Authors: Aleatha Romig
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 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
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.”
“
Mr. Pulvara, these items
were given to me by my ex-husband. I have no plans to contact him.
If you are not interested in purchasing them, 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 is 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 will 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 do not 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 $400,000. She honestly had no idea if that was accurate
or sensationalism. If it were accurate, it would make
one
bit of information
in that article factual.