The End of the Beginning

The Cheevers liked nice things. Their house was laid out with meticulous precision. Each item of furniture, timepiece, artwork, and antique collectible was presented with careful intention. Pretense was admired. They were an enviable couple.

Charlotte sought things she could own like her benevolent children and her beloved husband. Her grasp was far-reaching, and her angst anchored. Theo was dutiful in appeasing her hunger. She never went without or lacked comfort. He toiled long hours to ensure her happiness. Gratefulness and appreciation could wait.

It was a Monday, not unlike all the Mondays that had preceded it. The sun heated the pavement. The wind held still. Life creeped along in its sultry pace. Charlotte busied herself with all the things she would delegate. Her life as a homemaker consisted of a gardener, pool attendant, landscaper, maid, chef, driver and sometimes butler, along with a personal assistant, trainer and stylist. There was little for her to make, and it didn’t feel like home.

Of course, she had distractions to occupy her time. In between tennis matches and tea at Guthrie’s, she read books, took French lessons, and fancied herself the next great painter. Her abstractions hung on the office and home walls of her friends and acquaintances. She stared at her recent completion. It was a mastery in shades of blue. It flowed in a truncated movement like listening to a phone conversation with intermittent sound. There was a feeling of being stunted and drowning in a simultaneous motion. It was her perfect life.

She had been pleased when the curator at the downtown art gallery inquired about her collection. He wanted to unveil her talent at an upcoming exhibit. At first, Charlotte was reticent. There was something pristine in the pursuit; a realization of the endeavor was a chokehold. Safety reigns in the confines of the quest. 

Theo had told her, “Be daring, take a chance, my dear.”

Those words flitted and bounced against her feigned confidence. As she contemplated the gravity of failure, the doorbell rang. Her sometimes butler, Newton, was at a doctor’s appointment. She took careful steps to the entryway. Upon opening the door, she was surprised to see a police officer standing on the porch. He was rigid in his stance.

“May I help you?” she asked with reservation.

“Sorry to bother you, ma’am. We were called out to the Carlsons. They had a break-in with several expensive items stolen, mostly jewelry, some artwork…”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“Oh no, they were out of town. Realized it when they returned,” their eyes met. She saw past his formalized approach.

“Do come in. It’s sweltering out.”

He hesitated, then followed her into the foyer. His gaze tilted upward. The imposing stairway showcased the largesse of her lifestyle.

“You have a beautiful home,” he said with a muffled tone.

“It’s ordinary in its everyday use, but thank you.” 

There was an indecent pause as they stared at each other. She focused on his hands.

“I was just…”

“May I get you something to drink? Some water, lemonade, tea, or even coffee?”

"Um, okay, yes, I’ll take a lemonade,” he smiled.

“Please have a seat in the parlor,” she swung her hand toward the doorway to the room as an invitation, “I’ll be right back.”

The nervous energy engulfed her sensibilities. Her heart quickened. She enjoyed the looks of him. She wasn’t accustomed to serving, but she didn’t want anyone else in the room. No, she wanted him to herself. She needed to own someone new.

Entering the room, he stood up. With her hand on the verge of shaking, she offered him the glass of refreshment. 

He took a prolonged drink. The summer heat was taxing.

“Thank you,” he nodded his head.

“The Carlsons…"

“Forgive me for being distracted,” his smile again. It sunk her resolve. “They are fine. I was just canvassing the neighborhood, talking with neighbors. Curious if you noticed anything out of the norm yesterday or last night?” He paused.

She was flustered by his masculinity. Her mind raced through the events of a day now completed. Nothing. Yesterday was like every other day. She rued not making a drink for herself to combat the weightiness of her emotions.

“No, I hate not being of any help.” 

“You’ve been more than kind and helpful. This lemonade saved me.” 

She waited for his smile, but he looked at her with a direct knowing. There was a flirtation in his pretended saving. The electricity of the connection consumed the rational parts of her mind. She thought of abandoning restraint. 

“Thank you again,” he held out the glass full of ice cubes.

“You are very welcome.” 

Her internal indecision morphed into self-loathing. The moment was passing her by like a wind that holds promise only to be skirted along to a farther destination. 

“If you think of anything, here’s my card. Perhaps any video you might have of the comings and goings on the street out front,” he made an effort to touch her hand. 

“I’m not the least technically inclined, but if there’s any security footage that might be of use, I’ll have my assistant forward it along.”

“Good day, ma’am,” he retreated into his world of intrigue. 

Forlorn, she watched him disappear. She watched until there was nothing left to see.

***

The grand night of Charlotte’s art showing bordered on orchestrated chaos. Staff scurried to adjust lighting, arrange champagne flutes on serving trays, and level paintings. Before the guests arrived, Charlotte walked the floor of the gallery. The clicking of her heels reverberated. It was the echoing sound of confidence, but she was discomposed. Her paintings lacked a tangibility. They held a prevalent emptiness like looking at an old photograph. The living had been smudged out. The emotional depth had escaped. She felt flat. 

A tired exhale passed from her lips as she mentally tore apart her blue monstrosity. The brushstrokes she owned. They were clever and manipulative. They mimicked reality without being immersed in truth. She started to shake her head. It was a futile gesture. She knew herself to be a fraud.

With a start, Charlotte could feel someone behind her. Fearful that the focus was on the exposed fraudulence, she remained quiet. She couldn’t move. Instead, she listened for the patterned breathing, tried to place the scent, and felt the space between them diminishing. The stranger raised his arm. He pointed toward her artwork. She instantly recognized him by his hand. 

Before he could say anything, she whispered, “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“It reminds me of something lost. In those swirls of blue, there’s a feverish search for that thing you’ve always needed. It’s propelling you to find it. It’s almost as if it’s within and without, right in the moment. I mean, maybe not, but that’s how I see it.”

There was that sense of feeling alive again. A pulsing energy rushed through Charlotte. She wanted to tame her breathing and say something of consequence in return.

“What was it that you weren’t expecting?” he asked to fill the silence.

“You…”

“That’s what most people say when I show up.”

She turned to face him. Greeted by his charismatic smile, her admonitory judgments lightened. Her spirit released. 

“That’s what I was afraid of,” she smiled back.

“Funny how we keep running into each other.”

“I had no idea I would see you again,” another breathless whisper.

“I catch odd job security work in my off hours. Seeing you is a nice surprise.”

Gently biting her lower lip, she searched for the words, “You were right about the painting. I keep looking for that one thing that will make the whole of this make sense.”

“Do you think you’ve found it?”

The loud, garish walk of Theo could be heard approaching. He was in a gregarious state. He was delighted to be the semi-focus of attention.

“Ahhh, the lady of the hour. Isn’t she a talent?” Theo said with bravado.

Theo saw the look that passed between them and instinctively pulled Charlotte in closer to his body.

“Her work is admirable. I best return to my security duties. Make sure no one tries to steal one of these lovely paintings,” he winked at her.

He strolled away, leaving the resigned couple to their state of possession. Charlotte withered under the damning weight of the protracted realization. For everything she held within her calculated grasp, it wasn’t enough. Trapped, she could feel her chest heaving for air. The hopelessness suffocated her urges. She remained prisoner to the contrivances of her life. 

She was owned.