Chapter 5
Mark cursed all privacy laws and bureaucratic BS. What kind of college refused to give out information on one of its students when doing so was for the student’s own benefit? It wasn’t like he was asking for a Social Security number. A name, that’s all he needed. Didn’t the Gates powers-that-be get that their students’ successes rubbed off on them?
His skipped his phone across the desk like a stone, and it landed with an unsatisfying thud on the plush carpet of his tenth-floor office overlooking San Francisco Bay.
He’d spent all summer seeking a new collection for his family’s chain of high-end jewelry stores. Every place he’d traveled, whether on business or for pleasure, every time he’d been online, every competitor’s shop he’d spied on. But nothing had compared to that Gilty bracelet.
What was it about the piece? He could describe it using all the correct artistic terms. But that meant nothing; it had to be seen to be appreciated.
He’d been trying to reach someone at Gates College of Art and Design’s main number since he’d spotted the piece at their student show in June. The first time he’d called, he’d been told the professor he needed to speak to was already gone for the semester break. Mark had clearly identified himself as a buyer from Harrington’s. Tried to sweet-talk the receptionist into understanding that all he wanted to do was help Gilty advance in her career, but nothing he said would budge her. She was sorry, but she was not permitted to release personal information of any student.
Now, when he’d finally gotten through to Gilty’s returning jewelry prof only to hear that the student in question was no longer enrolled in the school, Labor Day had come and gone.
His long-simmering frustration had boiled over, leading him to shout questions at the person on the other end of the phone. The answer had been a click and a dial tone. No surprise, there. After all his stalking, they had him pegged as a nut job.
Greaaaat. How was he going to find the artist now? San Francisco was one of the biggest cities in the country. The woman—could be a man, but the design had Mark convinced it was a female—could simply melt into the West Coast art underground.
He rose from his desk and rambled over to the wrap-around windows to retrieve his phone and gaze out at the multicolored palette of the Bay, hands clenching and unclenching in his pockets. Business was flat. The whole industry was flat. What he needed, yesterday, was a fresh new line—something so irresistible it would have people reaching for their platinum American Express cards again.
It wasn’t that he was getting any outside pressure—yet. This quest was totally personal. But, for Mark, self-imposed pressure was the worst. He’d show Aunt Gloria and Dick, her doom-and-gloom CFO, that he had a good eye and a head for business.
Their never-ending razzing over his pulling As in his design classes and only B-pluses in business back in college was getting a little old. But that was nothing compared to just last spring, when Keltoi, the vendor he’d put so much stock in, had failed to perform. It was the first big chance Gloria had given him, and he’d blown it. In a meeting that still made Mark wince when he remembered it, Dick had outright accused Mark of relying on his aesthetic instincts instead of standard business practices—and though it killed him to admit it, Dick was right. Mark had been so sure that Keltoi’s merchandise would be a hit, he hadn’t taken their less-than-stellar sales history into account.
Mark knew damn well that if he were any other employee, that incident would’ve had him put on probation with the company. Hell, if not for the obligation Gloria felt to her late sister, he would never have gotten this job to begin with. Was he beyond being fired? Probably, if it were only up to Gloria. But Mark had a feeling there was nothing Dick would like more than to get Mark out of the way so that he could exert more influence over his aunt.
Now, because of Gloria’s generosity, Mark had been given a second chance for next spring. If he brought a fantastic product to the table from a company with a solid track record, she’d have to fund it. Because even in a bear economy, people somehow always found the money for that must-have item.
But as much as he’d avoided dwelling on it, time was running short. He’d already spent most of his spring budget. The final market of the season was back in New York at the Javits Center, one week from today. He’d cut back his orders with his regular suppliers, waiting to find the creator of that bracelet. If he didn’t find her by then, he’d have no choice but to shop other vendors.
The line he sought had to be youthful, yet sophisticated. Original, but not outrageous. Not cheap—Harrington’s didn’t do cheap. The price point should be a hair out of reach for the young urban professional; high enough to give her pause, but within the realm of possibility. And he knew exactly what it would look like: a whole line based on the Gates Purchase Prize winner.
Mind swimming with merchandising plans, he returned to his desk and picked up the eight-by-ten photo of the bracelet in its protective sheath. The new line would work for dress or casual, young or old. He wanted that bracelet topping the Christmas list of every chic woman he’d seen walking through Union Square that summer. And it would be available exclusively at his stores.
Exhaling his frustration, he sat back down and typed Gilty into his search bar.
Just one, last time.
Right. Who was he kidding? He’d told himself he was through with his Gilty obsession so many times it was sick. That was usually right before he started making excuses for why Gilty wasn’t on the Internet: Artists were a breed apart. Some of them were obstinately anti-technology, others so poor they couldn’t afford computers. And some were still experimenting with their Web pages, their logos, their whatevers. Artists were known perfectionists. Who knew? Maybe Gilty wasn’t even called Gilty anymore. Mark had already spent uncounted hours scrolling image-only pages, in case the elusive artist had changed her tag to some other moniker. But he’d never come across anything quite like that bracelet.
And then: Bam.
There it was, in exquisite detail on his oversized desktop screen. His back muscles clenched. Holding his breath, he zipped down the page, tearing his vision away from all the other photos of related rings and necklaces—difficult as that was—seeking that magic word: contact.
He scooted forward, eyes glued to the screen. She must’ve launched the site only very recently. Her font was Arial, her wallpaper pink granite. And the rest of the motifs—well, one element couldn’t be separated from another. The entire page possessed an incredible harmony. The site was undoubtedly the creation of the bracelet artist.
Mark jumped up, snatched his phone, and punched her location into his GPS, twice messing up the address in his haste. Vallejo. Georgia Street. He’d been there before, taken that route on one of his many jaunts up to the wine country. A fuzzy impression of struggling galleries and one-of-a-kind shops came to mind. The directions said he could be there in forty minutes.
Frantically, he scooped up his sweater and keys, but suddenly his characteristic caution had his hand freezing around his key chain. He could call first. What the hell was he doing? It wasn’t like him to jump in the car and run up to Vallejo on the basis of a website. The Web was notoriously untrustworthy; and Gilty Artisanal Jewelry hadn’t listed specific studio hours. But the town wasn’t that far away, and Mark was antsy to get out of the office. Even if Gilty herself wasn’t in, it’d be worth it to finally touch something concrete, if only the facade of her building . . . to peer into the window of the artist whose name he was going to make a household word.