Six weeks passed since Daniella left the distractions of her life behind. At least she was glad that she got a fax thru to Josie, but she never got a reply. Her calls were never acknowledged at the church office or the daycare center. And knowing Josie like she did, that worried Daniella.

In her mind she thought “God knows she probably prayed and fasted day and night ‘til she heard from me. Now I’m not hearing from her!”

It was also six weeks since she was privately humiliated by security personnel at Heathrow. They were just doing their job. . . just doing their job.”  But even after discovering their case of mistaken profiling because of her Turkish-like olive skintone, that still did not give them the right to invade the inner cavities of her body. . . Daniella couldn’t believe her ears

Ma’am, please remove all articles of jewelry and clothing for inspection of particulates; that means brassiere, panty hosiery, and panties please. We must be completely thourough since have reason to suspect contraband.

Six weeks, and she still had nightmares about foreign hands reaching up into her mouth, flashing lights into her ears, taking swabs of vaginal tissue in a less than dignified manner. . . all with “security personnel” taping the entire process.

Then, after sitting in a “compartment” for what seemed like an eternity . . . the revelation by the woman in the grey-tweed suit and equally unfashionable prison matron footwear.

Everything checks out Miss . . . you can go now.

Simon never knew about this. . . and even though he asked about it daily, Daniella knew that as sure as she was the child of an unknown birth mother, he would never ever find out. Simon Rose and his financial empire were far too international to bring up the subject; she knew he’d have media attention that wouldn’t be favored by those holding him in high esteem. All the media needed was one news feed, and they’d be all over the both of them like brides of Dracula.

Besides, all she wanted to do was make her daily visit to her father’s side. Regardless of the fact that she was 34 years old, she was always going to be Lord Dickson’s “Baby D”. Maybe someday she could bring herself to saying that her entire stay in the Isle of Whytes was being completely financed by a man who found her keys at an art gallery showing; a man who was a total stranger only six weeks and one day ago. But she had to prepare herself for a full day’s visit, and that meant avoiding the wrath of Miss Maureen, the caretaker who worked for Simon and sole caretaker to the Rose Cottage.

The Rose Cottage. Daniella recalls how she sat straight up after her extreme withdrawl resulting from the extreme privacy violations of those meant to protect and serve. They had her credit cards with the name “Donovan” but when her passport read “Daniella Dixon”, they took no precautions and froze all of her assets.  She had no where to turn. Could it be that God was testing her marriage vows by using her own mistakes against her? Did he send a guardian angel in the form of Simon Rose who showed no attraction to her whatsoever, even though she knew that he had a past he was unwilling to reveal? But Simon instinctively sensed his weary travel companion needed to be taken away to a private place. No questions asked.

On that embarrassing rain-soaked night as the limo streaked through the fog and rain, she stepped out onto the grounds of a most stunning home whose character embodied all of the charm of an English mansion! Miss Maureen was standing in the doorway, and upon Simon’s driver’s command, trotted out in her red gingham smock and black matron’s dress with a large umbrella to protect Daniella’s body from the relentless weight of ruthless raindrops. Her face was as dark as the night sky but her smile was like a full moon risen. This wonderful wistful woman had no children of her own. Simon mentioned that he had a home away from home in England. He never did mention he had a mother-figure in Miss Maureen. But ever since Daniella met her, she felt she’d retrieved a branch of a long lost family tree. And thinking of her own stepmother, Daniella realized that adoption papers for greedy gain meant nothing. Aside form the fact that she was a faint whisper of the beautiful blackness of the woman who had taken her in as a daughter, she’d trade it all to spend the rest of her days in the companionship of people like Ms. Maureen. Oh yes, she was tough, but the woman cared about her openly and never knew her. Miss Maureen’s philosophy was simple: “Any friend of Mr. Simon Rose is to be treated like family by me!” Besides, it was wonderful serving someone who shared your color, even if her hair and nose resembled less than blackness of Miss Maureen’s West African ancestry. Thanks to Scottish slave trade in the 1600s is how she ended up where she was now. She was the only one of her family lineage, and never had children to claim as her own. Her only sister, Genevieve, died more than 30 years ago giving birth to a stillborn child. Somehow, Daniella related to the loss.

“Lady Daniella, your breakfast ain’t gonna keep its heat forever ya’ know lass!.” Maureen was adamant about being on time for breakfast. “Smartest choice of a busy one’s day. Don’ leave home widout ‘eet.” Maureen moved her somewhat portly body with ease all around Cottage Rose as if she owned the place. And basically, she did since she was very much like a mother to Simon.

The determined servant woman walked to the end of the winding mahogany staircase leading to one of the six bedrooms occupied by Daniella, leaned over the banister and bellowed in her most charactistic Scottish/Africa blend,  “Besides, chile, ya knows dat they serves the most atrocious breakfast no bettah dan cow dung at dat place where dey keeps ya fathah!”  

In Paris, Simon was waiting in the foyer at the Opera Gallery. Cresent had an appointment for a possible sale. His first international sale for this artist he discovered by chance when he made his largest gallery acquisition at the Castleberry Auction House last spring. All of the artists were sponsored by well known patrons of the arts from Hong Kong, Singapore, Paris, Miami and London. All of them that is, except for Cresent. There was something about him turning down every single offer to purchase his work.

But Simon Rose persisted. . . and after much coaxing, including a private American showing at the Lennox, caused the artist to consider taking Simon Rose up on his most generous offers. Somehow, all of this was threatened by that mysterious email from someone he never heard of before.  

Someone who knew exactly how to reach him in spite of the great strides he’d taken to conceal his financial privacy. And the only other individual to have access to that information was Cresent himself. It wouldn’t be long now for a man had been asking for him outside of the restaurant.

While Simon waited, he ordered an appetizer of mixed fruit on romaine with a decanter of Bordeaux. He was just about to make a call to Miss Maureen to say that he’d be staying over that night in Paris and return later the next morning when the head waiter approached him asking about a man for who Simon made arrangements to meet. But standing next to the head waiter, Simon’s mannerism changed from curiosity to animosity. By far this was not the man whom Simon anticipated seeing, not even in a century of lifetimes. In fact, he would contemplate having lunch with the devil himself that the man who tried to destroy his life more than 20 years ago.

© 2006, cynth’ya lewis reed, all rights reserv’d

Next Episode: Balance of Power