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.”