Perfect Timing: Those Were the Days / Pistols at Dawn / Time After Time. Nancy Warren

on her shoulder.

      “Oh! Goodness! I’m so sorry I startled you!”

      Sylvia turned, and found herself looking into bright green eyes, sparkling from a well-aged face. The woman looked to be close to seventy, with regal posture and an air of confidence. “I’m Louisa Greene,” she said with a smile. “I live here.”

      “Oh. Oh. I’m so sorry.” Sylvia took a step toward the door. “I just wandered in from one of the exhibit halls. I didn’t mean—”

      “Nonsense!” Louisa placed a hand on her arm. “Please, don’t run away. I saw you admiring the portraits. I thought I’d found a kindred spirit.” She lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “I agreed to host the traveling exhibit here because I find the subject matter so very fascinating. But one does have to step away every once in a while, don’t you think?”

      Sylvia blushed, and wasn’t quite able to meet the woman’s eyes. She was twenty-six—right at the age where sex and work were supposed to be the two things at the forefront of her mind—and yet here she was desperately avoiding the subject while this grandmotherly woman blatantly admitted to being fascinated by it. Whatever happened to decorum?

      “Darling!” Louisa said, her voice lilting. “I’ve made you uncomfortable. I’m so sorry. Here, please sit and let me make it up to you.”

      Louisa gestured toward a divan and though Sylvia’s instinct was to run—to race—from the room, she couldn’t quite convince her feet to go along with that plan. And so she found herself sitting.

      Louisa signaled to one of the docents, who came over, looked at the two women, then nodded. Then, as Sylvia watched, wide-eyed, he left the room, shutting the double doors behind him.

      “Where’s he going?”

      “He’ll ring Thomas for tea and will ensure we’re not interrupted. You looked like you could use a bit of a break, and I feel I must apologize for embarrassing you.”

      “It’s really not—”

      “Nonsense. Besides, you were enjoying the room and I interrupted. It’s the least I can do.”

      Despite herself, Sylvia relaxed. There was something about Louisa she found comforting, even familiar.

      “I think it’s the way I was raised,” Louisa said, making Sylvia blink with the change of subject.

      “Excuse me?”

      “Sex, I mean,” the older women said casually. Then, “Oh, thank you, Thomas. You can just set the tray right here.”

      A butler in full livery had appeared in the doorway carrying a tea tray with a pot, two cups and an assortment of tiny desserts. Sylvia thought she ought to be impressed by the speed at which he’d prepared the tray—it was almost as if Louisa had been expecting company—but she couldn’t quite work up the energy. The whole day was turning out a bit baffling and surprising.

      As soon as Thomas left, Louisa turned back to Sylvia. “It was my grandparents, you see. They were so incredibly in love, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Considering the era, it was probably quite scandalous, but I learned early on that sex is an expression of love, no matter how many electronic devices might be involved,” she added with a wink.

      “I…um…oh.”

      Louisa sighed. “I’ve gone and done it again. I was trying to make you feel more comfortable and I’ve just embarrassed you more.”

      “Not at all,” Sylvia said. Which, of course, was a lie. “But I do think you’re naive.”

      The second she spoke, she was afraid she’d insulted the older woman. To her surprise, though, Louisa just laughed. “Naive? My dear, I’m getting close to seventy. I’m a lot of things, but I’m no longer naive.”

      “It’s just…well, your attitude about sex. It’s not always love, you know. Sometimes it’s about control. Power. Sometimes,” she whispered, mortified to realize her eyes were filling with tears, “it’s not a good thing at all.”

      “Oh, sweetie,” Louisa said, taking her hand. “I certainly didn’t mean to belittle anything you’ve gone through. But it’s all a question of semantics, really. Don’t you think?”

      Part of Sylvia wanted to race from the room. Another part wanted to protest. To clear up the perception—accurate though it might be—that Sylvia had been talking about herself. She never spoke about Martin. About what he did. Even to Tina she’d talked around the subject. Bits and pieces that let her friend draw her own conclusions. And Syl had only managed to reveal that much after ten years of friendship.

      But to this woman, Sylvia had opened her heart in no time and with no warning. It terrified her, but for some inexplicable reason it also calmed her. And so instead of running, she stayed on the divan, leaned over for her tea, and asked simply, “What do you mean by semantics?”

      “What you describe isn’t sex. It’s assault and battery. Using a sexual organ as a weapon, sure. But it’s not sex. It’s not a union.”

      “I…” Sylvia trailed off, not entirely sure what to say to that. She wanted to believe it, actually. But wanting was a lot easier than doing.

      “Don’t worry about answering me,” Louisa said. “Just smile and nod and indulge me my idiosyncrasies. It’s a wonder I haven’t gone completely batty what with strangers wandering through my home four days a week.”

      “So you meant it,” Sylvia said. “When you said you lived here.” She sighed. “It’s a grand house. I’ve just moved into an apartment in the mid-Wilshire area. But someday, I want a house like this.”

      “Do you?” Louisa cocked her head, looking at Sylvia in a way that made her squirm. “One day, I think you’ll get one.”

      “Why do you open it up to the public like this?” Sylvia asked, realizing as she spoke that it was an incredibly nosy question. “I’m sorry,” she said, backpedaling. “That’s really none of my business.”

      “No, no. Not at all. I can understand your interest. So many of these stately mansions have been turned over to charitable foundations. The upkeep on a house like this is…well, I have to have a very strong glass of sherry every time I go over the numbers with my accountant. But we’re actually one of the few that is self-sufficient.” She patted Sylvia’s hand. “Not that I’m bragging. It’s simply a fact of life.”

      “A nice fact,” Sylvia said.

      Louisa’s smile was soft and genuine. “Indeed.”

      “So, if you have the money to keep the place operational, why all this?”

      Louisa stood, gesturing for Sylvia to follow, then moved across the room to stand in front of the wall of portraits. She pointed to the one in the center. “Because of her,” Louisa said.

      “I’m sorry?”

      “That’s my grandmother,” Louisa explained. “She was a bit of an oddity in my family, but we always took everything she said very seriously.”

      Sylvia studied the portrait, noticing with interest that it seemed somehow familiar. The woman there looked calm and self-assured, with light brown hair and green eyes highlighted by a slightly large mouth and high cheekbones. Not to mention ears that stuck out just a little too much.

      With a start, Sylvia realized that the woman resembled her. How strange. But perhaps it explained why Louisa was so open. Maybe Sylvia’s resemblance to her grandmother made her feel more comfortable.

      Louisa apparently hadn’t realized that Sylvia’s attention had wandered. She was still talking about the woman, and when Sylvia tuned back in, her interest was piqued. “She’s one of the reasons the family is so well-off,” Louisa was saying. “Had a head for speculative finance. Made a fortune in the stock market and real estate.”

      “Nice,”