If I Were You (Inside Out #1)(8)

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.