Truth

by Aleatha Romig

  His light brown eyes mellowed as he stared into her tender expression. “I’ll come back as soon as the interview process is done.”

  “Tell me again, who are these people, and why do they want you?”

  Derek tipped his head to Sophia’s and grinned, “I’ve told you. You just don’t listen.”

  Her hands wandered down the buttons of his white silk shirt. “Maybe it’s because I get distracted. I keep thinking about wanting you for myself.”

  “I think you’re trying to distract me so I’ll miss my flight.”

  “Oh, well, so you leave tomorrow, instead of tonight.” She nibbled his neck, “Would that be so bad?”

  Punctuality was Derek’s thing, not Sophia’s. She was a free soul -- an artist. Perfect for her personality, she could work, sketching and painting, whenever the impulse hit. Sometimes that was three in the morning. Often Derek would wake to find her covered in chalk dust, still wearing the night gown she’d worn to bed.

  Despite their differences, their love was intense, passionate, and real.

  *****

  Just south of thirty, Sophia had given up on happily-ever-after. She’d had her share of romances, but something always seemed to intervene. Most of the time, it was her art. There were few men willing to take a backseat to a sketch pad.

  If she chose to reminisce, there was one man that met her requirements. He did a great job smoozing with investors, but honestly preferred spending time alone with her. He understood her art and said everything right. However, as time passed, their goals grew incompatible. It was as if he could see her dream, but it didn’t matter. He wanted things she didn’t understand. One day he received an unbelievable job offer, requiring travel. They promised to stay in touch. The final act proved lonely.

  Then unexpectedly in December of 2010, her life changed -- she met Derek at a mutual friend’s Christmas party. It happened so fast. In January of 2011 they married-- a whirlwind elopement to Paris. Sophia shared her affection for Europe and memories of Paris while working on her Master’s degree. Derek surprised her with a prearranged wedding. They exchanged vows in the park at the foot of the Eiffel Tower. Afterwards, they dined in a small French cafe with their witnesses. Derek secretly flew both of their sets of parents to Paris. It was the dream wedding she’d given up ever having.

  Occasionally, her love of art and a desire for self-promotion required her to travel for art exhibitions. Personally, her art was gaining notoriety. Recently, she’d accepted an invitation to exhibit her work at the Florence Academy of Art during a three week exhibition. Although she didn’t like leaving Derek, they both knew this was a remarkable offer.

  And now that she was home again, in Provincetown, Massachusetts, it was Derek’s turn to follow a remarkable offer. Shedis-tics, a software Fortune 500 company in Santa Clara, California, recently contacted him. The parent company, Rawlings Industries, wanted this branch of its empire to be again in the top 100. They believed Derek could help them achieve that goal.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t already have a great job and career. He did, in Boston for a major electronics company. Everything was going so well. He was satisfied with his career, and Sophia was happy in the community she loved. That all changed when he received the phone call from a Shedis-tics’ representative. The contact person told Derek he came highly recommended. Now -- he wanted more.

  Truly, the offer seemed too good to be true. Unsolicited propositions rarely happen in today’s economy. He was rightly cautious; however, after days of research Derek found everything with Shedis-tics legitimate. He also reasoned the new job would allow him the ability to greater support his wife’s passions. Even with notoriety, art didn’t pay well. Derek loved her passion and wanted to make her every dream come true.

  *****

  His warm breath bathed her cheeks, “You know, I don’t like leaving.” He kissed her nose, “I’m doing this for you, for us.”

  Sophia’s gauze skirt brushed the tops of her bare feet as she purposely pressed her scooped necked t-shirt against his chest. “I love you for it. But I don’t want you working yourself to death to support my art. I want it to support itself.”

  He encircled her trim waist. “It will, Baby. You’re so talented, one day it will.” His lips lingered on her pouting lips. “Someday you can support me. Let me do it now, and get you that bigger studio.”

  She exhaled, melting against his chest. “Please call me before you accept anything.”

  Derek nodded, as his lips found her slender neck, brushing her dark blond waves away, and sending chills down her extremities.

  “You know I won’t make a decision without talking it over. We’re a team, Baby.”

  Sophia looked into his eyes, marveling at his long lashes. “I just wish our team could play on the same court more often.”

  Derek pulled away and glanced at his watch. “Are you driving me to the airport? Or do you want me to leave the car there?”

  Sophia slipped her feet into her flat canvas shoes, “Oh, no, if you’re leaving for an undetermined amount of time, you’re not getting rid of me until the gate.”

  “Sorry, Sweetie. I’ve got a commuter from Provincetown to Boston, so no two hour drive in your future.”

  Sophia pouted again, “So, I have to give you up sooner rather than later. Well, you aren’t parking there either. I’ll see you all the way to the tarmac.”

  Provincetown had its distinct advantages: first and foremost -- its reputation in the world of art, also, its small population, close to 3,000 -- until tourist season. During prime summer months it’s estimated there were as many as 60,000 people in their small town -- each one a potential art buyer. The free spirited world of the Cape fit Sophia perfectly.

  The greatest disadvantage was its proximity to the rest of the world. Out on the tip of Massachusetts, transportation took time. Being late March, the cold wind and ocean spray off the Atlantic, could make Highway 6 potentially dangerous.

  Derek flew the private commuters daily to his office in Boston. To him the thirty minute flight was as common as riding the T in Boston. He counted it a small price to be with Sophia in the community she loved.

  Settling back into the living room of their cottage, Sophia debated a fire in their fireplace. Spring weather on the Cape changed without warning. Yesterday was in the sixties; today with overcast skies and strong ocean winds, it would be fortunate to reach fifty. Sophia settled onto the soft sofa, curled her long legs under her body, as her skirt swept the wood floor.

  Sighing, she thought lovingly about their home, a quaint cottage built in 1870. Many amenities had been added since the original structure: a modern eat-in kitchen and two full baths. Sophia loved the clawed tub in the first floor bath. The wood floors, trim, and built-in bookshelves were original. The second floor held two bedrooms perfect for Derek’s home office and Sophia’s home art studio.

  Sipping warm Jasmine tea, she contemplated Derek’s job offer. How often does a company like Shedis-tics seek out a potential employee? It was truly a great opportunity, and he always supported her opportunities.

  Along with notoriety, her art provided some financial profits. Occasionally pieces sold, and she enjoyed a cult following of buyers, people who required sporadic pacification with fancy dresses, champagne, and exhibits. She’d even been commissioned for a few specific pieces. A large portrait of a woman in her wedding gown had the greatest payoff. The anonymous buyer required her to sign a letter of confidentiality. She couldn’t even sign the painting. Sophia recognized the woman from magazines -- the wife of a businessman.

  Her work had become bolder since she’d married Derek. His love and support strengthened her to try what she’d previously felt too risky. That same love provided her with stability. Over the years, her parents worked desperately to help and support her. But, they were getting older, and she’d been a financial burden too long. Nonetheless, Sophia knew she wouldn’t have her small studio on Commercial Street, if it weren’t for them. She l
onged to prove she could make it on her own with her art, even if on her own meant with her husband.

  Finishing her tea, Sophia reached a decision. If Derek needed to move to California, she’d move too. Their cottage and her studio would sell. Being together was more important than living her dream.

  From her upstairs studio, Sophia looked south, out to the bay. The waves blended into the overcast sky. She pulled out her stool near her drawing table and found the note:

  I love you, if you found this, you’re doing what I

  love seeing you do... Create me something

  special, I miss you already and will be home soon!

  Sophia smiled as the East coast chill evaporated, and she filled with the aura of warmth. Turning on her laptop Sophia reasoned she couldn’t slip a note into his suitcase, but she could send a quick email. He would receive it on his phone when he landed.

  As her fingers hit the last exclamation mark, she remembered the publicity photos of her Florence exhibition. Clicking through the different shots, she saw the pictures in their entirety. She didn’t scan the crowds, didn’t enlarge the masses. If she had, she would have notice a reoccurring face. In most shots only the gentleman’s dark hair was visible. However, his dark eyes were visible in a few. A profiler might notice those black-eyes watched Sophia, not her art.

  Securing her sketch paper to her table, Sophia closed her eyes and envisioned her subject. The charcoal darkened her fingertips as it brushed the surface of the thick cotton paper. In time the heel of her hand blackened, rubbing and shading the image. It wasn’t a drawing for future exhibits. Never would it glean the walls of a studio. This self-portrait was meant for one man. The shades of charcoal gray transformed the blank page into a dreamlike scene creating Derek’s something special.

  The hair Sophia drew blew gently in the ocean breeze. Though the windows were shut, she felt the wind on her cheeks and smelled the salty air. The body she drew was presumably better than the one she concealed under her t-shirt and skirt, but not by much. She was slender, yet shapely. Her long legs often spent hours walking the beach or nature walks around Provincetown. Drawing her own breasts, Sophia’s thoughts filled with her husband and her nipples rose under the cotton shirt. Smirking, she drew the same reaction. Sophia reasoned -- if I were to walk naked on the beach, it would be cold.

  Dinner forgotten, the sound of her cellphone pulled her from her artistic trance. Beaming as her darkened hand reached for the small devise, she read Derek’s number and name. “Hello, Honey.”

  “Hi, Baby, did I wake you?”

  Sophia laughed, “What do you think? I’m working on your something special.”

  Their call lasted only minutes. Shedis-tics had a car waiting to drive him to the hotel.

  “They’re pulling out all the stops. I really think they want you,” Sophia said.

  “We‘ll see what they say.”

  “Derek?”

  “Yes?”

  “I know we haven’t talked about it. But, I know this may mean moving. I don’t care, as long as I’m with you.” Sophia heard her husband exhale.

  “You don’t know how much that means. I won’t do anything without calling, I promise. I need to go. I love you, and I can’t wait to see my something special.”

  “I love you too.” They hung-up.

  Things do not change. We change.

  - Henry David Thoreau

  Chapter 5

  Phillip Roach, Private Investigator, contemplated his information; by triangulating cellphone towers near a Palo Alto, California, street he narrowed the origination of calls from a disposable cellphone making multiple calls to Emily Vandersol, Claire Nichols’ sister. The area contained restaurants, cafés, and residences; Phil didn’t know for sure it was Claire Nichols or if she called from one of the businesses or a residence. Nonetheless, his intuition told him, he was close.

  Phillip had useful associates possessing resources he didn’t. Undoubtedly, he’d be asked to fulfill favors in the future -- Quid pro quo. It was the way of his profession. With a client like Anthony Rawlings, there was no deal Phil wasn’t willing to make. Hell, he’d shake hands with the devil to continue this alliance.

  Forwarding the telephone number of the track phone and narrowing Ms. Nichols location to Palo Alto would momentarily pacify Mr. Rawlings. Phil composed his findings into a text message and promised more information in the future. He hit SEND.

  *****

  Claire’s GPS directed her to the heart of San Francisco’s financial district. Although the tall buildings and steep streets created a maze, the computerized voice navigated her to the two hundred block of California Street. “You have reached your destination.”

  Goosebumps, incited by the late March wind, rubbed against her smooth silk blouse as Claire walked from the parking garage toward her goal. Just south of Chinatown, the streets bustled with patrons. Yet, it wasn’t the people which momentarily held her attention but the picturesque scene. Down from the hills, a thick white blanket of fog covered the bay, penetrated only by the pillars of the Golden Gate Bridge. Since her release from prison, every view, every scene held wonder and awe. Claire vowed never again to take freedom for granted.

  Over the last two weeks she’d contemplated her presence. Although seemingly unimportant, one question she’d pondered was her clothing style. Her attire before her life with Tony --and during -- were worlds apart. Shopping for herself, her desires, wants, needs, and choices proved more difficult than she’d anticipated. Eventually, she concluded her taste fell somewhere in between. Shopping alone and with her money brought back the elation of finding great deals. Now, she enjoyed Mrs. Rawlings quality clothing at reasonable prices – she even perused sales racks. There was no question; intimate apparel was her favorite purchase. Claire now owned more pretty panty and bra combinations than one woman should have. She justified it as overdue, well-deserved, and three years’ worth.

  Today, personifying the professional, Claire donned wool slacks, a silk blouse, a complementary jacket, and heels (with white lace panties and bra no one would see – but made her happy).

  Although, the suite number was the only outward sign, Mr. Pulvara’s office was easy to find. Claire double checked Harry’s note; yes this was the right one. Once inside, she entered a small waiting area with a receptionist behind a glassed partition. It reminded her of a doctor’s office. She confidently approached the gray haired woman behind the window.

  “Hello, my name is Claire Nichols. I have an eleven o’clock appointment with Mr. Pulvara.”

  “Yes, Ms. Nichols. May I see your identification?” Claire retrieved her new driver’s license and handed it to the woman.

  The receptionist took the small card, made a copy of both sides, and returned it to Claire. “Mr. Pulvara will be with you in just a moment. Please have a seat.”

  The soft leather chairs were neatly arranged in an L shape in the corner of the room. The incandescent lighting created a soft appearance. To pass the time, Claire removed her iPhone and pulled up the article from earlier that morning. She scanned the article:

  The pardon was legally granted on behalf of Ms. Nichols…Unable to overturn once accepted… Question remains; why was her name concealed by the governor? … Governor Preston intends to avoid the perception of impropriety… cannot be overturned… complete history of arrest through incarceration expunged… could not reach Ms. Nichols for comment

  “Ms. Nichols,” the voice returned Claire to the present. She hadn’t considered the pardon being overturned. She sighed, relieved that wasn’t a possibility. “Ms. Nichols?”

  “Yes.” Claire said, as she followed the woman through a solid door. Once behind the partition, she was amazed at the room before her. There were lights, magnifying glasses, scales, and other instruments designed to inspect small delicate items. A gentleman on the other side of the counter stood her height with skin the color of lightly creamed coffee. Special glasses with extended magnifiers hung from his neck. His voice
contained a Middle Eastern accent and exemplified aptitude. His smile as he extended his hand in greeting, reassured her. Claire accepted his hand and introduced herself.

  Mr. Pulvara wasn’t one for small talk. Time was money and Claire currently had his time. She pulled a small blue velvet bag from her purse and removed the watch, diamond stud earrings, and journey necklace. Placing his glasses upon his nose, Mr. Pulvara remained expressionless as he inspected her jewelry. His skilled hands rolled each piece between his fingers as he studied the gems and gold. After a few minutes with each piece, he set it upon a black cloth.

  “Ms. Nichols, these are fine pieces. Do you have anything else in that bag of yours?”

  “I do.” Claire emptied the bag into the palm of her hand. She extended her open hand with her engagement and wedding ring glistening under the lights.

  He glanced from her palm to her eyes. First, he picked up the platinum wedding band embedded with diamonds. After a few minutes he set it down and took the platinum engagement ring. Without speaking he turned the diamond ring every which way. He then used a few gauges to measure the face of the gem. Finally, he broke the silence, “Ms. Nichols, do you know from what merchant these rings were purchased?”

  “I was told Tiffany’s in New York. I wasn’t there. So, I’m not sure.”

  “I am assuming you have a receipt or insurance policy something indicating you are the owner of these pieces.”

  “I do not. They were gifts.”

  “Perhaps you could contact the giver of these gifts? You understand I must be sure these items truly belong to you.”