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, it 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 and curled her long legs under her body as her skirt swept the wooded 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 wooden floors, trim, and built-in bookshelves were original. The second floor held two bedrooms that were 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 longed 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, but I’ll 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, then she would have noticed a recurring 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 then it would be cold.
Dinner forgotten, the sound of her cell phone pulled her from her artistic trance. Beaming as her darkened hand reached for the small device, 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 big guns. 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 just want you to know that 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.
Chapter Five
Things do not change. We change.
—Henry David Thoreau
Phillip Roach, Private Investigator, contemplated his information; by triangulating cell phone towers near a Palo Alto, California street, he narrowed the origination of calls from a disposable cell phone making multiple calls to Emily Vandersol, Claire Nichols’ sister. The area contained restaurants, cafés, and residences; Phil didn’t know for sure it was Cla
ire Nichols or if she called from one of the businesses or a residence. Nonetheless, his intuition told him that 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 200 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; it was 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 and 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 any woman should own. 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 that 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 11:00 AM 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, reassuring 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’m 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.”
“Mr. Pulvara, these items were given to me by my ex-husband. I have no plans to contact him. If you aren’t interested in purchasing them then I will gladly look elsewhere. Thank you for your time.” Claire began to reach for her jewelry.
The broker gently touched the top of Claire’s hand, stopping her movement. She looked up to his face. He said, “I am very interested. It’s just—I believe this wedding set is of the highest quality and quite valuable. The cut alone is extremely rare. I must be sure—”
She cut him off. “I have no proof of my ownership. I’ll take them—”
“Ms. Nichols, may I ask Mr. Nichols’s first name?”
Claire hesitated. “Mr. Pulvara, am I certain of your confidentiality?”
“Of course, I would not have the customers and reputation I currently enjoy without complete confidentiality.”
“Forgive me, but I would like that in writing. I don’t want to see on tomorrow’s news that I sold my wedding rings.” She recognized such information could make headlines.
“That can certainly be arranged. Now, Mr. Nichols?”
“Nichols is my maiden name. My married name was Rawlings, as in Mrs. Anthony Rawlings.”
The broker stood silently for a few seconds, taking in her words and looking at her anew. Claire watched as the light of recognition filled his eyes. “Ms. Nichols, you’ve changed your hair since your wedding. I saw a picture today…”
“Yes, Mr. Pulvara, many things have changed since my wedding, including my desire to wear these rings. Are you interested in assessing their value and sharing that amount with me?”
“Please, Ms. Nichols, have a seat and allow me some time. May I remove the stones from the settings?”
“If I don’t like your price, will you put them back?”
“Of course.”
Claire saw chairs against the wall. She nodded to the broker, sat, and watched as he weighed, measured, and performed other tests. Then, he consulted his computer and made notes. Claire remembered Vanity Fair estimated the value of her engagement ring around 400 thousand dollars. She honestly had no idea if that was accurate or sensationalism. If it were accurate then it would make one bit of information in t
hat article factual.
Almost forty minutes later, Mr. Pulvara finally spoke, “Ms. Nichols, if you would please join me, I’ll explain my appraisal.”
Claire stepped from the bank onto the sunshine warmed afternoon sidewalk. The multitude of people filled her with exhilaration. She’d just met with the bank’s investment specialist and diversified her new found riches. Employment was still desired; however, the need was no longer dire. Tony’s desire for quality and appearance now allowed Claire time. It was the time she would use to complete her research.
Before entering the parking garage, Claire removed her iPhone, checked the time, 4:32 PM, and typed a text:
“IS ANYONE AVAILABLE TO CELEBRATE? DINNER’S ON ME!”
She entered Amber and Harry as recipients and hit: SEND.
A few hours later, the three sat chatting at an authentic Brazilian steakhouse in the heart of downtown Palo Alto. Neither Amber nor Harry argued with Claire’s declaration to purchase dinner. They ordered wine, read the menu, and debated appetizers and entrees. Although they were surrounded by other patrons, the three talked and laughed about their day’s activities. Their goblets touched in a toast to Claire’s transaction.
Amber entertained them with multiple stories of SiJo focus groups. Apparently, a recent group had extreme varied opinions on one of their newest games. It amused Claire how Amber could laugh about negative reviews and joke about comments. That wasn’t to say the creators didn’t consider the opinions of the focus groups. They did.
As their celebration concluded and Claire added cream to her coffee, her disposable cell phone buzzed. Pulling it from her purse, she apologized, “I’m so sorry, but this is probably Emily. She said she’s getting a new phone, so I need to answer it.” Her chair scooted back as she hit the CALL button. She hadn’t noticed the number on the screen as she said, “Hi.”
The Consequences Series Box Set Page 59