She liked her hometown of Princeton, New Jersey. After all, it was where she experienced childhood, learned to walk, talk, and color outside the lines, and although her parent’s home wasn’t in the Borough, it was still Princeton, the home of the acclaimed university.
At times while growing up, she hated the prestigious school. It seemed like the entire world revolved around it. Unlike so many of the locals, she knew in her heart that the world offered more; however, now Sophia was eternally grateful for Princeton, especially its medical center.
Rubbing her eyes, Sophia yawned. She’d been in the hospital room, looking out the window, sitting in the plastic chair, and pacing the linoleum floors for hours. The monitors beeped at appropriate intervals without alarm; everything indicated her father’s progress. Sophia just wanted him to open his eyes.
Derek finally convinced Sophia’s mother, Silvia, to get some food. It was the first time she’d left Pop’s room since he returned from surgery. Sophia’s promise to stay near allowed Silvia the reassurance to leave, if only for a little while.
Tears lingered in Sophia’s eyes as she watched the man who’d always been her rock. Nearing seventy, with declining stature, he wasn’t any taller than Sophia. Of course, he’d never been taller than 5’8” but with age even that lessened, yet when she closed her eyes, Sophia saw the mountain of a man who’d scoop her into his arms and put her on his shoulders.
Throughout the five hour drive, she tried to convince herself she’d arrive to find him sitting up and swearing at the nurses. The image made her smile. Pop was the sweetest man—as long as you played by his rules—and when you didn’t, he was more bark than bite. His contagious deep and harmonious laughter shook his too-large stomach with joy. She imagined him arguing about the hospital gown, food, or television stations, yet reality didn’t match her memories or dreams. The man before her, attached to wires and tubes, didn’t seem like her father. Nevertheless, the small bracelet on his wrist read: Rossi, Carlo; confirming he was indeed her pop.
The raindrops continued to pelt the glass pane. Sophia stared at the view. Instead of trees and buildings blurred by sheets of unrelenting spring rain, she saw memories she’d put away, as the saying goes—for a rainy day. She saw the hard-working man who came home from work each day. She saw her mother, wearing an apron in the kitchen, fussing to have dinner ready precisely by 6:00 PM. She saw the couple standing proudly and awkwardly at New York art exhibits and her Paris wedding.
Sophia thought how different she was in comparison to them and how much they’d given her. Instead of fighting her artistic side, they embraced it. They never belittled her dreams. Now, standing by her father’s bedside, she wanted to do the same. She wanted to support them any way she could. Currently, that meant hours of diligent vigil.
Sophia must have fallen asleep in the hard plastic chair she’d pulled up next to Carlo’s bed. She awoke with her head near his feet, her back bent and sore, to the swish of the door across the linoleum floor. She blinked away the sleep from her eyes and watched as a nurse entered the room. The wipe board on the wall read: Kayla.
Sophia remained silent as Kayla made her rounds, checking fluids in the hanging bags and making notes, reading monitors and making notes, and lifting Carlo’s hand, feeling his pulse and making notes.
When it appeared she was done, Sophia spoke, “Hello, I’m his daughter. Can you please tell me how he’s doing?”
Kayla checked her notes. “Can you tell me your name; I need to verify whether you’re on the list.” Her R sounded like a W. A reassuring inflection to someone raised near the Borough.
“Sophia Rossi Burke.”
Kayla double-checked her notes. “Yes, Sophia. Is your mother near?”
“Yes, she’s with my husband in the cafeteria.”
“Do you expect her to return soon?”
“I do… what time is it?”
Kayla checked her watch. “It’s almost 8:30PM. The doctor’s doing her final rounds. I’ll tell her you’re here, and she’ll inform you of your father’s progress.”
His voice sounded groggy, but Sophia would recognize that deep gargle anywhere. “If your talk’n bout me, you might as well talk to me.”
Sophia’s smile filled her face while the pent-up tears slid over her raised cheeks. Both women turned toward the bed. Carlo continued, “And what in Sam Hill are all these damn tubes. I don’t need damn tubes. I want them out!”
Sophia hurried to his side and threw her arms around his neck. “Pop, you’re awake?!”
“Damn right I’m awake. Where’s your mother? And why aren’t you with that husband of yours?”
“Mom’s with Derek in the cafeteria. She’s been by your side the whole time. We finally convinced her to get something to eat.”
Carlo nodded approvingly at his baby girl.
Kayla interrupted long enough to lift Carlo’s bed so that he sat up, asked a few questions, and promised to send the doctor. Once they were alone, Sophia held her father’s hand and looked him square in the eye. “Pop, what happened? How did you crash your car?”
Carlo returned her gaze. “My car? I don’t remember.”
She tried to reassure him. “It’s fine, just rest.”
“It’s not fine, Sophie. You’re saying I crashed my car? Is Silvia all right?”
“Yes, Pop. She wasn’t with you. You were alone… out by Sourland Mountain Reserve.”
Sophia watched as Carlo eyes closed. Finally, he spoke, “I-I’m… I just don’t remember. Sophie… don’t tell your momma. I don’t want her thinking I can’t remember. Baby, I need you to help me with this. Tell me what happened so that I can get it straight.”
“Pop, I don’t know. They just found your car. You ran off the road and hit a tree. Your right leg is broke, but your hip isn’t. The doctor made a big deal out of that. Momma’s been real worried. You also punctured a lung, but the doctor said everything should heal just fine.”
“What about the other people, in the other car?”
“Pop, what other car?”
“The one that started to pass; it pushed me off the road.”
Sophia stared at her father. “Pop, do you remember another car?”
Carlo looked at his hand. He followed the IV line up to the dangling bag. “What’s this shit they’re pumping into me? I can’t think straight!”
“I think it’s pain medicine.”
“Sophie, get your momma.”
She kissed his forehead. “If you promise not to go anywhere.” She smiled, as big as she could, her eyes twinkling.
“Now, tell me how in Sam Hill I’m supposed to do that, with all this bloody crap hooked to me.” Beneath the pale complexion and gruff exterior, Sophia saw her father’s loving sense of humor.
“Pop, I’ll get Momma, but I think you should know I’m not leaving until you’re better!”
As Sophia turned toward the door, she once again heard swoosh against the linoleum. The large barrier opened and the sound of her mother’s voice filled the room.
“Caa—a–ar–lo–oo!” Silva cried, creating a four syllable word where there’d only been two. Within seconds, she was kissing his graying hair and fussing over his blankets.
Sophia looked up to see Derek’s tired quizzical expression. She took his hand, and they walked into the hall. The sound of her mother fretting and her father minimizing elated Sophia; however, Derek’s sad eyes grounded her emotion.
“Derek, what is it? Did you speak to the doctor? Is there something that I don’t know?”
Derek shook his head. “No. It isn’t your pop. It’s what you just said to him. Are you planning to stay here, in Princeton?”
Sophia collapsed against the wall. “I don’t know. I just can’t leave them.”
“What about finding a place to live in Santa Clara?”
“We have a month. We don’t need to fly out tomorrow.” She watched her husband’s neck and shoulders stiffen. This was a new version of their one main disagreement. He liked plans and detail
s. Sophia lived in the moment. This morning, she would’ve willingly flown across the country; however, things changed. Now, she didn’t know when she’d be ready. “Can I please not make a decision right now? It’s been a very long day.”
He reached for her waist, pulled her closer, and rested his chin on her head. “I have some bad news.”
She didn’t ask. Inhaling his aftershave and listening to the beat of his heart, Sophia braced herself for the bad news.
“I tried to tell your mom that we’d get a hotel.” Sophia snickered into his shirt; she knew where he was headed. He continued, “But she wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Don’t tell me…” Her tired gray eyes twinkled up to his sullen expression.
“Yes, we’re sleeping in your old room tonight.” His lips brushed her forehead and gently kissed her nose. “So, Darling, it’s also going to be a long night.”
She molded into his comforting embrace and thought about her cramped bedroom. It was great when she was ten, but now… the standard bed was probably older than both of them put together. “I think staying in my old room is your plan to make me want to leave sooner.”
“Is it working?” Derek asked, his brows elevated.
“If Pop could get up and walk, we’d be home by morning!”
Derek smiled as he held her close. “I can’t take more than two nights in that old bed.”
“Deal.” They re-entered the hospital room, hand in hand.
Chapter Ten
When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has opened for us.
—Helen Keller
Most mornings, Claire sat at the table, perused the web, and waited for the others to arrive. She enjoyed the quiet time, as much as the morning ritual of coffee and pleasantries. Of course, she was usually the first in the kitchen; after all, Amber and Harry needed to get ready for work. Claire only needed to be dressed to workout.
Her options for connectivity continued to expand. Whether she used her laptop, her tablet, or her phones, she could stay in touch with the world, anytime—anywhere. This also allowed her to see her personal life laid out for everyone whenever she chose. Having technology denied in the past, she now felt compelled to read everything, and apparently, since her unusual prison release, Claire Rawlings Nichols was once again deemed newsworthy.
Often, her face would appear on the cover of esteemed magazines, the kind which lined the check-out lanes of the grocery stores. Today, she saw her picture in a thumbnail on her homepage. Still alone, Claire scanned the link and found the corresponding article: The Rawlings Moving On. It claimed to enlighten the reader on their lives after marriage, complete with pictures. Tony appeared exquisitely dressed with a pretty woman on his arm. According to the article, she was associated with a large hospital in Iowa where her father was CEO and Administrator. The article alluded to the implications of this affluent union, since Mr. Anthony Rawlings was among the top contributors to the hospital. In the opposing frame, Claire sat with Harry, eating at a café in Palo Alto. According to the article, Claire, left penniless, was unemployed and living with Harrison Baldwin, a security guard at SiJo.
The clicks of Amber’s heels upon the hardwood combined with the opening and closing of the front door brought life to the quiet kitchen. Looking up from her laptop, Claire apologized, “I’m so sorry for bringing the two of you into this media mess.”
Amber snickered, as she finished making her cup of coffee, and said, “I’ve never seen anything so ridiculous. I can’t believe reporters think this is news!”
Leaning against the counter, Harry brushed his disheveled, blonde hair from his eyes and puffed his chest. Claire chuckled, the pictures and article before her forgotten. She found it amusing, no matter the occasion, his golden curls continually fell softly across his face. She wondered if he owned a comb or brush, anything that could possibly tame his unruly mane.
Musingly, she fought a new desire to reach out and brush the curls away, to better see his soft blue eyes. The impulse surprised Claire. She gripped the handle of her mug in an effort to stop her hand. Thankfully, her momentary insanity went completely unnoticed by Harry as he postured in preparation for his speech.
In reality, only a second or two had elapsed; however, the rush of blood to her cheeks made Claire lower her face, in a feigned attempt to inspect the contents of her ceramic mug. Slowly, she raised her eyes as Harry spoke, “Actually, I saw today’s article, and I’m honored. I’ve never been a celebrity before.”
Laughing, Amber brushed her brother’s shoulder and glanced toward Claire with a sly smile. “Guess what, Harry? You aren’t one now!” Amber started to walk back toward her bedroom then turned to Claire. “Don’t worry about it. Life’s much more exciting with you around.”
Avoiding Harry’s gaze, Claire looked toward her computer’s homepage, until Harry’s jovial voice brought her back to reality. “So, what do you think? Just in case I end up in People magazine or something, is this shirt all right? Or, do I need something nicer?”
She returned her gaze to the man before her. From behind the soft curls, she saw small lines surrounding his sparkling cobalt eyes, and his cheeks rose in a boyish smirk. Claire looked at his collarless black woven shirt with the SiJo Gaming emblem. The shirt wasn’t tight, but accentuated his muscular abdomen, broad shoulders, and defined arms. Her eyes scrutinized his attire as they descended to the khaki slacks emphasizing his trim firm waist.
Slowly she realized he was teasing her. “Actually, I think you should change.” Her smile radiated emerald shimmers.
“You do?”
“Yes, maybe something like the jeans you wore last night. You know the ones with holes—it highlights my penniless status.”
With his grin in full gear, he reached out and covered Claire’s hand. Never before had this familiarity ignited the tightness she now felt. Claire fought between the desire to turn her hand over and return the contact and the need to pull away and run to her room. Seemingly unaware of her sudden mixture of feelings, Harry said, “If I ever do live with a penniless woman, I can only hope she has a portfolio like yours.”
“Oh, is that your only requirement?” Her brows rose in question.
“No…” His gaze captivated her, holding her prisoner. “It’s probably the least of my requirements. The first is that she doesn’t tell me what to wear.”
Pulling her stare away, she nonchalantly replied, “Hey, you asked, but I guess that leaves me out. Should I alert the press?”
He winked. “No, let me enjoy my fifteen minutes for a while.”
Claire shook her head. “Okay, our secret living arrangements are safe with me. Oh, and about fifty other people who live in this building who know the truth.”
“They won’t tell.” With that, Harry walked toward the front door, toward his true home.
When the door closed, she exhaled and scolded herself. The easy atmosphere of Amber and Harry’s company was a gift. The last thing she wanted to do was complicate it with feelings which surpassed friendly. In an attempt to dismiss the unfamiliar tightness, she refocused on the article.
Claire knew she should share the nonchalant attitude of Amber and Harry; however, she’d been taught an ingrained fear of public failure, appearance, and opinion. Unconsciously, while out at a store, a café, or walking on the street, Claire found herself scanning the crowds for cameras. On some occasions, she would think she’d see one from her peripheral vision, and then upon second glance, the perpetrator would disappear. The photographers had to be there. How else could she grace so many magazines? A new laissez-faire perspective would take time.
Claire knew her star-status would soon extinguish. After all, California was inhabited by many famous people. That meant if her story was to be newsworthy, she needed to strike while the iron was hot. That was her thought process as she reached for her telephone.
Claire’s heartbeat rapidly increased as she considere
d the repercussions of her intended actions. For once, she wasn’t being impetuous. She’d thoroughly debated this decision, knew her guidelines, her limits, and even wrote them down. Her stipulations were sitting on the counter in front of her as she dialed the phone.
Justifiably shocked and surprised, Meredith Banks willingly dropped everything to speak with her old sorority sister. Sounding businesslike, yet friendly, Claire explained her desire to get her story out with someone she could trust.
Candidly, Claire asked, “Meredith, is that you?”
Without hesitation, Meredith replied, “Claire, I never doubted your innocence; yes, I would be honored to help you with this.”
Claire knew Meredith saw dollar signs as well as the potential for fame. She needed to know if she could trust her. To that end, she presented Meredith with a litmus test. “Before any interviews or work on my story, I want you to publish a very overdue retraction regarding our 2010 interview. I want you to tell the truth and explain it wasn’t an interview, but an ambush, resulting in an unauthorized article. The retraction must also clarify that during our conversation I never mentioned the name Anthony Rawlings. You made assumptions based solely on conjecture.” Before Meredith could respond, Claire added, “If and when I read your published retraction, the exclusive rights to my story are yours.”
Verbally, Meredith agreed. Claire had heard verbal promises before. She informed Meredith everything would be summarized in a written contract. The breach of said agreement, by either side, would result in a hefty financial penalty.
Claire agreed to one concession. Meredith could promise a real interview with Claire Rawlings Nichols in her printed retraction. Without a doubt, that piece of journalism would reach Tony’s publicist Shelly, and in essence—Tony. Eventually, they would learn of her interview and impending article anyway. This plan put Claire in control of the timing and gave her visibility. She reasoned visibility gave the world cause if she suddenly disappeared, making Anthony Rawlings the most likely suspect.
The Consequences Series Box Set Page 64
