Page 2 of Passion and Deception

Surreptitiously, Maggie surveyed his clothing. The khaki slacks and soft sweater were obviously of good quality, but she was used to being around powerful men who used clothing to announce their status. In her experience, wealthy men were basically insecure, most likely impotent, jerks.

A thoughtful hum lingered in the air, an echo of introspection. Maybe, just maybe, the dark, sometimes violent, tendrils of Maggie's past experiences with vicious and unscrupulous men were casting a long, sinister shadow over her present. Being employed as a waitress at one of the nation's most exclusive men’s clubs, Maggie had witnessed a wide spectrum of behaviors from wealthy men, ranging from the commendable to the contemptible, the virtuous to the venomous.

Her gaze shifted, and she found herself reflecting on that bitter truth. In her job, the wealthy were not benevolent titans, but rather pitiful figures, their riches built on a foundation of deceit, manipulation, and a twisted dance with morality. Through her watchful eyes, she had seen the good, the bad, and the downright ugly of affluence. The wealthy were not paragons of success. They were usually pathetic puppeteers pulling the strings of a system rigged in their favor, where laws were crafted, and integrity was sold to safeguard their interests. Her observations painted a stark tableau of wealth tainted by the brushstrokes of deception and power.

This man, with his casual clothes and somewhat ruffled hair wasn’t one of the wealthy elite of this world. He was obviously well-off, but he didn’t inhabit the abusive realm like the men she came into contact with at the club every night.

He was just a good-looking guy who, apparently, appreciated extremely good art.

“I…” the mysterious stranger started, only to shake his head. “I haven’t recently contemplated the dire morality of the wealthy people in the world, to be honest.”

Maggie smiled. “That’s okay. I’ve done enough contemplation for several people.” Then she turned back to stare at the painting, her features shifting to an amused cringe. “Can you imagine wearing those ruffles every day?”

The man was silent for a moment as he contemplated the wide, lace “ruff”, then he chuckled. “No. I’m relieved that we aren’t living in the seventeen hundreds. Those collars look incredibly uncomfortable.”

She sighed, shifting her weight onto her other foot. “I think the dead guy on the wooden table is more uncomfortable than the people watching the autopsy.” She looked back up at the man beside her, wrinkling her nose. “All those the visible tendons? I know that some painters use shock value to sell their paintings but…ick!”

Maggie watched as the handsome stranger looked more carefully at the painting, then reared back as well. Obviously, he hadn’t realized that the painting was an image of an autopsy.

“That’s…disgusting,” he said, his dark eyebrows furrowing with his revulsion.

“I agree,” she laughed with a sigh. Then, because there wasn’t much more to say, she moved on to the next painting. She excitedly held her breath when the man moved along with her. “What do you think of this one?” The painting was called “Night Watch” and was enormous.

There was a long silence as they contemplated the image.

“I wonder if the men in white are good or evil,” he mused.

She considered that for a moment, then nodded. “Since this was an old portrait of the men who were tasked with guarding the city, I’m guessing that Rembrandt painted the Captain and his Lieutenant in lighter colors, perhaps to demonstrate their authority.” She pursed her lips before she said, “Or maybe to highlight their atrocities.” She shrugged. “Sort of like bringing light to the cockroaches of the town. The abusers, so to speak.”

Ramit looked at the woman carefully. Her comment was more revealing of her own life than that of the images in the painting. And there it was, the pain in her eyes. The resentment and distrust.

His hands were tucked in his pockets, but he felt his fingers curl into fists of outrage. Ramit wanted to know who had abused this woman. Who had broken her trust?

Pushing those questions aside for a moment, he turned back to the painting, looking for something else to comment upon. “I like the way the painter included the rapier and baton as symbolism to explain the man’s importance.”

There was another pause while they both appreciated the artistry. Then Maggie asked, “Do you notice what’s missing?”

The man looked startled and Maggie smiled.

The guy looked at the painting, even stepping back to take in more of the details. “No,” he finally replied. “What’s not there?”

She gave him a half smile. “There is only one woman in this picture.”

He looked back at the painting, his eyes scanning the details. Then he looked back at her. “Should there be more? These types of paintings were commissioned by the town to honor the guards that protected the city.”

Maggie’s smile was sad this time. “You’re right.” And she moved on.

Ramit stared at the woman, then back at the painting. Why would women be in the painting? They didn’t guard the city, they tended the households, the children, and the servants. Was he wrong?

He moved to catch up with her, easy enough to do with his longer legs. In her sneakers, she was about nine inches shorter than his six foot, three inch height.

Dismissing the sudden awareness of her height, he stepped a bit closer this time. “Why would the painter add more women to the picture?” he asked again.

She looked at the next painting, absently saying, “The lone woman in the painting showed that Rembrandt didn’t consider women to be important to the city’s security.”

“Were they?” he asked, baffled.

Her gaze shifted toward him, and she shrugged, a somber motion that carried an unexpected weight, cutting through the air like a muted cry. "Seems like you don't hold much regard for the importance of women either," she remarked, the words carrying an undercurrent of disappointment and hurt, even in their seemingly casual delivery.

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