When Vicki eventually had real seventeen-year-old sex with the boy she dated through graduation—who was not at all related to her—she was somewhat shocked by the lack of sparks, scars, and hydrant geysers. There was nothing except for a little bit of pain and a sloppy rhythm. She had to be told when it was over.

Vicki’s sexual relationship with Rich at Syracuse had been no help. They adored each other and managed to stay in a committed relationship during their last two years of college, but Rich did not believe in the passionate lovemaking described in V. C. Andrews’s books.

Once Vicki tried to claw at Rich, simply to see if she could work him into a frenzy worthy of Flowers in the Attic, but Rich instantly objected to the aggressive behavior.

“Ow! Vicki, what the hell are you doing?” Rich yelled when Vicki dug her nails into his back, imagining she was Cathy in Petals on the Wind, one of her favorites.

“I was excited,” Vicki responded, embarrassed.

“Fine, but don’t hurt me.”

And there was never a geyser when he had an orgasm, even after they stopped using condoms. Sometimes she felt squishy, but it only made her want to shower.

Vicki had assumed that her rediscovery of V. C. Andrews would be a short-term phase, but within a month she’d bought more than twenty books. She now had a stash much like her mother’s and found herself rereading each book more than once, sometimes skimming through them to find the sex scenes. She’d even considered buying a Kindle, just so it would be easier to bring more than one book on the road.

Vicki flipped the paperback open to a dog-eared page. She smiled, knowing full well that she was just a few paragraphs away from a sweet and confused heroine consummating her love with claws and enjoying a fire hydrant on blast.

It was an hour later, and time for Vicki to slip into her formal wear, when she finally took a good look at the hotel-room walls. She could identify the color: mocha wash. White stone for the trim. Ivory moon for the ceiling. Walton’s used ivory moon for its back offices. She wondered dully what the Robert Johnson House decorators had chosen for the bathroom as she walked in to fix her hair.

When she was presentable, she glanced longingly at My Sweet Audrina, lying on the bed, and then stuck it firmly in her purse. She walked into the hallway, closing the door behind her, and then swore, realizing that she’d left her room key inside. She dumped the contents of her purse onto the floor, just to make sure. No key. She’d have to get another one downstairs when she returned for the night. She took a few unbalanced steps toward the lobby in her sharp black heels and heard a vaguely familiar male voice call to her from behind.