Behind His Eyes: Truth
Page 14
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As the web conference neared its end, and the table of directors listened to Anthony Rawlings’ every word, the cell phone that he’d laid on the table before him began to vibrate. Glancing down, intending to turn it off, he saw the screen flash with an unexpected name—CLAIRE.
Tony stopped mid-sentence and reached for the phone. Addressing the directors, he apologized, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is rude and highly unusual behavior; however, I’m sure that you understand that I have many fires burning. I need to take this call and will be back to you in just a moment.” Not waiting for acknowledgement, Tony stepped from the room and hit the green button. “Hello, Claire. I hope you’re not calling to cancel our plans.”
She responded immediately, “I wouldn’t do that, Tony.” At the sound of her voice, blood rushed through his veins quickening the beat of his heart. “That would be rude, to cancel something at the last minute.”
“I must admit, I’m surprised to receive your call… on my private cell, no less.”
“I presume you are. I wanted to contact you about tonight.”
“Yes?” He mused.
“You see, I’ve been living in this area for a while. There’s a lovely French restaurant that I believe you’ll enjoy.” Before he could comment, she continued, “I realize you made reservations, but so have I. I’d be glad to meet you at Bon Vivant on Bryant, at 7:00 PM.”
Hearing her spirit made his cheeks rise; nevertheless, he’d made plans. “Well, there’s a car coming to pick you up—”
She interrupted, “I appreciate that. It’s very kind of you; however, I have my own car and am more than willing to drive.”
He chuckled. Fine, Palo Alto it would be. Tony would let her win this battle, as long as he won the war. “If that’s what you prefer.”
She exhaled. “I do.”
He couldn’t remember a time that he’d wished he could forget his work and talk on a telephone. What propelled him was the promise of speaking in person. “Very well, I must return to this table of directors and web conference. Until tonight.”
“Yes, good-bye.” The phone went silent. Before reentering the conference, Tony shook his head, tried to suppress his grin, and sent a hasty text.
“CANCEL TONIGHT’S RESERVATIONS. CONTACT BON VIVANT IN PALO ALTO AND SECURE PRIVATE DINING.”
Hitting SEND, he reentered his meeting. “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s carry on…”
Bon Vivant didn’t offer private dining; therefore, not wanting to disappoint her boss, Patricia did the next best thing. She explained that Mr. Anthony Rawlings wanted to enjoy the delicious cuisine and not be disturbed. If Bon Vivant could accommodate his wishes, Mr. Rawlings would compensate the restaurant as well as the employees generously for any potential loss of revenue. In an effort to avoid any backlash against Bon Vivant, Mr. Rawlings would also compensate any customers with reservations by purchasing their meal on another date. After a few minutes of discussion, Tony and Claire once again would be dining in private.
As Tony parked his rental car and approached the Civic Center Art Studio in Palo Alto, he noticed the quaint businesses all nestled on tree-lined streets. This was where Claire lived, and he hated its welcoming appeal. He’d left her alone for too long.
His earlier meeting with Roger Cunningham had proved informative. Derek Burke was an asset to Shedis-tics. They were very happy with the recommendation. Without a plausible reason to suggest Burke’s dismissal, that left Tony with Plan B.
Once inside the studio, Tony studied the works of art. To him, art was an investment, and that was his goal for this meeting. He wanted to make an investment—perhaps not so much in art or an art studio, as in an artist.
A short man with ruddy cheeks came from the back of the store. “Hello, I’m Mr. George, the curator of this studio. May I help you?”
Tony extended his hand. “Hello, Mr. George, I’m Anthony Rawlings, and I believe that we can help one another.”
On Tony’s drive back to his hotel in San Francisco, his thoughts volleyed between his meeting and impending date. It was true that everyone had a price. Mr. George was no exception. What separated the world into two distinct groups were the people who strived for more and those who were willing to settle for less. Tony had been willing to spend more than he offered to elicit the curator’s help; however, the strange little man had jumped at the first offer without as much as a hesitation. No matter. Soon, Mr. George would lure Sophia Burke into his studio. From there the plan would proceed. Although Tony would need to talk with Mr. George again, he had no intention of ever meeting again face-to-face. As a matter of fact, today’s meeting never occurred.
Bon Vivant, too, was nestled into the Palo Alto landscape. The bright red sign with black letters was unassuming, yet Tony’s heartbeat quickened as he parked the car. He was almost an hour early for Claire’s reservations. Slipping into the lobby, he confidently approached the maître d’. Within moments, Tony had confirmation of his plans. Many customers had been notified by phone; those who couldn’t be reached would be addressed at the door. Earlier customers had been accommodated; however, the maître d’ promised the dining area, as well as the lounge, would be empty by 7:00 PM.
With time the only hurdle keeping him from his ex-wife, Tony took a seat at the bar, listened to the piano music, and ordered a drink. As time passed, couple after couple were led away. At twenty-five before seven, a waitress approached. “Mr. Rawlings, your companion has just arrived. Would you like her to join you?”
Tony stopped mid-sentence and reached for the phone. Addressing the directors, he apologized, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is rude and highly unusual behavior; however, I’m sure that you understand that I have many fires burning. I need to take this call and will be back to you in just a moment.” Not waiting for acknowledgement, Tony stepped from the room and hit the green button. “Hello, Claire. I hope you’re not calling to cancel our plans.”
She responded immediately, “I wouldn’t do that, Tony.” At the sound of her voice, blood rushed through his veins quickening the beat of his heart. “That would be rude, to cancel something at the last minute.”
“I must admit, I’m surprised to receive your call… on my private cell, no less.”
“I presume you are. I wanted to contact you about tonight.”
“Yes?” He mused.
“You see, I’ve been living in this area for a while. There’s a lovely French restaurant that I believe you’ll enjoy.” Before he could comment, she continued, “I realize you made reservations, but so have I. I’d be glad to meet you at Bon Vivant on Bryant, at 7:00 PM.”
Hearing her spirit made his cheeks rise; nevertheless, he’d made plans. “Well, there’s a car coming to pick you up—”
She interrupted, “I appreciate that. It’s very kind of you; however, I have my own car and am more than willing to drive.”
He chuckled. Fine, Palo Alto it would be. Tony would let her win this battle, as long as he won the war. “If that’s what you prefer.”
She exhaled. “I do.”
He couldn’t remember a time that he’d wished he could forget his work and talk on a telephone. What propelled him was the promise of speaking in person. “Very well, I must return to this table of directors and web conference. Until tonight.”
“Yes, good-bye.” The phone went silent. Before reentering the conference, Tony shook his head, tried to suppress his grin, and sent a hasty text.
“CANCEL TONIGHT’S RESERVATIONS. CONTACT BON VIVANT IN PALO ALTO AND SECURE PRIVATE DINING.”
Hitting SEND, he reentered his meeting. “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s carry on…”
Bon Vivant didn’t offer private dining; therefore, not wanting to disappoint her boss, Patricia did the next best thing. She explained that Mr. Anthony Rawlings wanted to enjoy the delicious cuisine and not be disturbed. If Bon Vivant could accommodate his wishes, Mr. Rawlings would compensate the restaurant as well as the employees generously for any potential loss of revenue. In an effort to avoid any backlash against Bon Vivant, Mr. Rawlings would also compensate any customers with reservations by purchasing their meal on another date. After a few minutes of discussion, Tony and Claire once again would be dining in private.
As Tony parked his rental car and approached the Civic Center Art Studio in Palo Alto, he noticed the quaint businesses all nestled on tree-lined streets. This was where Claire lived, and he hated its welcoming appeal. He’d left her alone for too long.
His earlier meeting with Roger Cunningham had proved informative. Derek Burke was an asset to Shedis-tics. They were very happy with the recommendation. Without a plausible reason to suggest Burke’s dismissal, that left Tony with Plan B.
Once inside the studio, Tony studied the works of art. To him, art was an investment, and that was his goal for this meeting. He wanted to make an investment—perhaps not so much in art or an art studio, as in an artist.
A short man with ruddy cheeks came from the back of the store. “Hello, I’m Mr. George, the curator of this studio. May I help you?”
Tony extended his hand. “Hello, Mr. George, I’m Anthony Rawlings, and I believe that we can help one another.”
On Tony’s drive back to his hotel in San Francisco, his thoughts volleyed between his meeting and impending date. It was true that everyone had a price. Mr. George was no exception. What separated the world into two distinct groups were the people who strived for more and those who were willing to settle for less. Tony had been willing to spend more than he offered to elicit the curator’s help; however, the strange little man had jumped at the first offer without as much as a hesitation. No matter. Soon, Mr. George would lure Sophia Burke into his studio. From there the plan would proceed. Although Tony would need to talk with Mr. George again, he had no intention of ever meeting again face-to-face. As a matter of fact, today’s meeting never occurred.
Bon Vivant, too, was nestled into the Palo Alto landscape. The bright red sign with black letters was unassuming, yet Tony’s heartbeat quickened as he parked the car. He was almost an hour early for Claire’s reservations. Slipping into the lobby, he confidently approached the maître d’. Within moments, Tony had confirmation of his plans. Many customers had been notified by phone; those who couldn’t be reached would be addressed at the door. Earlier customers had been accommodated; however, the maître d’ promised the dining area, as well as the lounge, would be empty by 7:00 PM.
With time the only hurdle keeping him from his ex-wife, Tony took a seat at the bar, listened to the piano music, and ordered a drink. As time passed, couple after couple were led away. At twenty-five before seven, a waitress approached. “Mr. Rawlings, your companion has just arrived. Would you like her to join you?”
