THE ROLE OF A LIFETIME
Fiction by Cynthia V. Hart
David shivered. The old mansion could get drafty at night. He had to jump a little to lay down on the bed, as it was slightly higher than modern beds. Looking up, all he could see was the canopy and the curtains almost walled off the room. It was as if he was in a whole other world, insulated from the one he knew. The mattress was so soft, so comfortable, he felt himself relaxing immediately. Had it really been only a week since he got that letter from the law firm representing her estate? Imagine—his dull, drab old Aunt Frances, the secret love child of one of Hollywood’s most glamorous and tragic silver-screen sex goddesses. It still was hard to believe he was any relation to the legendary Ginger Garrison. And with her and Aunt Frances both gone, the magnificent old mansion in L.A.’s tony Holmby Hills neighborhood was all his now -- every stick of furniture and stitch of clothing in the place. The fancy cars in the garage and the paintings on the walls. He would think about how to pay the inheritance taxes on all of it tomorrow.
Flying out here from Vermont had really taken it out of him. The butler had installed him in another room, but when he’d been told this was her room as they passed, he couldn’t resist sneaking a peek inside. He closed the door quietly so as not to alert anyone to his presence. He took in the opulence of the room, like the rest of the house only more so: the huge dresser and dressing-room-style lighted vanity, a closet and wardrobe, the lavishly appointed bathroom...and a big four-poster bed with gauzy curtains that seemed to draw the eye to it. He struggled with temptation, gave in at last and opened a drawer or two. The topmost ones were full of lingerie, the old-fashioned kind from the mid-century period of their owner’s heyday: panties both brief and less so, stiff, lacy underwire bras, stiffer girdles, garter belts, waist cinchers, and silky hose galore. He let his hands savor the texture of the garments before carefully placing them back where found, then toyed with the impressive arsenal of makeup on the vanity: blush, mascara, rouge, scented powders, nail polishes and lipsticks in dozens of shades. Thoughts that made him blush beet-red went through his head.
Finally, he wandered over to the bed and sat on its old-style high mattress experimentally. It gave beneath him, with a lush softness one would expect in a home whose occupant could afford the very best of everything. Surely it couldn’t do any harm just to lay down for a bit... he thought. He sank down and down into a trancelike state of half-sleep. Presently he heard something...a whisper or a rustle of drapery, he couldn’t be sure which. No, it was definitely a whisper: ...Hi there, sailor!.. He looked around, but saw no one through the curtains.
Relax... the whisper came again. Lay back...get comfortable. He started to get a bit nervous. But the whispering voice seemed so seductive, so enticing that his nervousness couldn’t go much further than mild unease. Take all those clothes off, honey. You must be sweltering.
Take his clothes off? Well, he was going to sleep...it did seem natural enough. He pulled off his shoes and socks, unbuttoned his shirt, loosened his belt and pants, slid them off and was down to his shorts. Take it all off, the voice hissed. With a swallow, he took off his shorts and lay naked on the bed. He didn’t feel the chill he had expected. In fact, he could swear he felt someone’s warm breath on his neck. And though he still saw no one but himself, he was starting to feel...something...touching him, caressing him.
So handsome, the voice whispered. Young and smooth...just the way I like ’em.
Suddenly something in his brain clicked into place and he recognized the voice. He had to be hallucinating. It couldn’t be her; she was decades dead. But the soft soprano was unmistakable, even at a whisper. “Is someone there?” he asked aloud, still not allowing himself to think the obvious.
Nobody here but us ghosts, darling, said the voice. Now he felt a chill...right up his spine. “G...Ginger?”
Right the first time, the voice replied. What did you expect? This is my bedroom, after all. Or was, at least.
