Looking for You (13 page)

"Of course. You made it."
Then Gwen's smile faded slowly. Setting the tray down with a clack, she held
her hand out. "Can I see your newspaper?"

"Sure." She handed it over,
watching tears fill Gwen's eyes. "Are you okay?"

The woman didn't answer her, deeply
engrossed in the article on the front page of the paper. Camille craned her
neck to see what it was. The article on the matriarch of one of France's oldest
wine families who'd passed away a few days ago.

She looked back at Gwen. Why would
she be so upset?

Before she could ask, Gwen cleared
her throat. "I'm sorry. I need to go. I feel my allergies coming on."

So suddenly? Suspicious, Camille took
the newspaper and headed for the door. Just as she started to open it, she remembered
the interview.

Great. She mentally smacked her
forehead as she turned to face the artist. "I have a few more questions.
Should we set up a time for me to come back? Maybe when I pick up my gourd? I
need to complete the article by the end of the week." A blatant
lie—she had as long as she needed for this, but Gwendolyn didn't need to
know that.

The artist shook her head. "I
don't have my calendar with me."

Camille frowned. "Are you
okay?"

For a moment she didn't think Gwen was
going to answer, but then she said, "I'll be fine. Thanks for stopping
by."

The woman escorted her out of the
shop so subtly that Camille didn't realize she'd been herded out until she was
standing outside.

What was that about?

Gwendolyn had seen something in the
paper that'd upset her. Camille walked away from Outta My Gourd and then poured
over the newspaper.

The only thing on the open page was a
couple ads for local funereal services and a long article on the matriarch of
the de la Roche empire. Frowning, she skimmed through it again.

Until she got to the end. Blinking,
Camille read it again, more carefully this time.

It was a standard detailed obituary,
the kind that was run on celebrities and famous people. As the head of one of
the biggest wine dynasties in the world, Yvette de la Roche was definitely
famous.

But the last paragraph stood out:
de la Roche is survived by her two sons, a
daughter-in-law, and a grandson. Her only granddaughter, Geneviève de la Roche,
disappeared mysteriously fourteen years before and is presumed dead.

Geneviève... Camille stared at the
name, goose bumps rising on her skin. Still staring at it, she hurried down the
street to catch the bus. She had some research to do.

The second Camille Bernard cleared
the threshold, Gwen locked the door and ran upstairs to Lola's apartment. She
pounded on the door, knowing her friend tended to listen to music loudly as she
worked.

But Lola opened the door immediately.
"Are you okay? You're out of breath."

"I ran up the stairs." She
walked in. "Can I use your laptop for a moment?"

"Of course." Closing the
door, she led Gwen to the spare bedroom-slash-office. "You know, you need
to break down and get a computer for the store. I can't believe you don't have
one. You're the only person I know who doesn't have an email address."

The Internet was convenient and
useful, but it brought people close and made the world small. She'd always
needed distance and privacy. "I'll be quick," she promised as she sat
at the desk.

"Take as long as you need. I was
stuck with my scene anyway." Lola touched her shoulder. "Are you
okay?"

Tears burned her nose, but she
sniffed them back. "I think someone I knew died. I just want to
check."

"Oh." Sadness filled her
friend's face. "I'll leave you alone. Holler if you need anything."

Nodding, she opened a browser to
Google News. At the end of the Top Stories section, there was a link that read
Yvette de la Roche, Wine Matriarch, Dies at
90
.

Clicking on it, she waiting
impatiently for it to load and then skimmed through it. She gave a shuddery
sigh when she found what she was looking for, that her grandmother died quietly
in her sleep.

Gwen went back and read the article
slower, frowning more and more with each sentence. It said how Yvette had
married into the de la Roche family when she was twenty, and how she'd helped
her husband turn the company from a boutique winery into a world-renowned
force. It stated how she had two sons later in life, and how her husband passed
away twenty-five years before her.

It had none of the real facts about
her grandmother, just a flat version of some rich woman's life.

Her grandmother had been an
extraordinary woman.

Gwen glared at the screen. They
didn't say anything about what made Mamie Yvette so special. It didn't talk
about the little terrier she'd found in the gutter and adopted, or how she
adored chocolate éclairs. It didn't report that she loved to wear red even
though she thought the color too vibrant for a woman her age. It didn't say
that she loved to dance by the light of the moon to Frank Sinatra, or that once
she drank champagne out of her dance slipper, and that she missed her husband
with every waking moment.

It didn't talk about how she used to take
her granddaughter on walks and tell her stories of true love and passion.

Gwen stared at the wedding photo of
her grandparents. It was a copy of the one her grandmother had kept on her bed
stand. When Gwen was a little girl, she used to climb on Mamie Yvette's bed,
pick up the photo, and cuddle up with the picture. Back then, she loved seeing
her grandmother looking like a princess. Now she saw the love in her
grandparents' eyes as they looked at each other.

She scrolled past that to the next
one, of her grandfather. She didn't think of him often, not the way she did of Yvette,
but she remembered him to be quiet and introspective. He used to slip her
caramels whenever her father wasn't looking.

Next was an official family portrait,
taken sometime recently. Everyone had aged, except her mother. Her grandmother
sat in the middle, with Gautier and Jacques flanking either side of her. Her
brother Roger stood next to his father, and her mother hovered next to him.

Gwen was surprised by how much Roger had
aged. In the picture, he looked tired and disappointed. She touched the screen,
outlining his face. They'd never been close, but he'd always been kind to her
despite their age difference—and the circumstances.

She looked at her mother. Like
always, Janine looked perfect. Fashionable and beautiful—the ultimate
trophy wife.

Her mother used to dress Gwen just
like her. It was really the only reason she'd liked having a daughter, as a
reflection of herself. That, and for revenge on her husband.

Her uncle Jacques looked the same as
always—dashing and handsome, with a glint in his eyes. In the dictionary,
next to "international playboy" there was a picture of him.

She scrolled down some more and
stalled on photos of herself.

The first one was the infamous
jelly-faced picture that had won her the Grape Princess title. It used to
bother her to see it, but now she thought it was cute. If she ever had kids,
she wouldn't squash their spirits the way Gautier had squashed hers that
day.    

The next one was taken a year before
she left, when she was twenty. Her hair was pulled back in a smooth chignon,
and she had immaculate makeup with shiny pink-glossed lips. At her ears and
neck, she had pearls, and she wore black.

She almost didn't recognize herself.
She looked very much like her mother. The unhappiness radiated from her posture
in the picture.

After she ran away, she swore she'd
never wear black again.

The caption at the bottom read:
Called the Grape Princess as a child, Geneviève
de la Roche disappeared fourteen years ago without a trace. Never declared
legally dead, she stands to inherit a portion of the de la Roche wine empire.

The article ended with one more photo
of her grandmother. It looked like it was taken more recently, given the new
wrinkles lining her face. She smiled politely, humor in her eyes, her hand at
her lapel, touching the jeweled pin there.

Gwen gasped. It was the diamond shoe
pin she'd given her grandmother one year for Christmas. Mamie Yvette had told
her she'd think of her whenever she wore the pin.

Lola reentered the room and shoved a
box of Kleenex in her face. "Here."

She looked up in question.

"You're crying," her friend
said.

She touched her face. She hadn't
realized the tears had leaked. She grabbed a couple tissues from the box and
wiped her eyes and face. "Thank you."

"Want to talk about it?"

For a second she was tempted to tell
Lola—to confess that her heart hurt because she'd never see her
grandmother again, to admit she was the missing Grape Princess. That she'd been
a pawn between her parents until she'd decided to leave. That she'd been in
hiding all these years, recreating herself into someone she liked.

But she couldn't.

"Someone I knew a long time ago
died," she said simply, closing the browser and clearing the cache. She
didn't own a computer, but that didn't mean she couldn't use one. She had years
practice covering up her tracks.

"I'm sorry to hear that."
Her friend studied her. "You obviously loved whoever it was."

Tears obscured her vision, and she
grabbed another couple Kleenex to press against her eyes, to stem the flow.
When she felt under control, she threw away the soppy tissues.

"Thank you," she said to
Lola again, standing up. On impulse, she hugged her.

Lola patted her back reassuringly.
"Are you okay, really? Because you can tell me anything, and I won't
repeat a word to anyone. I know we haven't known each other long, but I'm
trustworthy."

"I"—Gwen shook her
head as she choked up—"can't talk about it now. But maybe
later."

"I'm sorry." Lola looked
sad for her. "Is there anything I can do?"

Bring Mamie Yvette back, she wanted
to say, so she could have
chocolat chaud
with her just one more time.

But she just shook her head and
grabbed another tissue. Right then she just wanted to go home, make her
grandmother's favorite tea, and look through her box of mementos.

Lola walked her to the door.
"Call me, okay? So I know you're okay. Or if you need anything. I make
deliveries."

Gwen hugged her again. "You're
going to make me cry again."

"That's not exactly a challenge
at the moment."

With a watery chuckle, she went back
downstairs, collected her things, and went home to be alone with her grief.

~

Outta My Gourd wasn't open.

Squinting into the window, Rick tried
to see if anyone was inside. In vain—all the lights were off.

Something was wrong. He could feel it
in his gut.

Grabbing the doorknob, he rattled it.
He didn't know why—of course it was going to be locked.

He could pick it.

He checked the time. Four in the
afternoon. Gwendolyn should have been there. She hadn't been there yesterday
afternoon either. He'd tried calling her but gotten her answering machine. He'd
even stopped by her apartment last night, hoping to catch her sneaking out for
a late-night swim.

No sign of her.

Where the hell was she? Was she
avoiding him?

He didn't like that thought at all.

Frowning at the door, he shoved his
hands in his pockets to keep from breaking in. She wouldn't appreciate him
nosing in on her business, even if she were lying hurt somewhere.

Olivia might know where Gwendolyn
was. He strode down the street to his friend's lingerie store.

Olivia was on the phone when he
walked in. Kissing her on the forehead, he leaned against the register and waited
for her to finish.

She barely gave him a look. She
jotted down some numbers, repeated what sounded like gibberish about widows and
lace, and then hung up. She wrote down a couple more things before she closed
her notebook and faced him. "Hello, Stranger. I'm surprised to see you
walk into this store when we all know you've taken a liking to another store
down the block. Or is it the lovely store owner?"

"Gwendolyn's more than lovely,
but I'm not going to rise to your bait tonight."

Olivia smirked. "You're
not?"

"Have you seen her?"

"Gwen?"

"No. Miss Piggy." He shook
his head. "Of course, Gwen. I haven't heard from her in a couple days, and
every time I've stopped by her store it's been closed."

"Wait." Olivia leaned
forward, giving him her full attention. "Her store's been closed for two
days?"

"At least in the afternoons.
That's not her normal pattern. When she volunteers, it's later in the
afternoon. She's more prone to coming in late than leaving early." Just
thinking about it made him more concerned.

"You seem to know her schedule
really well," Olivia said slyly.

He rolled his eyes. "Taunt me
later. First help me figure out where Gwendolyn is."

"You promise I can tease you
later?"

"Yes."

"And say I told you so, because
I
did
tell you that you and Gwen
would be good together."

"Fine. Whatever. Just help
me."

Olivia frowned. "You're really
worried about her."

"My gut tells me something's
up."

She straightened, at attention.
"Your gut's never wrong."

"No kidding."

"Okay, she hasn't opened her
store in a couple days? Are you sure? That's not like her. You tried calling
her cell?"

Rick leaned against the counter, arms
crossed, and arched his brow.

"Okay. Silly question." She
picked up the phone. "Have you been by Eve's yet?"