Private Entrance (The Butterfly Trilogy) (3 page)

F
ROM THE PROTECTION OF LUSH BANANA PLANTS AND FERNS, THE
owner of The Grove anxiously watched the passengers disembark and gather on the tarmac to be greeted by personal hosts and hostesses. She rarely met new arrivals—but tonight was special.

     Abby Tyler watched tensely as the aircraft's propellers feathered to a stop and the door opened, stairs unfolding to the ground. She held her breath as the first disembarking guest stepped into the desert evening: a man who owned a company that made risqué toys for adults—pornographic jigsaw puzzles, Strip Checkers, Dirty-Words Crosswords. Business was booming and he was there to reward himself. The woman with him was not his wife (
she
was vacationing in Jamaica with her personal trainer). Behind them came a famous movie star wearing large sunglasses and a wide brimmed hat to hide recent plastic surgery scars; he had had a facelift, an eye job, a chin implant. Behind him were two brothers who had come to The Grove to cheat on their wives (who thought their husbands were golfing in Indian Wells). These were followed by a burned-out writer who hadn't published
anything in four years and had come to the desert oasis in hopes of finding inspiration; two sisters eager to get laid (they had already flirted with the two cheating husbands during the short flight); the famous singer-actress who had had her eyebrows lifted so many times her face wore a permanent surprised expression; a widow who had come to The Grove to enact a cherished fantasy from her past; and a couple who had come for the sex games. Lastly, two women looking hesitant and uncertain because they did not know why they were there, only that they had won a contest they didn't remember entering.

     "Coco McCarthy and Sissy Whitboro," Vanessa Nichols said. Vanessa was the resort's General Manager and Abby Tyler's best friend. "Ophelia Kaplan didn't come."

     That puzzled Abby. Why would anyone turn down a chance to stay at an exclusive resort for free?

     "Dr. Kaplan is a very busy woman," Vanessa said, reading her friend's thoughts.

     When all twenty new arrivals were gathered on the tarmac, Abby expected the turboprop to taxi away. It did not. An additional guest suddenly appeared at the top of the stairway. The manifest had listed twenty passengers. Abby hadn't known about a twenty-first. "Who's that?" she asked.

     Vanessa consulted her clipboard. "Jack Burns. From Los Angeles." Occasionally, when the flight was full a last minute passenger was given the co-pilot's seat.

     "Why wasn't I told?"

     "I'm sorry, Abby, I thought you were."

     She studied the latecomer. In his jeans and leather jacket, he didn't seem to fit in with the rest of the crowd. Something about him sent alarms off at the back of her head. Perhaps it was the way he paused at the top of the stairs to look her way, his shiny reflective aviator glasses homing in on her, flashing sharply in the moonlight. He watched Abby for a long moment, then started down the stairs.

     "What's wrong?" Vanessa asked. She knew why her friend was edgy this evening. It had nothing to do with the unexpected stranger in the aviator glasses.

     "I don't know. I just got the oddest feeling about that man."

     "Do you know him?"

     Abby shook her head, short dark curls dancing in the breeze.

     Vanessa gave Jack Burns a long look and suddenly felt a stab of fear. "My God, Abby, you don't think—"

     "Keep an eye on him." As Abby started to turn away, Vanessa put a hand on her arm and said quietly, "You don't have to go through with this. We can stop it right now." Meaning something other than the twenty-first passenger.

     Abby looked into Vanessa's solemn eyes and knew her friend was speaking only from concern. But there was no stopping this. That moment had come and gone. Something that had begun long ago had inexorably caught up with her, as she had known it someday must, like an old fashioned showdown. "And what about you? Are
you
all right with this?"

     Vanessa smiled. "You know me. Fearless."

     "Then let's get ready," Abby said, and turned toward the heart of the resort.

     But Vanessa paused. "When are you going to tell them the
real
reason they're here?" She was referring to the two "contest winners."

     "Tomorrow," Abby said. "I will have lunch with Sissy and Coco. And please check into Ophelia Kaplan. Find out why she didn't accept the contest prize."

     As she delivered herself back into the protection of ferns and fronds and blossoms, Abby Tyler thought of Dr. Ophelia Kaplan, wondering why she had not accepted the free vacation. Abby would have to think of a way to convince her to come so that all three would be at The Grove at the same time: Sissy, Coco and Ophelia—three women from three different cities and three different walks of life; one single, one married, one engaged; one Jewish, one Catholic, one a self-professed Pagan. A university professor, a police psychic, and a homemaker. Three women who, if they met in a room together, would think they hadn't a single thing in common—until they learned that all three had been born on the same day, thirty-three years ago.

     Abby thought of the manila folders back in her office, files containing information that went back over three decades, accompanied by photographs secretly shot with a telephoto lens. Sissy Whitboro, Coco McCarthy
and Ophelia Kaplan, going about their business, not knowing they were being photographed.

     And as Abby thought of those three faces in the photographs, as she searched for clues, for recognizable traits, hints of herself in their features, she silently asked:
Which one of you is my daughter?

T
HE SEXY ROOM SERVICE WAITER WHEELED THE CART ONTO
Sissy Whitboro's private patio and set up breakfast while she watched. He was olive-skinned and wore tight pants. And when he winked she felt her heart skip.

     He couldn't have been a day over twenty, and she was in her thirties!

     Still, Sissy was flattered and tried to tip him as he left. But tips weren't allowed at The Grove, he said. She went back to the cart, relishing the desert morning sunshine, the fresh air, and plants and flowers in her walled garden. She was glad she had accepted the prize, even though she didn't know what the contest was. As she lightly buttered her toast, she felt a pang of guilt. Ed at home with the kids while she was here in this luxurious silence. She shouldn't be enjoying herself, but she was. And she was reminded once again that lately she had felt something missing from her life. She didn't know what it was, and she never admitted it because it felt like a betrayal of Ed, whom she loved very much.

     As she sipped her orange juice she heard a sound on the breeze. Someone moaning!

     She looked around. It sounded like they were sick or hurt. Creeping around her garden, Sissy listened until she homed in on the source. The groaning was coming from the other side of the wall. She tried to peer over but it was too high. Then she saw the wooden gate. It was locked on her side. Drawing back the latch, she pushed through.

     It took a minute for her eyes to register what they saw. Two people on a chaise lounge, completely naked, the woman with her legs and arms flung back, the man's pale buttocks going up and down.

     "Oh!" Sissy said. The man looked up. He grinned without stopping his rhythm. His partner didn't even open her eyes.

     "I'm sorry!" Sissy mumbled, backing away and closing the gate. It took her a minute to regain her breath. She stayed by the gate as she heard the chaise continue to creak and she found herself fascinated by the sound, unable to pull herself away.

     The woman moaned again, and the rhythm increased. Now she began to cry out, and urge him on faster, faster, while Sissy held her breath and listened, picturing them, shocked at herself yet unable to retreat. As the creaking increased in speed, so did Sissy's pulse. She placed her hand on her chest and felt her heart thump as the two thumped together in the next garden.

     Finally the woman gave a yell and the man released a strangled grunt. And then they were laughing and Sissy heard one of them say, "Woman next door," and she ran away, cheeks burning.

     Flustered, she hurried back inside, pulling the room service cart with her, and closed the sliding glass door as if to cover her faux pas. Blundering into someone's private garden was something the very proper and polite Sissy Whitboro of Rockford, Illinois would never do. And she had never seen two people "do it" before. Not in real life.

     As she collected herself and sat down to eggs and toast (guiltily thinking that the man next door had taken a lot longer than Ed ever did) she saw an envelope standing between the silver salt and pepper shakers. It appeared to be an invitation.

     Made of pale pink and cream paper, the outside of the card said
Fantasy
Encounters.
Sissy opened it and scanned it in puzzlement.
"Enjoy your special fantasy in one of our richly appointed rooms: the Castle Tower, the Spanish Parlor, the Robert E. Lee Drawing Room...May we recommend Antony and Cleopatra or Robin Hood and Maid Marian... We offer a wide variety of costumes and special accessories...Male and female companions...Complete discretion and privacy."

     Sissy was shocked. First her neighbors and now this. What kind of a place had she come to?

     The night before, while she was unpacking in this lovely little dwelling done in bright orange, purple and yellow, aptly called the Bird of Paradise Cottage, the manager of The Grove, Ms. Vanessa Nichols, had paid Sissy a visit, welcoming her to the resort and to let her know she would be having a private luncheon with The Grove's owner, Ms. Abby Tyler, at noon today. Ms. Nichols had gone on to explain that the week's stay was all expenses paid and that Mrs. Whitboro was invited to avail herself of all services. But Sissy had no intention of making use of the resort's dubious services—fantasy companions!—she had come for just one reason. She hadn't said as much to Ms. Nichols of course, but she did ask one question: How was it possible she had won a contest she didn't remember entering?

     Ms. Nichols had replied vaguely, "It's something we do now and then."

     Whatever the reason, Sissy had decided she was going to take advantage of her good fortune. It was a perfect opportunity, with no demands from her kids, husband and the many committees and clubs she belonged to, to put together the family album—a project she had been putting off for too long.

     So now she proceeded, on this beautiful Monday morning, with desert sunshine streaming through diaphanous draperies, spotlighting the remnants of her eggs and toast breakfast, to unpack all the treasures she had brought with her.

     When she had packed for the trip, she had reserved an extra suitcase just for the project and had gone into Ed's den, to the closet where they threw everything that "someday" would receive attention, and she had grabbed boxes, envelopes, and bags stuffed with photos, souvenirs and memorabilia, and crammed them into the suitcase to be sorted at the other end.

     The photographs and mementoes went back fifteen years and represented a good life. A full life.

     Ed had done very well for himself as the general manager of a factory that made machine tools. With over a thousand employees under him, Ed was an important man in town. A devoted, faithful husband, not one to begrudge his wife luxuries and pleasures. Ed was very generous, including to himself, having recently joined the very expensive Rockford Men's Racquet Club. It had been at the suggestion of Hank Curly, his new sales manager, who was a fitness freak. Ed and Hank went two and three nights a week to play racquet ball, and the results showed: Ed's incipient paunch had vanished and his arms grew hard biceps. The change had made him, curiously, even more generous. A new car for Sissy, all the charge accounts and new clothes she could want. Dinner every Saturday at the country club. Add to that the beautiful home and three wonderful kids, and it was a perfect life.

     So why had Sissy started thinking something was missing?

     She couldn't get those people next door out of her mind, on the chaise lounge. Other than R-rated movies, Sissy had never witnessed a sex act. It had left her feeling strangely unsettled. And restless, so that now, as she surveyed all the photos and mementoes, scrapbook supplies, it suddenly struck her as being a very unimaginative and prosaic endeavor. Who came to a resort like this to do a family scrapbook?

     A good mother did, she told herself, that was who. Everyone was always telling Sissy Whitboro what a good mother she was. The day Adrian was born, Sissy had vowed to raise her as a real mother should, not in the cold, aloof way her own mother had—"Don't muss Mother's hair. Don't touch Mother's make-up." A woman who never hugged her child, or said I love you, or did silly things to make her kid laugh. Or created a family album.

     "You are the best mother in the world," her best friend, Linda, had said when she drove Sissy to the airport. "Now leave your family at home and enjoy yourself!" Linda was divorced with two kids and had a slightly wild and racy nature. She had given Sissy a "care" package before she left, with instructions not to open it until she was alone in her room. Sissy had unwrapped it the night before and found flavored condoms, chocolate body paint and a dildo covered in smileys. The card said, "I am with you in spirit!"