Finding Camille: Now Available for Pre-Order!

So, while the concept for this story was sparked by an original idea, the setting is basically a Mad Men rip-off, lol. I’m exaggerating. It’s more like… an homage. Because I was obsessed with Mad Men, and after re-watching the entire series in helping me research this story, I realized that I’m still obsessed with it and I had to give it a proper homage. The creator, Matt Weiner, is in my top influences. From the Sopranos to Mad Men, his character writing and dialogue rule my life. So I got a little blatant with my Mad Men tribute, though I’m proud to say that you probably wouldn’t be able to tell without me letting you in on that.

Initially, I did start with the intention of copying and pasting that world, because I was very intimidated by the idea of doing a historical romance. In fact, I don’t know that I will ever do another. I needed a familiar place to start. The hero was going to be pretty Don Draper-esque as well, until I realized that the setting for my story was going to be about five years earlier than when the first season even takes place. Doesn’t seem like a long time, but I quickly realized that I was not going to be able to fudge those details enough to make that five-year gap work.

Then I had an aha moment: this story isn’t about Don. This story is about Roger. And that’s when the world-building started diverting and flowing into an original direction. But still… Mad Men is all over this, lol. I won’t give away all the easter eggs, but even the hero’s name is an amalgam of a Mad Men character.

I started this book back in 2020, when I was taking a break and just starting a bunch of storylines all at once to see if that would spark anything. I let it sit for a while before I picked it back up early this year. Personally, I think it’s one of my strongest books, but you know how that goes. Only time will tell.

I like this cover a lot.

For the longest time, this book was called “WWII Letters Book” and it seemed I would never ever be able to come up with a title. I was having an even harder time coming up with a cover concept that was going to be an adequate introduction to this story. So I was really glad when I came across this picture, which basically inspired the direction of the title, and I’m pleased with both.

Mr. Hargrove/Camille (hawt)

So for some reason, I was stuck on Jimmy Stewart for the hero. I have no idea when or why. I knew I wanted someone from back in the day to help me get into this vintage space (his heyday was actually a bit earlier than the time this book is set). I think he was someone whose hotness was downplayed for the sake of him being an everyman character (I mean look at him!), which so happens to describe Mr. Hargrove perfectly.

For the heroine, I was vacillating between Tessa Thompson and young Jada Pinkett Smith in my mind for a while, but I had this old picture of Ruby Dee saved on my Pinterest page, and every time I looked at it I got obsessed and vowed to use her. As much as I love the opportunity to mash up my mental casting with old stars and new, I couldn’t pass up the perfect excuse to use her. And it just added to the vintage vibe. Don’t get me started on how hard it was to imagine Jimmy Stewart in my mind, not being from It’s A Wonderful Life talking all transatlantic. It was hard, but I did it.

I think readers will like it because it’s a pretty transportive, ambitious read, at least for me. It seems like it should be a nice little change of pace against what’s coming out in the same genre. As of right now, it’s in the hands of my ARC team getting closer to being the best version of itself. So I hope you like it.

New Release Finding Camille: Sneak Peek

It’s ten years after the end of WWII when Camille Winters accepts a position as the only colored secretary in the office at Hargrove and Chase, an advertising agency on Madison Avenue in the mid-1950’s. When the owner and senior partner Kenneth Hargrove takes a professional liking to Camille after seeing her potential, Camille thinks she’s finally found her niche, vindicated after pursuing her career rather than settling down. Mr. Hargrove uses his influence to find an old acquaintance from the war as a favor to Camille. But instead of the gesture bringing closure, the ghosts from the past suddenly come back to haunt her, putting her hard-won successful career in jeopardy.

Prologue

January 30th, 1943

My dearest Carl:

You must humor me, my dear. By now, I have learned that you are unable to write me back now. That I will never receive another letter from you. Not by your own will, but by that of God, since he has seen fit to take you home instead of reuniting us. Nevertheless, I have to do the only thing that is in my power to do, the one thing I have done for these many months, and that is to write.

And so, my lovely handsome Carl, I will take it upon myself to say goodbye. I do hope that your death was clean and swift, and gave you a sense of peace and purpose. It was a hope and a joy to have known you. Had I known that our love wasn’t meant to blossom, the first time I laid eyes on you at my lovely Donna’s wedding, I want you to know that I would not have done anything differently. I am forever glad that you parted the crowd to dance with little old me. You gave me the hope that a handsome soldier would be my future. And most of all, I am glad that I could be the one you carried in your heart while you were over there in the dirt. Thank you, my dear. The gratitude I feel is beyond belief.

Yours,

Camille

February 15, ‘43

To the fianceé of Carl Downey, Camille Winters:

My company just received a letter that was meant for Lance Corporal Carl Downey. The captain thought it fit to pass the letter along to me, as I was Carl’s closest friend and colleague.

It’s unlikely that you know me, but my name is 1st Lt. Stanley Whitman. I spent many a night in the trenches with your fiancé stationed here in the Pacific. We bonded side by side in battle, before we knew a thing about each other. In the quiet lulls, which weren’t scarce, we laughed and told hometown stories and made future plans out of desperate hope. He was by far the brightest light in our company. He was full of life and passion. As much as Carl’s death is a loss for you, it is an even greater loss for us, who relied on Carl’s effervescence to get us through this horrible war, and his humanity to remind us what we fight for.

I felt compelled to write to you and tell you that I am the one who opened your letter, and I’m not ashamed to tell you that it made me weep openly. Not only because of your expression of love and loss, but of strength and gratitude. You must understand that as much as Carl was the engine that propelled our company each and every day for thirteen months, you were the engine that propelled Carl. When one of your letters arrived, Carl gained a new lease on life. He greatly cherished your words and was most distressed when your picture went missing while we were stationed on the Augusta. When you managed to send him a replacement he was right as rain, and transformed into our fearless leader.

And so, I would like to thank you, Ms. Winters, for loving our Lance Corporal. After suffering such heavy losses that I will not bother you with, your letter arrived as though nothing had happened. And when opened it had the same heartrending affect on all of us. You are the secret to his legacy and bravery.

With respect,

Lt. Stanley Whitman.

March 4, 1943

Dear Lt. Whitman,

I can’t tell you how much it meant to receive your letter. Thank you so much for your kind words. When the Marines informed me that Carl was killed in battle, I felt an odd kind of floating, as if I had suddenly been severed from the ground and floated away like a balloon in the wind. It dawned on me that I did not prepare myself as well as some of the other mothers and sisters and wives who are also waiting for their beloveds to return. Perhaps because ours was such a new and fanciful love. It was all so sudden and fantastic. We met right before he left for Hawaii and he urged me to write to him.

I suppose I wasn’t entirely certain he was even real for nearly half of our relationship. He’d had to convince me of his adoration through letters, and of his desire to receive mine. Even still I remained paranoid that it was the drama of war that compelled him to remember me as more than I was.

So I found special comfort in the portion of your letter where you mentioned his reaction to receiving my pictures. He, of course, told me as much, but it has been my brief experience with Carl that he tended to warm everyone in his path with light as though he were the sun. I am happy to know that his adoration of me was apparent to those around him, even while the confirmation also rouses my unspeakable sadness and self-pity. I continue to hope and pray that his company returns home safe and unharmed, and full of stories of their beloved fallen friend.

Sincerely,

Camille

April 4, 1943

Dearest Camille,

I’ve included some personal effects of Carl and thought you might like to have them. They are trivial things here amid a war, so they will not last long: a hairbrush, razor, his grandfather’s timepiece, his favorite magazines. Our squad leader frowns upon carrying excess weight, but I did not see fit to throw them away.

With love,

Stanley W.

April 20, 1943

Dearest Stanley,

You are adorable! I hesitate to tell you that most of what you sent me is considered trivial for civilians as well. I’m sorry that they won’t allow you to carry remnants of your friends, but since I am not a man in war, I cannot judge the appropriateness. I was glad to receive the timepiece that seems to be a precious heirloom. I will endeavor to return it to his family. I’m sure they would be glad to have it.

P.S. In the time it has taken me to mail this letter, I’ve visited Carl’s family. I told them that I would pass on their gratitude for thoughtfully returning the family heirloom, even though it garnered many tears and anguish at the sight of it returning to them without its former owner. They urged me to have it, but the notion was so off-putting since I hardly knew Carl in the manner that everyone around me had, including you. It all reminds me of how fleeting life is and even moreso our love was. The letters were merely a promise of love, ultimately miscarried. It is as though I am forced to birth a child dead in its womb, and care for it until the grief of everyone around me has subsided. As it is, I feel like a charlatan, having taken such a place in his life in his passing. Still, I am grateful that everyone has humored me and recited the fantastic plans he had made on our behalf and apparently circulated beyond me. I hope that whatever else you find of Carl’s, you feel entitled to keep and that it brings you the solace needed to see this war to its hopefully swift end.

Your friend,

Camille

May 20, 1943

My friend Camille,

It was serendipitous timing that I received your letter when I did, because I have to admit that there was one thing I did not include in Carl’s belongings, and that was the cache of letters that he kept of yours. Perhaps I hesitated because I wondered whether someone would want their own words returned to them. Some of them I practically know by heart because Carl liked to often re-read them, as he was taken with your poetic way with words. They had a peculiar calming effect on him, especially amidst the bloody horrors that often turn men cold and apathetic of everything. He lamented that he didn’t have the breadth of attention to take the time to sit down, gather his thoughts and thoughtfully write to you as often as you did to him, but he was grateful.

It was your sweet soul, your idealistic hope of your eventual reunion that inspired him, and so it pains me to hear you speak of yourself the way you do, as if it were foolish to expect the future to deliver the things it promised. It is not you who are foolish but the world, that sees fit to deprive young men of the delight of companionship and the contentment that comes with a life well-built. Even now, it is hard to imagine that Carl will become the memories and myths of others. I predicted plain as day that he would be an old man surrounded by his children.

Forgive me for the dismal subject matter. You may have the impression that I have an unhealthy fixation on these topics, but I assure you that nostalgia has no place in our daily lives. We rarely have the chance to contemplate the men whose dog tags we recover. As I have no one in my life who would miss me if I was dead, it is a kindness from God to have received these few correspondences.

I hope you would indulge me taking those hopes that you so eloquently referred to in your letter to heart, by not taking offense to my keeping your letters. I also ask that you would allow me to hope to one day return the letters to you in person. It is my wish that by the time that ever happens, you will have caught the eye of some other great man who adores you, and the memory of Carl becomes a fond recollection that you freely share with joy. And also, that by that time the both of us are whole, and that letters between two mutual acquaintances return to its rightfully trivial place in the world.

Sincerely,

Stanley

June 6th, 1943

Stanley,

It seems I am not the only one who has a way with words. I hope someone has told you that you certainly have a long career ahead of you as a writer. By all means, if my letters can continue to carry purpose and meaning for someone else, then please keep them. I would also like to meet the recipient of such a hope, but I must tell you that the thought of receiving yet another correspondence, potentially about your death, gives me an irrational sense of apprehension! What if I find my letters are simply bad luck?

Camille

June 22, 1943

Camille,

Your letters could never be bad luck. In fact, I watched them first hand bring faith and verve to a hopeless situation. If Carl’s death were positively destined, he simply had no idea of it and I am convinced that is because of you. As it is, there is no one to receive word of my time here, and after reading your fears, I don’t think I would have the heart to have someone send word of my untimely death. But if by chance I make it home safely, do I have permission to pass on the happy news to someone who would receive it?

Stanley

July 8th, 1943

Stanley,

It would give me a great thrill to know that out of all of the dismal outcomes of this war that you have made it home safe, wherever that is, so please inform me when that happens. Also, I hope it is not too forward to suggest that in the meantime, it would be no inconvenience for you to receive letters of your own, you need only to ask. If one wants to receive a letter, one must simply write!

Camille

Chapter 1 (Present Day, 1954)

Camille Winters looked in the bathroom mirror of her Brooklyn brownstone, her evening routine abuzz with the excitement of the day to come. She always got excited the night before a new assignment, but that was because she was a bit of a square.

This wasn’t just any secretary’s job, however. This was Madison Avenue.

Working for Hargrove & Chase was the most exciting assignment she’d gotten in many years. And apparently, she’d been requested.

She wasn’t told by whom, which was uncommon. She supposed she could ask, but she didn’t get paid to ask. She got paid to do what she was told and do it well. She’d been working off of recommendations for the past five years, so that was nothing new. But this was the first time she’d been pulled off of one job to work another. Which meant the person who requested her was fairly high up on the totem pole.

But the buzz was even more than that, though she fought to ignore it. In her mind she was successful. But her body couldn’t lie.

She had a feeling that she had been requested by Kenneth Hargrove himself.

Bzzz bzzzz….

For one, it was the only explanation. He was the only person she’d met from Hargrove & Chase after all, briefly while on assignment at a car dealership where Mr. Hargrove had come in to buy a car for the family. He had been warm and doting to his children, a boy, and girl, each in their Sunday best. The wife seemed terribly frosty— odd but not uncommon.

She’d been used to seeing prominent people at the Cadillac dealership, so she noted him and his family the same way she would any VIP. He’d acknowledged her with a simple head nod and a faint grin when she seated them.

It wasn’t much, but it was by far her clearest and strongest connection to the company. Camille smiled in the mirror, re-acquainting herself with the story.

Bzz bzzzzzzzz…

The buzz was in no way sexual, but it may as well have been. In an industry full of sharks, commendation on her quality of work was the only kind she was permitted to enjoy.

Few men had given her something close to that type of buzz in her personal life. One even became her steady. Jeremy. And he was sufficient enough. But he’d objected to her working life, especially for that of white people, and that was that.

She had a knack for preventing disasters and streamlining existing systems, and only when it came to paperwork. She didn’t even know that was a job, and apparently, no one else did either since she had to carve one out for herself everywhere she went. No one minded until it came time to replace her.

Once she became consumed with her work, she was surrounded by industry titans in tailored suits day and night, which gave her less and less time to go out and find the buzz of that other kind.

In the beginning, a few of her bosses complimented her looks in passing. An attempt at open rapport, she assumed. Young women like to hear such things, was probably their reasoning. She always smiled politely, but it had the unfortunate effect of either getting her yelled at by her female bosses or re-assigned.

It took her a while to catch on. Being still unmarried in her late 20’s, she’d had to learn these female patterns the hard way. She had to assume they felt threatened in some fashion, which she tried not to dwell on. Catching the eye of some drunken white man with a sudden urge to experiment was her ultimate nightmare, not a dream come true.

The idea that there could be some mutual attraction between her and her co-workers was to her an absurd thing. Not to mention unprofessional. Were any of them there to actually work??

So she trained herself to stop smiling at such compliments. For years she walked a fine line of looking plain but not unattractive. Unassuming but representative of the company. Placid but approachable.

Now she was nearly 30. In her old age, she’d become less of a threat to the younger white women at her assignments. She was good at her job, and people noticed. To her dismay, she’d grown a bit impatient with incompetence on all levels. Yet to her shock, this seemed to cause her working relationships to flourish.

More than her lack of feeling over being liked, her white colleagues seemed to enjoy her aggressive professionalism. The men found her stoic taunting hilarious. The women found her non-threatening, as she’d removed herself from any possible male competition with her bullish demeanor. She wore bright red lipstick whenever she wanted. When she started wearing pants to work, no one complained.

For her first day at Hargrove & Chase, however, her pants suit would stay in the closet. She wanted to exude professionalism tomorrow, rather than power. Her simple black fit and flair Dior dress with matching purse and gloves would do the trick. It was pressed and already hanging on the open closet door of her bedroom. She placed the last of the rollers in her freshly pressed hair and laid gingerly on her pillow that night. It was only 7:30, but she knew she would toss and turn, and she needed her rest if she was going to be fresh tomorrow.

She waited patiently outside the offices the next morning, 30 minutes before her first day of work was to begin. She scanned the wall of artwork hanging in the lobby. Artwork that was their previous campaigns, numerous and instantly recognizable. Name brands of household items, clothing, and hotel chains. She knew very little about an industry that clearly had a hand in her everyday life. It made her wonder what she could possibly be doing there.

Just then a young woman approached the receptionist’s desk. She looked over at Camille sitting patiently in the lobby.

“Miss Winters?” she asked, sounding surprised.

“Miss Caldwell,” Camille assumed in a mature voice, a deep velvety contrast to Christy’s cheerful squeak. She stood, ready to meet her open hand.

Christy Caldwell was to be her supervisor on this job. She was short and compact, blonde and blue-eyed. Her eyes perfectly matched her peacock blue dress, her blonde hair like a perfect pastry sitting atop her shoulders.

“Please, call me Christy,” she smiled. “You’re early!” she added, verbatim of every first meeting she’d ever had.

“If you’re on time, you’re late, Miss Caldwell,” Camille said without a smile. It was customary for Camille to comply with a supervisor’s request to use her first name only after the third ask and not before.

Camille followed Christy through the glass doors of the office and past the receptionist, who she could see out of the corner of her eye following their every move.

The front lobby at Hargrove and Chase hid from view the largest open office space she’d ever been in. The entire floor was theirs, an endless rectangle of corners and office doors.

“I trust you understand that this will be a temporary placement? Until the work is done?”

“Temporary placements are the only kind I take, Miss Caldwell.”

“Perfect. Let me show you to your office,” Christy said politely.

Office?

“I presume you mean my desk, Miss Caldwell.”

“Christy, please,” she blushed. “You’ve been at this longer than I have. I was told you have managerial experience. And some accounting.”

“Of course, but I’m used to proving myself. I’m certainly not here to replace anyone.”

“Nonsense, this is advertising,” Christy scoffed. “Everyone loves the madness, but no one’s competing to make sense of it. You won’t be in anyone’s way, I assure you.”

They followed one of two carpeted walkways down the middle of the lobby where there was an ocean of desks, mostly occupied. Nearly everyone stopped to look at the pair of them as though she were a well-dressed giraffe.

Nothing Camille hadn’t dealt with before. Her honey-toned skin in the context of white society created a mental puzzle that had to be solved right away. She pretended not to notice as she followed closely behind Christy until they got to a narrow hallway that diverted into three other directions.

Christy brought her to an abandoned windowless room with papers stacked to the ceiling on top of two desks shaped like an L. A typewriter with its cover collected dust in the corner. There were two doors on either side to make it accessible from two separate hallways.

Her very own office?? What was going on.

“What’s this?”

“This… is what we like to call A-L. Job bags, logo files, film, and negatives from all of our campaigns from 1935 to the present, up to L. And occasionally the supply closet for those secretaries too lazy to go beyond the front lobby.

“I see.”

“We waste hundreds of billable hours simply looking for previous work. Creative calls it the landfill. I endure it. I’ve even started to learn my way around.”

“And you need someone to organize it.”

“More than that. We need a liaison. Someone between Creative and Accounts to keep it all straight. So that all I have to worry about is Mr. Hargrove.”

“You’re Mr. Hargrove’s girl?”

“Correct. I report directly to him and you’ll report directly to me. Ideally, all the girls will come to you for all their daily needs, eventually. So? What do you think?”

“Well, Miss Caldwell…”

“Christy.”

“Well, Christy… I must tell you I can’t wait to get started.”

“Perfect. Your references were outstanding. They tell me you work just as hard as the boys.”

“Harder, I assure you.”

“Very well,” Christy laughed. “I usually take my lunch at my desk, so ring me anytime if you need me.”

“I take it Mr. Hargrove is rarely seen in the office?”

“Only for quarterly meetings or if he’s bringing clients to the conference room, of course. Rarely on this side of the building. Nothing you’ll need to be worried about. You’ll have a good view on the way to the Creative Director’s office, but other than that, no.”

Christy sighed, adopting an air of confidence. “You’ve been at this for some time, Camille, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you. Only speak when spoken to and all that. And that includes clientele. Refer guests to one of the girls and come directly to me with questions. The girls are easy to overwhelm.”

“Of course.”

“Also, I have to say you’re a bit overdressed. Surely they didn’t put you out front at Cadillac?”

Camille brushed off the backward-facing insult. She wasn’t sure, but she was confident Christy was referring to her being colored. She sometimes wondered if her lighter color was hindering her progress or helping it. It would definitely help her know better what white people thought they were seeing.

Perhaps if she were darker, she would stand out, be more of an anomaly. Would she gain more respect? From some, perhaps. And in turn, more abuse from others. She’d never been dark-skinned, but she had to assume, observing a few instances among friends and family.

She knew they assumed that she had an easier time fitting in simply because of her visual proximity to whiteness. But acceptance was just as capricious for her as it was for them, and sometimes even more unpredictable.

“The men were a bit more out front than the girls were, I’m afraid. They liked to see a potential sale before the door chimed.”

“I see. Well here, there’s no need to worry about… first impressions,” Christy smiled. “I’d feel awfully guilty if something happened to that beautiful dress, where on Earth did you get it?”

“Dior. One of my bosses’ wives handed it down to me,” Camille lied. “You needn’t worry about me, Miss Caldwell. As you said, I’ve been at this some time. I know how to blend in.”

“Thank goodness,” Christy sighed. “I’ve never had to have such a conversation before. I must say, I was dreading it. I had no idea how this was going to go. We don’t get a lot of negroes on the 16th floor who aren’t working the elevator.”

Camille let out a breath unconsciously when her suspicions were openly confirmed.

“I can imagine. But I’ve been doing temp work in the city for five years. I know how to be seen little and heard even less.”

Christy put out her hand for Camille to shake, equal parts guilt and respect.

“Welcome to Hargrove and Chase, Miss Winters.”

“Thank you, Christy.”

“You look stunning.”

“Thank you,” Camille smiled. Her hair was more professional than flirty in a pulled-back curly pompadour from her earlier interview. Her Dior could easily go from day to night. She barely needed the heavy coat on this oddly warm November evening.

“So do you,” Camille dared to add. Lawrence gave her a surprised chuckle.

Lawrence was tall, dark, and handsome just as her sister had promised, and had that bizarre problem attractive men sometimes have where they end up bachelors for far too long, paralyzed by their choices.

It was her first blind date in years but she was pleasantly optimistic. She was a little older now and knew what she wanted. Or rather, what she didn’t want. She kept her expectations at bay.

“Did you have any trouble finding the place?” he asked.

“Not at all.”

“You should’ve let me pick you up.”

Camille smiled. “Nonsense, I was already downtown. Why put you out?”

Lawrence was Donna’s idea, one of her three sisters. Donna was a toffee color, the darkest of all the girls, with reddish-brown hair that the rest of them envied. She got looks from every type of man there was and looked good in every shade of lipstick. She’d only been married a few years to her husband Anthony. Lawrence was Anthony’s co-worker at St. Mary’s Catholic Hospital.

“So, how did the interview go?” Lawrence urged her.

“You know about that?”

“Your sister tells Anthony everything. And Anthony tells me everything.”

“I see,” she smiled. “It went about how I expected. I got the job.”

“Good for you. Whereabouts?”

“Madison Avenue. An advertising firm called Hargrove and Chase.”

“I’m scared a’ you,” Lawrence crooned. Camille cracked a smile then shrugged.

“Just a secretary job, you know. Nothing they wouldn’t have another colored girl doing. Although I may be the first there, who knows.”

“Pay’s good?”

“Better than my last one.”

Lawrence leaned in a bit playfully. “Then that’s all that matters.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

“What are you having?”

“I’ll have a gimlet.”

He summoned over the waiter with a long arm and the nudge of his immaculate jaw, in an elegant fashion that made Camille re-evaluate him. He’d ordered for the two of them, which she hadn’t seen a man do ever. She didn’t know how she felt about it.

“Apologies if I rushed the order, but I came straight from the hospital and I’m famished.”

“So how do you work with Lawrence again?” she small-talked.

“I don’t actually work with Lawrence in a traditional sense. I’m not a medical technician.”

Camille turned her neck a bit in curiosity. “No?”

“No. I’m a doctor. A surgeon, to be precise.”

“Really?” Camille stopped mid-sip, intrigued.

She should’ve been smitten at that very moment. Should’ve been flattered.

A whole black doctor had agreed to go on a date with little old her? Plenty of beautiful girls fresh out of high school who would gladly pop out his babies out of sheer adoration.

Unfortunately, all she could think about was how much he probably worked and how he would eventually want her to quit working. They always do.

“Steak tips and chicken kiev for the lady?” they were suddenly interrupted.

“My, that was fast.”

“Looks good,” Lawrence dug in.

“Careful, it’s hot,” the old black waiter warned, careful not to stain his spotless white gloves.

“You seem shocked,” he noted.

“I’m sure you’re used to it,” Camille replied.

Lawrence gave her a gleaming smile as he used his steak knife. “I am. I must admit I was shocked when Anthony said his sister-in-law was not yet married.”

“I know spinsters have been in short supply after the war.”

He laughed through his bite and then retrieved a napkin. “I would have liked to find a wife while I was in my residency but the hours were grueling. Plenty of my class found wives but I found it cruel. You can’t even provide for the poor girl yet, let alone be awake at the same time. As it was, she never materialized so I had nothing to worry about.”

“You’re very candid, Lawrence.”

He finished a sip of his coffee. “You don’t like it?”

“No, I love it,” she smiled to herself. He observed it across the table, harboring one of his own.

“I think when you get to be our age, you owe it to the world to be candid.”

“Our age?” Camille raised an eyebrow as she performed her own surgery on her kiev.

“I told you Anthony tells me everything,” he muttered with a charming look.

Camille sighed in familial exasperation, rolling her eyes. Lawrence laughed.

“I would’ve found out eventually,” he assured her.

“You’re saying I look my age?”

“Not at all. Are you saying I look mine?”

Camille’s food was finally arranged well enough to dig in. She took a carefully coordinated bite of chicken, broccoli, and buttered rice.

“Everyone knows it doesn’t work like that on men. Of course, you must look your age, you’ve earned every ounce of it.”

“Men may be allowed to age more gracefully at first but in the end, the old woman takes the lead,” he argued.

“You think so?”

“Absolutely. The old woman rules us all.”

Camille’s prep had paid off. Within a few bites they were caught up. She piled the latest one on her fork.

“Only if she has children. Otherwise, her life is seen as a burdensome waste,” she opined.

“Well. I wouldn’t go so far as that. But I do admit it is a sight to see. An old woman, coming into this world as one. Now is three, seven. Twelve or more. My great grandmother has thirty-four grandchildren if you can imagine it.”

“Mine only has five, poor thing.”

“You don’t see yourself as burdensome, do you?” he asked, curious. She tried not to focus on the way he held his utensils, which also happened to be steady and regal. She knew surgery and eating steak were not the same. And yet.

“No. Not yet, anyway. I’ve always liked to earn my way. Perhaps by some miracle that will always be possible in some fashion. My mother thinks I’m mad, of course. She raised us all to be wives and mothers.”

“Anthony tells me you were once engaged. To an army man,” he casually interjected.

Camille chewed while she thought of the best way to broach the subject. “A Marine to be precise. Honestly, I don’t know what to call it. He proposed, that’s true. But we barely knew each other. I was certainly taken with him. We wrote letters. But he died about six months in.”

“I was drafted but they rejected me because I had flat feet. I felt like I’d gotten a second chance at life.”

Lawrence suddenly stopped cutting his meat as if he realized what he’d just said.

“…I’m so sorry.”

Camille gave him a shrug of absolution. “You weren’t wrong. At the time, we all expected it to be over within months.”

“It really was a massacre, wasn’t it?” he openly opined.

Camille’s gaze drifted to the candlelight dancing in the centerpiece. “Sometimes I can’t bear to think of all the brave men that war has yanked out of this world.”

“Not to mention an economic depression.”

“Was it bad where you were?” she asked.

“I was here. My father left us. To find work. It was a dark time. You?”

“My father has a lucrative job with the government. Land surveying, specifically. We had to hide how well we were doing.”

“One of the lucky ones.”

“Indeed. When my fiancee was killed it felt… morbidly overdue. So much tragedy.”

“All in a little over fifty years. Our century is doomed.”

Camille tilted her head. “A bit cynical for a surgeon.”

He huffed. “All of us are cynical. It’s General Medicine who are the optimists.”

“I suppose holding people’s organs in your hands can get a little dull,” she replied.

Lawrence looked up to see her diligently hacking at her kiev and couldn’t tell if it was sarcasm or not. After a bit of silence, he had to laugh.

“This date isn’t going very well is it?”

Camille smiled but didn’t directly answer.

“I honestly don’t know what people expect from putting together a date for two people that didn’t have a hand in choosing it.”

“To married people, everyone is one-half of a perfect match.”

“They didn’t do a poor job, to be fair. You’re probably the most handsome man I’ve ever been on a date with. And who wouldn’t want a surgeon in the family?”

“And you’re as beautiful as they said. More beautiful. Clever. Mature. Would you like another?”

Camille shook her head as she sipped her watered-down drink. “It wasn’t going as bad as you thought it was,” she quietly mused.

“But you admit it was indeed going badly,” Lawrence grinned.

“No, you’re lovely,” she smiled. “But I don’t think I have the heart to give you what you want. Nor do you for me.”

“You assume that you know what I want,” he said with a flirtatious state.

Camille felt heat between her thighs as she reached into her cigarette case. More than she’d felt in ages. “Got a light?”

“I don’t smoke.”

She retrieved her lighter and used it with a sophisticated air. It gave her time to properly assess him. She blew a cloud of smoke away from the booth before she began:

“You want to be a husband, as soon as possible. A father. You want to empty your bank account and buy her a house big enough that she can tend it by herself, maybe afford her a little help. You’ll come home late, and sporadically, but you will always come home. And she’ll always be there waiting. Grateful. Smiling.”

He sat back and wiped his mouth with his napkin, watching her take another drag of her cigarette. A nasty habit, but nothing looked sexier.

“You think it’s obscene,” he deduced.

“No no, I think it’s perfectly reasonable. If I were you, I’d want the very same.”

“I hope whoever she is, she’s built like you.”

Camille gave him an amused look as her cigarette tip glowed orange in her mouth. “My model is still being made faithfully. You must be looking in the wrong places.”

“P.S. 13?”

Camille laughed, tastefully balancing her drink and her cigarette in hand.

“You’re bad,” she teased.

“She even comes with a sense of humor,” he grinned. Somewhat mournfully. If she wasn’t how she was, he might’ve proposed this very night. “You never got engaged again? After?”

“I’m both light-skinned and uppity, Lawrence. I’m only going to get so many takers, especially in the city.”

“Light-skinned and uppity are the same thing, Camille,” he replied with a deadpan expression.

Camille’s smile curled unconsciously. She took another drag. “Where do you live? I’m not going to marry you but I would still like to continue this date.”

“Bronx. I’m not going to marry you, but I’d like to smear that lipstick a little.”

Camille felt a little shock to her middle, glad to be smoking right now. “I don’t know about that.”

“What would it take?” he asked in a low rumble.

Camille finished her drink in one gulp. “You’d have to do everything completely right from this moment forward. I don’t think you could manage.”

Lawrence gave her the intense gaze of a learned man with steady hands and concentration that lasts for hours.

He leaned back and said: “Let me at least try. Waiter? Two more please.”

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