led around by uniformed guides who would explain the provenance of each piece of art in a reverent, hushed tone.

  It was more museum than home.

  I opened the door and caught my breath as I crossed the threshold into the library.

  The room was a book lover’s paradise. The room was two stories high, and the ceiling was tinted glass. Each wall was lined with shelves that ran almost all the way up to the roof. There was a door leading in from the second floor, with a gallery running around the opening to the first floor. Wheeled ladders that ran on tracks stood in each corner, so one could climb up to retrieve a book from any level. There were enormous mahogany tables placed at intervals with expensive-looking gold lamps directly centered on each one. There were no windows other than the amazing skylight overhead.

  And I knew I was going to spend hours in this room.

  A woman was examining the titles on a shelf directly opposite the doorway, and she turned when she heard me enter the room, and smiled, crossing the room at a quick clip, her rubber-soled tennis shoes slapping softly against the marble floor.

  Joyce Romaniello Sullivan was like no one I’d ever known before. I was quaking inside with nerves and fear as she walked toward me, certain I would make a terrible impression on Carlo’s closest living relative. I would have much preferred to meet her with Carlo at my side for moral support, but that wasn’t going to happen. Much as I wanted to flee in terror and hide in my rooms, and put this off, I couldn’t very well do that. I took some deep breaths to calm my roiling stomach.

  But the enormous smile on her face quelled my nerves as she drew nearer.

  “But, darling, Carlo didn’t tell me you were adorable!” she exclaimed, grabbing me with both hands and pulling me into a hug. “Welcome to Spindrift, and to the family!”

  The hug was tight, to the point I worried one of my ribs might crack under the pressure. Joyce was about five-eight, and she had the trim, fit figure of a woman half her age. Her thick reddish hair was pulled back into a French braid that dropped halfway down her back. She blinked at me, stepping back and looking me up and down. Her round gray eyes were warm, framed by long lashes. Her gold-framed glasses fit her face perfectly, complementing the strong cheekbones she shared with Carlo. Her wide smile, exposing her almost impossibly white teeth, never faltered for a second. She was wearing a form-fitting white tennis dress that reached halfway down her muscular thighs, which were tanned a golden brown. She had a full bosom; the low-cut neckline showed off her tanned, deep cleavage. She was also wearing white tennis shoes, with those little white socks with a little pom-pom at the ankle to keep them from slipping down inside her shoes.

  “DON’T mind the way I’m dressed—don’t judge ME!” she warned with mock severity, wagging an index finger with a perfect French manicure at me. She placed emphasis on certain words when she spoke—like the entire word was capitalized in her head. “I HAVE to play tennis this afternoon, and I didn’t WANT to cut my visit ONE minute short to have to run home and CHANGE. Oh, dear, you’re SPEECHLESS in HORROR at my CLOTHES.” She looked stricken.

  “No, no really, I’m not,” I insisted.

  “Are you overwhelmed?” She waved a hand around. “Spindrift CAN be a bit MUCH at first, until you get USED to it. The FIRST time I brought my husband here he COULDN’T keep his mouth closed—he looked like a FISH gasping for AIR the whole time.” She rolled her ey
es as she took me by the hand and led me out of the library and down the hall to a smaller, more intimate dining room than the one I’d seen earlier. A Latina woman in a maid’s uniform, who I assumed was Juana, was setting a tray of luncheon meats down on a sideboard, and the table was laid with two place settings. Juana excused herself and disappeared out a side door. Joyce hadn’t stopped talking as we walked—talking so rapidly I honestly couldn’t keep up with her as she gently pushed me into a chair and sat down next to me.

  “—and of course my children will be home for the summer soon, and they’re dying to meet their new uncle, of course they can be dreadful beasts but they’re actually quite lovely, really, they turned out far better than anyone could have hoped given what their father was like—he was certainly a piece of work, as my mother used to say, but he’s long gone and not my problem anymore—well, any of our problem, really—the fact he has absolutely NO interest in his children certainly TELLS you WHAT kind of man he WAS, doesn’t it? WHAT was I thinking? Ah, well, I was BARELY more than a CHILD myself.” She paused for breath, her face clouding at the mention of her first husband, but she shook it off quickly and started up again. “But then, YOU’RE little more than a CHILD yourself, aren’t you?”

  I inhaled sharply, but before I could say anything she looked mortified and her hand flew up to her mouth.

  “Oh my GOD, I SWEAR sometimes I should just have my tongue AMPUTATED and be DONE with it.” She shook her head, the heavy braid swinging behind her back. “I’m SO sorry, darling, CAN you ever forgive me? Thank GOD Carlo isn’t here—what a SCOLDING he’d give me—and deservedly SO. You MUST forgive me. My only EXCUSE is I’m so worried about making a POSITIVE impression on you that I don’t KNOW what I’m saying. You MUST think I’m a perfectly AWFUL creature with NO manners. PLEASE forgive me, and you must PROMISE me you won’t BREATHE a word of my HORRIBLE behavior to Carlo!”