Asking for Trouble - Leslie Kelly [3]
Most of the time, I didn’t even do anything with the things I figured out. I just like the process of following steps through to reach a conclusion. Seeing if the things I thought had happened really had happened.
For someone like me—who’s been told I have a wild imagination—getting to that conclusion could be one heck of a ride. My oldest brother, Tony, once commented that if I found a dollar on the pavement, I’d concoct an entire bank robbery scenario about the thieves who’d dropped it, rather than picking the damn thing up and buying a bunch of tooth-rotting candy like any normal kid would.
I guess he was right. Instead of the big picture, I sometimes tend to see the gargantuan one.
So having a little glimpse of sex, you can bet I’d built up in my mind just how good it could be. Hence my research into the subject. I was very thorough. Lord help me if Mama goes over to my apartment to “help” me while I’m out of town and decides to clean out my closet. If she sees my stash of sex toys and erotica, she’s going to have a heart attack and think I’m a sex fiend.
I’m not. I’m just frustrated. If you hadn’t been touched intimately by anyone other than the dressmaker who fitted you for your latest bridesmaid gown for the past few years, wouldn’t you be?
Bridesmaid gowns. Getting quite a collection of those, I tell you. While I’m on the subject, does anyone in the world know why those things always look like fifties prom dresses worn by somebody named Peggy Sue or Bobbie Jean? Is there a law or something that says they have to be butt ugly?
Okay, back to the intimate touching. You should know, the dress-fitting thing wasn’t as naughty as it sounds. The dressmaker was one of my sisters-in-law. And the only private part of my body she touched was my bra strap as she measured my chest size.
What was it? Mind your own business. That’s a sore subject.
So anyway, yeah, take it from me, it’s not easy bobbing around in a sea of testosterone just trying to keep your head above water. I’ve somehow managed it for twenty-five years now, but I realized a couple of months ago that if I didn’t get away for a little while, I’d drown.
I probably could have gotten a job at the bottom rung of a paper after I graduated from college two years ago. But something held me back. Maybe the realization that I wasn’t through learning. So after saving up money by working in the family pizzeria for a year, I went back to school and fell right back into the routine of losing myself in intricate stories that I—and only I—could decipher.
The family doesn’t get me. Pop thought that when I worked at the restaurant, it meant I’d stay there full-time, which would have suited him fine. And Mama just wants me married and pregnant.
Uh…no. Not happening. Not anytime soon, at least.
That’s why I decided long ago to get the hell out of Chicago for some much needed mental relaxation and, hopefully, physical stimulation. So I accepted my psychology professor’s offer to become his research assistant for an out-of-town assignment. Which is why I’m in my little car—purchased with my own money, thank you very much; otherwise, I’d be driving a yacht-sized Cadillac bought by my father—chugging up a Pennsylvania mountain toward some place called Seaton House.
And that is why I’m about ready to pee my pants.
Because, to be perfectly honest, the first time I saw the pictures of that place, I was scared to death. I felt this weird chill run down my spine. I even caught myself turning into my Grandma Rosalita, instinctively making the sign of the cross just like she did whenever one of her grandchildren made the mistake of cussing in front of her. Or criticizing Tony Bennett.
I never knew a building could look so menacing. Sounds melodramatic, I know, but it’s true.
When I went on to read exactly what had happened in the mansion, which had been transformed into a hotel sometime in the 1930’s, the chill had spread from my spine to every inch of my body. With its murderous history, Seaton House would have been terrifying, even if it had looked like Granny’s