Looking for You (8 page)

Elizabeth tossed the phone aside.
"Well,
that
wasn't helpful in
the least."

She watched the phone skitter across
the counter. It was amazing her mother didn't break them more often. Picking up
her bowl and cup, Camille rinsed and placed them in the dishwasher. "See
you later."

"Are you going to work?"
Elizabeth leaned against the counter and pulled out a cigarette.

She hated when her mother lit up
around her. "I wish you'd stop that."

"If wishes were horses..."
Elizabeth lit the tip and took a deep drag, blowing the smoke out behind her.
"What are you working on these days? A piece on salt water taffy?"

Camille heard the derision in
Elizabeth's voice and felt rebellion rise up her gorge. She was in no space to
pick a fight with her mother today. The last thing she needed was to be in a
worse mood. She reached behind her mother and opened the window. "I have
an interview."

"So do I. In fact, I'm due to
call the attorney general in ten minutes." She looked at her wrist as
though there was a watch there, even though she never wore one. "Who are
you interviewing, Camille?"

A gourd artist. Just thinking it made
her stomach sour. "A local artist."

"How quaint." Her mother
smiled insincerely.

It was a special talent Elizabeth
had, making her feel like the perpetual loser.

"Would you like me to talk to
your editor, Camille?" Her mother flicked ashes into the sink. "I can
have him give you better assignments."

"
No
." She shuddered to think of her mother storming into Mac's
office. "I can handle it. Actually, this assignment is pretty juicy,"
she lied.

"Are you sure? After all,
Reginald Waters and I are great friends."

This was where her mother reminded
her that the only reason she was working for the newspaper was because she was
"great friends" with the man who owned the publication. "I'm
sure, but thank you," she forced herself to say.

Her mother eyed her as she puffed
elegantly on her cigarette. "You know why I named you Camille."

Not this again. She shrank on the
inside. "Yes, I know."

"I named you after a dear friend
and great feminist. The original Camille wouldn't have stood for being patted
on the head and sent to a corner. She'd have stood up for what she wanted and
taken it."

That was the thing about being a copy
of the original—the copy was always a blurry version of the original.
"I'll keep that in mind."

"Please do, Camille," she
said, stubbing out the cigarette on a dirty plate.

The phone rang, and she sighed in
relief as her mother reached for it. "Darling," her mother effused
into the receiver, a genuine smile lighting her face. "How delightful to
hear from you."

Camille edged out of the kitchen
while her mother was distracted. Grabbing her bag, she walked down five blocks to
catch the 24. It wasn't the most direct way to get to Laurel Heights, but there
wasn't any better option, other than taking a cab. On her salary, taking a taxi
was a rare splurge.

She hadn't exactly told her mom the
truth when she'd said she had an interview with the gourd artist. She'd tried
calling the woman—Gwendolyn Pierce, the fact sheet said—but there'd
been no answer. Camille figured she'd just go to the artist's shop, ask a
couple questions, and get it over with.

Hopping off the bus at Sacramento
Street, she strolled the rest of the way to the gourd shop—slowly,
because her heels were already cutting into her feet.

Laurel Heights was a completely
different world from upper Hayes Valley, where she lived with Elizabeth. Her
mother had bought the house when that area was the projects—it grew into
being fashionable, although it wasn't nearly as high-end as Laurel Heights.

It was eleven in the morning. As she
walked down Sacramento Street, she noted the women pushing strollers and
carrying Louis Vuitton bags that cost more than she made in a month.

Camille envied them—not for
their things but because they looked satisfied. She didn't belong there. She
wasn't successful. She didn't have a Mercedes. She didn't lunch. Frankly, she
didn't have any girlfriends to lunch with. She only had Dylan, and he wasn't
really hers either.

Sometimes, late at night when she was
alone, she wanted him to be.

But that wasn't going to happen.
Sure, there'd been a split-second when they'd met that she'd had a crush on
him, but she'd gotten over it quickly.

For the most part.

Lost in thought, she almost passed
the storefront, but the colorful sign caught her attention. She stopped
abruptly and peeked in the window.

Black velvet draped the whole case,
and a short screen provided the background. The gourds had intricate Asian
designs carved and painted on them—koi, dragons, nature—in vivid
colors. The effect was rich and exotic.

It shocked her.  

Inside Outta My Gourd, there was more
art, similar to what was in the window and also completely different. All of it
was amazing. She'd expected gourd art to be kitschy and ludicrous.
Craftsy—on par with a velvet Elvis.

She picked up a clever gourd that was
actually an earring keeper. The finish was satiny smooth, and the peacock
detailing on the surface was intricate. She held it up to get a closer look.

"That's one of my
favorites," a chipper voice said from behind her.

Camille turned around, startled.

A woman bounced out from behind. She
was a blaze of color—streaky long red curls, pink tunic, orange leggings,
and red kitten heels. She dressed like a bohemian artist, but the vague, dreamy
look most of the artists had—at least the ones she'd met through her
mother—was absent. This woman looked alert. And happy, like she was pleased
with her place in the world.

Camille felt a niggle of jealousy at
that.

The woman walked toward her, a warm
impish smile on her lips. "I was afraid of peacocks when I was a child.
It's funny that I'd be so fascinated with them now. Go figure."

"Yes." She set the jewelry
box down. "Are you Gwendolyn Pierce?"

The woman went from happy to wary.
"Yes. I own this shop."

"My name is Camille
Bernard." She took out a business card and held it out. "I'm with the
San Francisco Daily
. I left a message
for you. I'm covering the new art exhibit at the de Young, and Jennifer Brady,
the curator at the museum, told me you were part of the show. I wanted to ask
you a couple questions for an article I'm writing."

Ms. Pierce stared at the card and
then looked Camille in the eye. All of her previous welcome was replaced by
cool politeness. "This isn't a good time."

Camille looked around. No one was
there. What better time could there be? Elizabeth would have pointed that out
and insisted on a one-on-one.

So would she. She pulled out her
little notebook and forged ahead. "When are gourds in season? And what
happens if there's a gourd shortage?"

"Shortage?"

"Like if a plague takes out the
gourd crop for a year. Who gets the remaining gourds?"

"If the gourd crop was destroyed,
wouldn't that mean no one would get any?"

"I guess so." Camille
glanced at her next question. "Have you ever considered what you'd do if
you lost a hand? Or if you went blind?"

Ms. Pierce gaped at her, for some
reason. "
That's
what you're
curious about?"

"They're the sorts of questions
people really want to have answers to." Her mother always said the hard
questions were the ones that needed to be asked.

"You don't think people want to
know what inspires me? Or where I get my ideas?"

Camille made a face. "Those seem
boring."

The artist shook her head. "Why
don't I just say that I'm honored to be part of the exhibit and leave it at
that? I'm sure that's all you need."

"I have more questions,
though." She closed her notebook, frustrated. Why was this interview such
a big deal? "Fine. I can come back. When's a good time?"

Ms. Pierce looked like she wanted to
say never.

Just then the door tinkled open and a
woman walked in. She was tall with long blond hair, wearing skin-tight yoga
pants that hugged her lanky curves.

Gwendolyn turned to the woman and
smiled. If Camille wasn't mistaken, there was a measure of relief to the smile.
"Welcome to Outta My Gourd. Can I help you find anything today?"

The woman blinked and then slowly
nodded. "Um. Yes. I guess I'm looking for a gourd."

"You came to the right
place," Gwendolyn said happily. She faced Camille. "Thank you for
stopping by, and good luck with your article."

Knowing she'd been dismissed, Camille
murmured something appropriate and left the store, feeling defeated. How was
she going to become a great journalist if not even a gourd artist would speak
to her?

Albeit, the woman was truly a master
at her craft. Camille wouldn't have been surprised if Ms. Pierce won the spot
in the de Young's permanent collection. She deserved it.

It didn't explain why she shied away
from an interview though. Even beekeepers liked the free publicity. That rug
weaver Camille had to interview couldn't wait to tell her his whole life story.

Why didn't Gwendolyn Pierce want to
talk?

Did Gwendolyn Pierce have a sweatshop
in the back? Or—Camille gasped—an army of illegal Chinese workers
who'd been sold to her to produce gourds!

Or maybe she had a dead body back
there, chilling on ice.

Walking down the street, Camille
glanced over her shoulder at the store. Outta My Gourd. Definitely, yes.

~

Gwen heaved
a sigh of relief the moment the door closed behind the reporter. She'd always
had an aversion to reporters, but especially since she'd run away. And Camille
Bernard had a hungry look in her eyes, like she'd chew off her own leg and sell
it for a good story.

"So..."
Lola leaned against a display case and crossed her legs at the ankles.
"Apparently I'm desperate to buy a gourd."

"You
are, and good thing you realized it when you did." Gwen grinned.
"Thanks for playing along."

"Mind
telling me why we were pretending?"

"That
was a reporter."

Lola perked
up. "I love reporters."

Gwen made a
face. "You do?"

"Yeah,
because it means free marketing." She shrugged unapologetically. "On
an author's budget, you take whatever marketing you can get, especially free
marketing."

Gwen knew
for a fact that Lola wasn't a starving writer like she pretended. In fact,
after Lola had moved in upstairs and introduced herself, Gwen had looked up the
woman's books. Lola was a romance author, with a dozen books to her name. Her
latest book had been at the top of the New York Times bestseller list for
weeks.

"I'd
think free publicity would please you too," Lola said.

"I'm a
private person." To change the subject before Lola and her inquisitive
nature got too nosy, she asked, "So what brings you down here?"

"Oh,
right. I wanted to invite you over for dinner."

"Pizza
and champagne?" Gwen asked hopefully.

"Definitely.
And I just received the latest teen dance movie from Netflix."

"Is it
god-awful?"

"It
got the worst reviews I've ever seen," Lola replied gleefully.

"Super."
If Lola hadn't moved in upstairs Gwen would never have been introduced to the
delights of dance movies with no plot. Her favorite was Step Up 2. She knew
most of the dance sequences by heart.

Lola stood
to her full height, which was tall. "What time are you closing?"

The door to
the store opened right as Gwen started to answer. She stiffened, thinking the
reporter was back.

But she
wasn't. It was Rick Clancy who walked into her store.

Gwen
started to smile, happy to see him, but then she remembered she was annoyed. He
hadn't contacted in days, since that night they'd—what? Had sex? It'd
been more than sex. Made love? That was overreaching.

Lola arched
her brow, her hand going to her throat as she stared at him. Gwen couldn't
blame her—Rick looked particularly delicious this afternoon in jeans and
his leather jacket.

And he only
had eyes for her, which both made her both worried and pleased. Pleased because
Lola was a voluptuous blonde with legs that never ended. Fantasy Time Barbie,
she called herself. But Rick didn't seem to notice her.

And this
worried Gwen because it was an
awful
idea having his attention focused too closely on her. Even with their truce,
she wasn't certain if he was interested in her or in ferreting out her secrets.

So she said
the logical thing: "What are you doing here?"

He stuffed
his hands in his pockets, his expression souring. "I'm asking myself that
too."

Lola
cleared her throat—loudly.

Gwen rolled
her eyes. "This is my friend, Lola. She lives upstairs and was just
leaving."

Smiling
brilliantly, Lola extended her hand. "Pleased to meet you, even though I
don't know who you are."

"Rick
Clancy." He flashed that devilish grin of his.

Gwen had no
idea how Lola managed to stay standing. If he'd looked at her that way, she'd
be a puddle on the floor.

Her friend
obviously didn't have that problem though, because she gave Rick a cheeky grin
before turning to give Gwen a pointed look. "Let me know if you need to
change our plans."

"I
won't," Gwen promised.

"Right,"
her friend said, though her tone screamed
Liar
.
She headed to the door, turning to wink at Gwen and give her a thumbs up.

Channeling
Laurel, Gwen rolled her eyes. She waited until the door clicked shut before
facing Rick. "Why are you here?"