Perfect Timing: Those Were the Days / Pistols at Dawn / Time After Time. Nancy Warren
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and between her legs, making her feel ashamed and dirty? His hushed tones telling her she was worthless, and her screaming inside her head that she wasn’t?
Martin might be the root cause of her desperation to succeed, but he was also the reason she so often escaped into fantasy. If she wasn’t buried in her work, chances were she was lost in a book or curled up in the dark with a classic movie playing on her television.
Martin was also the reason all her relationships failed. Why she couldn’t communicate sexually with a man. And why she was running now from a decent man who loved her. She couldn’t simply escape into a book or movie where Dwight was concerned. So instead of dealing with the question he was about to pop, she’d escaped real life by taking a job hundreds of miles away.
When she’d accepted the job offer in Los Angeles, she’d told Dwight that this was simply too good an opportunity to pass up, somehow neglecting to mention the part about how she went looking for that opportunity. Their relationship was strong enough to handle this, she’d said. And all the while, she’d had her fingers crossed, hoping, that in their case, distance didn’t make the heart grow fonder.
“I think you just need to go balls to the wall and shift into dominatrix mode. That,” Tina said, “will work wonders for your self-esteem.”
“Excuse me?” Sylvia asked, her voice climbing higher.
“When Dwight comes down to visit, you jump his bones. Tell him exactly what you want. If he can’t handle it, well, then you’re in a new town with new men. Send him back up San Francisco way.”
“I…but…” Sylvia blinked, feeling more than a little befuddled. “It’s not that easy.”
Tina deflated a bit at that. “Maybe not. I mean, you’ve got a history with the guy. That would make it harder. I know,” she squealed, her features flushing bright. “Just find someone you like and pick him up. No strings, right? Surely you can tell some stranger exactly what you want in bed. I mean, why wouldn’t you? No expectations. Just wham, bam, and tell the boy thank you very much.”
Sylvia just shook her head. “This conversation is so over.”
“I’m serious, Syl,” Tina said. “You spend your life watching movies. Just pretend you’re some uber-hot starlet. Like Uma in Kill Bill. Or Kathleen Turner in Body Heat. Find a man you want and take charge. No strings, no expectations. Just make it all about Sylvia. Get exactly what you want from the guy. And once you do that, you’ll be free of Martin. I promise.”
“I mean it, Tina,” Sylvia said. “We’re not talking about this anymore.”
Her friend pouted but didn’t say anything else. Instead, she just raised one hand, then took a step back. “I guess I’ll go check out a few more of the exhibits.”
“Right,” Sylvia said. “You do that.”
As Sylvia watched, Tina went off to look at a display of vibrators shaped like various animals. Beavers, bunnies, even a bright yellow ducky with an, um, useful beak and tail. Sylvia didn’t follow. Instead she moved out of the room and into another, finally settling on a plush bench. Antique, obviously, but Sylvia knew about as much about history as she did about dildos, so she couldn’t guess the period. Whenever it was from, it was comfortable, and she sagged a little, suddenly exhausted but still interested in the room.
The inside of the Greene Mansion was just as fabulous as she’d imagined it would be. Built in the 1800s by industrialist Carson Greene, the house overflowed with graciousness, the carved wood ornate and warm, the furniture inviting, and the many windows giving the interior a cheery, light-filled quality. Of course, there were dozens more rooms that were off-limits to patrons of the exhibit, and Sylvia was disappointed about that. For one, she’d hoped to see some Hollywood memorabilia. So far, though, she’d seen nothing.
She’d also simply wanted to explore the house. Her whole life, Sylvia had been fascinated by old houses. Or, rather, not her whole life, but at least from age six. That’s when Martin Straithorn had married her mother. They’d moved into his ramshackle farmhouse. Old, but hardly stately or elegant.
Even so, Sylvia had soon learned that the house was the best thing about her mother’s marriage. Maybe even the only good thing. Because the farmhouse had lots of nooks and crannies. And that meant lots of places for Sylvia to hide. Lots of places where she could hole up with her books and sit quietly after school, wishing the sun would never go down and she’d never have to go to her bedroom.
Because she couldn’t sleep in her hiding places. At night, she had to come out. Had to go into her bed. Had to pull the covers up to her chin and hope—no, pray—that for that one night, she’d be allowed to sleep, blissfully and peacefully. And, most importantly, alone.
Books had been her daily companions, the characters her best friends. How many times had she wished that she, too, could find a secret doorway so she could escape to another world? Sleep in another land instead of in her own bed, watched over by Aslan’s gentle eyes instead of Martin Straithorn’s deviant leer.
She shivered, hugging herself, the memories closer now than she liked them to get. She forced her mind away from the past, deliberately focusing on the room she’d stepped into. The drawing room, perhaps. Or a morning room. As much as she loved old houses, she’d never bothered to learn the names for all their various parts. It was the whole she cared about. The elegance and warmth. The detail in the woodwork. Not the strip-mall type homes that seemed to be taking over America.
She stood and wandered through the room, wondering if she was supposed to be in here. It wasn’t cordoned off, and yet none of the exhibits from the Sex Through The Ages tour were set up in here. Honestly, Sylvia had to admit she felt a bit of relief at that. She probably wouldn’t have come with Tina had she known the subject matter of the exhibit. She knew she had issues with sex, thank you very much. And she didn’t much appreciate Tina blatantly lying and telling her the exhibit was about some damn butterflies.
She saw a brochure for the exhibit sitting on one of the tables, and she picked it up, almost snorting as she skimmed through it. Some butterflies. Instead the brochure showed pictures of key elements from the exhibits, and even had an inset photograph of the guard who was traveling with the exhibit as it toured around the country. An older man, with a friendly face and unkempt gray hair escaping from under his cap. The same guard, Sylvia realized, that she’d seen in the other room. Not a bad job, she supposed. Hang around sex toys all day and watch women come and go in various stages of embarrassment or delight.
Mostly, though, the brochure described the various exhibits that now filled the rooms of the stately house. Sex as shown in the paintings of Picasso and others. Sex and technology. Plus exhibits on fertility goddesses and fetishes and the Kama Sutra. Basically, anything remotely relating to sex was there.
Definitely not butterflies. Although Sylvia wouldn’t have been surprised to find a butterfly-shaped vibrator.
The exhibit covered the range of sex and sexuality, and she knew in her heart that Tina had tricked her into coming because her best friend loved her. Tina was the only person in the world that Sylvia had ever confided in about Martin. And even then, the truths had been minimal. Mostly, Sylvia had only hinted about the past. But Tina was bright, and Sylvia knew that her friend had figured out the truth.
But while she knew that Tina only wanted to help, that didn’t change the fact that it felt like interference. Not that Sylvia didn’t find the traveling exhibit fascinating—she did. But she would have liked full disclosure before coming down here. After all, her sexual issues were hers and hers alone, and she was aware of them and dealing with them. She knew the cause—he’d married her mother, after all, so how could she not know—but wandering through rooms filled with dildos and vibrators was hardly going to make her more comfortable with her sexuality, or help her learn to communicate with men so that they knew what she wanted.
Enough.
She wanted to kick herself. She’d escaped the stupid exhibit and yet here she was, thinking about sex all over again. Think about something else, she ordered. This room.