Truths of the Heart Read Online Free

shots–passing, running, posing–hung neatly in ordered
rows. Also scattered around, on glass shelves, was an assortment of his gold
and silver trophies—footballs, helmets, stadium replicas—awarded to Carl in his
glory days. To one side of the trophies, stretched out on the wall, was Carl's
Number 8 Lions football jersey. In the center of it all, his pride and joy, the
Heisman Trophy rested in a Plexiglas case along with a recorder/playback unit
and dozens of recordings—interviews, game highlights—from Carl’s football
career. The recorder unit fed a twenty-one inch TV that hung above the
back-bar.
    To the left of the bar, a wrought iron staircase spiraled up to the
second floor. At the bottom of the staircase, a door, painted Detroit Lions
silver, led to a half-bath where, pasted on the walls, were newspaper clippings
of Carl's college- and pro-football-playing heroics.
    In the kitchen, T.S. rubbing her legs, Rachelle retrieved her journal
from her belt pack, put it on the counter, and checked the answering machine.
    “Rats.” Carl was right; she had forgotten to turn it on.
    T.S. eyed her blandly.
    She checked caller ID. Yep, Carl had tried to call, three times.
“Rats.”
    T.S. jumped on the counter, sat, and yawned widely.
    She said, “Why didn't you answer the phone, Mister?” As if she might be
an overnight guest, T.S. gave her a pious look.
    “I live here too, you know.” She stroked his elegant head.
    He looked at his blue T.S. Eliot engraved food bowl that sat on
the floor.
    “I know, I know.” She opened a can of his favorite Fancy Feast—ocean
white fish with shrimp—and spooned the puree in the bowl.
    He jumped down and, after a protest-pause, began to dine.
    For herself, Rachelle poured a glass of white merlot, went to the great
room and sat on the sofa. Looking over the latest issue of The Communication
Journal, she sipped.
    After reading the lead article, her wine finished, she figured a dip in
the pool would be nice and went to the staircase and, T.S. behind her, spiraled
up to the second floor. At the top she went to the three-foot wooden railing
that overlooked, fifteen feet below, the great room.
    Leaned back by her fear of heights, she looked beyond, out the two
stories of windows, to the shimmering waters of Lake Lansing. She loved the view
but this day, for some reason—melancholy, distant solitude—she turned and went
to the bedroom suite. Wall-to-wall white carpet covered the floor of what Carl
called his “love nest.” A double king bed, with blue and silver Detroit Lions'
bedspread, dominated the room. At each side of the headboard, white shaded
ceramic lamps sat on maple end tables. A white telephone sat on Carl's table. A
window with white curtains offered a view of trees and could be opened for cool
night breezes. A “Carl’s touch” TV/CD stereo combination faced the foot of the
bed. A Casablanca fan hung from the center of the vaulted beam ceiling.
    Off to one side, a sitting room had a mauve love-seat sofa and a small window
with wood blinds beneath which sat a desk with a PC/printer setup.
    A few steps from the sitting room, Carl's second favorite hangout after
his bar, the bath featured a raised Jacuzzi tub and stall shower.
    Rachelle and Carl shared a walk-in cedar closet dominated by Carl's suits,
pants, sports jackets, and a shoe rack on which sat, shoe-horned and arranged
in four stepped rows, his custom-made foot ware.
    With T.S. watching every move, Rachelle stripped and selected a peach
color one-piece swim suite. Her body easily a match for any twenty year old’s,
she declined even at Carl's urging thong bikinis.
    Her suit on, the presentation stunning, she grabbed a blue beach towel,
went down stairs, outside, down the deck steps, and stuck her toe in the
swimming pool.
    T.S. sat on the deck watching her.
    “Come on, chicken.” She dove in, swam two laps, and got out at the shallow
end.
    T.S. still on the deck, yawned.
    “You should try it