title: The Virtuoso: A Love Story in Scarlet
author: George Walmsley
description: As a young man from Philadelphia, the author enlisted in the US Air Force serving four years as a crew chief on the B-47 bomber. After discharge he became a police officer in a New Jersey community. Over the next twenty five years he served in many capacities. From patrolman, to detective, then sergeant. Later he became patrol division commander before serving as operations commander. He retired as a Deputy Chief of Police, a rank he held for several years having served prior as a lieutenant and captain. During those years he wrote quite a bit, but in the form of manuals, S.O.P.'s, General Orders, and reports. Many of those reports had to be attested to before the courts and grand juries. During the years he was involved in the investigation of many crimes, including homicides, robberies, burglaries, frauds, narcotics, rape and vice. He received degrees in Law/Justice and Public Administration which were heavily weighted in the behavioral sciences. Classes in creative writing, philosophy and literature peaked his interest for the most part. He graduated with honors. He enjoyed writing stories and descriptions of people and events. Police work leaves little opportunity for the metaphors, simile and the creative expressions of fiction. You know, "Just the facts". After retirement, he and his wife, Gloria, moved to Naples, Florida. Wanting to pursue creative arts in some form he settled on writing. The best of plans many times get delayed by circumstances. Among those delays were several years engaging in real estate sales and trading stocks and options. He and his father, George Sr., attended Professional Writing classes for several years, resulting in George's father being published at age 79. That was encouraging. Now all George had to do was couple perspiration with inspiration. The result: "The Virtuoso".
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  He kept staring at her with something akin to horror. “A second-degree count?”
  he whispered. “You don’t know what you’re saying at all. I can’t hope for
  that. I can’t, don’t you understand? I didn’t tell you all of it that night.”
  He groaned. “Do I have to stand here naked before you? The girl wasn’t the
  only one... there were others...” Instantly he saw his mistake. Instantly he
  saw that he had lost her irrevocably now, pushed himself beyond the pale. That
  if there had been a chance before this, now there was none. And frightened —
  he had always been so quick to take fright — he tried to hold her to him,
  where she was and as she was, to keep from losing her. And she in turn, taking
  fright from hi fright, abandoned him even quicker, receded all the more and
  with an added haste, just as a frantic beating of the water sometimes sends an
  unmanned boat even further off.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  George Hopley
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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