Read Truths of the Heart for Free Online Page A

few of the pampered guests were clients of Dent.
Rachelle recalled seeing the buxom lady servers decked out in skimpy Victoria's
Secret sleepwear with a tinge of embarrassment. Greeted by Tommi Gilmour,
seated in a maroon leather booth, she recalled thinking: this Tommi lady is
a strange bird, actually bizarre. A bottle of white merlot served at
Tommi's order, Kim related that Tommi lived in a plush penthouse above the High
Five. If you were good you might be invited there. Rachelle would never forget
Tommi's tummy-tuck chuckle.
    Rachelle then remembered Dent's arrival, like he had just stepped from
an Esquire photo shoot—tanned, six feet tall, healthy glow, slender build,
tailored blue suit, white shirt, red tie, shiny black shoes, slick graying
black hair, and manicured fingernails. Kim introduced him and Rachelle recalled
his oyster-y marble blue eyes locking hers, undressing her, a haunting hunger,
almost a fear, like he was being pursued by somebody or thing, wanting to share
it. She recalled his copper tanned hands and the giant diamond ring on his left
pinky and the sucking way he kissed Kim on the cheek, then said he had to speak
to Tommi in private. Kim's look of embarrassment as they left and even now
Rachelle felt that icky feeling she had then felt.
    She remembered, after what seemed an hour, Dent returned alone. He ordered
a glass of Chardonnay and said, like somebody might be watching, “My NFL crew
is off this week, I may imbibe.”
    Shortly after that, Carl entered. A handsome hunk, smiling, confident,
in control, Rachelle recalled being attracted by his hard carnal maleness. As
the night progressed, it was obvious that Carl and Dent were bosom buddies.
Dent, the highlight of the dinner, told jokes, high fived customer clients,
while Carl's hands roamed over, around, and stroked Rachelle like she was a
regulation Wilson NFL football. Carl, on his third Coke, no drinking, he played
tomorrow, invited Rachelle to be his guest, “down on the sidelines, sit on the
bench, at tomorrow's game”. Amazing herself, third glass of merlot, she
accepted.
    The weeks following, more often than not, two or three times a day,
Carl called her. When the Lions played home games, he insisted that she drive
over, staying the weekend at his condo.
    T.S. stirred. Rachelle yawned, looked at the time, 4:55, and a funk
feeling came over her as she recalled Kim's excited words the Sunday night she
and Kim drove back to Lansing from the memorable Detroit football game:
“Rachelle, Dent proposed, his divorce will be final in a month, we're going to
be married in the spring. I'm so excited.”
    Out of nowhere T.S. began snoring.
    “T.S., stop that.”
    He did and, billowing the curtains, a sudden gust of cool wind
fluttered through the open window.
    Hint of fall, harbinger inklings of short days popped up. Pre
wedding jitters, Doc. Not unusual they tell me … who the hell is they…? she
thought.
    Work to do at the office, picking Carl up at the airport, T.S. purring,
the time 4:59 A.M., she pulled a pillow over her head and tried to get back to
sleep.

 

 
 
    CHAPTER EIGHT

 
    Monday, August 5,
8:00 AM

 
    Seth Trudow—six-one, slender (a track & field athlete in high
school),his hair resembled ripe uncut wheat after a summer thunderstorm. His maple-brown
eyes observing everything, he appeared to be taking inventory of the space
between molecules.
    Fall semester commencing in three weeks, Seth had preregistered for his
required courses. A senior, he needed eight elective credits outside his major
(Fine Arts—emphasis studio painting) to graduate in the spring. Out of the
blue, a new Communication Department offering by Dr. Rachelle Zannes came to
his attention. Reading about the course in the Fine Arts Department's
newsletter, intrigued by the creative processes—a white canvas, a blank page, a
block of marble, a chunk of formless clay, something from nothing waiting in
the stillness—his interest was piqued.
    And now