The Look of Love: A Novel (19 page)

September

L
o sits behind the counter at the flower shop. She’s wearing a blue dress with a black belt that makes her waist appear narrower than ever. She looks beautiful with her hair pulled up into a bun, but her eyes are sad, and when she glances up at me as I walk in the door, I can tell she’s been crying. “He hasn’t called or texted in a week,” she says, staring at her phone. She lets out a long sigh.

Lo confronted Grant after Katie’s wedding. Seeing him there with his wife had hurt her deeply, especially after everything he’d told her about his unhappiness at home and his vision for their future.

“It’s OK,” she continues, composing herself. “I’ve just got to stop obsessing over this, over him. He’s obviously made his choice, to stay with his wife. Fine. But you know what I can’t get over, Jane? You know what I just can’t wrap my brain around?”

I walk toward her and set my bag down behind the counter. “What?”

“I’ve never loved this deeply,” she says. “And I know he feels the same. This love is bigger than anything either of us has experienced. So I’m trying to figure out how he could walk away from that.” She shakes her head in a sort of disbelief. “And then how do
I
walk away from that? How do I wake up every day, go on dates, knowing that I may never love this way again?”

I wish I could tell her that she will, that love is around every corner, that true love can be replicated, repeated, found again. And for some, I suppose it can. But when you’ve had big, bold love the way Lo has felt with Grant, can you find
that
again? I only know what I see, and I saw love between Grant and Lo. I saw intense love. And, like my friend, I wonder how the heart goes on when its match goes unmet.

“It’s such a big risk, this love business,” I say. “You love and you hope, but there are never any guarantees. You build your castle together, in your hearts, and it may all come crashing down at a moment’s notice.” I nod to myself. “I’m afraid of that too.”

Lo looks up. “With Cam, you mean?”

“Yes,” I say. “He invited me to meet his parents. They were going to come out a few months ago, but there was an issue with his dad’s health, and, well”—I pause to let out a big sigh—“Lo, meeting the parents . . . isn’t that kind of a big deal?”

“It
is
.”

“But I can’t tell if he’s introducing me as a romantic prospect, or if he wants me along as some kind of research assistant. He’s unusually fascinated by my brain. And maybe I’m being paranoid, but I don’t want any part of his investigative reporting.”

Lo shifts uncomfortably. “Jane, I wasn’t going to say anything; in fact, I promised myself I wouldn’t meddle.” She sighs. “But what you just said, about being cautious, well . . . listen, I saw some messages on Cam’s phone the night of Katie’s wedding. He left it on the table. Even though I was in a state that day, I couldn’t help but notice the text notifications popping up on the screen. There was some sort of all-caps text war in progress.”

I think back to our romantic turn on the dance floor. Did I imagine that he only had eyes for me? “Did you read them?”

“I could only get bits and pieces,” she says with a sigh. “But, Jane, he seems to be in some kind of trouble at work.”

I’m too shaken to answer, so I change the subject. “I have an appointment to get these roots done in a few. Mind looking after the shop for the rest of today? I may go see my brother afterward.”

Lo nods. “Totally fine. Tell Flynn I said hi.”

“I will,” I say. “And please, try not to worry too much about the Grant situation.” I think of the old book Colette gave me, with the names of lovers from centuries past, examples of true love, fleeting love, all kinds of love. Lo and Grant will find their names in this book; I’ve known that from the day I first saw them together, even if I don’t know the type of love they share or how their story will end—or not. And as hard as she wants their love to stand the test of time, to push past barriers, to be the seed that grows—flourishes, even—in a crack in the concrete, it isn’t in her control, or Grant’s.

“Look at you!” I exclaim, marveling at Mary’s pregnant belly when I walk into the salon.

She smiles and rubs her stomach. “I know, I’m huge,” she says. “If I had a dollar for every time someone asked me if I’m having twins, well . . .” Mary tucks a long strand of auburn hair behind her ear and sighs.

I squeeze her arm. “I know it’s been so very hard, with Eli gone and all.”

She nods. “I won’t lie—it’s been absolute hell. To be pregnant, and alone.” She sighs. “Thank God for Luca.”

“Luca?”

“You remember, my contractor,” she says, as I sit down in the chair. “I never expected it, but he’s become a great friend.” She sighs again. “I’m going to miss him, actually.”

“Miss him?”

She nods, dividing my hair into sections. “The remodel is almost done. Afterward, he plans to return to Italy. He’s been hired by an American millionaire to lead the renovation on some mansion on Lake Como.” She shrugs. “Maybe it’s Clooney.”

I sense hesitation, regret, in Mary’s voice. “Does that make you sad?”

She quickly shakes her head. “No, no, it’s nothing like that.” She runs a comb through an under section of my hair. “It’s just, well, I’ll miss having him around; that’s all.”

As she sets the first few foils in my hair, I think about how love can either hit you like a ton of bricks or simply brush your face like a feather.

“Looking good, sis,” Flynn says when I meet him at Beecher’s in the market for a late lunch.

I run my hand through my newly foiled hair and grin. “Oh, thanks.”

We both order crab melt sandwiches and walk to a bench overlooking Elliott Bay. Seagulls peck around our feet while we sink our teeth into lunch: sweet Dungeness crabmeat, roasted red peppers, and dill aioli sandwiched between two perfectly grilled pieces of bread. In other words, heaven.

“Remember how Mom used to like to sit here in the mornings with her coffee?” Flynn says, wiping the corners of his mouth with a napkin.

“Yeah,” I say, pointing to the bench ahead, which is occupied by a young family. A toddler in Hawaiian print shorts is squealing as he tosses bits of bread at a group of eager seagulls. “She’d just sit there and look out at the bay.” I crumple the sandwich wrapper and set it beside me. “You know, I don’t think she ever got over our dad.”

Flynn nods. “I don’t think she did either.”

“Even when she was happy,” I say, “there was a sad quality to her eyes, as if she was always carrying the memory of him.”

Flynn looks out at the bay, then turns back to me. “I know the feeling.”

“What do you mean?”

“The woman, in the apartment across the street,” he says, rubbing his forehead. “Jane, I don’t know how to describe it. And it makes no sense. I still haven’t even met her. I don’t even know her name, and yet she’s the reason I wake up in the morning.” He smiles. “We have this unspoken language. We wave, we smile, we point and gesture. The other day I wrote on some butcher paper, ‘What’s your favorite flower?’ She wrote on the back of a cardboard box, ‘Orange roses.’ And so I got a big vase of them and set them by the window, for her.”

I smile. “That’s right—Lo said you stopped in and asked for orange roses.”

“She loved them,” Flynn says. “It made her smile, and that’s all I wanted. She doesn’t smile enough. She carries some sort of incredible burden with her. And this man who continues to come see her. I think he’s an ex-boyfriend. His visits leave her in tears. I see her crying, and I so desperately want to go to her. I want to take her pain away. I want to comfort her like I’ve wanted to comfort no other woman.” He turns to me with wide eyes. “Jane, it makes no sense, but I think this is love.”

“Or some form of it,” I say with a grin. “Flynn, how can you know you love her if you’ve never spoken to her? If you’ve never even touched her?”

“I just know,” he says simply.

And I know that Flynn and this mysterious woman will also end up in the ancient book. Theirs is a rapturous, rare, and intense sort of love.

“Ask her what her name is,” I say. “I mean, make a sign asking her.”

“I will.”

Cam picks me up at four, and we board a ferry to Bainbridge Island to meet his parents for dinner at Hitchcock, a restaurant in the sleepy town of Winslow, where they are visiting a local relative.

“You look beautiful,” he says with a grin as we step out of the car and walk hand in hand. It’s a perfect late-summer evening—warm breeze, hazy cerulean sky overhead, couples strolling along the sidewalk, children licking ice-cream cones. “My parents are eager to meet you,” he continues.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the windows of a storefront and eye my pale blue sundress and sandals.
Should I have dressed up a little more?

“My mom grew up on Bainbridge Island,” I tell him.

“What was she like?” Cam asks.

“She was the loveliest person you’d ever meet,” I say. “Gracious, kind, a bit impractical.” I smile to myself. “She once helped one of the fishmongers in the market with a proposal to his girlfriend. Her favorite flower was this rare, and out-of-season, variety of lily. Of course, Mom shipped them in from Peru, at least two hundred stems, and didn’t charge him a dime.” I nod. “She did that kind of thing for people. She loved love.”

“And you loved her,” he says.

“I did, so very much,” I reply.

We approach the restaurant, and I follow him into the dimly lit dining room. A gray-haired couple waves at us from across the room, and Cam smiles. “Mom, Dad,” he says as we near the table. “This is Jane.”

“So nice to meet you, Mrs. Collins,” I say, setting my bag down by my chair.

She hugs me warmly. “Call me Claudia, please,” she says. “And this is Gerald.”

“Very nice to meet you, Jane,” Cam’s father says.

A waiter approaches and hands us all menus. Claudia opens hers and turns to Gerald. “Honey, they have gnocchi here; you love gnocchi.”

“I do not love gnocchi,” he says, grimacing.

“You do; you’ve just forgotten.” She gives me a knowing smile. “He’d forget his head if it weren’t attached.”

Gerald frowns and sets his menu down. “Since you know so well what I like, why don’t you order for me, then?”