#emmareevcs

Okay, there was no such thing as cheap groceries in L.A. Maybe if she knew where the markets were, that'd be the ticket, but then what would she make? Would farmer's markets sell cup of noodles and gummi bears? Probably not. That didn't seem like something that'd fit the farm-to-table motto. It was her own fault for leaving it to the last minute, anyways. Her basket only had room in the budget for the essentials, cans of cat food at the top, before she could round the corner for the noodle aisle.

"Mrs. Reeves?" The words were barely thought of, eyes acting first to spark open the mouth, the power of surprise. "Hey! Hi!" She readjusts herself, straightening up from leaning over. She probably doesn't recognize her. "It's Zoe. Zoe Marshall. I know Rowan, so maybe you kinda know me, not that we're like super close or anything, but..." Her bottom lip is drawn in to stop the rambling, sight drifting to what she's taken off the shelves for new conversation. "Do you like always do the shopping?” Def felt like an assistant would be on the payroll for that sort of stuff. “That's really cool! Looks like you're making lasagna or something? Sounds yum. I wish I could make that!"

The artwork is beautifully done, but Cal has never been a good judge of it. He would never be able to tell the difference between something real and a forgery, and what would it all matter in the end? As long as it brought the viewer a drop of joy, where was the harm in it all? What doesn't bring an overwhelming sense of smiles and laughs is a portion of the collection that is much darker than the rest--in subject and in literal pigment. He's long passed the gory thing, though, now lingering by a piece that's not getting as much love as the rest, but he can't precisely admit that's the only reason he's gravitated to its placement in the Reeves' palace.

"Gorgeous, yeah?" His body rounds an invisible corner, attention directed towards her, slipping near, standing by her side, face lighting up with a glimmering flame. "Can tell from miles away, I can. Have a sense for these sorts of things. Hard not to notice." They're two people in a private gallery, at a private party, both of which belong to her, half of it, at least, but that wrinkle doesn't much stand very tall to him, irons out with ease as his head turns to her, smiling. "Paintings a bit of all right, too, innit?"

She could ask Carlisle anything, knowing the answer she would receive would be glimmering smiles and held-back laughs. He was an open-book whether he wanted to be or not, honest to a fault, even in his half-truths. They had been friends far too long to believe nothing was changing in his gaze. It was falling more so on one than most times before, and that was always where the danger laid. He was too oblivious to catch it, heart too willed by simple pleasures to catch. It relied on her to be the voice of reason, as it always did.

"Thank you for making the time to see me, Mrs. Reeves," she spoke the moment the editor of Axed appeared in her office's doorway, open specifically for this very occasion. "I hope Mr. Fairchild did not embellish the invite with his own interests when he met with you." Siobhan was at her desk, standing over the neatly organized papers, vision rising to give Emma her full attention with a hand gesturing to the empty chair. "Have a seat, please."