Great-Aunt Sophia's Lessons for Bombshells

by Lisa Cach

  He wasn’t here now, though, and she could avoid him if he ever came to Pebble Beach again. Her native optimism bubbled slowly back to the surface, and with a growing sense of new beginnings, she stepped back into the house and closed the door.

  Humming to herself, she bounced into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Lali had told her last night to make herself at home in the kitchen, since her mother, Renata, didn’t do breakfast.

  “A morning person, are you?”

  Grace shrieked and dropped a container of yogurt, its white innards splattering on the terra-cotta floor. “Aunt Sophia! I didn’t expect anyone to be up so early.” Grace grabbed a towel off the counter and swabbed up the yogurt.

  “It’s grossly unfair that at my age, one tires easily but sleeps hardly at all.”

  Sophia was sitting in the large breakfast nook at the end of the kitchen, the bay window behind her providing an elegant backdrop of green garden. A plate of toast and a coffee mug sat on the table.

  “I’m not always awake so early,” Grace said, rinsing the towel in the sink. “I had to see Catherine off.”

  “I take it by your good mood that you were not sorry to see her go.”

  Grace shrugged, unwilling to voice anything near the complicated truth.

  “You’ll both be better for the separation. She can hate me now, instead of you.”

  “So you were doing me a favor,” Grace said in disbelief.

  “Yes, I do see it that way. Fetch your breakfast and come sit with me. I have something I want to discuss.”

  God help her, she hoped it wasn’t another “favor.” A fresh bowl of yogurt and fruit in hand, and a mug of coffee from the pot, Grace slid onto the banquette across from Sophia. Her aunt’s hair and makeup were as perfect as if she’d never gone to bed, even though she wore a silk floral robe and Grace could see the collar of apricot silk pajamas. Grace’s oversize T-shirt and chenille robe felt ratty in comparison, and she hadn’t combed her hair since showering. Even her bowl of yogurt looked unkempt next to Sophia’s neat, dry toast.

  “I’ve been thinking about your fascinating thesis on the emotional effects of beauty on women, and it occurred to me that I can help you gain a deeper understanding of it.”

  “You’ll tell me of your own experiences as a beauty, and the troubles it brought? Wonderful! I’d been hoping you might!”

  Sophia took a sip of coffee. “That wasn’t quite what I had in mind.”

  “Oh. Er. Ah, I didn’t mean to imply that you were obviously miserable, or anything.”

  “How fortunate for me that the Botox hides so much,” she said drily. “No, my thought was that while you are yourself a beautiful young lady, it is a beauty that to most people lies obscured by your slumping posture, your fidgeting, your lack of fashion sense, and your general air of slovenliness. It’s obvious that you have neither seen yourself as a beautiful girl, nor have you wished others to see you that way.”

  Grace’s cheeks flamed. “That’s not true; of course I want people to think I’m reasonably attractive. It’s human nature. What I don’t have is a need for people to see me as the prettiest girl in the room, and I don’t ever want to be seen as sexy.”

  “Ohh … ,” Sophia moaned, and for a moment Grace thought she was going to faint. “Heavens, dear, why ever not?”

  “I want people to see me—the real me, not just the surface. I don’t want to be treated as an object.” Declan flashed to mind. “I want them to focus on who I am.”

  “But, darling, who is going to want to get to know a schlumpy girl who walks around with a fish on her T-shirt?”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Well, I think I’m more approachable when I’m dressed casually. People are afraid to talk to overgroomed women. They think they’re self-centered and shallow.” Grace couldn’t help a glance at Sophia’s tailored robe.

  “You can be beautiful and well-groomed and still approachable. In fact, you can be the most stunning woman in a room and also be the most beloved, by men and women alike.”

  “I’ve never heard anyone say that’s the way it works,” Grace said drily. Was she delusional? Since when did women fawn on the most beautiful, desirable, talented female in their midst?

  “Of course, it takes more than a trip to the hairdresser and a clothes stylist to pull off that kind of charisma. There is a talent to it, and skill, and the courage to put them to use. You can make everyone adore you.”

  Grace shook her head. “Charisma has nothing to do with appearance, and it’s not something you can learn.”

  “How silly of you. Of course it can be learned, just as beauty can be learned. I don’t know how you will be able to claim any authority with the young women you hope to reach with your ideas if you yourself have never walked on the other side. They’ll look at you and think, ‘What does she know? She’s fat and doesn’t wear makeup, she’s single, her clothes are ugly. I don’t want to be like her.’”

  “And I don’t want to be like you!” Grace cried. “I don’t want to make people feel bad about how they look, or make them feel stupid.”

  “I’m being brutally honest with you, I know,” Sophia said, laying her hand over Grace’s and squeezing. “I’m saying things to you that I wouldn’t to any other woman, because I think you can handle it. I think you’re smart enough and strong enough to hear what I have to say. You’re not going to run crying to your bedroom, thinking I hate you.”

  That was exactly where Grace’s thoughts had been. Sophia’s green eyes were looking at her with such an intensity of caring, though, that she felt herself softening. “Aunt Sophia, I honestly don’t believe that happiness comes from being the most beautiful woman in the room. I think it’s destructive to a woman’s sense of self to strive for such a goal, and to leave her character and intelligence to lie fallow. I’m not going to do that to myself.”

  “A woman who fully exploits her beauty and sensuality can also develop traits such as kindness and confidence. Which can open doors to her future that would otherwise be closed.”

  “Those aren’t the kinds of doors I want opened.”

  “But if they were the kinds you wanted?” Sophia asked.

  “I’ll never believe it.”

  Sophia released her hand and shook her head. “Is that the thinking of a true academic: if it doesn’t fit my theory, I’ll disregard it?”

  “I’ve already gathered my research—”

  “Inadequate research, clearly. Come, I want to show you something.” With the help of a silver-headed cane she stood and led the way out of the kitchen, her steps slow but her back straight and her head held elegantly high on her slender neck.

  The short journey ended in a denlike room full of books. Sophia inclined her head toward the wall at Grace’s back. Grace turned.

  Her jaw dropped and the blood washed from her head, leaving her faint.

  “You’re gathering flies, dear.”

  Grace popped her mouth shut.

  “Have you ever wandered through an art museum, gazing at the faces in the paintings, looking for a face in the past that looked like your own? Some gesture of the hand, a tilt of the head, a hint of expression that you had seen every day in your mirror? And if you did find it, did you want to know who the person was, what her life was like? Was she similar to you, or dissimilar? What would she say to you across time, if she could speak?”

  “That’s you, isn’t it?”

  Sophia nodded.

  “It’s almost my face,” Grace said, stunned. “But I could never look like that. I would never try to look like that!”

  “Why not?”

  Grace shook her head. “It’s not who I am. It’s you.”

  “Darling, it was only part of me,” Sophia laughed. “I assure you, I did not spend every hour of my waking life seducing men. It was a role I played, when it suited.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Sophia looked at her in surprise. �
�Don’t you?”

  Grace shook her head. “You’re still the same now as you were in that painting. I saw how Declan and Dr. Andrew were looking at you; you have them wrapped around your little finger.”

  Sophia’s face softened. “Such dear fellows. It’s not every young man who would willingly spend time with a woman old enough to be his grandmother.”

  “I don’t think it matters if they’re dear or not, or young or not; I think you collect men the way other women collect china figurines.”

  “I’m not sure if you mean that as a compliment.”

  “Neither am I,” Grace said.

  Sophia laughed. “Grace Sophia, you are not as innocent as you look!”

  Grace felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I’m not sure if you mean that as a compliment.”

  “I do. Knowledge is always worth more than innocence. Or ignorance.”

  “On that, at least, we agree.” Grace looked up again at the painting that could have been of her, if she’d been someone else entirely on the inside. Or was the woman in the painting so fundamentally different from herself? Grace put her weight on one foot, relaxed her mouth, and lowered her lids to a sultry level, trying to imagine Dr. Andrew looking into her eyes and willingly twisting himself around her little finger.

  A movement caught the corner of her eye. She turned and saw herself in a Venetian mirror. She looked like a drunk chipmunk.

  Who was she kidding? Her face was a little like Sophia’s, but she would never be the cynosure of all eyes that her great-aunt had been and still was. She didn’t even want that type of attention. All it was good for was attracting men like Declan. To try to be like Sophia was to go against everything she stood for. “I don’t want to look like that,” she said, almost to herself.

  “Tsk. And here I thought we were being honest with each other.”

  “I don’t! All anyone would see would be my body. Guys would think about trying to get me into bed instead of listening to what I said.”

  “Darling, you have it backward. Men listen to what you have to say only if they want to get you into bed. It’s a fundamental law of nature.”

  “Not the men I want to know.”

  “Darling, all men.”

  “Men today are different. They’ve been raised to see women as their equals.”

  Sophia laughed. “Child, you’re no more going to change men’s primary interest in sex by preaching respect, than you’ll get them to love peace by giving boys dolls instead of toy guns.”

  “Well, whatever the case, I’m not going to change who I am to suit their basest desires. There’s no advantage to it. All I’d do would be to lose my self-respect.” She’d had a reminder of that truth less than eight hours ago.

  “How sure are you of that?”

  “Completely!”

  Sophia sat down on the couch and gestured to the easy chair across from her. Grace took a seat. “I can see I’m not going to persuade you with words alone,” Sophia said. “If you are anything of a scientist, though, you’ll be open to new evidence, and be willing to change your theories if they do not hold up.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then let’s try an experiment.”

  “What kind of experiment?” Grace asked, wary. Every conversation with Sophia led to a trap, and this one seemed no different. Her aunt was too good at laying the bait, though, for her to walk away with her curiosity unsatisfied.

  “A deeply entertaining experiment for us both, I hope. Over the next few months I will transform you into the type of charismatic, seductive bombshell you so despise, and at the end of the summer you will decide whether or not your theory of beauty bringing misery still holds, or whether your world has opened up in ways you never thought possible.”

  “All that sounds like is my agreeing to be brainwashed for three months,” Grace grumbled, even as a little devil on her shoulder started whispering persuasions in her ear. It would be invaluable information, given to her freely by an old pro, just as she’d told Cat she wanted. She’d thought that Sophia would be the subject of her study, though, not herself. She’d thought she would be the clever, distant observer, safe behind her notebook.

  “You can’t lose,” Sophia said. “Whether you change your mind or not, think of all the insights you will have gained into what a woman goes through to be beautiful and adored! You’ll understand her sacrifices and her devotion to her craft. You’ll experience for yourself the addictive pleasure of being admired. Think of the perspective it will give to your paper!”

  “Would you tell me about your own life, as part of the deal?”

  “Where it’s pertinent and won’t bore you to tears, certainly.” Sophia smiled wickedly. “But I won’t share a single anecdote of abuse and abandonment if you don’t agree to the deal.”

  Grace chewed her lip. “I’ve struggled my whole life to put more importance on who I am than what I look like.”

  “Are your convictions so weak that they could be undone by three months under my tutelage?”

  That was what she feared, irrational as it sounded. Look at the damage Sophia had done with a single comment about her needing a bra. Buying a training bra hadn’t been the end of it; Grace had spent the next five years obsessed with not letting her breasts be noticed by guys. She’d developed young and dramatically, though, and her efforts to slide under the boobdar of teen boys had been futile. Other girls had handled the lecherous looks with rolled eyes and raised middle fingers, but Grace had always been timid, and had slumped her shoulders as if she could make her breasts recede back into her chest.

  “I’ll sweeten the deal for you,” Sophia said. “If you put yourself in my hands for three months, at the end of it—whether you’ve changed your mind or not—I’ll give you twenty thousand dollars on top of your salary as my companion.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Grace gasped. That would be enough to buy a car! Or to pay her rent for nearly two years! She could take a trip abroad! She could pay off part of her student loans! She could—

  “In return,” Sophia said, breaking into her mental spending orgy, “you have to follow my directions and make an honest effort. No going through the motions and calling it good enough. No begging off because of embarrassment or fear. No protesting that it’s too hard or too stupid or too degrading.”

  “Would it be degrading?”

  “Of course not. Not by the standards of normal people, anyway.”

  Grace’s better judgment told her it was too good to be true. The temptation before her was so great, though, that she knew she was in danger of giving in. Twenty thousand dollars! the devil on her shoulder whispered. And then there were the research benefits, too.

  And beyond even those temptations, there was the hidden part of her—hidden ever since she was a child and her mother had declared a ban on Disney princesses in the house—that wanted to know what it felt like to be beautiful and sexy, and to have men so obsessed with her that they would give their lives in exchange for her slightest smile of favor. That hidden part of her wanted heads to turn when she came into a room, and every man to imagine what it would be like to sleep with her.

  She looked up at the portrait over the fire. Could she look like that? Part of her desperately wanted to find out.

  Grace shoved the treacherous thoughts aside and tried to think critically. “What do you get out of this?”

  “The satisfaction of proving myself right.” Sophia rubbed her hip. “Distraction from this would not be unappreciated, either.”

  “That’s all?”

  Sophia’s eyes went to the painting, and her voice was wistful. “There’s vanity on my part, I won’t deny that.” She met Grace’s eyes and smiled. “I want to see my younger self live again.”

  “I’m not you.”

  “Ah, child. At this age, illusion will suffice.”

  Grace looked at her aunt and saw a soft yearning in her eyes, and then a twinge of pain crossed her features, her hand pressing against her hip. S
ophia smiled, her lips trembling. She looked fragile and alone. Feeling a surge of pity, Grace leaned forward and stretched out her hand. “You have a deal.”

  Sophia’s brows rose in surprise, and she took Grace’s hand. “There’s one more condition, though: you must keep this a secret from everyone. Everyone. If you tell a soul before the summer’s over, then no twenty thousand.”

  “Is there a reason?”

  “Call it a whim on my part.”

  Grace shrugged. She’d be too embarrassed to admit to this deal, anyhow. Good God, if her mother or Professor Joansdatter ever heard about it— She broke out in a sweat at the thought. “Mum’s the word.”

  CHAPTER

  6

  Research Notes

  June 14

  Subject, Sophia Fenwick, is an eighty-five-year-old single (widowed, married unknown number of times) Caucasian female. Formerly a B actress, with claims to a bit part in South Pacific (subject insists she was up for Mitzi Gaynor’s role), she now resides in a mansion in Pebble Beach, California, and appears to be extremely wealthy. The source of her money is presumably from former husband(s). No children. Lives alone with staff members. Has a bad hip, but otherwise seems healthy, and has maintained an attractive appearance. Plastic surgery the most likely explanation for present eerie beauty.

  Sophia exhibits signs of inconsistent thinking. S. believes that sex appeal in the human female is determined by the female’s core beliefs about her sexiness, not by her physical appearance. While this theory holds a certain feminist appeal, vis-à-vis inner confidence determining one’s attractiveness, it is nonetheless in direct contradiction to S.’s own habits of dress and grooming (and plastic surgery?), and her frequent vitriolic judgments upon the physical appearance of other females. These judgments may be a defensive gesture. S. appears highly competitive and status conscious, and may be threatened by the presence of Author (me), who is young and may represent a past that S. cannot regain.

  Sophia is employing classic abusive manipulation techniques in an attempt to break Author down in order to rebuild Author in her own image, akin to a boot camp drill sergeant training “maggots” to be soldiers. S.’s abuses include telling Author that vegetarians are a pain in the ass, that feminists hate being women, that capri pants should never be worn by anyone more than one hundred pounds; and that Author’s (admittedly well-worn) undergarments are a particularly unsavory form of birth control, a sin against femininity, would frighten bears, and should be staked, burned, and buried, preferably in an unmarked grave.