Truth

3,000 -- until tourist season. During prime summer months it’s estimated there were as many as 60,000 people in their small town -- each one a potential art buyer. The free spirited world of the Cape fit Sophia perfectly.
    The greatest disadvantage was its proximity to the rest of the world. Out on the tip of Massachusetts, transportation took time. Being late March, the cold wind and ocean spray off the Atlantic, could make Highway 6 potentially dangerous.
    Derek flew the private commuters daily to his office in Boston. To him the thirty minute flight was as common as riding the T in Boston. He counted it a small price to be with Sophia in the community she loved.
     
    Settling back into the living room of their cottage, Sophia debated a fire in their fireplace. Spring weather on the Cape changed without warning. Yesterday was in the sixties; today with overcast skies and strong ocean winds, it would be fortunate to reach fifty. Sophia settled onto the soft sofa, curled her long legs under her body, as her skirt swept the wood floor.
    Sighing, she thought lovingly about their home, a quaint cottage built in 1870. Many amenities had been added since the original structure: a modern eat-in kitchen and two full baths. Sophia loved the clawed tub in the first floor bath. The wood floors, trim, and built-in bookshelves were original. The second floor held two bedrooms perfect for Derek’s home office and Sophia’s home art studio.
    Sipping warm Jasmine tea, she contemplated Derek’s job offer. How often does a company like Shedis-tics seek out a potential employee? It was truly a great opportunity, and he always supported her opportunities.
    Along with notoriety, her art provided some financial profits. Occasionally pieces sold, and she enjoyed a cult following of buyers, people who required sporadic pacification with fancy dresses, champagne, and exhibits. She’d even been commissioned for a few specific pieces. A large portrait of a woman in her wedding gown had the greatest payoff. The anonymous buyer required her to sign a letter of confidentiality. She couldn’t even sign the painting. Sophia recognized the woman from magazines -- the wife of a businessman.
    Her work had become bolder since she’d married Derek. His love and support strengthened her to try what she’d previously felt too risky. That same love provided her with stability. Over the years, her parents worked desperately to help and support her. But, they were getting older, and she’d been a financial burden too long. Nonetheless, Sophia knew she wouldn’t have her small studio on Commercial Street, if it weren’t for them. She longed to prove she could make it on her own with her art, even if on her own meant with her husband.
    Finishing her tea, Sophia reached a decision. If Derek needed to move to California, she’d move too. Their cottage and her studio would sell. Being together was more important than living her dream.
    From her upstairs studio, Sophia looked south, out to the bay. The waves blended into the overcast sky. She pulled out her stool near her drawing table and found the note:
     
    I love you, if you found this, you’re doing what I
love seeing you do... Create me something
special, I miss you already and will be home soon !
     
    Sophia smiled as the East coast chill evaporated, and she filled with the aura of warmth. Turning on her laptop Sophia reasoned she couldn’t slip a note into his suitcase, but she could send a quick email. He would receive it on his phone when he landed.
    As her fingers hit the last exclamation mark, she remembered the publicity photos of her Florence exhibition. Clicking through the different shots, she saw the pictures in their entirety. She didn’t scan the crowds, didn’t enlarge the masses. If she had, she would have notice a reoccurring face. In most shots only the gentleman’s dark hair was visible. However, his dark eyes were visible in a few. A profiler might notice those black-eyes watched Sophia, not her art.
    Securing her sketch paper to her table, Sophia closed her eyes and envisioned her subject. The charcoal darkened her fingertips as it brushed the surface of the thick cotton paper. In time the heel of her hand blackened, rubbing and shading the image. It wasn’t a drawing for future exhibits. Never would it glean the walls of a studio. This self-portrait was meant for one man. The shades of charcoal gray transformed the blank page into a dreamlike scene creating Derek’s