IVY SWINDEL WAS ADDICTED to porn.
While most seventy-eight-year-old ladies were crocheting
afghans or sipping tea from china cups, Beth Randall's
great-aunt was viewing Internet pornography. The fact that
the spinster's father had been a Methodist minister and
the old lady still referred to sex as "matters of the
flesh," made her behavior seem outlandish, if not
downright abnormal.
But then, no one ever accused Ivy or her younger sister,
Iris, of being normal. And at any rate, Beth considered
normal to be highly overrated.
"I found the most interesting Web site this morning," the
older woman stated at breakfast, blue eyes sparkling, and
grinning like a naughty schoolgirl.
"It's called 'Balls of Steel." Isn't that colorful?"
Since Beth assumed the Web site had nothing to do with
bowling or baseball, or any other kind of vertically
played sport, she smiled tightly. Her focus shifted to her
great-aunt Iris. She felt somewhat relieved that the
woman's only addiction seemed to be Earl Grey tea, though
she did harbor a worrisome fascination with witchcraft,
which had the gossip-mongers in town working overtime. But
even that didn't seem nearly as disturbing as the one Ivy
had for naked men.
Her great-aunt had never admitted the reason she was so
fascinated with male genitalia, but Beth suspected it had
something to do with her desire to recapture her youth.
The old woman had been the wild child of the Swindel
family, and the bane of her father's existence. She had
never lacked for male companionship, or so she claimed.
Ivy had admitted in a roundabout way that she'd sown her
share of wild oats — a shocking concept in her day and
age, when women were expected to be circumspect and
ladylike — but had never found a man she deemed worthy
enough to marry.
Apparently, Ivy was still looking. Since that fateful day
last year when Beth had given Ivy her old computer and
she'd discovered the Internet, Ivy had become fascinated,
then obsessed, and finally incorrigible, not to mention
unrepentant, about visiting pornographic Web sites. And no
matter how many times Beth had teased, cajoled and begged
her not to, Ivy hadn't listened. Fortunately, she seemed
interested only in naked men, nothing more sordid.
One had to be grateful for small favors, if one had an
elderly aunt into porn.
Beth placed a plate of hot scones, fresh from the inn's
kitchen, on the small round mahogany table in her aunts'
suite of rooms on the fourth floor. Sipping the hot tea,
she felt lucky to have these wonderful ladies in her life.
The Two Sisters Ordinary, named in honor of her aunts, had
been the Swindel sisters' former home. Iris and Ivy had
encouraged Beth to turn the historic Victorian into an inn
so that others might enjoy it. She, in turn, had given
them a life estate.
As was her usual custom, Beth proceeded to fill her aunts
in on the day's upcoming events. "We have a new couple
checking in today. The Rogers are from Columbus, Ohio.
He's a dentist. They're coming to celebrate their twenty-
fifth wedding anniversary."
"How wonderful! Will they be staying long?" Aunt Iris
asked with no small amount of enthusiasm. Her aunt was an
intriguing mixture of Mary Poppins and the Wicked Witch of
the West and was quite possibly the most upbeat person
Beth had ever met, though she was a stickler for the
proprieties. Good manners were expected, as was
circumspect behavior, which usually created problems where
Ivy was concerned.
Ivy Swindel didn't know the meaning of the word
circumspect.
"Just two days, possibly three," she replied, hoping for
three because she needed the extra money. "Is the man well
endowed?" Ivy wanted to know, leaning forward to stare
intently at Beth, who bit her lower lip to keep from
laughing. "All the young men on the Web sites I visit seem
to be. I do hope so. Maybe we can get those Chippendale
dancers to come stay at the inn. Wouldn't that be lovely?
I've been saving my dollar bills, just in case."
Iris gasped. "Sister, shame on you! What kind of talk is
that, and in front of your niece? Children have very
impressionable minds. I've told you that numerous times."
At thirty-four, Beth didn't think her mind was all that
impressionable — warped, maybe; confused, at times; filled
with self-doubt, always — she had her ex-husband to thank
for that.
Greg Randall's constant criticism and verbal abuse had
taken its toll. "You're so stupid, Beth! Why the hell did
I ever marry you? If I want your opinion, I'll ask for it."
"I haven't met Mr. and Mrs. Rogers yet," Beth explained.
And she certainly had no idea about any of her male
guests'physical attributes, nor did she want to
know. "This is their first visit to the inn." And would
probably be their last, if Ivy started staring at the poor
guy's...um...equipment, and she wasn't referring to dental
drills. It was hard to believe that this male-nudity-
addicted spinster was the same sweet old lady who used to
read bedtime stories to her. "I'm also expecting a young
honeymoon couple to arrive at the end of the week," she
announced.
"Joan and Charles Murray are from Virginia. They sounded
very nice on the phone."
"Oh good, that's sure to liven things up around here. Put
them in the room with the big brass head-board, so we can —
"
"Ivy Swindel!" Iris shook her head in warning.
"Merciful heavens! That will be quite enough. What would
Papa think to hear you say such things? I'm sure he's
rolling over in his grave at this very moment."
Looking hopeful, her older sister grinned. "Do you think
so?"
Sniffing the air several times at the acrid odor filling
the air, Beth scrunched her nose in distaste. "What's that
awful smell?" The lemon sachet, which usually permeated
the large suite of rooms, had been replaced by something
that smelled suspiciously like marijuana. Not that she'd
ever smoked the potent weed, but her ex-husband had
indulged, from time to time.
"Incense, dear. I'm trying out a new incantation and
thought it would help set the mood."
"Iris is trying to raise the dead." Ivy grinned, which
increased the multitude of wrinkles on a face that looked
like a well-traveled road map. "I told her to start with
Phinneas Pickens. That old coot could use some
resuscitation. Why, I ran into him at the bank the other
day and he pretended he didn't remember that I'd taught
him eighth-grade English. Can you imagine? The man must be
senile."
Iris was trying to raise the dead? Why on earth would she
want to do that?
Beth decided she might have to reconsider which aunt was
the nuttier of the two.
"Maybe Mr. Pickens is growing a bit forgetful," she
offered, glancing at the ormolu clock on the mantel and
knowing what she'd suggested was very unlikely. The man
had a mind like a steel trap. "At any rate, he'll be here
soon to inspect the inn for the loan I've applied for."
And she had no doubt he'd remember every debt she owed.
Beth wasn't sure what she would do if she didn't get the
additional funds or how long she could keep operating the
inn. Business had been slow these past six months. And
though she had bookings for the upcoming Thanksgiving and
Christmas holidays, she wasn't sure the revenue would be
enough to sustain her through winter, when tourism slowed
down in the rural Pennsylvania township.
Mediocrity received its share of snow, but it wasn't
reliable enough to base an entire industry on; and so the
skiers and snowboarders went farther north, leaving only
the die-hard antique lovers and Civil War buffs to spend
tourist dollars in the quaint community.
"I wish we were able to help out more financially, Beth
dear," Iris said, biting her scone daintily, and then
wiping crumbs from her lips with an embroidered
napkin. "We never meant for this house to become a burden
when we gave it to you. Did we, sister?" Ivy shook her
head.
"Don't be silly. I love this house. But it takes time to
grow a business. There were repairs and alterations that
needed to be done before we could open as an inn. This
relic is a century old, after all."
Iris still didn't look convinced and Beth patted her hand
reassuringly. "You'll never know how grateful I am that
you and Aunt Ivy chose to share your home with me. I don't
know what I would have done if you hadn't made the offer.
You've always been there for me." Their generous gift had
been a godsend to Beth, whose life had fallen apart after
finding out that her husband of three years had been
having an affair with one of his coworkers.
Greg was the athletic director for Mediocrity High School
and head coach of the Miners football team. Penelope
Miller, his paramour, was a physical-education teacher who
coached girl's basketball and soccer.
Beth supposed their pairing had been inevitable. She'd
never shared her husband's enthusiasm for sports, while
her husband's lover fit his fantasy image of a female jock
to a tee: big boobs, long legs and no brains, or at least
none Beth could discern.
What seemed disastrous at the time had actually turned out
to be the best thing that could have happened to her.
Greg's nasty moods and the venom that spewed forth from
his mouth were now Penelope's problem to deal with. They
deserved each other, as far as Beth was concerned.
Unwilling to turn tail and run after her husband's affair
had become public knowledge, Beth had focused all of her
energies on opening the inn, which had given her a chance
to regain her self-worth and sanity, and a reason to get
her life back in order, which hadn't been easy on many
levels. But she was determined to succeed.
"This house was just too much for a couple of old ladies
to manage," Ivy admitted. "And you love this Victorian as
much as we do, so it seemed only fitting that you should
have it. We wanted the house to remain in the family, and
you're the only family we have left, aside from your
mother, who is quite content with her life in California."