Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
As I walk, I text Maeve since she knows about my plan to try to find Wesley tonight.
Josie: I’m doing it! I’m on my way.
Maeve: I know, my little tiger!
My brow knits. She knows? I voice dictate my reply as I weave past early evening crowds in the Upper Haight.
Josie: How do you know?
Maeve: You’re on the corner of Webster and Hayes. You’re almost there!
Dammit. I never turned off my location tracker.
Maeve: Also, looking at your location history, I see you went to Elodie’s Chocolates today at lunch. I’m hoping you got me some. But I’m most interested in this visit you paid last night to my favorite “toy store” after work. I thought you were just going to the plant shop. Did you go into Risqué Business and pick up a battery-operated gift for your girl? You holding out on me?
Red splashes across my cheeks. Of course Maeve would notice that. She was the devil to my angel one Halloween in college after all.
Josie: Yes, but your toy is so big it’s requiring a forklift. Hope you can carry it up the stairs!
Maeve: Now that just makes me want it even more!
I put the phone away and check the numbers on the storefronts. The gallery’s on the next block. As I walk the final fifty feet, I steel myself. Frieda didn’t like me when I begged her to let me in on Sunday. There’s a very good chance she won’t help me tonight. A great one, in fact. But this is my only recourse. If I can convince her to give me Wesley’s last name, I can track him down. The Internet and me are tight, and I can find anything on it.
All I need is that one tiny detail.
I’m prepared, though, to bargain with the ice queen. I researched Frieda, learned she studied art history in London, she loves fine wine (I don’t have the budget for that), fine art (definitely don’t have the budget for that), Antibes (as if), and cactus plants.
Yay, plants! I picked up a tiny bunny ears cactus and I’m hoping to use it as an apology gift, and, well, a lubricant. After all, when I first met Frieda, she pretended to be someone else so as not to have to deal with me.
When I arrive at the gallery, I gather my nerves and head inside the sterile place with futuristic art. My shoes clack louder than they do at the library, echoing around the white walls, adorned with nightmarish visions.
“I’ll be right there,” she says warmly in a somewhat British tone from a back room.
Butterflies flap in my chest as I say, “Thank you” as cheerily as I can.
But when Frieda emerges, her expression turns stony, a brow elevating in disdain as she sizes me up. “I see you discovered the existence of clothing stores.”
I absorb the blow, deflecting it. “I did. I wanted to thank you. For letting me into your event the other night.”
Her right eye twitches. Like she doesn’t want to say it wasn’t her choice. “I do so hope you were able to locate your phone. Maybe consider a lanyard or a crossbody bag to attach it to next time. That’s what parents do for young children,” she offers with so much false kindness it’s as impressive as the white pantsuit with the plunging neckline that she wears.
“Great tip. I appreciate it,” I say, trying my best to appear upbeat and undeterred. “I’m here to offer a little thank you gift.”
“You’re going to buy a piece of art? How lovely. Come on now, darling. I’ll show you around.”
“Actually, I can’t.”
“Oh, why not?” It’s asked with so much concern.
Because each piece of this horrid art is over five thousand dollars, you snob. “I don’t have the budget,” I say honestly, then brace myself for the toughest ask of all. It feels like scaling a ten-story wall. In Louboutins. “I was hoping you could give me Wesley’s last name.”
She blinks, peering at me first with utter confusion then villainous delight. “Your date? Your plus-one? The one who likes to surprise you with his fantastic date ideas, so he told you to meet him here?”
She parrots my words back to me so precisely that my stomach twists. I knew this wouldn’t be easy. I didn’t know it would be this hard. Make me feel this small. But she has the moral high ground and the information, so I can’t argue with her. “Yes,” I say, swallowing roughly. “Do you think you could give me his last name?”
I hold out the plant in a peace offering.
“Do you not have it, darling?” Her tone is dripping with concern.
Sadly, I shake my head. “I don’t.”
“Let me see if I can remember it. Hmm.” She sighs, taps her chin, stares at the ceiling. “It’s coming back to me.” She lowers her face, smiles serenely, and says, “His name is…”