RETURN TO WILDWOOD
by
Andrea Dale
copyright 2010, Andrea Dale
Published by Soul’s Road Press
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RETURN TO WILDWOOD
by
Andrea Dale
Julia woke with a start, gasping. She fumbled for the light and clutched the damp bedsheets to her. She’d been having the same dream every night for a week now, ever since the funeral. She was back at Wildwood, the manor house where she’d lived with her aunts from the time her parents had died until she went away to boarding school. In her dream, though, her aunts weren’t there. She was alone at first, but then there was a man…
She shuddered, but not entirely from fear. He was a large man, strong, with rough hands and tangled hair. Julia didn’t remember him as someone who had visited Wildwood, and yet he was familiar, and seemed to belong there. She was sure she would have remembered him, too. The very sight of him in her dream made her breath catch. And in her dream, the things he did to her! She had had sex before, knew what to expect, but this was very, very different. He hurt her…and she liked it.
Knowing what she would find, Julia slipped her hands between her legs, amazed at the wetness there. Her clit felt distended, huge, and she imagined it was deep red, engorged with blood and desire. She put her other hand on her breast; the nipple puckered rough, almost aching, beneath her palm. She pinched it, hard, trying to recapture the pressure and pain of her dream. Flicking her middle finger across her clit, she shuddered again, this time in orgasm. It raced through her, claiming her, leaving her helpless.
She slumped back against the pillows, her racing heart slowly calming. Only then was she able to sleep the rest of the night without dreams.
*
The will was read the next day. Julia wasn’t sure whether or not she was surprised to hear that Wildwood was hers. Her aunts had been her only living relatives, after her parents died when she was seven. At that point, she’d been sent to live at Wildwood with Aunt Camelia and Aunt Margethe, and she’d stayed there until she’d been sent to boarding school at age sixteen, although she visited on holidays in the years since then.
Wildwood had seemed like a magical place, so different from the city she was used to. The aunts were artists—Camelia sculpted and Margethe wrote poetry and music—and Wildwood was a bohemian artists’ colony (it was later that Julia found the words to describe it). A steady stream of people visited, stayed, left, returned. Julia thought the house was never-ending; every time she turned a corner, she found a new door leading to a room she’d never seen before. The place was jammed with soft velvet sofas, heavy brocade drapes (some of which had been pulled down to make clothes or backdrops), armoires and wardrobes and marble coffee tables and rickety occasional tables with strange patterns made from inlaid wood.
There were books, too, crammed on shelves and piled on the floor, which was why when the school system came to check on her, Julia passed tests with a knowledge that stunned them. She was a bit shaky on math, but could tell you the Latin name for every butterfly in the garden, identify any Italian painter by his style, and discuss literature and poetry with ease. Because of the nature of much of the art in the house, she was versed at an early age on the anatomy of the human body, both male and female. That, combined with certain books and a keen notice of animal habits, meant she wasn’t an innocent when she went to school. But the sex in her dreams was wildly different from her experiences. She’d read about some of it, but dreamed much more detail…
Julia forced her attention back to the reading of the will. She was amazed to hear the lawyer tell her that there was a bank account that would cover upkeep on the vast house and grounds, taxes, and her basic needs. If she didn’t squander the money, she would be comfortable for the rest of her life.
When she stepped out of his office building, a man fell into step beside her.
“Julia Greene?”
“Yes.” He didn’t look familiar, and he wasn’t the sort of man that she liked. Although expensively dressed, he had an air of smarminess about him. Something unpleasant lurked in his eyes.
“My name in George Wilkinson.” He held out his hand, and she shook it, glad when she could pull away. “Perhaps your aunts mentioned me.” When she shook her head, he continued, “I’m sorry to hear of their passing.”
The sentiment came too late. She reluctantly took the business card he pulled from his inner jacket pocked, but didn’t look at it.
“I understand you’re the new owner of Wildwood,” he said. “I recently made an offer to your aunts to purchase their property. Now that the decision is yours, I wanted to extend the offer again.”
“I’m sorry, but Wildwood isn’t for sale.”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you planning to live there?”
“Even if I weren’t, I wouldn’t sell it,” Julia said. “It’s my childhood home, and it’s been in the family for years.”
“Well, if you are, you might think twice about it. It’s an awfully lonely, remote place.”
“Are you threatening me, Mr. Wilkinson?”
He took a step backwards, his hands palm-toward her in an exaggerated gesture of innocence. “Certainly not!”
His eyes said otherwise. Julia pressed her lips together.
“Thank you for your time, but I’m not interested. Excuse me.” She walked away from him. He didn’t follow, but she could feel his eyes watching her. She suppressed the urge to shiver until she was around the corner.
*
The high summer sun made the ride to Wildwood almost unbearable, and Julia peeled the clinging white dress from her damp skin as soon as she walked in the door. When she’d first moved here, Camelia and Margethe had tried to encourage the guests to wear clothes, but most were used to walking around naked or semi-draped, and eventually they all fell back into the habit. Julia had followed suit. It had been strange when she first got to boarding school, having to stay clothed, having others ashamed of their nudity. Here, it felt natural again.
After school, university, and a career in publishing, Wildwood had become something of a blur to her. She hadn’t forgotten things so much as remembered them as a pleasant dream. She returned with a frisson of excitement in her belly. It wouldn’t be the same without the aunts; the manor would seem wrong without them, and she would miss them constantly. But she was elated to return, thrilled to have the opportunity to write her book. Perhaps she’d invite some friends, revive the artistic atmosphere.
The house was as she remembered it, a tangle of books and music and canvases, of heavy wooden dressers and tables, and brocade and velvet sofas and chairs. She left her suitcases in the wide foyer and wandered through some of the lower floor, opening windows and checking the water and gas in the kitchen.