10
DREW
Camille Marino
Marino Camille
Camille Marino San Francisco
Camille San Francisco
I’m on my laptop in True North’s office, supposedly pricing out kitchen islands and a new industrial dishwasher. Instead I’m searching the Net for a hint of who Camille is. I’ve got one shot to impress this woman but don’t have a clue where to begin.
There are a million Camille Marinos in San Francisco. A quick search of photos show women with gray hair and deep wrinkles. None bear her onyx eyes and high cheekbones. None are remotely as sexy.
I get that I’m exhibiting stalker behavior now—hence the reason I’m hiding in this claustrophobic office instead of measuring spaces for equipment. Since seeing Camille, I haven’t been able to shake the woman from my brain. The feel of her silky hair, her warm fingers against my skin. Her deep breaths against my chest as she fell asleep.
Scratch that. I haven’t been able to shake her since the festival.
I’m committed to fixing things with my father while I’m here, but it’s Camille I see when the quiet moments hit me. When I close my eyes.
But you’re leaving.
My conscience is doing its thing again, guilt-tripping the hell out of me.
I know I can’t hurt this woman. But I can’t let her go either.
A knock on the door jostles me back to the present, and my body scrambles like a private who’s been caught asleep in the middle of training. I shut the computer screen. Pop’s energized, eyes bright. His tie is already off, sleeves rolled up the elbows, shirt unbuttoned. “Iho, got a minute?”
His vibe is a 180 of the last few days. The plans I submitted earlier to the city Planning Department turned him into the man I used to venerate: driven, optimistic, collaborative. Not one sarcastic remark about being away from home. There were zero complaints about my deployment.
So I jump at the chance to spend a couple of minutes together, even if I’m dog tired and would rather plan out my date with Camille. “Course.”
I strip off my own shirt and tie, down to my V-neck white T-shirt, and follow him out of the office. True North is officially a construction zone, the first of the kitchen demo done today.
We navigate through the stifling chaos. Pop estimated a three-week time frame to complete the reno and already had contractors in the last couple of days. Construction equipment is strewn about, along with wires, fixtures, yards of cable. The new design plans, which I redid on graph paper and to scale, are taped on one of the freezer doors. Arrows and lines depict the new changes.
The evolved concept would mean more work but would also incorporate the best of True North’s location. We met with a commercial contractor and architect to revamp the plans this afternoon. Tomorrow we’ll consult with the building inspector to hash out the regulatory piece of the reno.
The only thing remaining from the old restaurant is True North’s trademark clock: a compass that looks exactly like the tattoo on my chest.
Pop passes by and pats the new plans like a good-luck charm. He gives me a thumbs-up, and my insides soar. I don’t remember the last time he reacted that way to anything I did. When I got my promotion to first lieutenant last year, I didn’t even get a card.
“You pick,” Pop says abruptly to a wall that’s been painted three slightly different versions of brown. He shoves the paper swatches into my hands.
Correction: dark khaki, salted caramel, and shadowed beach.
“I don’t think you can lose with any of these. But the darker the better, if you ask me. Everything will stand out from it. The view and the white dishes, napkins, and chef’s jackets. Or, if you wanted a softer effect, more for the younger family crowd, then shadowed beach might be a little better. Then again . . .” I’m rambling and I know it. My focus is on my father’s face, on what I think he’s leaning toward.
Pop’s poker face is the best in the family, and he stares at the painted swatches, stoic and silent. “You’re right. Salted caramel. Let the contractor know?”
“Of course.”
“I can’t think of anything else we need to do today.”
“We got a lot done,” I say.
Then silence.
Crickets, hell, cicadas. These are what conversations with my father have transformed into. It’s pathetic. A cascade of topics run through my head, and I sort through them like flash cards. I can ask what he thinks the opening menu will be, if he’s decided to serve signature drinks. But the moment is overwrought with too many important things left unsaid, and the rest is simply superficial.
He turns to me with an unreadable expression. “You haven’t been home for dinner since you got here.”
My heart staggers to a halt. “It’s jet lag. I’ve been exhausted.”
“Your mama wants you over. She’s missed you.”
Clearing my throat, I drop my gaze to the ground. It wasn’t my mother’s invitation I was waiting on. It was his. “I’ve missed her, too, and, um, yeah. Dinner sounds good.” A pause. “But not tonight. I’ve got . . . I’ve got a date.”
“A date?”
“Yep.” I shove my hands into my pockets.
“Well, now.” A hand lands on my shoulder. Pop’s voice booms, causing me to take a step back. His expression is one of pride, and I exhale in spite of myself. “That is great news. Then you should head on out of here. I’ll tell your mom you’ll be over tomorrow.”
“Okay.” I smile hesitantly.
“And oh, here you go.” He holds out his hand as if to shake mine. When I reciprocate, he plasters money into my palm.
This is getting ridiculous. “I can pay for my own date.” I hold out the money, but he doesn’t take it. He walks away, first patting the drafted plans on the refrigerator door as he passes it.
“Take her someplace nice. Pamper her. Give her a beautiful view.”
“Are you really giving me dating advice now?” Testing, I chide him. Amazingly, he doesn’t level me with an icy word or look. He nods from the doorway into the dining room.
“Trust me. View. Pamper. Glad to have you back, Andrew.”