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.