Looking for You (12 page)

Remembering
the reporter with the hungry eyes, her stomach twisted. "I'm allergic to
interviews."

"We
also have a member fundraiser planned, and you'll need to make a special
appearance that night. It's a lot of fun. You get dressed up and schmooze and
get your picture taken for the society pages."

Dread
mounting, Gwen let her head thump against the wall. "I'm allergic to
society, too."

Jennifer
laughed. "You're funny, but then I figured with a store called Outta My
Gourd you'd have to have a sense of humor. Most of the artists I deal with are
quiet recluses."

"That
describes me, too." She swallowed thickly. "What happens if I don't
want to be part of the publicity?"

"I'm
afraid publicity is part of the deal," Jennifer explained in a tone that
showed her confusion. "I understand the desire for privacy, but I can
guarantee you this is a good thing for both your future as an artist as well as
your store."

Olivia and
Eve had told her the same thing, but that was before having her picture
plastered in newspapers was a reality. Thinking about her family, she shook her
head. "I don't know that it is."

"Not
only will you be in a featured exhibit that'll be traveling, but we'll have
some of your artwork for sale in the museum store. And the publicity for your
store will be invaluable. You can't buy that sort of marketing. You'll
see."

"I—"

"I'll
get the contracts to you ASAP," Jennifer said, overriding her. "Take
your time and go over them. I'm here if you have any questions or other
concerns."

"I'll
definitely have concerns," she mumbled.

Jennifer
congratulated her again and before she hung up, added, "I understand your
hesitation, but this is going to change your life."

Was it
ever.

Gwen winced
as she hung up. What had she done?

~

Gwen burst into Grounds for Thought
more forcefully than she'd intended. The door banged against the wall and bounced
back into her.

"Ouch," she muttered,
rubbing her arm as she walked to where Eve stood at the counter.

"That was some entrance,"
her friend said with a hint of amusement. "Are you okay?"

"No." She frowned. "Do
you have anything stronger than tea? Like whiskey?"

"Since when do you drink
whiskey? Especially at"—Eve checked her watch—"two in the
afternoon?"

Since she'd sent her artwork to a
famous museum and been selected to be
splashed
all over the media. She propped her elbows on the counter and dropped her head
into her hands. What had she been thinking?

"Okay, Gwen, you're scaring
me."

She looked up into Eve's concerned
face. "You'll think I'm crazy."

"You make a living on gourd art.
I already think you're crazy." She grinned. "But I love you, so your
quirks are endearing. Should we go sit down so you can tell me what's up?"

"Yes." She pursed her lips
in thought. "Maybe you should bring a couple madeleines with you."

Eve laughed. "Sure thing. Go sit
in the window. I'll just tell Maggie to cover for me."

True to her word, Eve came with a
small plate of chocolate chip madeleines and a pot of chamomile tea. "To
soothe your nerves," she said as she poured the tea.

Gwen bit into one of the cookies and
hummed. "This is almost as satisfying as a shot of whiskey. At least in
theory, because whiskey is disgusting."

"Are you going to tell me what's
driving you to drink?" Eve leaned back and crossed her legs, bouncing her
foot.

"Pretty shoes," she said,
pointing to the bright violet mules her friend wore. On the top, they are two
decorative buttons: one orange and one green. Eve always had cute shoes.

"Nice try in distracting
me." Eve tucked her hair behind her ear, waiting patiently.

She sighed. "The de Young called
me today. I won the placement in the permanent collection."

Eve exclaimed so loudly the people
around them turned to look. Gwen flushed, smiled apologetically.

"That's so great," Eve
enthused. "Does Olivia know? She's going to be psyched."

"I just found out. No one
knows."

"No one knows what?" a very
masculine voice said from over her shoulder.

Rick. Eyes narrowed, she turned to
glare at him. "This is your fault."

"It's always my fault." He
grabbed a nearby empty chair and sat on it backwards, resting his forearms
across the back. "What did I do this time?"

"You goaded me into entering my
art in the de Young's contest." If she hadn't wanted to prove him wrong
about her talent, she wouldn't have entered. He also inspired the designs she
created, arguably the best work she'd ever done.

But, fact of the matter: she hadn't
been able to resist the lure of being recognized for her work. It'd been her
own resentment of living in the shadows that had put her in this corner. She
had no one to blame but herself.

Still, blaming Rick was more
satisfying.

He stared at her, his expression
sorry. She realized he thought she lost.

Eve must have had the same
realization, because she said, "She won, Rick. They're putting her gourds
in the permanent collection."

"They did?" he asked,
facing her. "That's amazing."

In his expression, she saw that he
was pleased for her, and it did something to her insides. The fear of discovery
that'd solidified in her chest thawed a little, and she let herself enjoy the
news, just a little, for the first time. "It
is
amazing, isn't it?"

"Pumpkin art often is."

She whacked his arm.

Shaking her head, Eve stood up.
"I have cookies in the oven I need to check on. Do you guys need a
referee, or will you behave?"

"How do you define
'behave?'" Rick asked.

Chuckling, Eve left them.

He returned his attention to her.
"So what's wrong?"

"Wrong?"

"You're not gloating nearly
enough. If you aren't taking the opportunity to rub this in my face, something
must be wrong."

Arms crossed, she shrugged.
"Maybe I'm being a gracious winner."

"And I'm Cinderella."

"If the shoe fits..."

He grinned, slow and sexy. Any
worries she had about cooperating with the media or being found out took a
backseat to the pleasure of seeing the pride on his face.

She cleared her throat. "Don't
think I've forgotten our bet."

"Of course you haven't."

Leaning forward, she said, "I'm
going to take great joy in collecting."

"Tease." He traced a finger
down her arm. "We should celebrate."

Her skin tingled in the wake of his
touch. "Before or after I collect?"

"Tell you what." He leaned
in, close enough that she went giddy at the scent of him. "You collect
first, and I'll collect second."

Swallowing thickly, she nodded.
"That sounds equitable."

"It's win-win." Rick
grinned. "Tonight?"

"Tonight," she promised.

Camille shifted from foot to foot,
wincing at the pain inflicted by her pumps. The evil salesperson in Macy's had
claimed were comfortable.

Comfortable if you were used to
walking barefoot on broken glass. It was only ten in the morning and already
her feet were done.

She leaned against Outta My Gourd's
doorway. Gwendolyn Pierce had to arrive soon. Tapping the newspaper in her hand
against her leg, Camille glanced at the store hours for the hundredth time in
the two hours she'd been waiting.
Open
from when I arrive 'til when I leave.
Who did that?

Looking up the street at the cafe a
couple blocks away, she wondered if she had enough time to grab a coffee and be
back before the woman arrived. But just as she started to move she saw a figure
rollerblading toward her from that direction, a blaze of green, orange, and
pink. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out it was Gwendolyn Pierce.

The bright smile on Gwendolyn's face
dissolved the moment she saw Camille waiting in the doorway. The woman skated
up the handicap access at the end of the block and rolled to a stop in front of
the store. "This is expected yet unpleasant," she said, fishing in
her pockets.

"Congratulations on getting into
the de Young, Ms. Pierce." Camille smiled with extra friendliness. "It's
deserved. Your artwork is surprisingly nice."

"It that supposed to be a
compliment?" the woman asked as she produced a single key on a ring.

"Yes, of course." She
steeled herself—she was doing this—and pushed ahead. "I'm
writing an in-depth article on you, and I thought we could take care of those
questions I had before."

"You're not going to relent, are
you?"

"No, I'm not, Ms. Pierce,"
Camille said firmly.

"Then you might as well come
in." She pointed a warning finger at Camille. "No pictures. And stop calling
me Ms. Pierce. My name is Gwen."

"Okay." Why didn't she want
pictures taken? Was she hiding from the drug cartel? Maybe she
was
into money laundering.

Her imagination spun so quickly that
she didn't realize Gwendolyn had left her standing outside until the door
clicked shut. Shaking out of her reverie, she walked inside.

Inside, the woman was perched on a
stool, unbuckling her rollerblades. She set them behind the counter and walked
to the back.

Should she follow? Camille didn't
know. She was still debating when Gwen returned, carrying a tray. She'd also
put shoes on, cute olive green Mary Janes that looking enviably comfortable.

The woman put the tray on the counter
and pointed. "Bring that stool here and sit."

Whatever it took to get the
interview. She dragged the seat over and perched on top of it, setting her
purse and newspaper on the counter. "So I thought we'd start
with—"

"Put this on." Gwen shoved
an apron at her.

She stared at it, dumbfounded.
"Are we cooking?"

"No, we're painting. I didn't want
you to get anything on your suit." Pulling a stool from behind the
counter, the artist perched on it and pulled two virgin gourds from the tray.
"I've prepped these gourds already, meaning I've soaked, scrubbed, and
sanded them before setting them to dry. "

Camille took the one she was handed
and stared at it helplessly. It was long, skinny, and a little knobby on one
side.

"Usually I sketch the design in
pencil and then burn it in," Gwen explained, setting her own gourd in
front of herself. "Sometimes I use masking tape to create patterns. But in
the interest of time we're going to skip those steps and just paint."

"We are?"

"You wanted to know all about
me, right? What better way to delve into the world of gourds?" the woman
asked, looking way too gleeful.

She took the brush Gwen shoved into
her hand but shook her head. "I can't paint."

"You don't have to know how to
paint. You just do it." Gwen laid out a couple brushes and made a palette
of colors for them to share. "Let the shape of the gourd inspire a
design."

Turning her gourd this way and that,
Camille tried to see something in it, but all she saw was a misshapen phallus.
She could paint it flesh-colored, she guessed.

"I volunteer at the Purple
Elephant. It's a non-profit art center for kids," Gwen said, merrily
dabbing paint on her gourd. "Some of the kids come in without any
knowledge of drawing or painting. I tell them it's not a matter of knowing what
to do, it's allowing yourself to be free enough to see possibilities."

Camille nodded. "My squash has
only one possibility that I can see, and that wouldn't be appropriate in most
circles."

Gwen laughed, a soft husky sound that
made Camille smile too.

The artist pointed with a brush.
"What if that were a windy path? Or a stream that curves? What'd be around
it?"

"Fish," Camille said
without thought.

"Okay, then." Gwen arched
her brow.

Not sure if she felt encouraged or
challenged, Camille picked up a brush and studied her gourd. Maybe a small
school of fish.

She began putting little splotches representing
the fish, one by one, adding more splashes of color for variety. Some seaweed,
and then a shark chasing one little fish.

Privately, she named the shark
Elizabeth.

She realized too late that she should
have filled the blue water in first. Cursing under her breath, she hunched over
and painstakingly dabbed blue between the fishes. It wasn't elegant, but it
created an interested expressionistic effect.

"Let me see," Gwen said
suddenly, startling Camille. The woman inspected the gourd carefully without
touching the paint. "Not bad at all, especially for someone who thinks she
can't paint."

She flushed with pride, knowing it
was ridiculous to feel that way but unable to help herself. "You think
so?"

"Yes. I like the shark. You
should have seen my first painting."

"You're just being nice."

"No, I didn't always know I
wanted to be a painter. My parents wanted me to do other things that didn't
suit me as much."

Camille swallowed thickly, feeling an
odd kinship. "So how did you learn to paint?"

"Bob Ross."

She blinked. "The PBS guy with
the afro?"

Gwendolyn laughed. "Everyone
says that. Yes, I started with his happy little trees and moved on to gourds. The
progression was more logical than it sounds."

"You liked gourd art so much
that you opened a store?"

"Obviously." But the
woman's smile was indulgent and she picked up the tray. "I'll set this to
dry and then glaze it. Come back at the end of the week to collect it."

"I can have it?" Camille
asked, strangely delighted. She slung her purse over her shoulder and picked up
the newspaper.