Truth (32 page)

Although he still held tight to her hand and
their hearts beat frantically within their touching chests,
Nathaniel watched as Marie turned her twinkling eyes away. He
didn’t want to lose that vivacity. It was more life than he’d be
held in a long time. He gently raised her chin and spoke with a
deep throaty voice. In all of their talks, she’d never heard this
tone before, “You need to go to your room. May I suggest locking
your door?”

His tenor terrified her. Not that Marie
feared Nathaniel; she feared the desires stirring within her. After
all, she hadn’t been with a man for a long time, and never
consensually. For the first time in her life, she experienced
consensual thoughts and feelings. How could she possibly be
thinking like this, with Ms. Sharron only two feet away?

Her voice also came from somewhere deep,
almost unrecognizable, even to herself, “Does everyone do exactly
as you say?” She liked the way he smiled. It was so much better
than his grief.

“
Everyone, who is
smart.”

“
I’ve never claimed
intelligence.”

Nathaniel stood over six six. Marie was
about five eight. When she was younger her height made her feel
awkward. At this moment, it felt perfect. Her head fit perfectly
under his chin. And with her chin tilted, as it was in his hand,
and his face inclined their lips were but millimeters apart. The
next minutes lasted hours. His lips moved forward and she made no
move to stop them.

It could be argued that
she moved toward them, possibly lifting herself onto her toes.
Honestly, there was such a small space to cover -- the
who
was inconsequential
as at the moment was the
why
. What mattered was the
what
.
What were they doing?

His lips were full, warm, firm, and right.
They’d both been overwhelmed by the sadness at Sharron’s recent
decline. Perhaps, within a cold gloomy New Jersey winter where hope
seemed lost, a glimmer of joy could exist.

“
If you don’t tell me to
stop – now -- I can’t promise I’ll be able to stop in the
future.”

Marie remained silent.
When he tugged her hand toward her attached suite, she willingly
followed. She wasn’t hoping to cure her loneliness as much as his.
Could a
wrong
relationship actually be
right
, in the middle of this
desolate life?

Strength does not come from
winning. Your struggles develop your strength.
When you go through hardships and decide not to surrender, that is
strength.
--Mahatma
Ghandi

Chapter
20

Claire licked the spoon,
followed by a satisfied, “Yum.” She lifted the pan of creamy
cilantro sauce and set it aside to cool. Her empty stomach twisted
in anticipation of the appetizing aromas. Amber’s kitchen glowed
with warmth and the rich fragrance of baking fish. She pushed
the
light
diagram
on the screen of the wall-oven and illuminated the small cavern.
Inside, she spied fresh tilapia filets sizzling in a warm bath of
liquid butter and lemon juice. Claire reread the clock.
Harry should be here any
minute
, she thought.

Walking toward the stove
top, she checked the water level in her sauce pan. It would soon
serve as the perfect basin for asparagus to soften to
al dente
. The mixed
green salad, lightly tossed with raspberry vinaigrette dressing,
was already on the set table as was an open bottle of cabernet.
Claire placed wineglasses next to the tall, filled water
goblets.

After her shower, she
found her iPhone in the living room and read Harry’s
response:
DINNER SOUNDS GREAT. WE SHOULD
TALK
.

Claire wasn’t sure why the
word
talk
sounded
so ominous, but it did. She immediately responded:
AMBER’S GONE, HOW ABOUT DINNER HERE? MORE PRIVACY
FOR TALKING?
She finally exhaled when
his,
SURE
, came
in reply.

Claire checked the clock again, three more
minutes. It seemed as though the world was spinning in slow motion.
Claire hit a few buttons on Amber’s whole house sound system and
listened as Michael Buble’s rich voice filtered through hidden
speakers.

Unlike most evenings where Harry was home by
6:30, tonight he’d sent a text apologizing for unseen delays.
Claire didn’t start the tilapia until 7:45; after he messaged he
was on his way. With traffic, the short drive could take half an
hour. Without traffic it should take less than ten minutes. She
looked at the timer, four more minutes.

Clock: 8:17.
Where was he?

When the timer sounded, forcing Claire to
face the reality of her still lonely condominium, she removed the
fish from the oven and placed it in the microwave to stay warm. Her
instincts told her to call or text Harry. However, she didn’t
listen. Instead, she poured herself a glass of wine and walked
aimlessly around the condominium.

In the living room she peered through the
large windows into the night sky. The bottom of the vista twinkled
with illuminations from the valley, the glow of the street lights,
cars and buildings. The top half reminded her of velvet with the
mountains intensifying the black sky; only the top quarter lessened
the darkness with faint flickers of light. Unfortunately, the city
lights overpowered the potential glow of the distant stars.

Momentarily, Claire thought about the stars
in Iowa. From her balcony at Tony’s secluded estate she could see
millions. Instantaneously, Claire remembered Tony’s quest and
wrapped her free arm around her torso. Would he succeed? Would she
be back on that balcony?

Still wandering, Claire found herself in the
spare bedroom containing her unorthodox filing system. She reached
for the stack of information she’d put down almost twenty four
hours ago, the information they’d accumulated on Samuel Rawls.

Claire knew she needed to research Sharron
Rawls, but it could wait until tomorrow.

She leafed through the
documents and found herself staring at the
Santa Monica Coroner’s Report
for
Amanda and Samuel Rawls
.
It was something she’d put off reading, but as
they say: there’s no time like the present. She settled herself on
the corner of the bed and began to read.

There were a lot of
technical terms discussing the injuries, explaining the trajectory
of bullets and the damage that ensued. Claire skimmed the
information until she came to the section entitled:
Coroner’s Assessment
.
She cautiously read the opinion of the elected official:
It is the judgment of this office Amanda Rawls
died of multiple gunshot wounds. While she was struck in the leg,
spinal cord, and right shoulder, the lethal shot connected her
right ventricle. Death occurred due to rapid loss of blood. A
bullet struck the C-5 vertebrae severing the spinal cord resulting
in immediate paralysis. It is believed the victim was unable to
move during the last minutes of life although she would have
remained conscious. Time of Death: based on body temperature
believed to be approximately 1600 hours. The trajectory indicates a
taller assailant standing at least five feet away.

Claire tried desperately
not to internalize the information as she flipped the pages of the
report. She found the same section of Samuel’s report.
It is the judgment of this office that Samuel
Rawls died from multiple gunshot wounds. He exhibited injuries in
both legs and his spinal column. The fatal shot occurred with a
bullet to the right temple. His right hand tested positive for
residue consistent with the placement of the weapon.

The weapon found near Mr. Samuel Rawls has
been confirmed to be the weapon used with both Mr. and Mrs. Rawls.
Time of Death estimated at approximately 1600 hours.

Claire sighed. She’d put off reading this
report, fearing it would implicate Tony instead of Samuel. Although
tragic, she found the information comforting. The times of death
exonerated Tony, proving he wasn’t responsible for his parents’
death.

Then again, the reports raised new
questions: Why would Samuel have multiple injuries? Most people
committing suicide don’t shoot themself in the legs or back? What
about the neighbor’s statement? What about the other woman?
Samuel’s sister? After minutes of scanning, Claire determined the
other woman must have been a dead lead. No sister existed or was
mentioned in any other reports surrounding the deaths of Samuel and
Amanda Rawls.

Finishing off her glass of
wine, Claire read the clock, 9:07.
Where
is Harry?
The room wobbled slightly. Her
head felt light with wine and lack of food. She left the research
on the bed and went toward the kitchen. On the shiny granite
countertop, her iPhone sat all alone. Claire reached for the devise
and pushed buttons. Immediately the icon for missed calls appeared
with the number two. As she changed the screen to see the numbers,
she saw a text from Harry:

IM SO SORRY. IM ON HAMILTON AVENUE. ACCIDENT
RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME. IM FINE BUT STAYING WITH VICTIM UNTIL POLICE
AND PARAMEDICS ARRIVE.

She immediately called his number; it went
to voice mail. Claire hung up and called again. She felt an
unwelcome tightening in her chest as she ran for the door. Hamilton
was just a block or two away. She could be there in minutes if she
walked fast, sooner if she ran. The phone rang as she threw open
the door to her condominium. If she hadn’t looked up, she would
have run right into him.

*****

Derek quietly entered their dark
condominium. Coming home much later than he’d planned, he placed
his keys on the small table in the foyer and gazed down the dark
hallway. Seeping from around the door to Sophia’s new studio he saw
golden beams of light. He slipped off his shoes and walked
soundlessly toward the glow. With each step his anticipation
mounted, would he finally find his wife drawing or painting? She’d
been on the West Coast for almost two weeks and hadn’t so much as
touched a sketch pad. With each step he realized, more than
anything, Derek wanted to see his wife lost in her world of
creativity.

Of course, over the past fourteen days she’d
given every excuse for avoiding her new studio; adjusting to the
time change, getting to know the neighbors, learning her way around
Silicon Valley -- all valid, especially his favorite, getting to
know people at his work. When Derek worked in Boston and Sophia
spent her days and nights on the Cape, she rarely interacted with
his fellow workers. He often wondered if it were proximity or
personality. It was no secret, they lived in different worlds.
Nonetheless, her lack of daily interaction didn’t hinder her
presence at social functions, where she mingled beautifully, being
her gregarious self.

Derek often felt a twinge
of pride when coworkers noticed his lovely wife. Some of the Boston
associates even commented about Derek’s
perfect life
, a gorgeous wife
patiently waiting miles away, leaving his days free to
explore
what Boston had
to offer. Derek didn’t agree. He had more woman in Sophia than he’d
ever dreamt; exploring wasn’t on his radar.

Truthfully, it wasn’t just Sophia’s looks,
although he approved; it was her uncensored zest for life -- her
ability to see the world in a way he never would. As Derek
anticipated her arrival to their new Santa Clara home, he readied
himself for a whirlwind of excitement.

It never happened.

From the moment Sophia stepped into his new
office, he noticed the difference. Her beauty never wavered, yet
her spark and drive did. The spark which drew him to her, like a
moth to a flame, was gone. In the past two weeks, she’s unpacked
their condo, shopped, made regular appearances at his office,
attended a few business dinners, and waited patiently for his
return home. Derek wondered if he’d unknowingly married a Stepford
wife.

He longed for the woman
he’d left on the Cape, the woman who would paint all night, crawl
into bed before his alarm, nuzzle close, and pout when he finally
pulled away from their early morning encounter. She filled his
fantasies. Yet, of all the sudden changes, Sophia’s lack of
art
bothered Derek most.
She’d made no attempt to organize her new home studio. Even after
Derek ordered her a new desk and some of the basics, she’d done
nothing to make it hers. Now, as Derek slipped down the bleached
wooden planks, toward the light and resonating soft jazz music, his
anticipation grew.

He read his watch: 11:27. His meeting turned
to dinner, into more discussion and into more drinks. It wasn’t the
first time since Sophia’s arrival he’d disappointed her by not
coming home at a decent hour.

Leaning around the
slightly ajar door, Derek peered into the light
at the end of the dark tunnel
. His
chest filled with love, seeing Sophia’s long blonde hair secured by
a big clip and the deep swoop of her nightgown. She was turned the
other direction, sitting cross legged on the floor, with her sketch
pad on top of an unpacked box. Her hand moved urgently as the
charcoal brushed the surface of the linen tablet. He saw his wife’s
slender neck all the way down to the middle of her back. Though the
room was still in disarray, he noticed a few new bags of art
supplies.