Claire listened and watched as Anthony's eyes glistened. He was tall, and now that the coat had been removed, she could tell he was muscular, with a wide chest and firm waist. Most importantly, his left hand had an empty fourth finger. That would definitely be a red flag. Against her better judgment, Claire decided she wanted to answer his questions.

"Okay." Claire smiled charmingly. "But I will've been standing behind this bar for six hours straight. I can't promise I'll be the best company."

"Then I take that as a yes? But did you tell me the time? Or am I still waiting for that answer?"

She found herself absorbed in his eyes.

"Yo! Hey, sweetheart, how about you give us some service down here?" Claire's attention was suddenly pulled away from the hold of those amazing eyes. The asshole down the bar needed more Jack and Coke. As she started to walk away, Anthony reached for her hand, which had been resting on the bar only inches from his. His warm touch made her skin tingle. He didn't ask again, but his expression did...

"At 10:00 PM-I get off at 10:00 PM." She removed her hand from under his, shook her head, and walked down the bar, smiling to herself. She needed to find out what the asshole wanted.

The deep-red vinyl seats of the semicircular booth situated on the edge of the dance floor tried unsuccessfully to imitate fine upholstery. Music filled the air, too loud and too fast. In Anthony's mind, it created the perfect climate, requiring him and Claire to sit close in an effort to hear one another. He also had a bottle of the Red Wing's finest Cabernet Sauvignon. Looking at his watch for the hundredth time, he read the hands as they said 10:30 PM. It was then that he saw Claire walking across the empty dance floor toward his booth.

This night was definitely filled with out-of-character behaviors. Not only did Anthony Rawlings not fraternize with regional associates, he never waited for anyone. Under any other circumstance, he would have been up and gone by 10:05 PM. His friends, associates, and employees all knew his obsession with punctuality. Tonight was different.

As Claire eased herself into the booth, she smiled a fatigued grin and apologized, "I'm sorry for the delay. There was a problem with the cash register, but all's well now."

He gently touched her hand. Momentarily, he was transfixed by the contrast-large and small. "I was beginning to wonder if you were standing me up"-his grin hinted toward levity-"But since I could see you across the room, I hoped I might still have a chance at friendly conversation."

Claire's exhale and upturned lips told him she was relieved. Was it because he was still waiting or merely that her shift was complete?

"Perhaps we could have a glass of wine, and you could enjoy sitting instead of standing."

"I believe that would be very nice."

Anthony poured the wine and noticed Claire's expression relax. The transformation occurring before him was from bartender, to the real Claire Nichols. He watched as she took the glass, placed her lips on the rim, closed her eyes, and relished the thick red liquid on her tongue. Anthony fought the urge to think too much about her actions. "So what's a classy girl like you doing waiting on stooges like us?" Anthony's rich voice refocused Claire's attention.

Her eyes twinkled with emerald lights as she turned to face him. "Why, Anthony, I do believe that self-deprecating statement was a compliment to me, in a way." Her intonation held the Southern accent far from her native Indiana cadence. He only arched his eyebrows in response, waiting patiently for an answer. Claire shook her head succumbing to his charm. "I'm an out-of-work meteorologist. My news station was bought about a year ago. In their infinite wisdom they decided I was no longer needed-so this"-she said as she glided her free hand open above the table-"is my new glamorous life. Don't knock it. It pays my student loans as well as multiple other bills."

His deep laughter was nonjudgmental. "Wouldn't you rather be doing the weather thing than this?"

"Of course, but honestly, this isn't so bad. I have some great friends here. There's always something happening, and I meet nice people like you." Claire took another sip of the wine and leaned a little closer. "So that's my story in a nutshell. Sir, it is your turn. You said you are here on business. What kind of business do you do?"

"I'm actually involved in many businesses. I came to Atlanta for an acquisition, and some associates convinced me to come here to your revered establishment to try the world-famous fried green tomatoes."

"Oh, they did-did you?"

Anthony nodded. "Yes, I did."

Claire looked into her glass in an attempt to hide the snicker that escaped her lips. "Did you like them?"

He likewise looked into his glass. "No, I don't believe I'm destined for Georgian cuisine." Unable to keep it silenced any longer, Claire's laughter caused him to look up. "Why are you laughing?"

"Because I think they are awful! Every time someone orders them, I want to whisper, 'No, don't do it.' It's just that they are so-"

"Slimy!" They said in unison and chuckled.

The conversation progressed effortlessly. She asked about his acquisition. Would his trip be successful? Anthony was honestly surprised at her depth and knowledge. It was a shame that her news station hadn't kept her on. She deserved so much better than tending bar. Of course, that was what he told her. They discussed her career opportunities. Due to Anthony's involvement in multiple endeavors, he offered the possibility of assistance with more profitable employment. Claire thanked him for his offer, but doubted his ability or desire to truly assist.

"You know, your destiny could be as simple as an offer and a signature away." He channeled every deal he ever made, which were more than he could count or recall. Placing a napkin on the table, he drew her attention to the center design. "Just imagine, instead of the swirly lettering saying Red Wing it was blocked and read, Weather Channel."

The bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon was almost empty. Claire closed her eyes and did as Anthony instructed-she imagined. Exhaling audibly, she said, "That would be wonderful. It would be the offer of a meteorologist's dreams."

Closing in on the deal, he said, "Well, Claire, if this napkin were that contract"-he reached for a pen in his breast pocket and wrote at the top of the napkin Job Contract-"would you be willing to sign? Would you really give this all up for a job offer?"

She didn't blink. "In a heartbeat!" Removing the pen from Anthony's hand, she signed, Claire Nichols next to the bar's insignia.

About midnight, Claire thanked Anthony for the lovely company and explained that she was very tired from her long day and needed to get home.

"I'll be in town for a few more days. Perhaps I could call you for dinner? It isn't proper to offer a lady alcohol without food."

"Thank you, I'm honored, but I believe I'll chuck this up to my brush with an amazing gentleman and go on with my glamorous existence. I fear that the Weather Channel will not be contacting me anytime soon."

Although her refusal surprised him, he didn't let it show. In the long run, it wouldn't matter, but he would play into her chastity. "I truly understand; dangerous man from out of town tries to learn your secrets and offers to help you with your aspirations. You're wise to keep your distance." Although his grin had sinister written all over it, he assumed she would detect the facade.

"A girl can't be too careful. Truly, I'm honored, and I don't think you seem that dangerous." She began to scoot out of the booth, but he caught her hand. Their eyes met, he bowed his head, and kissed the back of her hand.

"It was wonderful to meet you, Claire Nichols." With a smile, she retrieved her hand and slowly slid from the booth.

The next minute, he was alone. He took the pen, signed his name, and wrote the date on the same napkin. He carefully folded it and placed it in the pocket of his suit jacket. Then he pulled out his phone and texted his driver: "PICK ME UP NOW."

He always used full words. Text language was a joke. Closing his eyes, he thought, yes-my acquisition is going quite well. Thank you for asking.

To look backward for a while is to refresh the eye, to restore it, and to render it the more fit for its prime function of looking-forward.

-Margaret Fairless Barber, The Roadmender

Chapter Three.

Claire contemplated her situation as she ate. She hadn't taken the napkin discussion seriously. Anthony probably expected that. She didn't prepare to move from her Atlanta apartment or even consider the possibility. His recollection of a document that legally bound them was a complete shock. Claire's gut told her it wasn't legal, but what recourse did she have to fight from this room? She'd searched high and low for a telephone, computer, or some form of communication-nothing.

She actually thought she would walk out of this twisted nightmare; however, it wasn't a nightmare, twisted or otherwise. It was her reality. Her mind searched for a way to survive and escape.

Claire relished the warm oatmeal, fruit, bacon, perfectly brewed coffee, and juice. Yesterday she'd hardly eaten. Today she was ravenous, devouring every ounce, even checking twice for more coffee in the carafe. At least starvation wasn't part of Anthony's plan.

Standing for a shower, she moved gingerly, experiencing the same aches and pains of the day before-perhaps intensified. Claire wasn't sure if she wanted to see herself in the mirrors as she cautiously stepped into the generous bathroom and slowly approached the dressing table. The image that reflected back looked scary, hair messed and tangled, face sporting various shades of red and blue. The worst image had to be her lips, swollen-looking as if she'd received Botox injections. This time, there were no tears; instead, she stared and considered.

Grandma Nichols told her more than once she was an unusually strong young woman. In Claire's mind, Grandma was always strong. Grandpa's work in law enforcement took him away from home. Grandma never complained. Instead, she was the heart of the family-always there for everyone and often giving advice, such as, "It's not the circumstances that make a person a success. It's how that person responds to those circumstances." Grandma believed every situation could be made better by the right attitude. Claire dropped the robe. Beholding the vision in the mirror, she believed Grandma never anticipated a situation like this.

After the shower, Claire decided to not dress appropriately in expectation of an Anthony visitation. If he were to walk in her suite, he would find her in jeans, a T-shirt, and fuzzy socks. Furthermore, there would be no make-up and no hair primping. It may be a small act of rebellion, but Claire didn't have many rebellious options. Every bone in her body wanted to fight. She tried to fight during the past two nights-but that hadn't worked well.

Entering the grand closet/dressing room, Claire realized that yesterday she hadn't truly appreciated all it had to offer. First, she began to look for underwear, but remembered that it didn't exist in any of the drawers. So, Claire searched for jeans. There were multiple pairs, different shades of blue with different leg styles. Wearing jeans must not break any rules; if it did, they wouldn't be there. The brands she read on the labels she'd only seen in stores like Saks, Hudson, J Brand, and MIH. She never in her life tried on jeans like these. They were soft, amazingly comfortable, and fit perfectly.

Feeling a chill as she removed the robe, Claire decided a sweater would be better than a T-shirt. The countless choices were equally as fashionable. She decided on a Donna Karan pink, fuzzy cashmere sweater. Before putting it on, she looked for a bra. Apparently, bras were against the rules too; however, she did find a drawer full of various colored camisoles-she chose pink.

It was like a treasure hunt, as she searched the drawers and cabinets of the closet. Still rummaging for fuzzy socks, she found multiple drawers of lingerie. The silky black and red negligees in multiple lengths made her uncomfortable as they reminded her of a Victoria's Secret fashion show. Finally, she discovered socks. Claire couldn't comprehend that all of these lavish and extravagant clothes were for her. Truthfully, she didn't want them.

Driven by curiosity and boredom, she read the labels on the evening dresses: Aidan Mattox, Armani, Donna Karan, and Emilio Pucci. These dresses alone could pay her rent in Atlanta for six months. Fleetingly, she wondered about last night's dress. Its tag would remain a mystery since it disappeared when the room was cleaned.

Next, she inspected the shoes: pumps, sandals, boots, and slip-ons-most with four-inch heels or more. The brands were equally as high-priced as the dresses: Prada, Calvin Klein, Dior, Kate Spade, and Yves Saint Lauren. Never really a shoe person, Claire usually wore casual footwear, Crocs and sneakers-rarely heels and never that high. Of course, every pair was her size.

Her mind slipped back to high school. Ten years ago, she would have done anything for a closet supplied like the one in which she stood. Back then, her sister helped her fit in despite her parents' modest income. Emily took her to consignment shops, bargain-hunted and shopped sale racks. It worked. Claire was part of the in crowd, wearing the right clothes, shoes, and carrying the right purse. As she turned slowly and took in all the clothes, she wished she didn't have this closet or any of the memories.

Hearing the beep, she knew the suite door had opened. Her heart raced. Who was here? How long had she been in the closet? Stepping into the suite, she saw lunch being delivered by the same young man that brought dinner the night before. Claire hadn't notice last night, but he appeared Latino. She asked him about the food. He smiled and said, "I bring Ms. Claire lunch." She asked about Catherine, if she would be visiting. He replied, "I bring Ms. Claire lunch." Claire smiled and thanked him for the lunch. Other questions seemed senseless.

Each response and smile the young man offered was unaccompanied by eye contact. Claire thought about his job-bringing her food. Obviously, with the lack of make-up, he could see her bruises. Hell, he opened a locked door to bring her food. What did he think of her, of the situation? The idea of seeing her plight from someone else's perspective weighed heavily on her chest. Sadness intensified at the realization, she once again was completely alone.

Instead of going to the table, Claire sat on the sofa and wrapped her arms around her knees. Staring into the fireplace, she contemplated turning it on. Time passed without record. She didn't remember sleeping. Her position didn't change. The unbearable quiet and isolation combined to create a kind of time-and-space continuum. It was after 3:00 PM on the bedside clock before she moved from the sofa. It was then she realized that the food remained on the table, untouched.

The subtle glow from behind the curtains reminded Claire that she hadn't looked out the windows since she awoke yesterday morning. When she checked for a means of escape the first night, everything was locked tight. At that time, the nocturnal darkness wouldn't permit her to see past her own reflection.

Of the multiple golden draperies, the largest covered a section of wall near the sitting area. Claire moved toward it, searching for a cord to pull, to make the draperies move and reveal the secrets on the other side. After minutes of seeking, Claire found a switch. Tentatively, she pushed it up. Instantaneously, the draperies opened, revealing tall French doors with a balcony beyond.

In her hysteria the other night, she hadn't noticed the French doors, thinking instead that they were only windows. She definitely didn't see the balcony. Her mind raced with possibilities: maybe from the balcony, she could climb down. Alas no, the French doors were locked and bolted. Expectedly the key was nowhere to be found. Claire had a good idea who possessed it.

The view beyond the doors revealed a massive uninhabited countryside, for miles only trees-thousands and thousands of trees-on very flat land. Once she stopped seeing the magnitude of unpopulated land, she realized that the trees weren't green, and the earth wasn't red. When she and Anthony made their contractual agreement, they were at a bar, the Red Wing, in Atlanta. What she saw from her locked balcony doors didn't look like Georgia.

She yearned for her home in Atlanta. Even though she wasn't from there, her career path had taken her to WKPZ, a local affiliate out of Atlanta. That path started with a major in meteorology at Valparaiso University in Indiana. Being born and raised in Fishers, outside of Indianapolis, college in Indiana was expected. Her dreams almost ended when both of her parents tragically died during her junior year. Miraculously, she received a scholarship. That, with her student loans and bartending, allowed her to continue her education. After graduation, her path took her to a one-year unpaid internship in Upstate New York. Being in the weather business, she should have realized how much she would hate the weather in Albany; however, it was the ability to live with her sister and brother-in-law that made the offer easy to accept. Recently married, Emily and John were very willing to help Claire any way they could. Emily taught school, and John recently started practicing law with an esteemed firm in Albany. Since the two were high school sweethearts, Claire knew John most of her life. Living with them was easy. In hindsight, maybe not for the newlyweds; but for Claire, they were her only family.

When the offer came toward the end of her internship for WKPZ, Claire willingly followed her path to Atlanta. She figured the Vandersols needed some time alone, the weather was better in Atlanta, and the job was everything she'd prayed for. As the years continued, she learned more and more about the business, earned respect, notoriety, and a growing income. The station manager told her more than once that her willingness to learn and work made her a rising star.

The path hit a roadblock in April of 2009 when WKPZ was purchased by a large corporate network. Claire wasn't the only person to lose her job. Actually, over half of the veterans and most of the interns and assistants were let go. By then, she had student loans, an apartment, car and credit card debt. Honestly, that credit card and bartending kept food on the table while she looked for new employment. She considered leaving Atlanta. But she liked the city, climate, and people.

In Atlanta, she could depend on indigo blue skies and rusted red dirt. The vision out her window was black and white, like an old photograph. The ground, trees, and grass were colorless. The cloud-covered sky hung low and endless. The word that came to mind was cold. She could be in Indiana, Michigan, or anywhere in the Midwest. They all looked alike. She hated winter, the darkness, and lack of color. Now, she was staring at it through the windows of her prison.

Claire wondered if she should have opened the drapes. Her discovery made her situation direr. If she wasn't in Atlanta, where was she? And how did she get here? She looked at the stupid switch and considered shutting away the bleak outside world. It wasn't helping her attitude. Claire decided the switch didn't help her attitude, nor did the non-English speaking servant, the expensive clothes, or the lavish surroundings. She was being held prisoner by a crazy man who somehow believed that he now owned her. Her location, luxurious surroundings, fancy clothes-none of it mattered. She could have been in a cinder block cell. She was still a prisoner, and the stupid extravagant stuff wouldn't change that.

As hours passed into days, Claire had nothing to do but think. She mostly thought about escaping, fantasizing about running through the massive wooded forest outside her window. In her fantasy, salvation was through the trees, but she couldn't get outside the room, much less to the trees. After a few days, in a moment of heated desperation, Claire took one of the chairs from the table and tried to break the panes of glass on the French doors. The damn chair bounced off the glass. She searched the suite for anything heavy. The closest thing was a thick book. Even with repeated strikes, the windows remained intact.

The hours and days spent alone made her yearn for the hustle and bustle of the Red Wing. She wondered about the regulars and her coworkers. Had anyone reported her missing? These thoughts usually resulted in tears and a headache. In an attempt at self-preservation and sanity, she began to think about the past. Was there something in the past that led to this?

Liking earth science and weather, meteorology seemed a natural choice. She loved the unknown. As a teenager she experienced her first tornado. The power and unpredictability of the storm fascinated her. It exhilarated her to watch warm and cold fronts collide. She loved to learn more about the whys and hows. The computers could help you predict the weather. But it is such a small part. Why do some fronts stall and create floods when days before the models predicted only an inch of rain? How can a warm sunny day suddenly turn stormy? She wanted to understand it better, to control the outcomes in some way, and perhaps minimize its destructive forces. But now a degree in meteorology seemed useless.

-Near the end of March- He'd been in the little apartment on multiple occasions. Thankfully, this would be his last visit. Looking at his TAG Heuer watch, he knew the movers should be there in thirty minutes. He slowly walked around the small rooms. Starting in her bedroom, he surveyed her remaining belongings. Everything else, clothes and household items, had been placed in boxes labeled for donation. The full-sized bed was now stripped with only the mattress, boxed springs, and frame remaining.

On top of the dresser were the items Anthony pondered. There were pictures in frames, indicating sentimental attachment. He knew most of the faces, some he'd seen in person, and others he'd learned about through whatever means necessary. There was a picture of her grandparents in one of those cheap frames labeled Grandparents. Then there was an old picture of Claire with her sister, Emily, and their parents, taken in front of the Golden Gate Bridge. If he had to guess, Claire was about twelve or thirteen. There was a close-up of Claire and Emily at Emily's wedding. He would have known the location even without the evidence of Emily's veil. He remembered the day-it was hot and humid, even for Indiana. The last was a more recent photo of Emily and John sitting on a sofa.

A few pieces of jewelry sat on top of her dresser. The inexpensive pieces had been included in the donation boxes. These items, however, were of finer quality. A pearl necklace on a white gold chain was the same one Claire wore in the wedding picture with Emily. There was also a pair of diamond earrings. As Anthony fingered the diamond studs with his gloved hands, he decided to put them into the donation box. The damn things couldn't be half a carat total weight. He grinned. If he wanted Claire to have diamond earrings, they sure as hell would be bigger than that.

Walking toward the living room, he glanced into the bathroom, completely empty. Most of its contents were thrown away. No one wants a used shower curtain. The living room was unnaturally sterile, dramatically contrasting the way he'd found it. Months ago, when he first entered the apartment to place the surveillance cameras, the small living room surprised him. He had closets bigger than this, yet it was homey, if that were possible. It may have been the pictures, plants, or eclectic furnishings-he really didn't know. It felt warm-like her.

Now the room was down to the bare essentials. He looked at his watch: seventeen more minutes. He picked up the laptop and placed it in the case. Going back to the bedroom, he decided to keep all the framed pictures and the pearl necklace. He put them all in the case with the laptop.

Reminiscing, the computer had been invaluable. With it, he'd been able to access her calendar, e-mail, and various accounts. He found all scheduled commitments and via e-mail regretfully canceled. He also e-mailed her employer, Facebook friends, and sister. They all received a similar message describing an amazing opportunity she received, how she'd be unreachable for a while, but would get back to them as soon as her decision regarding her future was made. Through the laptop, her bank accounts, credit cards, auto loan, utility bills, cellular phone-everything-was assessed. The balances now all read zero. After paying each final statement in full, the accounts were closed. The monies that went into her bank accounts were difficult to trace, but if someone took the time to do it, they would learn it was a settlement from WKPZ. Anthony hoped no one would investigate that thoroughly, but if they did, that discovery should pacify them. Of course, WKPZ had no record of such a transaction, but the probability of anyone investigating that thoroughly was low. The fact the monies had been deposited into her various savings and checking accounts four days before her disappearance led to the allusion. Smiling, he recalled sitting with her at the Red Wing, knowing she had an extra 200 plus-thousand dollars-in her accounts and was clueless. Anthony knew from his surveillance that Claire only checked her accounts on the weekend. At that time, she would sit down and attempt to make ends meet. The day after she did her little balancing act, the funds electronically appeared.

The settlement money and see you later e-mails combined to make her disappearance appear planned. If he could reach his own back, Anthony would give himself a hardy pat. He deserved it!

The manager at the Red Wing had been the most difficult to quiet. After the e-mail, he immediately began calling and texting her phone. Thankfully, Anthony had her BlackBerry with him back in Iowa. Claire responded apologetically to the manager via text. She was so sorry to leave in such a rush, but you have to answer when opportunity knocks. Anthony was pretty sure that if she were to return to Atlanta, which she wouldn't, the Red Wing would not be willing to reemploy.

Keeping Claire's laptop, Anthony could check her e-mail and account balances. He would also be able to periodically send e-mails or post a Facebook status update to keep the curious from overreacting. Even though the computer would be in Iowa, with a VPN (Virtual Private Network) set in Atlanta, the web address and URL wouldn't change. No one would know the point of origin.

Claire's BlackBerry met an unfortunate accident. Many cell phones contain GPS trackers. Anthony wasn't willing to take that chance. A mass text went out explaining that Claire would have a new number and would contact everyone as soon as possible. Then, after removing the SIM card, Anthony backed his rental car over the device-it didn't survive. His case also contained the final hardware of his surveillance equipment. He definitely didn't want some stupid painter running across one of his cameras.

Six months of footage taught him much about Claire Nichols. She kept late hours and enjoyed sleeping late in the mornings. She liked to cook and bake, but gave a lot away. There were no boyfriends or male visitors to the apartment, which pleased Anthony. She liked to talk on the phone and chat with people on the computer. She rarely watched television except for a show called Grey's Anatomy and another on the same station. She liked to exercise, sometimes walking with the lady next door. Rarely did she stay around the apartment, going out with friends frequently. Many times, she would return home in a less than sober state, but always alone. During Christmas season, she put up decorations and even a tree. The best part of the surveillance was access to her schedules and passwords. The computer hacking would have been more difficult without those passwords. Oh, he could have done it, but this was easier.

Anthony heard the knock on the door. He removed his gloves, put them in his pockets, and opened the door. A burly man with underarm stains and a perspiration-drenched face met his gaze. He inquired. "Hi, are you John Vandersol?"

"Yeah, that's me-you the movers? Come on in." Anthony decided that even though he looked nothing like Claire's brother-in-law, his presence in her apartment made more sense than any other male. People rarely remembered faces anyway.

Anthony signed the contract and paid the man in cash, with a 200 dollar tip. He explained that his sister-in-law moved to another city for a job and wanted all of her things taken to the local refuge for donation. The mover wasn't interested in the backstory, and Anthony didn't push. He gave enough information to make the transition plausible and not too much to make it sound contrived. Too bad Claire wouldn't be filing taxes. She could receive a hell of a deduction for her donations. It didn't take the men long to empty the apartment.

Her car sold for an amazingly low price. Actually, it hadn't been enough to pay off the loan, but the point was to get rid of it. Forging her signature on the paperwork wasn't difficult. He used her signature on the napkin as a pattern. The fortunate buyer didn't ask questions.

Caressing the case that held the only remnants of Claire's previous life, Anthony wiped the doorknob with his gloves, locked the door to the empty apartment, and placed the keys into an envelope. The complex had been e-mailed about Claire's sudden move, as well as reimbursed for severing the lease. The envelope was deposited into an open slot in the office door. Getting into the rented vehicle, he called his driver: "PICK ME UP AT BUDGET RENTAL, TEN MINUTES."

Anthony didn't like doing all these tasks himself. Under different circumstances, he would hire someone to box the items, or wait for the movers. This-however-wasn't normal circumstances. He couldn't risk others knowing his plan. He couldn't even trust his best friend and head of his legal team. This was all very private.

Eric, Anthony's driver, had some clue about things transpiring in Atlanta. Truthfully, he had more than a clue. He helped transport Claire back to Iowa; however, Eric's allegiance was steadfast, as was the rest of his household staff.

Sighing as he parked the inconspicuous gray Toyota Camry in the lot of Budget Rent-A-Car, he thanked God this was done. Now to change into his kind of clothes, get back to his real life, prepare for his scheduled meetings overseas-and decide Claire's future.

He flashed a private smile-the acquisition was complete.

Through humor, you can soften some of the worst blows that life delivers. And once you find laughter, no matter how painful your situation might be, you can survive it.

-Bill Cosby

Chapter Four.