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.”