Finding Camille
by C.L. Donley
Genre: Historical BWWM Interracial Romance
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.
Excerpt 1
After three months Camille still hadn’t run into Mr. Hargrove again since they met at Cadillac.
She sometimes heard him around the office giving Christy orders, or respectfully addressing the other girls as they walked by. He was usually walking into his office with clients, or out with them from the conference room.
Camille observed him differently now. At Cadillac, he was imposing and important. At Hargrove and Chase it was the same, but only internally.
To the outside world, he made himself into whatever he needed to be at the moment. If he was with boozy clients he made himself into a lush. When clients came in from out of town, he knew all the places to take them. With chauvinists, he was a womanizer. With the cosmopolitan, he was a renaissance man.
She seldom laid eyes on him. When she did, it always sent her a rush. Right before she turned and went the other way.
He was the highest-profile boss she’d ever passively worked for. A giant in the industry, picking up where his legendary father had left off after 25 years in the business.
He stayed at arm’s length with most of the office, a slight exception for the department that was the most responsible for keeping the lights on: creative. Even then, sharing the same space with them was reserved for account business or some morale-building attempt to get the copywriters to bust their balls without thinking to ask for a raise.
So far, he hadn’t addressed her. If for some reason he managed to be in the same part of the building at the same time, Camille found another route. If she couldn’t do that, she kept her head down and refused to be seen.
She wasn’t actively trying to avoid him, but some part of her felt slighted. She assumed that he’d procured her from her previous assignment because he’d been jealous for her to do some similar work for him.
Though she was grateful for the challenge, her current assignment resembled the one at Cadillac very little. So she was at a loss. It seemed as though he’d taken her away from a far more lively environment to stow away in one of his closets.
She’d long settled in and was starting to doubt the fate that even brought her. It was as though she’d imagined ever meeting him. She was beginning to hatch a plot to somehow sneak into personnel and see what she could find out for herself.
Until the day she felt his tall lingering presence darken her doorway.
Slow and deliberate he moved across the hall, like a Thanksgiving parade balloon patiently headed down Broadway. The smell of wealth wafted closely behind and her brain was in the midst of knowing as soon as her gaze had too quickly raised to automatically meet his.
She didn’t remember him being so towering the first time she saw him on a lazy Sunday with his family. Or so young. He practically took up the entire door frame. And it dawned on her that it was strange for him to already be the head of such a company when he wasn’t much older than her.
She had no time to take in the immaculate cut of his brown tweed suit and vest, a hand pulling back one edge of his suit coat like a curtain as he reached slowly into his pocket.
Her eyes shot down as she rose slowly out of her chair, as slow as she could manage. She’d done everything but curtsy.
“Mr. Hargrove.”
“The infamous Miss Winters, I presume.”
Presume? Did he not remember her?
“If you’re looking for Miss Caldwell, I believe she’s having lunch at The Tea Pot this afternoon.”
“Actually, I was looking for you, Miss Winters.”
She raised her eyes and nodded casually. “Of course.”
He gave her a tentative, diplomatic smile.
“Forgive my rudeness, taking so long to finally greet you formally. How are you liking it here?”
“Very much, sir.”
“Everyone treating you well?”
“Of course, Mr. Hargrove.”
“I’m asking sincerely,” he said in a secretive way. Intimate. Beyond the implications of her race or gender, as though she were an old friend.
No wonder his only job was to tell clients how brilliant they are for bringing their business here.
“Everyone has been stellar, sir. Thank you.”
“That’s good. I want you to let me know personally if anyone is giving you trouble here, Miss Winters, is that understood?”
“Mrs. Chase told me the same.”
“Did she now?” he replied, amused.
“Almost verbatim, sir.”
“Well. I will let you choose your own allies, Miss Winters.”
“I’d prefer to come to you, sir. If it’s all the same,” Camille grinned.
Another eternity stretched between them and Mr. Hargrove took a breath. “Good. Miss Caldwell has been singing your praises since you started, and she’s not alone. Keep up the good work.”
She held back another smile. “Thank you. Mr. Hargrove.”
He was about to walk away when she caught his attention. “Sir…”
He addressed her, somewhat startled. His crystal blue eyes were attentive, every dark brown hair perfectly in place. She swallowed.
“Forgive me, I couldn’t help but wonder… how you and the family are enjoying the Cadillac. Sir.”
“Very much,” he chuckled.
“I’ll have to pass it on to my former colleagues.”
“No need. Wayne is a friend of mine.”
“Of course.”
Luckily anyone who could’ve been watching had been doing so from the other side of the door. But it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. She never noticed Mr. Hargrove stop at anyone’s door in the short months she’d been there, and it must’ve been just as rare to the office.
Casual conversation with Camille Winters all but stopped after that day. She couldn’t guess the nature of the sudden change in regard, but she supposed it was inevitable. It was the way of every office she’d ever worked in. But inwardly she was glad of it.
Excerpt 2
“You never answered my earlier question,” Mr. McCain startled her as he sat back down in the large Chesterfield leather booth.
“Which question was that, Mr. McCain?”
“What do women want?” he repeated, offering a cigarette with his case open. She refused. Mr. McCain smoked menthols.
“Difficult to say. Not all of us want the same things.”
“Of course you do.”
“Oh, I see. You already know the answer, is that it?”
Mr. Hargrove re-joined them in the booth.
“You want more. More of everything. And all without feeling guilty.”
“Miss Winter’s isn’t your typical housewife, Drew,” Mr. Hargrove insisted, reaching for his own cigarette.
“I think surveying a colored woman about this may skew your research,” Camille said, still dutifully holding onto the purse in her lap.
Mr. McCain tilted his head as he took a drag, intrigued. He decided he was in the mood to learn something. “You’re saying colored women don’t want more?”
“Colored women are still trying to get the full portion of whatever it is white women want more of. And you’d be hard-pressed to make us feel guilt about any of it.”
“Colored women have families, keep houses,” he argued.
“They also keep other families and houses.”
“Is that what your mother did?”
“Not a day in her life. She met my father practically the minute she set foot in America and that was that.”
Mr. McCain blew out a cloud of smoke. “So it’s really your mother I should be talking to.”
“Perhaps. But my mother has plenty and doesn’t want anymore.”
“She envies you, I bet.”
“She doesn’t understand the impulse to work. Because my grandmother worked in the rice fields in Guyana and raised her to make marriage her only goal, which she did. My grandmother hates the fact that I work. I’m the only one of my sisters not married. She says my mother didn’t marry a light-skinned man just to see her daughter not snag a husband.”
Dinner arrived all soups and salads. Upon realizing she hadn’t ordered like a person with money, she felt a bit embarrassed.
“Well, you may have dodged a bullet, Miss Winters. The data is in. Housewives are bored. Unfulfilled. Their work is monotonous.”
“Most hard work is. The only reason modern women love the workplace over the home is the reward system goes from long term to short term. With motherhood, the only job well done is the 20-year fruit of a functioning adult, added to society. Between the money, promotions, pats on the back, a job is a constant validation drip compared to keeping a house.”
“Holy shit. Ken, you writing this down?”
“I’m paying you for the ideas, Mr. McCain.”
“You’re saying colored women don’t have this same desire for constant validation?”
“No. I’m saying the grass is always greener. Find me a time period, Mr. McCain, where colored women weren’t acquainted with work.”
“But how long have they been paid for said work?” he pointed with his cigarette between his fingers.
“Jesus, Drew,” Mr. Hargrove cringed.
“It’s a valid notion,” Mr. McCain defended.
“Be that as it may, the working world is not some promised land to us. Nor is the need to be taken seriously, to be honest. We know what it is, and we know what it isn’t. Middle-class white women, less so. Our priorities are exactly opposite, nor will they ever be the same.”
“Your theory is good,” Mr. McCain exhaled a cloud of smoke, grinding his cigarette into the crystal ashtray, “but it certainly doesn’t explain you.”
Camille took another measured spoonful of soup to her mouth. “No, I suppose it doesn’t,” she agreed.
Excerpt 3
For her first day at Hargrove & Chase, Camille wanted to exude professionalism, 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.
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.
“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.”
Can you, for those who don't know you already, tell something about yourself and how you became an author?
I’m a 30-something stay at home mom and have been writing romance for nearly four years now. I’ve always been a writer, but I always thought writing novels was too daunting. And then one day I realized that I was passionate about romance, and it all clicked! I write contemporary romance with heroines of color, since I’m a heroine of color, haha. But they typically take place in small-town or suburban settings like the ones I grew up in.
How to find time to write as a parent?
Well, my kids are in school now, which helps a lot. But keeping a household and writing full time is not easy. Ultimately it is nice to be able to escape from one into the other. If I’m stuck or tired of focusing on the daunting task of a book, I have plenty of other stuff piling up to do, and that typically does the trick of un-sticking me. I’m in no way disciplined, but when I’m focused on something, I won’t stop until it’s done. So, I try to just go easy on myself and eat the elephant one bite at a time.
Do you write one book at a time, or do you have several going at a time?
I always tell myself I’m going to have several going at once, but that never happens. Last year I tried to write five books at once… and now I have five incomplete books, lol. Actually, that’s not true, Finding Camille started out as one of those so that makes four. I do like to have at least one rough draft under my belt before I start a new one, so that there’s a buffer between me and that next deadline and I’m not psychologically overwhelmed by the process of churning out books.
Do you try more to be original or to deliver to readers what they want?
I’ve always tried to strike a balance. I’m doing a lot of standalones rather that books in a series, for example, which everyone will tell you is not the strategy for “writing success.” And over the years I’ve gotten a lot of feedback about my most successful books, and how my readers want to read more. Obviously, I know that would be a smart business move, but if I’m not feeling it, it just will not come out. And I’d hate to push through and just write something subpar. So, I can’t say I’ll never do something, and I hate feeling like I’m ignoring the feedback of my readers, but I have to remember it was my instincts that turned these books into fan favorites in the first place. And ultimately, I have to trust those instincts first.
C.L. Donley is a future New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author of multicultural and interracial romance, who believes romance novels that are impossible to put down are the only kind that should exist! Armed with a B.A. in English and M.A. in Writing, she is new to the romance game, having written her first novel, Amara's Calling, after discovering the romance genre in September 2017. Donley writes in a style she calls "romantic realism" that is sophisticated yet simple, grounded yet unaplogetically escapist, and character-driven rather than plot-driven. This style creates a unique, modern reading experience ideal for book club discussions, personal epiphanies, satisfying re-reads, and the occasional spiraling reviewer! Love it or hate it, fans and critics alike can't deny her talent, and always find themselves coming back for more!
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