Truth

Danni.”
    She hung-up and sent the text. Seconds later her telephone buzzed. She swiped the screen, I ALWAYS HAVE TIME FOR YOU! CAN’T WAIT. GOT A WEB CONFERENCE AT 11. BE DONE BY 12:30, ANY TIME AFTER AND I’M ALL YOURS. – NOT TRUE, ALWAYS YOURS! LOVE YA BABY.
    She grinned. Technology was wonderful! She wouldn’t let Danni, or anyone else, make her feel insecure about her husband. After swallowing the final drops of Jasmine Tea, she stowed her tea cup in the dishwasher, wiped down the breakfast bar, and began contemplating the extent of art in the Provincetown studio. Her mind spun with displayed and stored artwork. Suddenly the ring of her telephone brought Sophia’s thoughts back to Santa Clara. Looking to the illuminated screen she saw: Derek’s office .
    “ Hello?”
    “ Hello, Mrs. Burke. This is Danni.”
    “ Yes?”
    “ It seems that a meeting has been rescheduled, Derek is available after 12:30 this afternoon.”
    Sophia’s smug expression couldn’t be contained. “Thank you, Danni. I look forward to seeing you and Derek then.”
    “ Yes, ma’am.” The line disconnected.
    Glancing at the clock, Sophia realized she had three hours before she needed to be in Derek’s office. She decided to go to Palo Alto and talk to Mr. George in person. Maybe he called the wrong person. After all, who would buy three pieces of art without seeing them in person?
     
    The Civic Center in Palo Alto was in the heart of a cafe haven. Easing her car into an available space, she contemplated stopping at one of the many shops she passed. As in Santa Clara, parts of the city gave Sophia the wonderful small town feel.
    The fog that so often encased the Silicon Valley was gone, dissipated into the shining blue sky. The buildings, trees, and mountains all glowed with the spring sun. As Sophia walked along the crowded sidewalk, inhaling the fragrant aromas emanating from the coffee shops and cafes and listening to the murmurs of pedestrians, she found herself bemused by the recent turn of events. This new life wasn’t as bad as she’d made it out to be. Derek did want her here.
    The revelation or epiphany came in the knowledge that he wanted her -- not some perfect wife. That support strengthened her, rejuvenating her confidence as she approached Mr. George.
    Entering the small studio, she noticed the contrast in noise. The sounds from the busy street silenced as the glass doors closed to faint music, impeded only by a soft chime indicating a prospective customer. Sophia took in the white walls, indirect lighting, and lovely pieces of displayed art on canvas as well as three-dimensional pieces on podiums. At the beck and call of the protective bell, Mr. George appeared from the depths of the back rooms.
    Since their initial meeting, they’d only spoken on the phone. Sophia wanted more information before she shipped her entire collection to this man.
    “ Oh, Mrs. Burke!” Mr. George exclaimed with perhaps too much glee.
    “ Mr. George, please call me Sophia.”
    “ Yes, Sophia. I’m so glad you came in today.” His bright smile threatened to rupture his ruddy cheeks as he positively swelled with excitement. “Did you receive my voice mail?”
    So it was meant for me, she thought as she answered, “Yes, that’s why I’m here. Can we discuss this transition?”
    “ Most certainly, I agree it’s unusual. But I want you to know, I’ve verified the funds, although I’m unable to confirm the identity of the buyer. It’s real. Someone offered 2.3 million for all three works.”
    Sophia’s bravado dissolved. She struggled for air. Her lungs collapsed, and her legs wobbled. “I’m sorry; did you just say 2.3 million?”
    “ Oh, didn’t I mention the amount on the message? Yes, initially the buyer asked me the price. I told him I’d need to discuss it with the artist. He didn’t want to haggle, so he offered what he believed would be the top bid.” Mr. George’s grin enlarged even more, showing his too white, too perfect teeth, and the pink gums above. “I think he succeeded. However, I still told him I’d need to discuss it with you. Of course, the studio collects fifteen percent. The rest is yours.”
    Before her legs gave out entirely, Sophia found an empty chair. Her mind subconsciously computed the math, while her lips fought diligently to speak, “Mr. George, I’m going to talk to my husband, soon. I’ll be getting those works for you as soon as I can.” One million nine hundred and fifty