The Look of Love: A Novel (21 page)

“Congratulations,” I say to her when her eyes meet mine in the mirror. “I saw the proposal.”

She forces a smile. “Oh, thank you. I . . .” She catches her own eyes in the mirror again and looks away quickly, as if she can’t even bear the sight of herself.

“Something’s weighing on you, isn’t it?” I ask.

She rubs her forehead, then looks around the restroom, which is now empty. “God, what is wrong with me? I should be happy,” she says, and points to the doorway. “The most amazing man I’ve ever met just asked me to marry him. I should be doing cartwheels right now. But I . . .”

“But you don’t love him.”

She nods. “I don’t love him. I could learn to love him. I mean, look at him. He’s—”

“He’s not your love,” I say, as my heart begins to beat faster. It isn’t my place to interfere, but she already knows.

She nods. “You can see it, can’t you? Is it that obvious?”

“No,” I say. “It’s not obvious at all. I just have a . . . well, a knack for these things.”

“My mom’s going to hate me,” she says. “She wanted a summer wedding. She’s already booked the ballroom at the Fair-
mont.”

“But it’s your life, not hers,” I say. “And besides, your love is out there. Just be patient, and keep your eyes open.”

She sighs. “I wish it were easier. I wish I could know my heart better.”

“You already do,” I assure her. “In fact, you’re one of the brave ones who listen to it.” I place my hand on her forearm. “You’re listening to it right now.”

The ferry horn sounds, and the captain announces over the loudspeaker, “Now arriving Bainbridge Island. Passengers, please return to your vehicles.”

“Thank you,” she says to me as we walk out together.

“You’ve got this,” I reply, noticing the handsome, short-lived fiancé who waits a few feet away.

Sam wags his tail excitedly as I return to the car, and together we drive off the ferry onto the island, passing Winslow and continuing on for several miles, until I see the sign marking Hidden Cove Road beside a bank of big, fluffy fir trees. The cemetery isn’t far. A moment later, I pull into the driveway, park, and let Sam out for a break before taking the flowers and walking along the moss-covered stone path to my grandmother’s grave. I place one of the bouquets beside her headstone and smile. “Hi, Nana,” I whisper. “It’s me, Jane. I miss you.”

Beside her is my mother’s grave. “Oh, Mom,” I whisper, as tears stream down my face. “How I’ve missed you.” I set her flowers on a mossy patch, then kneel beside the grave. I hear the crunch of gravel behind me, but when I turn around, no one is there. “I’m so lost, Mom,” I continue. “You see, I have this gift, this ability. The eye problems I’ve had all my life are not a neurological disorder, though Dr. Heller would beg to differ. Mom, I have the ability to
see love
. The first person to show me true love was you. And now I have to figure out what to do about it. How to go on. What it means for me and the people I care about. And, Mom, I don’t know. I just don’t know. I wish you were here.” I place my hand on her headstone, just as the wind picks up and blows a stream of chilly air through the cemetery. I shiver. A single red-tinged leaf drifts from a maple tree overhead and falls beside my leg.

I turn around when I hear footsteps behind me. A man is standing uncomfortably close, as though he might have been there for a while, listening to me talking. It takes a moment to connect the dots, but I recognize him, the photographer from the ferry. I notice his Converse sneakers, because in high school I had a weathered pair in the same shade of blue. “Excuse me,” he says. “Do you think you can give me directions back to the ferry? I’m a little turned around, and the navigation function in my rental car doesn’t seem to be working.”

“Sure,” I say. “Just turn right out of the cemetery. Then take a left at your first stop sign. Follow the road as it winds up to 305, then take a left. That will get you back to the terminal.” I pause for a moment. “I think I saw you on the ferry earlier. You were taking a photo of that couple who got engaged.”

He grins. “Yeah, they were cute, weren’t they? I couldn’t help but get a shot.”

“What brings you here?”

“Oh,” he says, pausing, “I’m a freelance photographer. Just taking some photos for an assignment.”

I nod. “Well, good luck.”

“Wait,” he says. “Do you mind if I take your photo? I just noticed your green eyes. They’re rare, you know. Green eyes. I’m doing a photo collection of green-eyed people. Just a little pet project, not sure if I’ll do anything with it. I’d love to get your photo, right here, if you don’t mind. The light is so gorgeous, the way it’s filtering in through the fir trees.”

I shrug. “Why not?”

“Thanks,” he says with a smile. “Now, step back a few feet, and maybe lean against that tree.”

I nod and follow his instructions.

“Now, lift your chin up a tad. . . . There, perfect.” His camera clicks once, twice, three times. “Now turn to the right, as if you’re looking out at the cemetery. . . . Perfect, just like that. Just a couple more.” His camera clicks several more times, before he pauses to look down at the screen. “Oh, these are amazing.”

My eyes wander up to the sky, where dark, angry-looking storm clouds are hovering, ready to pounce. I wonder what Bernard would make of their form today. I don’t see any image in particular, but their churning presence leaves me feeling uneasy.

“Yes, this is a strong series,” the photographer says.

“Good,” I reply. “Will you send me one?”

“Sure,” he says.

I give him my e-mail address, and together we walk back to the parking lot.

“Your golden retriever?” he asks, placing his hand on the back window, when Sam jumps up and starts barking loudly.

“Sam, stop that,” I say. “Sorry, he never does that. I think he’s annoyed that I’m not taking him on a walk.”

The photographer smiles. “Well, I’ll let you go. Thanks again for the photos and directions.”

A single orange-tinged leaf has fallen on the windshield, and when I lean over to retrieve it before getting into the car, a bolt of lightning flashes nearby, followed by a thunderclap.

“Let’s go, Sam,” I say, setting the leaf on the dash.

1301 4th Avenue

November

F
lynn inserts his key into the lock, steps into his apartment, and sets his bag down by the door. He drops his keys on the countertop, and the sound echoes into the air of his lonely home.

Cam was supposed to stop by the gallery tonight, but he didn’t show. His friend has seemed preoccupied lately, but Flynn isn’t going to let him avoid a heart-to-heart on the subject of Jane. He has to look out for his sister.

There were women at the gallery. Gorgeous women. A blonde in stilettos made a beeline across the room to talk to him. He could have had her; he knows that. He could smell her desire like a shark smells blood in the water. He could have taken her hand and pulled her into the back room of the gallery, pressed her up against the wall, pulled her panties down, and lifted those long legs up around his body. Then they could have come back to his apartment, where he’d light the candles in his bedroom and rip every shred of clothing off her body and tune her like a fine instrument until she released the kind of beautiful music he’s so hungry to hear.

But Flynn came home alone, as he has done for months on end, because there is a woman in his life. She is both near and far. He can see her, but he cannot have her. He cannot touch her beautiful skin or let his hands wander the curves of her body. Not yet. She is delicious and enticing and intoxicating, and he would rather be in her presence, even separated by glass and concrete, than have anyone else standing beside him in the flesh.

The lights are on in her apartment, and her windows shine like a beacon in the night. Flynn can see a bottle of wine sitting beside two empty glasses on the kitchen island. Does she have a visitor? He scours the apartment, and at first he sees only her cat, who leaps from the coffee table to the couch. But then she appears, walking from the bedroom like a goddess. She wears a black dress that clings tightly to her figure. Just the sight of her sends electric pulses through Flynn’s body, and he extends his hand to the window, fingering the glass lightly as if he expects to touch her soft skin.

She sees him then. She knows he’s watching her. And she likes it. She likes his eyes on her. She likes how she can captivate him. And he captivates her. She watched him making coffee this morning. She let her eyes pore over his nude body as he stood in the kitchen, the curve of his shoulders, the strength of his back, and what lies below. Oh, it made her temperature rise, just the sight of him.

Flynn watches as she turns, suddenly, to the front door. Moments later, she invites a man inside. He is tall and good-looking, in a dark suit. Who is he? Other than the man who occasionally comes over, the one whose visits seem to disturb her, Flynn hasn’t seen any other men in her presence. Could this be a new boyfriend? A date?

Flynn can’t take his eyes off the two of them. He watches them together like an episode of a TV show in which there’s about to be a major plot twist. And there is. The man suddenly pulls her toward him and kisses her. Their mouths are locked together for a long moment before he begins to undress her, tugging at the zipper on her dress until it relents. He carries her to the plush white rug beside the couch and lays her on her back as he unbuckles his belt and lets his pants fall to the floor.

Flynn’s heart beats faster. He wants to shout, “No!” But it is not his place. He has no claim on this woman. He has no right to her body or her heart, and yet, his body pulses, and his heart aches as he watches this strange man press himself against her. It’s horrible and wonderful at the same time, and he cannot look away. His eyes are fixed on that window, on the rise and fall of her body. He can imagine what she sounds like, her screams, the sound of her breath. He can feel her skin, so soft and taut. He can taste her.

She turns to look at him again, almost boldly. She sees him watching her, and she reaches toward the window, just as Flynn raises a hand to his window.

Minutes later, the man gets up, dresses, and leaves her apartment. Flynn watches as she walks to the kitchen, bare breasted, wearing only black underwear, and returns with a large sheet of paper with two words written in all capital letters:
I’M SORRY.

Flynn wipes away a tear from his cheek. He sees the sadness in her eyes. He feels her pain. Can she feel his? He remembers the large board of presentation paper he purchased recently for a meeting at the gallery. He retrieves it and quickly writes the words:
IT’S OK
.

She reaches toward the window again as Flynn writes a question on another piece of paper:
WHY
?

Her response, on a large piece of paper she finds in her kitchen, comes quick, and it hits him like an arrow to the heart.
BECAUSE I COULDN’T HAVE YOU
.

Her words are both tragic and comforting. He knows no other response but to smile. And she does too.

He holds up another sheet of paper:
WHAT’S YOUR NAME?

CELESTE

I’M FLYNN

HI FLYNN

HI CELESTE

1112 Broadway Avenue E. #202

K
atie opens her eyes when she feels the morning sun on her face, streaming through the window of the bedroom she shares with Josh. He’s still asleep, and she’s careful not to wake him. She loves watching the rise and fall of his bare chest, this man she adores. She loves seeing him so perfectly peaceful.

Minutes pass, and Josh finally stirs. He turns to face her and smiles. “I will never grow tired of this face,” he says, pulling her toward him.

He hungers for her in the morning, and within seconds their bodies are passionately entwined, just as they were last night. When they pull apart, Katie lies beside Josh smiling, sweat glistening on her skin. She cannot imagine greater happiness.

Josh stands up, and she watches the sculpted muscles in his legs as he walks to the closet to dress. He throws on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt before jumping on the bed again beside Katie. “I’m going to go grab some coffee at Ladro. I’ll get you a double Americano. Want anything else?”

“A scone,” she says. “The one with the currants.”

He runs his finger from the top of her neck down to her shoulder, and her skin erupts in goose bumps. He could have her again, right now, and she’d be his. It could go on and on, uninterrupted, all day. Their love is, in a word, electric, and in his presence, Katie feels sparks. Real ones.

“All right, a scone it is,” he says, standing up.

“Hurry back,” she says coyly.

He nods, and then he is gone.

An hour passes, and Katie finally gets up to dress. A sweater and leggings, hair in a ponytail. After another hour, she calls Josh, but there’s no answer on his cell phone. By noon, she peers out the window. The car is still in the driveway. He must have walked. So she grabs her keys and sets out to the sidewalk. Maybe he ran into a friend and decided to grab lunch on Broadway.

She continues on, stopping at Caffe Ladro. She sees a plate of fresh currant scones in the case. Her stomach growls. “Excuse me,” she says to the twentysomething clerk behind the counter. He has a nose ring and a sleeve of tattoos on his left arm. “Did you see a man in here earlier? Tall, navy blue long-sleeved shirt. Baseball hat. Good-looking.”

“Yeah,” he says. “A few hours ago. He was over at that table with a blonde.”

She shakes her head. “A blonde?”

“Yeah, I think so. He ordered a currant scone, and”—he pauses and squints as if trying to recall something—“I think a breve.”

She nods. “Yeah, that’s him.” In all of Seattle, Josh is the only person she’s ever met who orders breves regularly. She teased him about it when they first met. “Do you know that a tall breve has a hundred and forty-six grams of fat in it?” Katie knew. She used to work at Starbucks in college.

“Thanks,” she says, pulling out her phone again, annoyed. She dials Josh’s number, but there’s no answer. If he had a meeting with a colleague, or even a friend, why didn’t he tell her?

She orders an Americano and walks home. Her mind is abuzz. Maybe he has a surprise for her. She inserts her key into the lock. After all, he surprised her with this very home. She smiles, remembering the way he carried her over the threshold, before they made love on the floor of what would be their master bedroom. Yes, it has to be some sort of surprise. He’ll show up in a few minutes with her cold coffee in his hand, and it will all make sense.

But the hours pass, and it doesn’t. The sun sets, and Josh doesn’t come home. She calls his cell phone eleven more times, and then eleven more, but he doesn’t pick up. She replays the morning over and over again in her mind. Did she say something to offend him? No. Was he mad when he left? No.

Finally, she calls his best friend, Joey. “Hey, it’s Katie. Have you heard from Josh today?”

“No, why?”

“Well, he left this morning to get coffee and never came back.”

“That’s odd,” Joey says. “Do you think something . . . happened?”

“God, I hope not,” she says. “I just can’t make any sense of it. He left around nine and said he’d be right back, but that was almost twelve hours ago. He’s not answering his phone. Can you try him?”

“Sure, of course.”

“Call me if you hear anything, OK?”

“I will.”

Katie paces the floor, calls Josh’s cell phone another fourteen times, eyes the window repeatedly, and finally decides to call the police.

“My husband didn’t come home this morning,” she says breathlessly into the phone. The words she just uttered are unfathomable. For a moment, she believes she might be dreaming, and when she answers the officer’s questions on the phone, she barely recognizes her own voice.

Hours pass. She watches the second hand of the clock tick around and around, until her eyes are heavy and she closes them, alone, in their king-size bed.

The next morning, Katie opens her eyes, and for a blissful moment, she’s forgotten that Josh is gone. The terror returns when she reaches over to his side of the bed and feels the coldness of the bare sheets.

She sits up in bed, reaches for her cell phone on the bedside table, and calls Josh again. When his voice mail picks up again, she sobs into the phone. “Josh, where are you? I’m so scared. Did something happen? I called the police. I’m so worried.”

She stares at the phone for a long time. A minute. Five. Twenty. She has no sense of time as it passes, just that it’s passing without Josh beside her. What if he was mugged? What if he was kidnapped? Or worse.

She turns to her phone, just as the screen lights up with a call. It’s Joey.

“Hi,” she says hurriedly. “Any news?”

“Ah, well, yes,” he says cautiously.

“What?” Katie’s heart pounds in her chest. “Is he OK? What happened?”

“Yes, he’s OK,” Joey says in a voice that is far from convincing. “Katie, I don’t know how to say this, and I don’t even quite know what Josh is going through, but I spoke to him.”

“You did?” Her heart begins to race. “Where is he? What did he say? Why hasn’t he called me?”

“He asked me to call you,” he continues. His voice is hesitant, cautious. “He said he needs some time to work some things out. He needs some space. That’s, well, that’s why he didn’t come home yesterday. And he feels like a coward, but he couldn’t bear to tell you himself.”

Katie shakes her head. “I don’t understand. What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t really understand either,” Joey replies. “It’s like something snapped. I asked if I could see him. I thought I could talk some sense into him if I could just see him face-to-face, but he won’t even tell me where he is.”

“Joey, I don’t understand this at all. It’s like he’s having a midlife crisis or something.”

“I don’t know,” he continues. “He just wants you to know that he’s OK, and that he needs some time to think before he comes home.”

“Joey, do you know how messed up that is?”

“I’m so sorry, Katie. It is, and it doesn’t sound at all like Josh.”

She feels overcome with panic. “Maybe he’s under duress. Do you think he’s being held hostage?”

“No,” Joey says. “It didn’t seem like that at all.”

“Oh.” She pauses for a moment. “When I went to find him at Caffe Ladro, they said they thought they saw him there earlier with a blonde.”

“A blonde?”

“Yep.”

“Listen,” Joey urges her, “don’t jump to conclusions. Maybe he’s going through some stuff and just needs some downtime. Guys do now and then.”

“But he could have at least called me directly, Joey,” Katie says. “I’m his
wife
.”

“Just be patient,” he says. “I’m sure he’ll come around.”

She sets her phone down on the bedside table. She buries her head in her hands and weeps. So much for perfect love. Because you can blink your eyes and it can vanish, without explanation, leaving you with only your memories and your tears.