The Idea of Love (2 page)

He returned quickly and settled back into his chair without comment. He leaned forward and smiled. The furrows on his forehead made a road map as if he'd been more places than she could imagine.

“So,” she said when he just sat there. “You're visiting every single coastal town in the South? That will take a lifetime, especially if you keep including ones as small as Watersend.”

“Not all, not really. I only choose the historic ones where battles were fought or lands conquered.” He lifted his arm as if holding a sword, and he laughed, nervous and jittery.

“I guess that makes sense.” Ella motioned to the waitress. She knew everyone who worked at this caf
é
. She came here often, to sketch, to have that third cup of caf
é
cr
è
me, and to pretend she was in Paris at Caf
é
de Flore with Sims, the man who had always promised her a trip to the City of Lights.

Darla came over to the table. “What would you like to drink?” she asked.

“Ladies first,” he said, motioning to Ella.

“I already know what she wants,” Darla said. “She's my favorite customer.”

“Ah!” he said. “I should have known she'd be a favorite.”

The compliment was fluffy, made of spun sugar and nothing more. Who was this man and what did he want? Surely there was no harm in having a drink on a Saturday afternoon. Where else could she go? Home to cry a little more?

“I'll have a coffee and a Bloody Mary,” Hunter said, pointing to a nearby table where a tall glass looked tempting and sweaty, the celery stalk growing in the thick peppery liquid.

“Perfect combination,” Darla said, and winked at Ella.

Darla dropped one menu on the table, on Hunter's side, and walked away, tossing words over her shoulder. “I'll be right back with your drinks.”

“Have you always lived here?” he asked, his focus returning to Ella.

“About nine years. This is home now.”

“Lucky you.”

“Lucky me?” Ella shook her head. It was something he probably said in every town. Lucky you, he'd say. Tell me about living here. “So, why are you visiting all these towns?”

“I'm writing about them. That's what I do. I'm a writer.”

“Oh,” she said. “Like a tourist book?” She leaned closer to see his eyes, which were brown but not just brown—boring word. They were different shades of brown, like yarn, something rich with a little gold inside.

“Yes,” he said as if it had just occurred to him that this is what he was doing. “Or no, more like a personality book but for tourists visiting, something to show them what the town is like, the personality along with the history.”

This was boring. Why had she let this stranger sit with her? “Do you have more questions?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said as if this whole idea were hers. “What is your favorite place here in Watersend?”

“The water. Always. I'm sure you've heard the same answer everywhere you go. Why else do people live on the coast? Right?” She sounded harsh and she knew it. Damn it to hell. It had been one of Sims's complaints:
Why do you always have to be so blunt?

“I guess it's a dumb question. You're right.” He looked away as if someone had called his name. “But you're the first person to really answer it that way. Usually someone gives me the name of the dock or the beach they love. The dive restaurant or the oyster shack they go to every day. But not so general, not just … the water.”

“It came out rude, didn't it?” she asked. “I'm sorry. That happens to me sometimes. I think I'm talking nicely but something happens between my head and you hearing it and it's … all wrong.”

He laughed. “You're funny.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I'm really not.”

He leaned forward as if he needed to tell her a secret, the one thing in all the world she needed to know. “Yes, you are.”

Darla returned with the Bloody Marys and a cup of coffee. She set them down, the glasses clanging against the metal table. “You want anything else?” she asked Hunter.

He nodded. “Yes, please. The spinach and feta omelet.”

Ella hadn't seen him look at the menu. How did he know what he wanted?

“Anything for you?” he asked.

“No thanks. I'm not one bit hungry.” She tilted her head at him. “How did you know what you wanted?”

“I ate here yesterday,” he said.

She nodded. “Did you accost some other woman to tell you about Watersend?”

He laughed. “No. I just sat and observed. I watched everyone and tried to get a feel for what people are like here. You know, every place has its own personality.”

“Personality,” Ella repeated.

“We think it is just individuals who have personalities, but somehow people combine to make a place feel the way it does.”

Ella took a long swallow of her Bloody Mary. Yes, extra pepper the way she liked it. “I wonder,” she said to Hunter, the vodka softening the ache. “I wonder what comes first, individual personalities or the city. I mean … I don't know what I mean.”

“No, go ahead. You're onto something.”

“Well … do people conform to the city or does the city conform to the people who live there?”

“I have no idea. But it would seem that people choose a city for its personality, for its character. So maybe the city has its own life and we just choose.”

“You're right,” she said, realizing how very true this was. In a single moment she had chosen this city as her home and never turned back.

“What brought you here?” he asked.

“My college roommate. She introduced me to the place after graduation.” It was vague enough to be true.

“Well, there are worse places to be,” Hunter said. “Are your parents here?”

“No,” she said. “My mom passed away ten years ago but my dad still lives in my hometown about two hours away.” God, she hated that phrase, “passed away,” but how else did you say it? Dead. Gone. Buried.

“I'm sorry you lost your mom. I lost my dad a few years ago.” Hunter took a long swallow of his drink and his eyebrows lifted high. “Wow. Spicy.”

“Oh, Darla must have given you the Ella Special. Yes, it has extra pepper and hot sauce. Maybe I should have warned you.”

“You just don't look like a girl who would order extra spice.”

Ella laughed. “What kind of girl do I look like?”

“I don't know.” Hunter shrugged and looked away. “I'm sorry. I just meant…”

“That I don't look very daring? True, I suppose. Don't worry about saying it. I just like this drink that way. So you're right about me on the whole, I guess.”

“Right about you?”

Ella took another swallow and her limbs loosened. The knot under her chest relaxed. Yes, it was nice to spend time with a stranger. She could say anything at all and it wouldn't matter. She had so many stories inside. She used them to stay calm or go to sleep or even to get through a boring shift when a bride spent four hours deciding between ivory and light ivory. Here she could be a ballet dancer. A call girl. What the hell difference would he know?

“So what else can I tell you about Watersend?”

“Well, I like to get to know the city by the person. So tell me a little bit about you.”

“Trust me, the town is much more interesting.”

“I'll decide if that's true,” he said.

“Okay, fine. I'm here to prove you wrong. I was named after Ella Fitzgerald. My mother was obsessed with her. So embarrassing fact number one is out of the way.”

“I think that's kind of sweet.” Hunter leaned forward.

“Sickeningly sweet.” Ella wanted to chug the rest of her Bloody Mary. Her tongue was itching for it.

“So what else about you?” he asked.

“I was born and raised in a city two hours away. I went to college close to here, Durban College. I'm sure you've never heard of it. After graduation, I wanted the big city, you know? Something so opposite of here that I could become a different person and start over…”

“Why would you want to start over?”

“Youthful fantasy.” Ella stopped.

“What were you studying?”

“Fashion,” she said.

“Are you still in fashion?”

“Yes, I'm a wedding dress designer,” she said.

“Oh, what a great job. You must just love that.”

“I do.” She said this like a woman who knew how lucky she was. “With all the destination weddings and engagements in a coastal town, I'm plenty busy.”

“Yes, Watersend does seem romantic. And with this little caf
é
and the umbrellas and park, it's like Paris almost.”

“But not quite.”

“You've been?” he asked.

“Yes.” Her voice went soft, downy, as if recalling a real memory. “Tell me about you,” she said.

“Me? Boring.”

“We all think we're boring. And maybe we are to ourselves.”

“I write travel books, history books, coffee table books that people buy and look at once and then use as decorative stands for the Waterford crystal bowl they won at the golf tournament.”

He was funny, this Hunter from L.A. It felt good to laugh.

*   *   *

It was like he'd tapped water from stone. He was in now.

“So did you get engaged here like the rest of the world?” he asked.

“Yes. Not very original is it?”

“Love is always original to the person in it. It feels like no one in the world can feel the way you do. Like you've discovered the word itself.” He'd said this one sentence so many times he could feel the words rounding out in front of him before he spoke.

He could tell she agreed by the way she softened, by the way she looked away as if trying not to cry. “Yes,” she said in a whisper.

He wanted more. Her response hinted at a good love story. But how did he ask? He sat silent; sometimes this worked. If you gave the other person space, they wanted to fill it up as if it were an empty bowl.

“I'm sorry,” he finally spoke. “I'm being personal.”

“Thank you,” she said. “But I don't want to talk about my personal life. Okay?”

A swell of frustration filled his chest. “Okay,” he said. “I understand. I really do.”

“Listen, it was a pleasure meeting you and I wish you the best of luck on your book, but I need to go now.” She took a bite from the celery stalk before dropping it back into the glass.

“Can I call you?” he asked. His food hadn't even arrived and she was about to leave.

Her eyebrows dropped into the cutest Y, like a little road to her nose. “Why?” she asked.

“Because I'd love to ask you a few more questions. I'll buy you dinner if that's bribery enough.”

She nodded. “I guess so.”

He pulled out his cell phone. He'd have to trust that she would give him the real number, and not lie to him as he had to her. “What's your number? I'll just enter it in my phone.”

“Here.” She pulled out her own cell. “I'll call you so I'll have your number, too.”

“Great idea,” he said.

That's how he got Ella's number. That's how he felt like maybe, just maybe, something good was finally going to happen. He knew about peaks and valleys. He knew all the philosophical ways to look at failure, how the word
crisis
was just another word for change. He'd heard it all. Bullshit. He didn't need failure to learn something new. He had liked everything in his life exactly the way it had been.

Still, he liked this Ella here and he would call her. He'd wait so as not to freak her out but then he'd call.

“Wait,” he called after her.

She turned and lifted her sunglasses. “Yes?”

“I thought you said you were waiting for someone.”

“I lied,” she said.

He smiled. This girl had nerve. “I'd love to meet your husband, too. Ask him a few questions about the town from his perspective.”

“You can't,” she said.

“Oh?”

“He's dead.” She paused, and then walked back to the table. “I'm sorry. That was rude. He's passed on.”

Blake stood and reached for her arm, but then dropped his hand. “I am so sorry. What happened?”

“Drowning,” she said.

“Oh, God,” Blake said.

She nodded. “It was so unnecessary. He was trying to…” She closed her eyes as if she could see it all again, a reenactment. “My hat flew off and I reached for it. I wasn't thinking. It was all instinct, you know? I lost my balance and I fell out of the boat. Sims dove after me, but it was the motor … it hit him in the head. There was nothing to be done. It happened so fast. And it was all for a hat, a stupid wide-brimmed hat, the kind you see in every beach shop.” She opened her eyes then, and Blake saw the tears collected in them. “I'm sorry, but I have to go now,” she said.

He readied himself to console her, but she turned away, her purse draped loosely over her shoulder. A broken V of white birds slung through the sky and rounded a corner as if to follow her. Blake's palms tingled. This was it. This woman, she had the story. He knew it. And he had to be careful.

two

It was
that
kind of day. The sky a bowl of blue, dotted with birds. The air so warm it caressed the skin. And everyone smiling, taking photos, and holding hands.

Which how-to-get-over-your-loss book had told her to live in the present? Ella had consulted so many that they all blended together.
Notice. Be present. Stay centered.
She tried. She really tried. She focused and noticed the statue in the middle of the fountain, the way the angel seemed to lift its wings to the surrounding water. And beside the fountain, the pink petals that dotted the putty-colored sidewalk. There were benches, too, curved iron ones that circled the angel and the pond.