Finding Yvonne

by Brandy Colbert

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Brandy Colbert

  Cover art copyright © 2018 by Erin Robinson. Cover design by Marcie Lawrence. Cover copyright © 2018 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

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  Visit us at LBYR.com

  First Edition: August 2018

  Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Colbert, Brandy, author.

  Title: Finding Yvonne / by Brandy Colbert.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Little, Brown and Company, 2018. |

  Summary: Raised by a workaholic father who is a restauranteur, Yvonne, eighteen, faces difficult choices about love, her training as a violinist, college, and career as high school graduation draws near.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017020284 | ISBN 9780316349055 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780316349062 (ebook)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Fathers and daughters—Fiction. | Single-parent families—Fiction. | Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. | Restaurants—Fiction. | Violinists—Fiction. | African Americans—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.C66998 Fin 2018 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017020284

  ISBNs: 978-0-316-34905-5 (hardcover), 978-0-316-34906-2 (ebook)

  E3-20180620-JV-PC

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part 1.

  Chapter 1.

  Chapter 2.

  Chapter 3.

  Chapter 4.

  Chapter 5.

  Chapter 6.

  Chapter 7.

  Chapter 8.

  Chapter 9.

  Chapter 10.

  Chapter 11.

  Chapter 12.

  Chapter 13.

  Chapter 14.

  Chapter 15.

  Chapter 16.

  Chapter 17.

  Chapter 18.

  Chapter 19.

  Chapter 20.

  Chapter 21.

  Part 2.

  Chapter 22.

  Part 3.

  Chapter 23.

  Chapter 24.

  Chapter 25.

  Chapter 26.

  Chapter 27.

  Chapter 28.

  Chapter 29.

  Chapter 30.

  Chapter 31.

  Chapter 32.

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Brandy Colbert

  For the girls who are still searching

  PART 1.

  1.

  There are three things I know about my father: He smokes pot daily, he doesn’t like to speak unless he really has something to say, and he is one of the most respected chefs in Los Angeles.

  I also know that the best time to see him is at Sunday breakfast. We aren’t around each other much; Dad gets home from work so late during the week that he’s rarely up in time to make a proper breakfast. He usually grabs something light when he gets up, around noon, and then eats family meal with the staff before the restaurant opens for dinner. But Sundays are special. He reserves Sunday mornings for an actual meal that he plans in advance, and there’s always plenty to eat.

  Sometimes I want to skip it on principle alone. I shouldn’t have to set aside one day a week to see my own dad for more than a few minutes. But I love Sunday breakfast, and he’s usually in a good mood because he gets the day to himself, so I find myself at the table every week.

  He’s standing at the counter when I stumble into the kitchen this morning, coating pieces of chicken in a mixture of flour and seasonings.

  “Morning,” he says over his shoulder. “Coffee’s on.”

  “Thanks.” I pour a mug and stand next to the fridge, watching him. “Is Warren coming over?”

  “Should be here any minute.”

  Which means I’ll need to down this cup of coffee if I want to brush my teeth again before he gets here. I slurp steadily at the mug, but the doorbell rings before I can finish. Well, it’s not like anything is going to happen with my father here.

  Warren Engel is standing on the porch in jeans and a plaid button-down with the sleeves rolled up. He smiles and wordlessly reaches for my hands. I pull him inside and we stand looking at each other for a moment, his big tea-colored eyes roaming softly over me before we hug.

  “Missed you last night,” he says in a low voice, though Dad couldn’t hear us over all the banging around he’s doing in the kitchen anyway.

  “Sorry I didn’t make it over. The party went late, and then I just wanted to sleep in my own bed.”

  “It’s cool. I was at the restaurant until late.” Warren was promoted to sous chef at my father’s restaurant a couple of months ago, a big honor in itself but especially since he’s just barely twenty-one. “What’s Sinclair making today?”

  “Come see for yourself,” I say, leading him back through the hallway. His hands trail lightly over my hips as we walk, sending warm shivers up the small of my back, but it ends as quickly as it started. We break apart when we’re standing in the same room as my father.

  We’re not official, Warren and I. We probably would be if he weren’t so paranoid about our age difference. We’re only three years apart, and I don’t think my father would care. He basically thinks Warren can do no wrong.

  Dad is carefully placing chicken legs and thighs into a skillet of hot oil as we walk in.

  “Chicken and waffles?” Warren says, grinning like the day just turned into Christmas. My father has a lot of fans, known and unknown, but I think Warren might still be his biggest.

  “You know it.” My father moves the skillet to a cool burner. “Want to get the waffles going? Iron’s already hot, and the batter’s in the fridge.”

  I reach into the refrigerator to hand Warren the pitcher of batter, then grab the jug of orange juice, too. “Isn’t he off the clock?”

  “Happy to let you take over if you’re so concerned about Warren,” Dad says, smirking as he heads over to the sunroom.

  Not two minutes later, the skunky scent of marijuana wafts through the air above us. Neither Warren nor I bat an eye. My father’s frequent pot-smoking isn’t exactly public knowledge, but it’s certainly no secret around here. He says it’s mostly to combat the stress that comes with owning a successful restaurant, but he also swears that he’s created some of his most iconic dishes while stoned. He probably knows that I’ve smoked, but we don’t talk about it and we’ve certainly never done so together.

  Dad is what I call a professional stoner. He’s been smoking for so long that it’s hard to tell when he’s high. The whites of his eyes turn just slightly pink, and sometimes he takes a little longer between thoughts, but other tha
n that he’s completely functional. Almost disturbingly so. I’ve seen him carry on extremely involved conversations when I know he’s blazed up pretty recently.

  I down a glass of orange juice while Warren tends to the waffles, creating a generous stack on a plate next to the chicken. Dad comes back in just as they’re ready, and we all help transport everything to the table. I carry plates and silverware and quickly set the table as they place the food.

  Eating with my father and Warren isn’t like sharing a meal with anyone else I’ve ever known. Usually people taste a few bites of their food, declare how good it is or what it’s lacking, then move on to more stimulating conversation. Warren and my dad analyze each bite, discussing which spices were or were not used and what they’ve changed since the last time they made the meal. Sometimes Dad gives him tips on his method, but I realized how much he respects Warren when he started asking for his opinion.

  I grew up in the restaurant industry, but I don’t understand food the way they do. Except for sweets. Baking makes sense to me, maybe because there’s science behind it. There’s so much trial and error with cooking. I get frustrated when a recipe doesn’t turn out right the first time, even when I follow it to the letter.

  “I was thinking about going to check out that new spot in Venice,” Dad says to Warren. “The one Courtney Winters just opened up.”

  “Oh, that place is supposed to be the real deal.” Warren wipes his mouth and takes a long drink of water. “You’re going today?”

  “She has a Sunday supper. What do you think?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Warren pauses and looks at my dad first, then me. “You want to come?”

  I pour more syrup over my waffle and take a bite. Even I can’t help but stop and think how perfectly light and fluffy it is as I chew. “I don’t know,” I say, looking at my father. “Am I invited?”

  “Of course you are, Yvonne. I thought you’d be practicing,” Dad says with a shrug.

  I do usually practice my violin on Sunday. It feels like a good end to the weekend. A structured start to the week. But I need a break from the routine sometimes. And now that I’m no longer taking private lessons, I can make my own practice schedule.

  “Can we stop at the boardwalk?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Dad waves one hand in the air as he drags a forkful of chicken and waffles through a pool of syrup with the other. He’s already done with this conversation, ready to get back to food talk.

  The meal with them tonight will be almost exactly like the scene at this kitchen table, only they’ll sample an unreasonable amount of food, and my father will go back to the kitchen to talk to the chef, and I’ll have to hear everything from why he thinks the dining-room sconces are incompatible with the space to him breaking down the components of a sauce.

  It’s exhausting, but I know the meal will be good. My father won’t try just anyone’s food. And I’ll get to spend time with Warren, which always makes me happy. He works such long hours that we don’t get to see each other as often as I’d like.

  Besides, I don’t have anything else to do today. My Sundays used to be filled with violin practice, but with Denis no longer around to crack the whip, I don’t see much of a point.

  It’s hard not to give up on yourself when the person who’s supposed to believe in you the most already has.

  2.

  My geology teacher, Mr. Gamble, used to live in Venice Beach before we were born, and he says none of us would have survived it back then. He says the streets were full of gangs and crumbling bungalows and people addicted to crack.

  Gentrification has changed a lot of that, but luckily the boardwalk has remained as weird as ever. One area is devoted to shirtless meatheads who like to lift weights in front of tourists, the aptly named Muscle Beach. Then there’s the section where the skaters take turns braving the terrifying maze of concrete ramps on their boards.

  But my favorite part is walking down the pavement-lined path that stretches by booths of tie-dyed clothing, shops hawking cheap souvenirs, and doctors who will prescribe medical-marijuana cards in thirty minutes. There are places to grab a drink or a bite to eat, and on the other side is the ocean, separated only by the art vendors, the street performers, and the wide expanse of sand.

  Salt water and incense and competing strains of weed fill the air as I stroll down the boardwalk between Warren and my dad. My father’s phone rings and he looks down at the screen, says he has to take it and he’ll catch up with us.

  Warren and I walk so that our arms occasionally bump into each other, but no closer than that. I think he’s afraid my dad will freak out if he ever sees us touching, but I keep telling him he’s paranoid. My father knows there’s something between Warren and me, even if there’s no label. The fact that I spend the night at Warren’s place so often and Dad never says anything about it should reassure him more than it does.

  “Would you ever live over here?” Warren asks as we pass a table full of heavy silver jewelry displayed on black velvet.

  “I don’t know.” I wrap my arms around myself. The beach is always noticeably cooler than the rest of the city. It feels like we’re not even in Los Angeles, the temperature has changed so much from when we left Highland Park. “It’s so different. And I’d pretty much need to be a billionaire to rent an apartment.”

  “You’re so practical.” He nudges me gently. “If money were no object and you could live anywhere in the city in your dream house—could you live in Venice?”

  “I guess the beach is nice, but I like where we live better,” I say. “I couldn’t handle so many tourists.”

  “It’s probably easy to avoid them when you know your way around.” He pauses. “I think I could hang at the beach.”

  “You’re not allowed to move this far away from me,” I say, shaking my head. “I’d never see you.”

  “You mean not until you leave next year?” Warren’s voice is more matter-of-fact than accusatory.

  Still, it makes me wince. I’ve been trying not to think about the fact that there will probably be a day when we don’t live in the same city. Even if I don’t go to an out-of-state school, there’s a chance Warren could move on himself. He could get scooped up by another chef when my father isn’t paying attention. Or he could just move somewhere else to start his own restaurant, which he’ll inevitably do one day.

  “That’s a whole year away. And we don’t even know what’s going to happen.”

  He doesn’t say anything else about it, and I’m trying to figure out what to say to bring the mood back up when I hear the strings.

  If cooking is my father’s and Warren’s thing, music has always been mine. Dad got me my first violin about a year after my mother left, when I was seven. We tried a few different activities—I guess so I wouldn’t spend all my free time wondering why I suddenly had no mother: dance lessons, Girl Scouts, classes at a local children’s theater. None of it stuck, but as soon as we walked into the violin shop, which was also filled with beautiful violas and cellos that seemed absolutely monstrous at the time, I felt right at home. Even the shop owner, whose deep frown made it clear that he didn’t like children getting too close to the merchandise, said nothing as I walked around slowly, staring in awe at the instruments.

  My elementary-school orchestra teacher, Ms. Francine, told me I had a gift for music. She didn’t say I was the best in the orchestra or even the best in the violin section, but I never forgot what she said. I never told anyone, though. I had been taking private lessons with Denis for a couple of years by the time I started playing in her orchestra. I only realized recently that maybe I wanted that praise all to myself because I didn’t want anyone to taint it. People are always telling my father how great he is at what he does—one of the best—but that was the first time anyone had said that to me, and I didn’t want the validation taken away. Even then, I knew I had to be protective of it; I’ve never stood out for anything besides violin.

  Coaxing bittersweet melodies from the strings of my in
strument has always been satisfying, but performing has never given me the same thrill as listening to other people play.

  The music is coming from a guy and a girl at the edge of the boardwalk. A crowd stands in front of them, but it’s a small group. No more than a dozen people tapping their feet on the pavement, leaning closer to better hear the notes. The makeshift audience is trying to place the song, but if anyone knows it, I can’t tell. Most of them stand there with bemused but pleasant expressions on their faces, as if they were unaware that such music could come from string instruments.

  I put my hand on Warren’s arm so he’ll stop. He looks confused at first, then nods as he sees them. We stand silently, and I let the notes of the old song soar through my ears and into me. Sometimes I hear songs that I like, that are interesting or catchy enough for me to take notice as I’m doing homework or getting ready for the day. Then there are melodies that seep into me, winding through every part of my body with such intensity that I can’t do anything but sit still and listen. It’s not always the song itself; sometimes it’s a certain variation or the musician’s individual stamp that resonates. I can’t pinpoint what it is about the music I’m listening to now, but all I want to do is close my eyes and let it settle into me.

  The girl’s arms are long and graceful as she strikes the bow with confidence against the strings of her viola. The guy’s sandaled foot keeps beat on the ground, barely visible beneath the tattered hem of his wrinkled pants. He’s playing a battered violin as beautifully as if he were standing onstage at Carnegie Hall with a shiny new instrument. He catches my eye through the space between people, and it makes my heart thrum its own distinct rhythm in my chest. I stare back at him for too long before I turn to Warren.

  “So good, right?” I whisper, though it’s not like we’re at a concert. The boardwalk is very much still the boardwalk, with children darting back and forth and people shouting and the commotion around the other performers cutting through the music. But I know what it’s like to perform, when you want to think people are really listening, taking in every single note that you’ve been practicing for months.