A Dance With the Devil: A True Story of Marriage to a Psychopath by Barbara Bentley Page A
Authors: Barbara Bentley
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experiences of the day evaporated. I was the fairy-tale princess at the ball, and I had just married my prince.
Later, back in the bridal suite, I put on the white negligee Debbie had given me at the wedding shower. I posed, looking into the mirror above the fireplace, to show off the low-cut back. The camera flashed for the last time that evening.
I have always been tenacious. If something gets stuck in my mind I will not rest until it is sorted out, no matter how long it takes. What I kept looking for in my relationship with John was some proof, any proof that would validate his stories about himself or his absentee family. On the way back to the Los Angeles Airport we stopped at the mission in San Juan Capistrano, and I saw an opportunity to shed some light on at least one of John’s stories, the one I thought of as the “Three Arch Bay House” story. By now I had begun to name his stories. He had many, and he told them often.
As we walked around the inner courtyard of the mission, past the ancient cacti, making our way to the old bell tower to see the swallows, I hatched my plan.
“Isn’t your house at Three Arch Bay near here?” I asked, even though I had already checked out the map in the gas station when we filled up before leaving San Diego. “I think it’s a direct hop to the ocean from here, only a couple of miles.”
“Yeah,” John said. “It’s Spanish, just like this mission.” Without any more prompting, he reminisced once more about how his father had bought the land in the 1930s for next to nothing and built a home on the point with an unobstructed view of the ocean. He had barely moved in when Uncle Sam transferred him, so he leased the home to the Hollywood couple Anne Jeffreys and Bob Sterling, who still lived there.
“I’d love to see the house, John. Do you think we could go by it for just a minute?”
Without hesitation he replied, “What a great idea!”
If he didn’t own it, I would have expected him to stammer, to back-pedal, and to find some reason not to go to Three Arch Bay. When he didn’t, my spirits lifted. Finally, I was going to get some tangible proof that he was who he said he was, that he owned what he said he owned. I followed John’s instructions and turned where he directed, but we found the street closed off by a guarded wrought-iron gate.
“I didn’t know they put this up,” John said. “I guess we can’t go by the house.”
“Why not go up to the guard and tell him who you are?” I asked. “Tell him you own the big house on the point.”
“No.”
“Why not? It’s your house.”
“I’m not going to disturb the renters,” he said coldly. “Besides, I don’t have any proof with me. The guard won’t let us in without that.”
No matter how much I prodded and pleaded, he was adamant. We were not going into that development that day. I pulled the car around and headed up the coast. John must have sensed my disappointment.
“Pull off the road, right there,” he said pointing to a dirt turnoff. “We’ll be able to see the roof of the house from there.”
So to appease my need for something concrete, something tangible, I parked the car, and pulled out my camera. I took a picture of the house, or at least the roof of a house that I believed belonged to John and his sister, Lydia. I secretly wished John’s stories would not be so difficult to validate.
We continued up the coast, talking, as newlyweds do, of the future and all the great experiences ahead of us. “Just more thing,” I teased as we sat on the plane, its engines whirring, ready for takeoff. “Now that we’re married, you can get my spouse card so we can shop at the naval base commissary, and I can officially prove I’m the admiral’s wife.”
John grabbed my right hand and kissed it.
“Anything for my new bride,” John said as the plane lifted off from the runway, heading northward toward home and our new life together.
PART TWO
Patience
SEVEN
The
Later, back in the bridal suite, I put on the white negligee Debbie had given me at the wedding shower. I posed, looking into the mirror above the fireplace, to show off the low-cut back. The camera flashed for the last time that evening.
I have always been tenacious. If something gets stuck in my mind I will not rest until it is sorted out, no matter how long it takes. What I kept looking for in my relationship with John was some proof, any proof that would validate his stories about himself or his absentee family. On the way back to the Los Angeles Airport we stopped at the mission in San Juan Capistrano, and I saw an opportunity to shed some light on at least one of John’s stories, the one I thought of as the “Three Arch Bay House” story. By now I had begun to name his stories. He had many, and he told them often.
As we walked around the inner courtyard of the mission, past the ancient cacti, making our way to the old bell tower to see the swallows, I hatched my plan.
“Isn’t your house at Three Arch Bay near here?” I asked, even though I had already checked out the map in the gas station when we filled up before leaving San Diego. “I think it’s a direct hop to the ocean from here, only a couple of miles.”
“Yeah,” John said. “It’s Spanish, just like this mission.” Without any more prompting, he reminisced once more about how his father had bought the land in the 1930s for next to nothing and built a home on the point with an unobstructed view of the ocean. He had barely moved in when Uncle Sam transferred him, so he leased the home to the Hollywood couple Anne Jeffreys and Bob Sterling, who still lived there.
“I’d love to see the house, John. Do you think we could go by it for just a minute?”
Without hesitation he replied, “What a great idea!”
If he didn’t own it, I would have expected him to stammer, to back-pedal, and to find some reason not to go to Three Arch Bay. When he didn’t, my spirits lifted. Finally, I was going to get some tangible proof that he was who he said he was, that he owned what he said he owned. I followed John’s instructions and turned where he directed, but we found the street closed off by a guarded wrought-iron gate.
“I didn’t know they put this up,” John said. “I guess we can’t go by the house.”
“Why not go up to the guard and tell him who you are?” I asked. “Tell him you own the big house on the point.”
“No.”
“Why not? It’s your house.”
“I’m not going to disturb the renters,” he said coldly. “Besides, I don’t have any proof with me. The guard won’t let us in without that.”
No matter how much I prodded and pleaded, he was adamant. We were not going into that development that day. I pulled the car around and headed up the coast. John must have sensed my disappointment.
“Pull off the road, right there,” he said pointing to a dirt turnoff. “We’ll be able to see the roof of the house from there.”
So to appease my need for something concrete, something tangible, I parked the car, and pulled out my camera. I took a picture of the house, or at least the roof of a house that I believed belonged to John and his sister, Lydia. I secretly wished John’s stories would not be so difficult to validate.
We continued up the coast, talking, as newlyweds do, of the future and all the great experiences ahead of us. “Just more thing,” I teased as we sat on the plane, its engines whirring, ready for takeoff. “Now that we’re married, you can get my spouse card so we can shop at the naval base commissary, and I can officially prove I’m the admiral’s wife.”
John grabbed my right hand and kissed it.
“Anything for my new bride,” John said as the plane lifted off from the runway, heading northward toward home and our new life together.
PART TWO
Patience
SEVEN
The
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