Chapter 1

 

 

 

 

“What’s this?”

Tess pushed aside the pile of old newspapers and photo albums to reveal a small strongbox. She pulled it free and set it down on a bare spot in the cluttered attic. The clasp was secured with a small but sturdy padlock. She pulled at it, but it didn’t give.

The landline ringing downstairs distracted her, and Tess rushed down to answer it. “Winston residence,” she said, slightly out of breath.

“Olivia.” The voice was deep and resonant.

“Excuse me, who’s calling?”

There was a slight pause. “Forgive me, I thought you were Olivia. Is she available, please?”

“Oh, um…” Tess hesitated. “Who is this, please?”

Another pause. “This is James Stevenson. I’m-I’m a good friend of Olivia’s. I’ve been out of the country for the past month. I’m afraid I’m no good with all this internet and cell phone stuff, and I’ve been out of touch. Is Olivia all right?”

Tess could hear the sudden concern in the man’s voice, and she steeled herself for what she had to say. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but my grandmother passed away three weeks ago. It was very sudden.” Tears sprang to Tess’s eyes as she shared the sad news.

“No,” the man said in a sharp exhale of breath, as if he’d just been punched in the solar plexus. “That can’t be right. I saw her right before I left and she was perfectly fine. She can’t be gone.” His voice cracked. “I-I-I…” He trailed off, and Tess wondered if the poor man was crying.

“I’m so sorry,” Tess said gently. “She passed away very peacefully in her sleep. Her heart just gave out. The funeral was last week.”

“I see,” he said slowly, sounding as if he were struggling beneath a ten-ton weight. “Thank you for…for letting me know.”

Tess heard the click of his receiver and she gently cradled her own.

James Stevenson. A good friend, he had said, and clearly one who was devastated by the news of her passing. She tried to recall Nana’s ever having mentioned him, but came up with nothing. Who was this mysterious James Stevenson?

Tess’s eyes filled with tears for the hundredth time that weekend as her gaze fell on a photograph of Nana and Pop. It was from early in their marriage, sometime in the fifties. Nana was smiling, the big happy smile of someone young and in love. Her face was turned toward her husband, who stared directly ahead, his expression self-conscious and stiff as he posed for the lens.

Olivia’s hair was pulled back in a careless ponytail, tendrils of unruly hair against her cheeks. Her face looked fresh and open. A Kansas farm girl kind of freshness, with a sprinkling of freckles across her broad, snubbed nose.

Tess held the framed photo, one she’d looked at many times before, and mentally compared herself with the woman she saw there. In the old picture, Nana was younger even than Tess’s twenty-five years. Where Olivia had been strawberry blond and blue-eyed, Tess had her father’s dark brown hair and brooding brown eyes. She had always envied her Nana’s open, sunny countenance.

Next to the photo were several large seashells, their horny exteriors protecting the delicate, milky pink curves inside. Tess lifted a nautilus shell, cradling it gently in her hands. It brought back sharp memories of summers spent collecting shells at dawn, while everyone but she and Nana slept. The world had seemed to belong only to the two of them then.

Tess sighed loudly and wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. Everything about this old house was steeped in memories of Nana and Pop. She thought about the box she’d discovered in the attic. What was in there that had to be kept locked?

Tess recalled a ring of keys in Nana’s desk when she was going through old papers. Hurrying over to the desk, she pulled open the drawers, rooting around until she found the keys behind a container of pushpins and paper clips. Examining it, she noted a small key that might fit the padlock.

Returning to the attic, she knelt in front of the strongbox and fit the key into the lock, her heart beating with anticipation.

It wouldn’t budge.

Frustrated, she tried all the other keys, but none were even close. It was getting late, and she had several hours of work to do to get ready for an important meeting the next day. The strongbox would have to wait.

 

Tess returned the next evening to her grandmother’s house, the locked strongbox still on her mind. Who knew what was in it? Maybe precious jewels and gold coins—that was what Nana would have said, rubbing her hands together in gleeful anticipation of the discovery. Maybe it contained love letters from Nana’s first boyfriend or something. More likely, it contained those old S&H green stamps booklets Nana had loved to collect in the sixties when she was a young housewife and mother, eagerly saving for a new blender or sewing machine.

Before entering the house, Tess went into the shed in the backyard, where she retrieved a bolt cutter, just in case her continued search for a key didn’t yield results. In the house, she looked through all the drawers, especially the night table on Nana’s side of the bed, but no luck.

She climbed the attic stairs, bolt cutter in hand, as she tried to think where Nana might have hidden that key. All at once, Tess remembered the long summers at Nana and Pop’s summer beach cottage. “The key’s on the window ledge, dear,” she could almost hear Nana say. “If we’re down at the shore when you get here, just let yourself in.”

There were two windows in the attic, one on either side. Tess went over to one of them and felt along the top of the window, finding nothing but dust and bits of chipped paint. Crossing the room, she ran her fingers along the second ledge. Something scuttled away from her fingers, causing her to jerk her hand away and let out an involuntary squeal.

Recovering herself, she put her hand again up to the dusty ledge and slowly moved her fingers along it until they bumped against something flat and cold to the touch. She closed her fingers around a small key with a satisfied smile. Nana would have been proud of her detective work.

Quickly she walked over to the strongbox, for the first time considering if she had the right to open it. She wavered for a second, debating if she should ask her mother’s opinion. But her curiosity won out. It wasn’t like she would do anything to compromise Nana’s privacy.

Putting any misgivings to rest, she pushed the key into the lock. It turned smoothly with a satisfying click, and slowly she opened the lid.

No jewelry, no S&H green stamps. There were just some old notebooks. They were thin, with pale blue covers, like composition booklets for a final exam. Old account ledgers? Tess lifted the top one, which had the number five written in the upper right hand corner. The other notebooks were numbered as well, one through four.

Selecting what she assumed was the first in the series, she opened it and immediately recognized her grandmother’s neat, flowing handwriting. Wildly curious, Tess began to read.

~*~

October 11, 1961

Mr. Stevenson said I should write in this journal. He said it would help me to sort out my thoughts. He told me to get myself a little notebook and keep it here at work somewhere safe.

I’m not sure where to start.

When I asked Mr. Stevenson where he thought I should, he said, in that deep voice of his, “Start at the beginning. And be honest. Explore your feelings and don’t censor yourself. No one but you will read your private thoughts.”

“Not even you?” I asked him.

“Most especially not me.”

I believe him. I think it would go against his grain to lie.

Well, I shall start at the beginning, as Mr. Stevenson instructed.

Mr. James Stevenson is an attorney, and I am his secretary. I can’t believe Frank let me go back to work, but since Jeannie is in second grade already, and I’m so bored at home, he said it was all right. Plus, I know the extra money will help with our summer vacations. I’ve already saved up some since I started here in early September.

~*~

James Stevenson, the man who had called the other day. The good friend… Tess was aware Nana had worked in an attorney’s office when she was young. Whatever had developed between them had to be more than just secretary and boss, as evidenced by the fact they were still in touch fifty years later, and Mr. Stevenson characterized himself as a good friend.

Tess was confused, and not a little intrigued. Why in the world would Nana’s boss instruct her to keep a journal? It was time to read on and find out.

~*~

October 12, 1961

Mr. Stevenson is a very exacting man, and he insists on perfection. He reminds me time and again that an attorney can’t afford to make mistakes, and therefore neither can his secretary. The first time he whacked my hand with the ruler, I have to admit I was surprised, but I’m coming to see that it is indeed effective. My typing has improved markedly.

~*~

What the hell was this? Tess looked at it again to make sure she hadn’t misread. Whacking her hand with a ruler? This was no ordinary office situation, even if it was way back in 1961.

Tess shifted on the hard attic floor. Getting to her feet, she scooped up the pile of notebooks and went downstairs. She made herself a cup of tea, prolonging the moment when she returned to the bizarre journal.

For the first time, her comfortable, confident knowledge of who and what her grandmother had been was shaken. She considered for a moment tossing the notebooks unread and forgetting she had ever seen them. But even as she thought this, she dismissed it. There was no way she was going to throw these out. She was going to read these things from beginning to end. She had to know.

Sitting down at Nana’s old Formica table, Tess sipped her cinnamon tea and lifted the first journal again.

~*~

October 13, 1961

I can’t believe he used the ruler on my bottom yesterday! Especially just for a silly thing like a run in my stocking. I can’t even believe I’m sitting here writing this, but Mr. Stevenson has given me an extra-long lunch hour, and he told me to use it wisely. I know he wants me to write. Probably afraid if I don’t get it out here, I’ll tell Frank my employer smacked my rear with a ruler!

How did all this happen? When did my boss become this bizarre disciplinarian? At first, he seemed like your normal everyday old boss. Well, maybe not “everyday,” as he’s always been a stickler for perfection, right from the beginning.

Distinguished-looking and very much the proper attorney. He’s thirty-four, I know because I saw his birth date on some of his certification records. He’s married and has two sons. His last secretary was named Millicent Willis. She quit this past year when she married, and so he needed someone new.

Thinking back, the interview was rather unusual, but I was so eager for the job that I brushed it aside. I remember now how he went on and on about how exacting he was, and how he’d grown used to Miss Willis’ 120 word-per-minute dictation. I don’t believe that—I do 105 and I’m very fast. I remember he went on about her ability to proof a legal document and catch every single teeny-tiny error. He said if he hired me, I’d be on probation for six weeks and that I’d be punished for any infraction.

Yes! He actually said punished, and when I raised my eyebrows and said, “Excuse me?” he kind of backtracked, explaining that he only meant he was very exacting and wouldn’t tolerate incompetence. In short, I’d either be up to his high standards or out the door.

But I’m coming to realize you can’t be up to Mr. Stevenson’s standards. They’re impossible. I’d really like to meet this Miss Willis. She must be a saint here on this earth, with her perfect skills and perfect everything else. Makes me want to slap her!

What is it about Mr. Stevenson that makes me want to please him so?

Partly, it’s that voice. Sonorous. That’s the word that comes to mind. It’s pleasing, but more than that, it’s commanding. Lulling, lilting, moving. I feel like I’m tethered to him on some secret level and his voice draws me to him. One wants to immediately obey whatever he asks. One wants, almost desperately, to please.

His voice haunts me. I dream of it. But the things he expects? And these bizarre little punishments. Why do I tolerate the smack of his ruler and his relentless critiquing of my apparently numerous failings?

What in God’s name is wrong with me?

 

October 17, 1961

Yesterday, I told Mr. Stevenson that I quit. He said he wouldn’t accept the resignation. I said, “Why ever not? I obviously don’t measure up to Miss Magnificent Willis.”

“Come into my office, Olivia,” he said, not even looking back to see if I followed. Well, I did follow, waiting to see what he had to say. Frank has already come to rely on my paycheck, and I dreaded telling him I’d quit, but enough is enough.

What precipitated my decision? Well, yesterday morning Mr. Stevenson told me two very important clients were coming in and he wanted to make sure we made an excellent impression, as they could throw a lot more business our way. He actually asked me to bend over so he could inspect the back of my stockings. Given that run last week, he explained, as if it were perfectly natural for a boss to inspect his secretary’s legs!

That’s part of it—the way he’s so confident and sure when he’s “disciplining” me. The way he acts as if this were the most natural thing in the world between a boss and his secretary. I find myself blushing and stammering, desperate to please him, chagrined, humiliated even, when I have failed yet again to measure up.

I find myself saying, “I’m sorry, sir, it won’t happen again.” And while it’s happening, it doesn’t occur to me that this is very odd behavior on both our parts. I haven’t worked in a law office before, it’s true, but I’m certain most attorneys don’t keep a ruler at the ready to smack their errant secretaries. And probably most girls would have been out the door after the first rap to their knuckles.

Yet here I sit, writing in this thing because he told me to and instead of protesting, I try harder and harder to please Mr. Stevenson. I don’t know why exactly. There’s something about him. I haven’t conveyed it at all here. I haven’t really conveyed much of anything yet, I guess, except that I must be stone-cold crazy.

Suffice it to say, there’s something about Mr. Stevenson. You just want to please him. Yet, it’s so hard to do. So, when you do succeed in getting that little half-smile of approval, you feel so good and proud.

Yesterday morning when he instructed me to bend over, for some absurd reason I actually complied, bending over the back of my chair with no idea what might come next. Well, he actually lifted the skirt, right up to my derrière, and then he ran his hands slowly up and down my thighs, as if he had every right.

“Mr. Stevenson!” I admonished in a shocked tone, standing up at once as I pushed his hands away.

I know, I know. Before that, I had let this man swat my hand and my leg and even my bottom (over my skirt) with his little ruler, and here I was acting all affronted. Why didn’t I quit before? I can’t say exactly. But yesterday was the last straw.

I fumed over it all through my lunch hour, which I took at my desk because it was raining and I didn’t want to sit in the park like I usually do. He left, as usual, promptly at one o’clock and returned on the dot of two.

God, listen to me, writing to myself and lying! I’m lying to myself right here on this page, as if I were a stranger who is going to read this and judge me. What is wrong with me?

It wasn’t that I was so upset by his feeling my thigh.

It was that I was so aroused by it!

There. I’ve said it.

Frank would never touch me like that—not in a million years. Frank is, well, Frank. Boring Frank. Make love to your wife once a week on Fridays, and keep your eyes closed, no doubt thinking about your next fishing trip, and moving just enough to finish before Jack Parr comes on the television.

God. I can’t believe I wrote that. I love Frank! I do. But sex. It’s so boring. I’ve read that it can be wonderful, that it can send tingles through you. You know, I’m just realizing as I sit here writing this that that’s exactly it. Mr. Stevenson’s hand sent tingles through me, right to that hot spot in my center. I wanted him to keep touching me, to move higher.

It was me I was mad at, not him.

Because I’m married, for better or for worse, so what the hell am I doing? Mr. Stevenson made me think, just for a second, mind you, of someone else. In our eleven years of marriage, I’ve never so much as looked at another man, and now my boss, of all people, is becoming the center of my fantasies.

Well, I had just finished typing my resignation, feeling very proper and formal. And very nervous. I pulled it out of my typewriter and handed it to him as he passed, saying, “I’m sorry, Mr. Stevenson, but you really give me no choice.”

That’s when he told me to come into his office. “Sit down, please, Olivia.” He looked me up and down in that slow deliberate way he has, like the headmaster at an old-fashioned boarding school in England. I almost expected him to sigh and say that now he would have no choice but to call my parents.

In fact, he said, “I think your decision is hasty. Let’s discuss it.”

Well, I sat and I crossed my legs and folded my arms across my chest, my chin held high. There was no way he was going to change my mind. Then he totally shocked me.

“Olivia, I want you to know you are no longer on probation. The overall quality of your work is excellent, but that isn’t why I want to keep you on. There’s something else. I think you know what I’m talking about.”

“No, sir, I don’t,” I snapped. I was being snooty, but frankly, it felt good, because I kept telling myself that after today I wasn’t going to have to come in there anymore and be treated like some kind of wayward child. At the same time, I found myself thrilling to his rare words of praise. Excellent work quality! But that “something else”—I pretended to him, and for a split second, to myself, that I had no earthly idea what he meant.

I was lying.

I can admit it here, because nobody but me will ever see this.

This is my secret.

I did know what he meant. I don’t mean I could articulate it. I’m still not sure I can, but there’s something. God, it’s embarrassing even to write it here, where no one can see it, but I did know what he meant.

When Mr. Stevenson checks my work my heart starts pounding, and I wait on tenterhooks to see what he’ll do. Always that ruler, tap, tap, tapping against his thigh while he reads, carefully, looking—hoping?—for an error, a mistake, something out of place, something missing, so he can say, his voice serious, “Olivia, you’ve made an error. Come here, and I’ll show you.” Carefully he points it out, that perfectly manicured fingernail glinting against the misspelled word or an incorrect usage. Calmly, he’ll say, “Olivia, hold out your hand.”

Thwack!

Oh, it smarts when he hits my hand. I’ve tried it different ways, palm up, palm down. I think palm up is easier to take, but he must know this too because he’ll hit me harder when I offer my palm.

Okay, I’m getting to it. I’m just going to write this and maybe it will help me understand. Mr. Stevenson says sometimes you know a thing, even when you don’t know you know it. What he meant, and what I understood but couldn’t express, was that I liked what he did to me.

There, I wrote it here, and now I’m blushing, even though I’m sitting here all alone. It isn’t just his hand on my thigh or that lovely compelling voice or his good looks. It’s everything. The ruler, the stern expression, the exacting requirements that always keep me on my toes.

Mr. Stevenson went to lunch on the stroke of one, just like always. He goes home to lunch with Mrs. Stevenson, I suppose. I’ve never asked. I would never ask about his personal life and he never asks about mine.

And I’m still sitting here.

“You need discipline, Olivia,” he said, smiling a little. “I sensed that in you the moment we met. You’ve never been disciplined because you’re smart and you’re used to getting away with things because of that. But I can see through it. I know who you are—I know what you are. And I’m going to teach you to understand. Little by little, but trust me, you will learn. I’ve been very careful with you up until now, testing the waters, you might say.

“But you’ve forced my hand with this absurd resignation letter.” As he spoke, he tore it up. He actually tore it up into tiny pieces, letting them flutter to the ground. “I won’t let you go.” He stared at me for a moment, his stern expression softening. In an almost gentle tone, he said, “I need you, Olivia. Forgive my presumption, but you need me too. You need what I offer you.”

I stared back at him, not giving him a lick of help. But inside, my brain was in a jumble, my gut in a clench. I did need what he offered, whatever the hell it was he was offering.

Then he took my breath with his next remark. “You, Olivia, are going to become my submissive. You will belong to me so completely you will never again even contemplate the thought of leaving me. Ever. Do you understand?”

He actually said that. All of it. I remember what people say. Mr. Stevenson says it’s a useful quality, as I can recall exact words that were spoken when he has me sit in on some of his meetings, even without consulting my notes.

Submissive.

I looked it up later. It isn’t even a noun, but he uses it as if it were. To submit, “To yield oneself to the authority or will of another. To surrender. To permit oneself to be subjected to something.”

“I have come to value you,” he went on and then he told me he was giving me a twenty percent raise, right there on the spot, effective immediately. He said he wasn’t trying to buy me off, but that he wanted to demonstrate in some tangible way how much he valued me.

Well, I pretended that that was what swayed me and I don’t mind saying that Frank will be pretty happy about it. But in truth, it wasn’t the money. It was the way he said he valued me. The sincerity in his voice and how handsome he looked as he said it. And the way he tore up the letter, like some movie with Gregory Peck—he even looks a little like Gregory Peck. It was very dramatic.

Okay, okay, I’m not being totally honest. As usual. It was also the ruler and all that it implies. I like the ruler—the discipline and the thinly veiled sexual overtones. It makes me aroused. And the way he talked about me belonging to him. I’m not even sure what all he meant, but I got a deep little thrill, right down to my toes, when he said it.

I can’t believe I’m writing this. I must be crazy.