Meredith stared in disbelief, “I thought there was a problem with the server due to the excessive number of hits. I never dreamt it could be due to Mr. Rawlings.” She sat in silence for a moment and added, “So, is this an example of what he can do?”
Claire nodded. “It is. Are you sure you want to do this. He was here last night, and I can promise he isn’t supportive.”
“He was here? So you two are still talking, after everything... the prison thing and all?”
Claire nodded, “Honestly, I don’t know if I’d call it conversation. I’m speaking, he’s speaking... well you get the picture.”
Meredith nodded affirmatively.
“He set some boundaries.” Claire explained briefly, “At this time I’m inclined to respect them. It’s a quid pro quo thing.”
Meredith laid her purse on the table, pulled a small laptop from her bag and turned it on. “All right then, lay it on me. What are the rules?”
Claire snickered, “Oh, you have no idea.”
She and Meredith discussed the new rules: They would continue to meet, Claire would tell her story, it could be written, but it would only be published if Tony failed to keep Claire and her close friends safe. During the conversation, Claire realized Meredith needed compensation for lack of publication. Claire could help with some of that, but decided if Tony wanted to keep this quiet, he could help float the bill.
After dinner, Claire gave Meredith a small sample of what she could expect. It began with the story of a twenty-five year old woman working at a local news affiliate in Atlanta, Georgia. After ten, Claire decided she was done talking for the night. Their story ended with that same woman waking in an unknown room. Claire didn’t begin to describe the woman’s physical condition, just the terror of a lost day and the unknown.
Meredith typed feverishly and conceded, “I want this story. I’m willing to do anything and follow any rules to be the one to write it.”
They agreed to meet again in a week. This time Meredith would travel to Palo Alto.
Claire’s airline reservation required her to leave the hotel early. Even though she wouldn’t board the flight, Harry and Claire chose to stay on schedule. It would help their illusion with Phillip Roach. Their night hadn’t been as late as the night before. Nonetheless, Harry’s trip to the drug store wasn’t for naught.
When Harry and Claire arrived at the airport, they traded Claire’s Mazda 3, for a Mustang Convertible. As Harry lowered the roof on the bright blue muscle car, Claire secured her hair in a ponytail. She smiled and chose not to respond to Harry’s comments as he put Claire’s luggage in the car. He mumbled something under his breath about how happy he was he didn’t have luggage. Claire’s suitcases seemed to fill most of the trunk. Shaking his head he repeated, “It was only a three day trip.”
The ocean breeze helped disperse the clouds and create bright blue patches high above, matching the paint of the Mustang. Harry eased the rental car into the light Sunday traffic of I-5N. Claire laid her head against the seat and enjoyed the sun and wind on her face.
She didn’t often allow herself to think about prison. It was easier to keep it compartmentalized away. Nevertheless, sometimes the isolation and incarceration came rushing back. The memories of days, weeks, and months with limited interaction, fresh air or sunshine would infiltrate an otherwise happy day. It happened as she listened to Led Zeplin sing about a stairway to heaven. Closing her eyes behind the Oliver Peoples sunglasses she relished the warmth and tingling on her cheeks. It was all such a contrast to those dark months. Claire didn’t even realize she was lingering on her own sad memories until she felt the tears slip from her eyes. Harry reached for her hand and squeezed, offering comfort.
He turned down the music and leaned toward her, “Are you all right? If you don’t want to do this, I understand. Amber told me the police reports upset you.”
Claire took a tissue from her purse. “It isn’t that. I really haven’t given this whole meeting a lot of thought.”
“What is it?”
She exhaled. “I just love the sun and wind.”
Harry smiled and squeezed her hand again. “Well, if it makes you cry, maybe we should avoid things you love.”
Claire grinned through her tears, “How about I try not to cry, and we enjoy lots of sun and wind.”
“You don’t need to try anything.”
A few minutes later, Claire volunteered softly, “Sometimes I remember what it was like to only see the sun for an hour a day.”
Harry exhaled. His grip intensified upon the steering wheel, “I forget about your time in prison. You never talk about it.” She shook her head. His eyes screamed compassion as his blonde unruly hair blew in the wind. “You can cry, laugh or scream, anything that helps. Go for it.”
She squeezed his hand, laid her head against the head rest, closed her eyes, opened her mouth and screamed! It was like nothing she’d ever done before. She didn’t look at Harry; her eyes stayed closed tight. They were traveling at approximately seventy miles per hour, with the wind blowing wisps of her tied back hair and the sun bathing her cheeks.
Although her first attempt was weak, Claire didn’t quit. She pictured her cell, the cement block walls, and sparse furnishings. She tried again. This time she felt the sound begin in her diaphragm, travel up her throat, and explode through her lips.
Without thinking she felt the smile creep onto her face. Despite the memories, the outlet filled her with hope. When had she last screamed? Really screamed? There were plenty of opportunities, but she’d never done it.
Claire nodded. “It is. Are you sure you want to do this. He was here last night, and I can promise he isn’t supportive.”
“He was here? So you two are still talking, after everything... the prison thing and all?”
Claire nodded, “Honestly, I don’t know if I’d call it conversation. I’m speaking, he’s speaking... well you get the picture.”
Meredith nodded affirmatively.
“He set some boundaries.” Claire explained briefly, “At this time I’m inclined to respect them. It’s a quid pro quo thing.”
Meredith laid her purse on the table, pulled a small laptop from her bag and turned it on. “All right then, lay it on me. What are the rules?”
Claire snickered, “Oh, you have no idea.”
She and Meredith discussed the new rules: They would continue to meet, Claire would tell her story, it could be written, but it would only be published if Tony failed to keep Claire and her close friends safe. During the conversation, Claire realized Meredith needed compensation for lack of publication. Claire could help with some of that, but decided if Tony wanted to keep this quiet, he could help float the bill.
After dinner, Claire gave Meredith a small sample of what she could expect. It began with the story of a twenty-five year old woman working at a local news affiliate in Atlanta, Georgia. After ten, Claire decided she was done talking for the night. Their story ended with that same woman waking in an unknown room. Claire didn’t begin to describe the woman’s physical condition, just the terror of a lost day and the unknown.
Meredith typed feverishly and conceded, “I want this story. I’m willing to do anything and follow any rules to be the one to write it.”
They agreed to meet again in a week. This time Meredith would travel to Palo Alto.
Claire’s airline reservation required her to leave the hotel early. Even though she wouldn’t board the flight, Harry and Claire chose to stay on schedule. It would help their illusion with Phillip Roach. Their night hadn’t been as late as the night before. Nonetheless, Harry’s trip to the drug store wasn’t for naught.
When Harry and Claire arrived at the airport, they traded Claire’s Mazda 3, for a Mustang Convertible. As Harry lowered the roof on the bright blue muscle car, Claire secured her hair in a ponytail. She smiled and chose not to respond to Harry’s comments as he put Claire’s luggage in the car. He mumbled something under his breath about how happy he was he didn’t have luggage. Claire’s suitcases seemed to fill most of the trunk. Shaking his head he repeated, “It was only a three day trip.”
The ocean breeze helped disperse the clouds and create bright blue patches high above, matching the paint of the Mustang. Harry eased the rental car into the light Sunday traffic of I-5N. Claire laid her head against the seat and enjoyed the sun and wind on her face.
She didn’t often allow herself to think about prison. It was easier to keep it compartmentalized away. Nevertheless, sometimes the isolation and incarceration came rushing back. The memories of days, weeks, and months with limited interaction, fresh air or sunshine would infiltrate an otherwise happy day. It happened as she listened to Led Zeplin sing about a stairway to heaven. Closing her eyes behind the Oliver Peoples sunglasses she relished the warmth and tingling on her cheeks. It was all such a contrast to those dark months. Claire didn’t even realize she was lingering on her own sad memories until she felt the tears slip from her eyes. Harry reached for her hand and squeezed, offering comfort.
He turned down the music and leaned toward her, “Are you all right? If you don’t want to do this, I understand. Amber told me the police reports upset you.”
Claire took a tissue from her purse. “It isn’t that. I really haven’t given this whole meeting a lot of thought.”
“What is it?”
She exhaled. “I just love the sun and wind.”
Harry smiled and squeezed her hand again. “Well, if it makes you cry, maybe we should avoid things you love.”
Claire grinned through her tears, “How about I try not to cry, and we enjoy lots of sun and wind.”
“You don’t need to try anything.”
A few minutes later, Claire volunteered softly, “Sometimes I remember what it was like to only see the sun for an hour a day.”
Harry exhaled. His grip intensified upon the steering wheel, “I forget about your time in prison. You never talk about it.” She shook her head. His eyes screamed compassion as his blonde unruly hair blew in the wind. “You can cry, laugh or scream, anything that helps. Go for it.”
She squeezed his hand, laid her head against the head rest, closed her eyes, opened her mouth and screamed! It was like nothing she’d ever done before. She didn’t look at Harry; her eyes stayed closed tight. They were traveling at approximately seventy miles per hour, with the wind blowing wisps of her tied back hair and the sun bathing her cheeks.
Although her first attempt was weak, Claire didn’t quit. She pictured her cell, the cement block walls, and sparse furnishings. She tried again. This time she felt the sound begin in her diaphragm, travel up her throat, and explode through her lips.
Without thinking she felt the smile creep onto her face. Despite the memories, the outlet filled her with hope. When had she last screamed? Really screamed? There were plenty of opportunities, but she’d never done it.
