Chapter 2: Coffee Break

Interlude: 25th Anniversary

Cindy:

Dad never did become a paying client, though there were a few friendly sessions. Somehow, Aunt Francine got involved, though I was never clear on exactly how. Knowing Aunt Frannie, it was probably inappropriate advice about their love life. Mostly, Mom and Dad just hit it off. The first day, even before they had a date, Mom sent Dad a workout picture of herself. I think it must be pretty racy since Dad will not show it to me.

{4}

Sheila:

Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep

The alarm had gone off. I never sleep to the alarm. Sitting up in bed, I stretched like Scarlett O’Hara the morning after Rhett’s “Behold my hands, my dear.” Oh, my goodness. He said that just before not-entirely-consensual sex. But Scarlett loved it the morning after, and this was my morning.

There was a definite sated quality about me that morning. I ached, but there was a languor to my movements and a completion to my sensibilities. I had not felt this good in years, and it was all because of G. Sean Richards.

I rose and pulled on a robe. How far out of it had I been last night? I still had on my stockings but nothing else. I never slept in the raw and rarely without bathing. My thoughts went back to wanting a shower the night before, but I had to print my pictures.

Pictures. Leaving the shower running, I went to the entrance table, and there were the pictures. Years of editing pictures for clients made me something of an expert in certain types of photography. These were quite good.

If I say so myself, the full-length shot was arresting. The arms were bound back, of course. My head was down and slightly to one side, with the eyes hooded from the camera. My hair was pulled over the near shoulder, mostly covering one breast, which served to accent the other. My thatch was fully visible and due for a trim, but the arresting part was the dewing I had seen the night before. One leg was straight, while Sean Richards massaged the other. The expression on my face was one of near rapture.

I had to remind myself that the woman in the picture was me, though it was not the same me that looked out of my mirror every morning. I carefully packed the picture in an acid-free sleeve. Who knew what the future might bring? There was a chance I might show it to someone, eventually.

If anything, the other picture was better than the first, though, in a sense, they were the same. The second photo was a cropping of the first picture, enlarged to fit the paper.

This one was a simple torso shot, beginning just below the chin and extending past the cleft. In the closer frame, the dewing was much more apparent. But what made the shot was a curl of hair, my hair neatly framing my right nipple. That detail had gone unnoticed when I printed the picture the night before. The nipple was fully erect, stiff even. Merged with the taught musculature and the dewing, it all screamed sexual tension. Just looking at it brought hot flashes, and I am not usually affected by visual erotica.

Though the image was simple and anonymous, I could easily sell a dozen among my clients. Triple the price if they knew who was in the picture, though I doubted any of them would guess. None of them, for example, had ever seen the birthmark above my navel. The rights for internet reproduction would be worth thousands. On the sale of this one picture, I could go wild at the online auctions some Saturday night.

Smiling, I decided Mr. Richards would get a bonus with his disclosure documents.

Hours later, I had completed my first round of clients for the day. Fortunately, I was able to do my appointments almost on autopilot. I had gotten a few odd looks, but no one commented, and sessions proceeded as expected. At 11:00 AM, I could break for lunch and business. Today, business was G. Sean Richards.

The name caused problems because there was disagreement on his first initial. Charles had told me G. There were hits on that name in town, but the Chamber of Commerce listed him as C. Sean Richards, owner, CEO of Richards Enterprises. Their bio painted a picture of a local man who had taken a group of family businesses and turned it into a major corporation. The import division maintained offices on the far side of downtown. There was also a warehouse address not far from my studio. The consulting division’s website offered advice on customs issues, in addition to liaison, brokerage, and auctioneering services, with a list of accountants and lawyers was attached.

Going back to the biography, I could see I misjudged his age. I had thought him to be in his early 40s, but his listed high school graduation was much later. Then it hit me. Francine had to know him. They had graduated in the same class from Mt. Pleasant HS, which is not that big a school. Everyone knew everyone else, at least a little.

Finding Francine was not difficult. Within five minutes, I had left a message with her service. Before I finished my lunch order, she called me back. After a minute of signing off the other call, I said hello.

She almost squealed back, “Sheila Schwartz. Oh my God. What have you been doing.”

I was flattered a star like Francine Martel remembered my name. “I have a training and fitness studio. It pays the bills. Not like you. I see your name all over the place and with stars.”

She wanted none of it, “Oh, get off Sheila. You were much better than I was. I just have the figure for it, and eventually, you didn’t. These days, I play mothers and girlfriends, generally off-Broadway. You would still be headlining. But something tells me you did not call to reminisce about Oskar Gruber’s Chamber of Horrors. What’s up?”