Short Story / The Art of Love First 5 pages

     Callista McFarland slowly drove her gold-colored Cadillac Escalade to the top of her circular driveway, put it in park and wearily rested her head on the leather steering wheel.  An entire day in court had taken its toll on her mind as well as her body, and it was only Monday—she still had at least another week of testifying to go.  She gathered her purse and leather briefcase, both embossed with her initials, and headed up the stone-lined sidewalk to the door of her two-story Tudor home.  She noticed that her purse was still soaking wet and clearly unsalvageable.   Her brow furrowed thinking of how inconsiderate that police officer had been.  She knew it was an accident, but couldn’t help but be annoyed.  She had been conferring with her lawyer outside of the courtroom when a police officer, talking to someone behind him, rammed into her and spilled his entire cup of coffee onto her handbag and down the front of his uniform.  He stared at her, his searing blue eyes meeting hers.
“I…umm…,” he mumbled. “Whoa, that’s hot coffee,” he said, dabbing his wet uniform and offering her nothing but a sheepish grin.
        Just then the bailiff popped out of the courtroom.
        “Ms. McFarland, they need you now!”
        As she was led away, she glanced back at the officer who was trying to sop up the coffee trail her purse left behind.  He hadn’t even tried to offer an apology.  As annoyed as she had been, and in spite of his lack of manners, his startling blue eyes were engraved onto her mind.
“Oh well,” she said aloud with a heavy sigh, “I’ll be back in Rome in December and I’ll replace it then.”
Once inside she placed her belongings in the foyer and made her way to her spacious living room.  Kicking off her heels she sat in the recliner in the corner of the room and let herself be absorbed into the plush, white fabric.  Thin beams of light cascaded in from the skylights in the cathedral ceiling.  The sun was slowly fading behind the palm trees surrounding her home bathing the room in a gentle glow.  She rubbed her temples with her index fingers in an attempt to relieve the pounding that had intensified as the day of testifying had dragged on.  As hard as she tried to relax, anger and sadness once again overwhelmed her.  Callista pondered why her life was destined to be fraught with such pain and loss.   First the death of her parents, and now her college professor and mentor, Reese Jones.  Reese’s murder had turned Callista’s life upside-down and once again she felt responsible for someone’s death. It seemed everyone she loved died and somehow she was always to blame.
         “If only I hadn’t asked him to meet me and look at my artwork that night,” she thought. “I should’ve at least walked with him to his car.”
Reese was gone now, and she realized the time had come to face that fact.  The only way to avenge his death was to help the police put his murderers behind bars.  Callista had witnessed the entire assault on her friend.  While walking to his car on the opposite side of the street from where she had parked, two men crept up behind Reese.  The first man attacked shoved Reese to the ground and bludgeoned him with a baseball bat. Too scared to intervene in the attack, Callista had hunkered down in the front seat of her car and called 911. She could hear his screams from across the street.  As she peered out the passenger side window, she saw the men jump into Reese’s BMW and speed off.   Reese was rushed to the hospital, but his injuries were too severe.  She had identified one of the men involved in the attack in a police lineup.  Unfortunately, the second man was still at large and the police had no leads as to his whereabouts.
She hated sitting in that courtroom with the evil man who had killed her friend. She wanted to scream, to blame him for all of the pain he had caused her and the others who had known the kind and intellectual Reese.  But her own guilty conscience kept her planted on the hard, wooden courtroom bench. Reese was the one person who had always believed in her artistic talent and it was he who had inspired her to open her art gallery, which was now internationally acclaimed.  With her guilt-ridden heart, she had barely managed to give her condolences to Reese’s family outside the courthouse after she testified.  The entire time she was on the witness stand she was sure they were blaming her for his death.  Although they reassured her that she needn’t apologize, that it was the man she was helping to convict that they blamed, Callista’s heart was still heavy with guilt.  Just like the guilt she felt when her parents died ten years earlier.
Callista, in her cap and gown, had scanned the audience of her high school graduation in search of her parents, but couldn’t find them anywhere.  She had convinced herself that they were probably just running late, although her parents prided themselves on being on time for everything.
“Maybe they’re picking up a last-minute graduation gift,” she had half-heartedly thought.
She knew that something was very wrong when she walked across the stage to receive her diploma and there were no flashes from a camera, no cheers from her mother and none of her father’s trademark whistles.
After the ceremony a police officer had approached her and solemnly informed her that her parents were involved in a car accident en route to the ceremony.  The officer reported the grim details in a monotone voice as if this were something he said as part of his daily routine.  A head-on collision with a semi-truck.  Both were killed on impact.
“They didn’t feel a thing,” the officer had said, as if that would make her feel better.
        The sun had completed its leisurely descent and now the living room was completely dark. Callista got up from her cushioned chair and turned on the overhead lights.  She decided to light the fireplace, even though it was August and the Tampa heat was at its most intense.  She felt a definite chill run up and down her spine and hoped that the fire and a cup of tea would help alleviate the cold loneliness she now felt.   Staring into the flames and stirring the sugar into her tea, Callista felt very small in her large, four-bedroom home.  She had grown up in that house and, for the first time since her parents’ deaths, she felt very alone and uncertain what the next day would bring.  A stiff breeze had picked up and Callista could hear the palm trees rustling as they brushed up against the house signaling an impending thunderstorm.
After finishing her tea Callista decided to turn in for the night even thought it was only 9 p.m. and she had tons of work to do for the upcoming show at her gallery. She had not been able to tend to her art gallery since the trial began.  On Saturday she was hosting a gala event for a new artist from Sydney, Australia.  Many of the wealthiest art collectors and most famous artists would be in attendance.  Callista cringed when she thought of all she had to do in only two short days.  Catering, decorating, getting her latest handmade gown fitted.  She padded down the hall to her bedroom, fluffed her pillows and pulled back the down comforter. She hoped the approaching storm would lull her to sleep. The next day would be a busy one and she needed her rest.  She stepped out of her mauve pants suit and slipped into a silk nightgown, one that she often wore when she was feeling tense.  She had bought it in Tokyo while there for an international artists’ convention.  The material fell mid-thigh and clung to the tender curves of her body.  The colors were soft and cool pastels that reminded Callista of the beautiful gardens she had visited in Japan.  Her four-poster bed had rarely looked more inviting than on this particular night.  She tied her shoulder-length chestnut hair back into a ponytail and climbed underneath the cool sheets.
The thunderstorm began to roll in and the rain fell in soft patterns on the roof.  She felt all of her muscles relax and then drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.
**
         Callista bolted upright in bed.  She was dazed and couldn’t grasp what had awakened her.  A quick glance at her clock showed that it was 3 a.m.  The phone next to her bed was ringing.  Callista groped for the receiver as she silently wondered who in the world would be calling her at this hour.
“Hello,” she said groggily, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.
“How would you like to share a cemetery plot with your friend Reese,” said a menacing voice on the other end.
“Who is this?” Callista demanded loudly, although she was consumed with fear, “and what do you want from me?”
“I am warning you, if you don’t call the prosecutor’s office tomorrow and tell them that everything you said in court today is a bunch of lies you will be very sorry.  I’ve killed before and I have no problem doing it again.”
Callista heard a click, and the man was gone.  She was paralyzed and for a moment and could not move her arms or legs. Her stomach was churning and her heart was beating so loudly she was sure the neighbors could hear it.  Turning on the light as she regained control of her limbs, she began to rummage through her nightstand drawer in search of the detective’s phone number that was in charge of Reese’s case.  She found it and quickly dialed in spite of her trembling hands.
“Detective Mitchell Conrad,” answered a drowsy voice.
“Detective, this is Callista McFarland, I’ve been working with you on the Reese Jones case,” she said trying to sound calm.
“What can I do for you, Ms. McFarland?”  The Detective had been carefully investigating Reese’s murder and knew that a 3 am  phone call from a star witness was never good.  Callista recounted the phone call for him and he quickly became aware that Callista’s call was in fact very serious.
“Callista, make sure all of your doors are locked and stay out of sight and do not answer the phone.  I am sending one of my best detectives, Tom Portman, to stay with you.  Do you have a place where he can sleep?”
“That really won’t be necessary, Detective Conrad,” she protested, “I can take care of myself.  I only called to inform you of the incident.  I don’t need a babysitter.”
“I insist.  I’ll be sending Tom Portman.  He’s been on my staff for over 10 years. He’s protected lots of people testifying in high-profile cases, he’ll know what to do to keep you safe.”
“Really Detective, I am a busy woman.  I have no time to play hostess to a babysitter. I was merely calling to…”
“Callista, I know this will be awkward for you.  I know you are going through a tough time right now, but it is imperative that this man be brought to justice and you’re the key.”
Callista sighed, resigned to the fact that she was getting a babysitter, someone to be under her feet and in her way while she planned the biggest gala for her art gallery yet.
“How long do you think he’ll need to stay, Detective?”
“As long as the trial takes.  When we can be sure that you’re safe, he can be on his way.”
“But I have this event at the gallery and people from Australia coming and…”
“Look, I know this is going to be an inconvenience, Callista, but your safety is my utmost concern.  I’m sending Detective Portman over right now.  You are the only witness to a brutal murder, the murder of your closest friend.  This entire case hinges on your testimony.   Whoever is calling you is obviously involved somehow.  He knows your name and your telephone number and my guess is that he also knows where you live.  If you don’t get some protection he will try to find you and he will try to hurt you.”
“If you insist.  I’ll be waiting.”
“Get some rest, Callista.  You need your energy for the trial.”
Callista had taken care of herself for ten years and saw no reason why this phone call should scare her into becoming dependent on someone else for her safety.  Would she need to be watched 24/7?  Would this stranger impede all the plans for her gallery’s event?