If I Were You (3 page)

My gaze slides to Rebecca’s personal items still sitting by
the door with my discarded clothes. I should have stayed at the storage unit
until I found her information. Now, I have no choice but to seek what I need in
between the pages of those journals. Or in the box...that I can’t open. I'm not
even sure why I’d brought it with me.

A few minutes later, I sit down on the couch with my good
friends Ben and Jerry, the stack of journals, and the box on the coffee table.
The box that I still see no way to open without potentially damaging it. 

With no other option, I reach for a journal and flip it
open. In delicate female writing, it reads
2010
. No month. I wonder if
this was written before, or after, the journal Ella had left in my apartment
last night.

Thumbing through pages, I try to scan for words that might
relate to a place of employment and catch little pieces of Rebecca’s life along
the way.
The night was hot and my  body thirsty.
I inhale and turn the
page at the clear indication of something far more private than a place of
work. This woman wrote with such flowery, exotic words. Who writes like that?
My
life changed the day I walked into the art gallery.
Okay, that has my
attention for the right reason. The gallery is clearly where I need to look for
Rebecca. But did she work there or shop there? Or maybe she was an artist?

I keep reading, looking for my answers.
I’ve changed.
It’s changed me.
This world
has changed me. He says he’s simply helped
me uncover the real me. I don’t even know who the real me is any more.

“He who?” I whisper at the text. 

The places I go now, both emotionally and physically, are
dark, dangerous places. I know this, yet where he leads-–where
they
lead
– I follow.

I frown, thinking of the journal entry of the night before,
how I’d read that someone had entered the room while Rebecca had been
blindfolded to the bed.

How can fear be arousing? How can fear make me need and
burn and want? But yet I want, I need, I dare things I never believed I was
capable of doing. Is this the real me? That idea scares me deep down into my
core. This can’t be me. I am not this person. But even more than that fear that
I am, indeed, someone I do not recognize, I fear the idea of not being that
person. Of going back to the past. Of once again being the good girl with a
boring life, pushing paper in an eight-to-five job. Never happy, never
satisfied. At least now I feel something. The rush of fear is far better than
the defeat of boredom. The high of not knowing what comes next, so much better
than always knowing one day will be like the last. Never anticipation, never
feeling anything. No. I cannot go back. So why am I so terrified of going
forward?

Thunder rolls overhead, jolting me momentarily from my
absorption. Glancing at the window where rain is pattering on the glass, I
absently
curl up into the corner of the couch, thinking about what I’ve
just read. I am so different from this woman writing the journals, yet I have
an odd connection with her words. I love the kids I teach, but I feel the ache
of encouraging them to follow their dreams and knowing I haven’t followed mine.
Knowing my words to them are hypocritical. I understand what it feels like to
have each day pass, knowing I’m no closer to my dreams. Jobs in the art world
are just so few and far apart, and pay so little, that I cannot justify my
passion as my job.

A heavy breath of regret trickles from my lips, and my gaze
returns to the page. I am lost in a world that isn’t mine and never can be, but
somehow, right now, it is.

Three hours later, the rain has calmed to a drizzle, and I
am no longer lounging on the couch. Somewhere along the way, I’ve read all
three journals, which have gone from erotic and thrilling to downright
frightening. I’m sitting up now, hanging on the words of the final entry.

I want out. This is no longer a rush anymore. No longer
exciting. But he won’t let me out. He won’t let me go. And I don’t know how to
escape him. He was at the showing tonight, watching me, stalking me. I wanted
to run. I wanted to hide. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. One minute I was talking to
a customer, the next I was in a dark corner with
him
buried deep inside
me. When it was over, he stroked my hair and promised to see me later. Tonight.
The minute I was alone, I rushed to the camera room to take the tape, to keep
him from possessing it, and me with it. But it was gone. He’d taken it before I
could. And now…

That was it. Nothing more. As if she’d been interrupted by
something or someone and quit writing. I stare at the blank page, my heart
thundering in my chest. Were these journals before or after the one I’d been
reading the night before, I wonder again? Because if they were before, I would
know Rebecca was okay. I dial Ella and once again am greeted by the fast busy
signal I don’t want to hear.

Frustrated, I jump to my feet and pace, wringing fingers
through my already tousled hair. Rebecca Mason must have left town, that’s why
her things were in that storage unit. But why hadn’t she come back for them? Or
paid the storage fee? I ball my fists at my sides and then slowly force them to
open, force my shoulders to relax. I will myself to calm down with logic. There
is no reason to jump to conclusions. I’ll simply call the gallery and locate
Rebecca, discover all is well, and return Rebecca’s things to her. End of
story. Right. Perfect. Then I’ll get on with my summer tutoring.

I snatch my phone off the coffee table, intending to make
that call and immediately stop myself. It’s after midnight and I’ve tried to
call Ella with no idea what time it is in Paris, and now I am trying to call
the art gallery. So much for calm and collected.

Something about Rebecca Mason has reached past the pages of
that journal and become personal. I’d become Rebecca while I was reading those
journals. I feel a connection so intimate to this stranger that it is downright
eerie. Or maybe, I think wryly, my own life is just so darn boring I’m
desperate for a little excitement.
Like Rebecca had been,
before she met
him
.

With that thought, I hug myself, and head for bed. But not
before I grab the journals and take them with me.

Chapter Three

“Rebecca isn’t in.”

That is the same reply the man who always answers the phone
at the gallery had given me the last time I’d called. And the time before that.

“She’s on vacation,” I reply. “So I’ve been told all week.
It’s Friday. Will she be back Monday?”

Silence filters into the line. “I can take a message.”

I’d already left several and I see no point in leaving
another. “No. Thank you.” I hang up and sip my vanilla latte from the Barnes
and Noble café where I’d just finished tutoring a football player hoping to
impress colleges with more than his playing skills. This entire Rebecca
situation is driving me nuts.

I’ve already double-checked the time I have left to clear
out the storage unit, considering Ella hadn’t exactly been a wealth of
information, and it is a short window—one more week. After that, it would be
two hundred dollars for another full month. A hard blow to my cash flow on an
already tight budget. The manager has given me one extra week free for which I
am grateful, but I have to deal with Rebecca and do it now.

With my laptop already open and powered up, I key in the
Allure Gallery website, intending to search the staff listing to be sure
Rebecca’s name still appears. Sure enough, Rebecca is listed as Marketing
Director. Hmm. Well, that’s good. That has to be a sign she’s okay. Doesn’t it?

An event banner on the side of the page catches my eye and I
click on it. There’s a showing at the gallery the following Wednesday night and
not for some unknown artist either. A thrill goes through me at the realization
that the highly acclaimed artist, Ricco Alvarez, is doing a showing. I adore
Ricco Alvarez’s depiction of his homeland Mexico, and though it’s rather well
known in an artsy city like San Fran that someone of his stature owns a home
here, he rarely makes appearances. But then, this is a good cause, a black-tie
charity event with both ticket prices, and a piece of Alvarez’s art, being
auctioned off as donations to a local children’s hospital. Surely, with such an
event, Rebecca will be at the helm. 

Tapping my nails on the wooden table, I consider my options.
If I can’t reach Rebecca before the show, I’ll attend the event. Silently, I
laugh at myself. Who am I kidding? I’m going to see Ricco Alvarez, even if I have
to eat Ramen noodles for two weeks to do so, and since the tickets are a
hundred dollars a pop, I will. But I never, ever splurge. I bite my bottom lip
and fret, and then before I can stop myself, click on the "buy
tickets" button and claim one of the last available tickets. I won’t be
able to get a refund if I reach Rebecca before then, but I’ll just have to
rough it. I can’t stop the smile from sliding onto my lips. It will be torture
to have to meet Ricco Alvarez. I feel better with a plan. Now, if I can just
get through to Ella and hear she is okay, I might actually sleep tonight.

***

Wednesday evening arrives and Rebecca is still "not
in" per the Allure staff. So, I am off to the Alvarez event, but my
excitement over the showing has been doused quite effectively by the feeling
something is really wrong. The entire situation makes me anxious, and while I
would have preferred some moral support, as in a friend to join me at the
night’s event, I had dismissed the idea. I wasn’t about to try and explain why
I was hunting down Rebecca Mason, whom I didn’t know, and who I feared had met
an untimely…something. I’m not going to even let my mind elaborate on that
thought. And I won’t justify my worry by letting anyone else read Rebecca’s
private thoughts.

I pull my car into a parking spot several blocks away from
the gallery, by both necessity and preference. The chilly evening wind lifts
off the nearby ocean, blowing loose strands of my long hair astray with it.
Goosebumps form on my arms and I gather my cream-colored shawl over my matching
simple but elegant knee-length sheath dress. Okay, Ella’s dress and shawl
actually, but we were always borrowing each other’s clothes. As a formality,
I’d have asked if she minded, but I still can’t get her phone to ring through.
I click my lock into place and slide my keys into the dainty, cream-colored
shoulder purse that I’d bought on the pier last summer.

I inhale the air, embracing the sounds and sights, the
action of the SoMa Art District, bustling with people enjoying the stores,
museums, and array of art galleries. I don’t come down here often. I just
can’t. It reminds me of those dreams I’ve never chased. It’s been too long
though, I realize, nearly a year since I’ve enjoyed the market street scene.
The architecture, ranging from newly developed shiny glass structures to old
warehouses converted into home and work spaces, was as much art as the
sculptures and drawings on the concrete walls of the random buildings. I feel
something special here. I feel alive here. It’s what I feel when I leave that I
dislike. 

Bringing the gallery into view, I pause to watch a group of
elegantly dressed visitors pour through its double glass doors lined in shiny
silver for the black-tie affair. Artsy swirls of red letters, displayed above
the entry, spell "ALLURE."

Nerves flutter in my stomach, though I can’t say why. I love
the contemporary art Allure specializes in, love their mix of local, new
artists who I can discover, as well as the established names whose work I
already appreciate. Nerves are ridiculous. I’m uncomfortable in this world, but
then, this isn’t my world. It’s Rebecca’s, and Rebecca is the real reason I’m
here.

A glance at my dainty, handmade, gold wristwatch, also
bought at the pier, confirms I have plenty of time to spare. It is seven
forty-five, fifteen minutes until Alvarez will be unveiling a new painting that
will be displayed in the gallery and up for silent auction through the end of
the week. Oh how I’d love to have an Alvarez original, but they don’t come cheap.
Still, a girl can dream.

Excitement filters in with nerves as I rush toward the door.
A young brunette woman in a simple black dress holds it open for me and offers
me a smile. “Welcome.”

I return the smile and enter the gallery, noting the nervous
energy bouncing off the twenty-something girl as I pass, an energy that seems
to scream "I’m new and don’t know what I am doing.” This isn’t Rebecca,
who I know will be daringly bold and confident. In fact, the hostess brings out
the schoolteacher in me, and I fight the urge to give her a hug and tell her
she’s doing fine. I’m a hugger. I got it from my mother, just like I did my
love of art, only I wasn’t talented with a brush as she had been.

The girl is saved from my mothering when the sound of a
piano playing from a distant corner filters through the air and draws my
attention to the main showroom. I am in awe. This isn’t my first time visiting
the four-thousand-square-foot wonder that is the Allure gallery, but it doesn’t
diminish my excitement at seeing it again.

The entryway opens to the main showroom of glistening white
wonder. The walls are snow white, the floor glistening like white diamonds. The
shiny divider walls curve like abstract waves, and each of them is adorned with
contrasting, eye popping, colorful artwork.

I turn away from the showroom, attending to business before
pleasure, and present my ticket to a hostess behind a podium. She is tall and
elegant with long, raven hair. “Rebecca?” I ask hopefully.

“No, sorry,” she says. “I’m Tesse.” She holds up a finger as
she glances through the glass doors at an approaching customer she needs to
attend. I wait patiently, hoping this young woman can connect me with Rebecca.
I listen attentively while she directs the new guest to a short stairway that
leads toward the music, and apparently, the location where Ricco Alvarez will
be unveiling his masterpiece.

“Sorry for the interruption,” Tesse finally says, giving me
her full attention. “You were looking for Rebecca. Unfortunately she isn’t
attending tonight’s event. Is there something I can help you with?”

Disappointment fills me. To miss an Alvarez event is not
something someone in Rebecca’s role would likely do. I just want to know, for
certain, that Rebecca is safe. Painting myself as a stranger doesn’t seem the
way to do that. “My sister’s an old friend of Rebecca’s. She told me to be sure
and say hello to her and pass along her new phone number. She seemed to think
Rebecca worked big events like this one. She’ll be disappointed I missed her.”

“Oh, I hate that you missed her,” Tesse says, looking
genuinely concerned. “I’m not only new, I only work part time, on an as-needed
basis, so I don’t hear much of what’s going on internally,
but
I think
Rebecca took some personal time off. Mark would know for certain.”

“Mark?”

“The manager here,” she says. "He’ll be tied up with
the presentation soon, but I can introduce you to him afterwards if you like?”

I nod. “Yes. Please. That would be perfect.”

The piano stops abruptly. “They’re about to start,” Tesse
informs me. “You should grab a seat while you still can. I’ll be sure to help
you connect with Mark after the presentation.”

A thrill shoots through me. “Thank you so much,” I say,
before I head toward the seating area. I can’t believe that I am about to see
an Alvarez original presented by Alvarez himself.

A tuxedo-clad usher greets me at the bottom of the stairs
and offers me some help finding a seat. And boy did I need help. There were at
least two hundred chairs lined up in front of a mini stage, set in front of a
bay window that was essentially the entire wall, and almost every single chair
was taken.

I squeeze into a center row, between a man that has artsy
rebel, written all over him from longish light-blond hair to his jeans and a
blazer, and a fifty-something woman who is more than a little irritated to have
to let me pass. I can’t help but notice the man is incredibly good looking and
I’ve never been one to be easily impressed. I know too well that beauty is too
often only skin deep.

“You're late,” the man says as if he knows me, a friendly
smile touching his lips, his green eyes crinkling at the edges, mischief in
their depths. I figure him to be about thirty-five. No. Thirty-three. I am good
with ages, and good at reading people. My kids at school often found that out
when they were up to no good.

I smile back at the man, feeling instantly comfortable with
him when, aside from my students, I’m normally quite reserved with strangers.
“And
you
forgot to pick up your tux, I see,” I tease. In fact, I wonder
how he pulled off getting in here dressed as he is.

He runs his hand over his sandy blond, one-day stubble that
bordered on two days. “At least I shaved.”

My smile widens and I intend to reply but a screech from a
microphone fills the air. A man I recognize from photos as Ricco Alvarez claims
the stage and stands next to the sheet covering a display, no doubt his newest
masterpiece. Suave and James-Bond-esque in his tuxedo, he is the polar opposite
of the man next to me.

“Welcome one and all,” he says in a voice richly accented
with Hispanic heritage, as is his work. “I am Ricco Alvarez, and I thank you
for sharing my love of art, and children, on this grand evening. And so I give
you what I call
Chiquitos
, or in English,
Little Ones
."

He tears away the sheet, and everyone gasps at the
unexpected piece of art that is nothing like anything he’s done before. Rather
than a landscape, it is a portrait of three children, all of different
nationalities, holding hands. It is a well-executed work appropriate for the
occasion, though secretly, I had wished for a landscape where his brilliance
shone.

The man next to me leans an elbow on his knee and lowers his
voice. “What do you think?”

“It’s perfect for the evening,” I say cautiously.

“Oh so diplomatic,” he says with a low chuckle. “You wanted
a landscape.”

“He does beautiful landscapes,” I say defensively.

He grins. “He should have done a landscape.”

“And now,” Ricco announces, “while the bidding begins, I’ll
be circulating the room, answering questions about my many works displayed
tonight, and hoping to have the pleasure of meeting as many of you as possible.
Please feel free to walk to the stage for a closer look at
Chiquitos
.”

Almost instantly, the crowd is standing.

“Are you going for a close-up?” I ask the man next to me.

“Not much on crowds,” he said. “Nor Ricco’s attempt at
portraiture.” He winks at me. “Don’t stroke his ego when you meet him. It’s big
enough as it is.” He starts moving down the row toward the exit. I stare after
him, feeling this odd flutter in my stomach at his departure, curious about who
he is. 

I frown as I repeat part of our conversation in my mind.
Ricco.
He’d called Ricco Alvarez ‘Ricco’ and spoken of his ego as if he knew him. It’s
too late now to find out how he knows Ricco, and portrait or not, I am eager
for an up-close look at the featured painting. I have not met Ricco and it is
disappointing, but I am still thrilled at the opportunity to see his work.