The Look of Love: A Novel (24 page)

“Totally,” I say with a smile. “Take it. I’ll sit here with my rare wine.” I swirl the burgundy liquid in my glass.

He walks to the kitchen to his phone and nods. “Yep, it’s her.” He steps into his bedroom and closes the door. I hear the muffled sound of his voice, but I can’t make out any words.

I think of the story of the wine. The full moon, the snowstorm, the rare vintage. I set my glass down and reach for Cam’s laptop. It powers up immediately, and as I’m searching for a Web browser icon, something on his desktop catches my eye. A folder, titled “The Look of Love/Jane.” My heart rate quickens as I click to open it. I feel a pang of guilt, but I can’t help it. My curiosity overpowers me. Inside is an assortment of Word documents titled “Interview Notes—Dr. Heller,” “Interview Notes—Jane’s Father,” and “Neurological Research Study.”

Suddenly, I feel hot, like I’ve just sprinted a lap around a track and have begun to sweat. I peel the throw blanket off my legs and click on a document titled “Jane-Look-of-Love-First-Draft.” When the Word document opens, I almost don’t believe my eyes:

The Look of Love

By Cameron Collins

Jane Williams is not a clairvoyant or a fortune-teller or a mind reader. But if you ask her, she may tell you about her gift, one that is highly improbable, one that defies science, and one she fiercely believes in. Jane Williams can see love.

I shake my head. I can’t read another word. Tears well up in my eyes as I click on a PDF titled “Proposed Cover.” And there I am, on the cover of
Time
. I recognize the photo immediately. It was taken at the cemetery on Bainbridge Island. The photographer was working with
Time
.

I close the laptop and set it back on the coffee table. I feel like a fool. I trusted him, believed him. And he betrayed me.

Cam walks out of his bedroom and sets his phone on the coffee table. “Sorry about that. I swear, sometimes I think my editor is the most unreasonable woman in the world.”

“Oh?” I say, trying hard to disguise the anger I feel. “And why is that?”

He places his hand on my leg. “Let’s not waste our time talking about boring work stuff.”

“As in, the article you’re writing about me?”

His face looks ashen.

“I know,” I say. “I saw it on your laptop.”

“Jane, I—”

“This whole time, it’s only been about your story, hasn’t it? You saw a cover story in me, and you jumped at the opportunity.”

“No, no,” he says. “I mean, yes, it may have started off that way. The magazine told me in no uncertain terms that I needed a revenue-generating cover story. But I assure you, though my initial interest in you might seem mercenary, it grew into something genuine and pure. And when I realized, when I knew—”

“That you loved me? Yeah, you really expect me to believe that?” I point to the laptop. “Is that something you do to the person you love?”

He closes his eyes tightly and sighs. “Jane, I promise, the story wasn’t going to run. It’s what I was talking to my editor about on the phone just now. I told her I refuse to publish it. I’m forcing her to kill it. It will never run, Jane. Please, believe me.”

I slip my feet into my heels and stand up. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to believe you from now on.”

Cam follows me to the door. “Jane, please. Please, let’s talk about this. Don’t go yet.”

“Good-bye, Cam,” I say as I reach for my purse and walk out the door.

So much for love. It was only an illusion.

220 Boat Street #2

December

L
o spritzes perfume on her neck, the kind that drives Grant wild. He’s told her so on many occasions. She loves the way he compliments her. The way he praises her beauty, the way he notices when she wears something new or does her hair in a special way. Grant notices her in ways she has never been noticed before. And there is no doubt in her mind that she’s becoming addicted to this brand of being noticed. She craves it, needs it, like a drug.

Tonight will be special. Grant is coming over for dinner, and even though he has only a few hours, Lo will squeeze every ounce from them. An hour or a minute—she’ll take any amount of time he can give, and these days, it’s less and less.

She sets her lipstick on the bathroom counter when she hears a knock at the door.

“Hi,” she says to Grant.

“Hi,” he says back.

She loves the way they can just say hi, and it can mean everything and immediately bridge the gap between them. Hi. It’s their way back to each other, time and time again.

Inside, he kisses her passionately. He is hungry for her love, just as she is hungry for his. Never mind that the risotto is warm and ready to serve, that the salad is dressed and tossed. They don’t care about dinner, or the bottle of wine he has set on the kitchen counter. Lo takes his hand and leads him up the ship’s ladder to her loft bedroom. She wants to feel his skin on hers. She wants to taste his mouth, to hear his breath in her ear. And she does. They devour each other, over and over again, until they are lying still in each other’s arms.

Grant brushes a strand of hair out of Lo’s eyes. “For the rest of my life, I only want this.”

“Me, too,” she says, her eyes locked on his.

In this perfect moment, she wishes she could forget that he has a wife, children, a family across town. But these facts linger like a dark cloud; they hover with them in bed, nudge at them when they kiss, follow them with their every step. And Lo knows that the time is coming: She must receive Grant’s full, complete love, or she must find a way to live without him—forever, maybe.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, running his hand along her arm.

“Our future,” she replies. “And the steps we need to take to get there.”

He nods soberly, the way he always does when she brings up reality. “Yes,” he says with a sigh. “I’ve been thinking a lot about that. You know I have been. It’s all I think about. Because you are my love. You are all I want. And yet, it’s so hard. Every day I go home, and my wife is there, cooking dinner. The girls are seated at the island helping, chopping vegetables, smiling. They’re all unaware that at any moment, I might drop a bomb on their world and destroy it. I feel like I’m premeditating a crime, wandering around my house as if it’s the site of a future crime scene. The victims are all in place; they just don’t know what’s coming.” He kisses Lo’s hand. “Listen, I know what I want. And it’s you, but there are times that I don’t know that I have the guts to do what I need to do to get to you.”

She sits up, her mind coursing with a thousand emotions: shame, for interfering with a family; fear, that Grant won’t be able to pull the trigger; love, for a man who may never fully be able to commit himself to her.

“Baby, don’t cry,” he says, wrapping his arms around her. She loves the way he embraces her, with his full self. She is his, and he is hers. Except that he is not entirely hers. She will say good-bye to him tonight, and he will go home to another woman, whom he will lie beside. They will talk about their children, laugh about something funny one of them did today. He’ll watch an episode of
True Blood
. She’ll pull up a TED Talk on her iPad. Their arms will brush as he pulls the covers up over himself, and they’ll fall asleep together. And Lo will be alone.

“I can’t do this much longer,” she says. “I can’t share you like this. It isn’t right. It isn’t fair to your wife, and it isn’t fair to me.”

“I know, I know,” he says with a long sigh. “It’s on me. It’s all on me. I need to do what I need to do.”

“Then do it,” Lo says. “We can’t go on like this forever. It will kill me; I know that for sure.”

“Believe in me,” he says.

She nods.

“But do you?” he asks, tilting her chin up so that her eyes meet his.

“I do.”

“Good. Because you know what we are?”

She shakes her head. “What?”

“We are unbreakable.”

She nods. “Unbreakable.”

“And we will be unbreakable in Paris.”

Paris, with Grant. It’s everything Lo has wanted, and yet, somewhere in a far corner of her heart, she worries that the trip is simply a consolation prize.

“I can’t believe we’re leaving on Christmas Day,” Lo says.

“Yes,” he replies. “It was tough on the home front, but I’ll open presents with the kids when I get home tonight. And believe it or not, it was easier to get two first-class tickets out of Seattle on the holiday than before or after.” He smiles. “Maybe we can drink eggnog on the plane.”

She laughs. “Eggnog?”

“Good, then,” he says. “I’ll swing by and pick you up in the morning.” He grins devilishly. “Bring that red dress I love.”

“Paris,” Lo says wistfully. But she knows it’s not Paris they need; it’s for Grant to make his decision—to be all in, or all out. But Paris is a beautiful, shiny distraction. It’ll numb the anxiety, the fear, for a little longer. And it will mean more time with Grant. She’d do anything for more time with him.

He stands up and puts his pants on, then buttons up his shirt, before glancing at his watch. “I’m sorry, I have to go. I said I’d be back a half hour ago.”

Lo frowns. “But you haven’t even had dinner. I made your favorite, risotto.”

“Next time,” he says, leaning in to kiss her once more.

She always hates when their time together comes to an end. She hates to watch him slip away from her world and return to his. And as he climbs down the ladder, she listens as he grabs his keys from the counter and closes the door to the houseboat behind him. His footsteps clack on the dock, until they disappear into the winter night, and he into his life, his real life. Back to his wife, back to his children.

Lo wipes a tear from her cheek. She dresses and descends the ladder to the kitchen, where she grabs a spoon and eats her risotto alone, right from the pot. She pours herself a glass of wine and takes a sip. Her keys sit on the countertop, and without a second thought, she reaches for them, and then her coat.

She knows where Grant lives, in a beautiful home on Queen Anne Hill. He recited the address to her once. It’s easy to remember because as a high school student she babysat for a wealthy family on that very street, and the Flower Lady has many long-standing clients in the neighborhood, one of Seattle’s finest.

She gets into her car. Tonight she wants to see his world. She wants to drive by his house, to see where he comes home to every day after work, where he rests his head at night. And there it is, the big, beautiful Tudor on Highland Drive, with its gabled roofs and leaded glass windows.

Lo’s heart races as she stops on the street in front of Grant’s house. She turns off the engine and the headlights and looks into the big living room windows. And there he is: Grant, wearing the same shirt she just tore from his body, standing beside his two daughters. They’re talking, smiling, in front of their enormous Christmas tree, which is beautifully decorated, not an ornament askew. A moment later, his wife walks over and completes the picture-perfect scene. Lo feels a wave of nausea as his wife hands him a glass of wine and tucks her arm around his waist, nestling her head against his chest.

Lo begins to cry, and as she turns on the engine and drives down Highland Drive, away from Grant, back to her world, she realizes what heartbreak truly feels like.

T
he air outside is icy, and it stings my cheeks as I step out of my apartment building to the sidewalk. White frost covers the roof of the market, where vendors are clothed in heavy coats and hats. I cinch my scarf tighter around my neck and smile as a station wagon with a Christmas tree strapped to the top drives by. I think of Mom then, the way she used to let Flynn and me pick out the biggest Douglas fir in the lot, and somehow she’d wrangle it onto the car and drag it up to our apartment. It must have taken so much effort to pull it off every year, but she managed to make it look easy. And with our faces sticky from candy canes, we’d watch her fit the trunk into the tree base.

I miss her, as I always do so acutely at this time of year.

I unlock the shop and turn on the lights. For the first time in more years than I can count, Lo called in sick. She was crying on the phone, so I know her malaise is more emotional than physical, but it worries me just the same, or perhaps even more.

“Take all the time you need,” I said. And yet, with the rush of orders coming in for Christmas Day, it’s the worst time to be running the shop solo, especially after the drama with Cam. So when Flynn calls and offers to lend a hand, I’m beyond relieved.

“How’s it going, sis?” he asks, setting his messenger bag beneath the counter.

“Honestly, not great,” I say, scrolling through the newest orders that have come in from the website. “I’m still dealing with Cam’s betrayal.”

I told Flynn about Colette, my gift, all of, it months ago, but the existence of his sister’s mystical gift was less shocking than a best friend who could betray her. I sigh. “They were going to put me on the cover, Flynn.”

He shakes his head. “I still don’t believe it.”

“Believe it,” I say. “And he interviewed Dr. Heller, and apparently even our father.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I saw the interview notes. It seems he tracked him down in Oregon.”

“So our deadbeat dad surfaces in Oregon. That’s unexpected news.”

“I know.”

“I’m so sorry, Jane,” Flynn continues. “At least you found out, before . . .”

“Before my photo was plastered all over every newsstand in America?” I sigh. “And the crazy thing, Flynn, is that I thought it was love. I thought I was actually in love, and that he loved me.”

“Maybe he does love you,” he offers. “But I’d still like to wring the guy’s neck.”

I shake my head. “No. But anyway, throwing someone under the bus for your own interests, career or otherwise, is not love.”

“But didn’t you just say he was going to pull the plug on the article?”

“Yes, he said that, but how am I supposed to believe him?”

Flynn nods. “I thought he was a friend, or I never would have introduced the two of you. Now I understand why he’s been avoiding me. He was too ashamed to face your big brother.”

I direct him to a shipment of holly and greenery, which he begins moving to the back room.

“How about your girl?” I ask. “The one in the apartment across the street. Tell me you’ve finally met her.”

He shakes his head. “Not yet.”

“Flynn, what would it take, really, to just walk across the street, take an elevator up, and knock on her door?”

He smiles. “I know, I know. It makes no sense that I haven’t done it yet. I guess I’m afraid.”

“Of what? That she’ll speak in a Miss Piggy voice?”

“No,” he says, laughing. “I mean, maybe. I guess I’m afraid that in-person won’t be as amazing and wondrous as adoring her from afar. Does that make sense?”

I nod. “Sure. You’ve fallen in love with a fantasy. And it’s become sort of a game.”

“Yeah,” he says.

“But games end, remember.”

“I was thinking I could bring her flowers tomorrow, for Christmas,” he says.

“And my birthday,” I say, mostly to myself, thinking of Colette and her warnings about what will happen if I turn thirty without fulfilling the obligations of the gift.

Flynn is still thinking of his lovely neighbor. “If she’s alone,” he continues, “which I’m sure she’ll be, I can cheer her up.”

I smile. “I think that sounds like a perfect plan. I’m proud of you.”

“I’m proud of you too,” he says.

The shop phone rings, and I run to answer it.

“Jane, it’s Dr. Heller.”

I’m silent.

“Jane, are you there?”

“Yes,” I say stiffly.

“Cam called to tell me that you discovered the article. Jane, I’d love for us to talk. Could you come into my office today?”

“Dr. Heller, I don’t know that there’s anything left for us to discuss.”

“There is,” she says. “I’d like to apologize to you in person, and I won’t feel right until I can explain myself. Can you be here in an hour?”

“All right,” I say. “I’ll do my best.”

I walk into Dr. Heller’s office that afternoon and feel a pang in my heart. Although I didn’t read Cam’s interview notes with her, the mere fact that she’d even think to speak to a journalist about me gives me pause. It has rattled my trust in her, trust I’ve built since childhood, when she’d dangle stuffed animals above my head to get me to focus while she examined my eyes. Today, I want to look her in the eye and ask her how she not only betrayed my trust but violated medical ethics.

“I’m glad you came,” Dr. Heller says when she walks into the room. “Please, let’s go talk. Maybe in the cafeteria? I’ll buy you a coffee.”

I nod and follow her to the elevator. We ride to the third floor in silence, and when the doors open, the smell of boiled broccoli and burnt French fries hits my nose.

We stop at the coffee cart. Dr. Heller orders two coffees, and we head to an empty table.

“Let me start by saying that I didn’t know he was recording me,” she says. “I asked him to keep my comments off the record.”

“Off the record, or on the record,” I say. “Dr. Heller, I’m honestly shocked that you’d even think to speak about my condition to anyone without my consent.”

“I know, Jane; I was wrong. And I violated some established medical ethics. I’m not proud of that. But, please, I hope you know that it came from a place of good intent. You know I have cared about your health since the first day you came into my office as a young child. And when you refused the surgery, I felt that maybe by talking to Cam, you’d come around. Maybe together, with his understanding of science and my medical knowledge, we could convince you to make the right choice for your health. For what it’s worth, I believe he cares about you and ultimately wanted you to see that surgery was the only way.”

“And betraying me was his way to do it?” I shake my head and sigh.

Dr. Heller refolds her hands in her lap. “I realize I handled this all wrong. I only hope that someday you can forgive me, and also Cam.”

I take a deep breath. “I cannot forgive Cam. But, Dr. Heller, of course I forgive you. You have been like a mother to me. I know you only have my best interests in mind. I just wish that you would have understood that no matter how much science or medical data, I have to make the right choice for me, even if it seems illogical or foolish.”

“You’re right,” she says. “And I am grateful for your forgiveness.” She pauses for a moment. “And what about Cam? Can you ever forgive him?”

I shake my head. “Colette told me she saw love between us, but even that knowledge is not enough. He wanted to sensationalize my story, to capitalize on it. He saw me as a great byline—the moment he met me last New Year’s Eve, in fact. I know that now.”

“That may be true,” Dr. Heller says, “but what you can’t deny is how his feelings may have changed and grown over this year. I believe he loves you, Jane.”

I shake my head and smile to myself. “No, it’s not love. It was a figment of it. A hologram.”

“But you believe in love, Jane,” she says. “I know that about you.”

“I believe in it for others, just not so much for myself.”

Just then, Dr. Heller’s nurse, Kelly, waves from across the room. She holds a tray from the cafeteria as she approaches our table.

“Please, join us,” I say.

“No, no,” she replies. “I don’t want to interrupt. I’ll just grab another table.”

“Kelly, please, feel free to sit down,” Dr. Heller says, smiling. And as Kelly takes her seat, I feel pressure behind my eyes. It’s light at first, and I almost dismiss it entirely, but then it intensifies, and I blink hard when a film of fog envelops my vision. I can hardly believe it. I’ve gotten it all wrong. All this time, I thought Dr. Heller was in love with Dr. Wyatt. But no. Dr. Heller loves Kelly. And Kelly loves her in return.

“Jane,” Dr. Heller says, jumping to her feet. She kneels beside me and holds my wrist to take my pulse. “You’re having an episode, aren’t you?”

I nod.

“Can I get you some water?” Kelly says nervously. “Can I do anything?”

“No,” I say. “I’m OK.” I sit still for a long moment, and when the fog lifts, I turn to Dr. Heller, who’s still kneeling beside me. Her eyes are moist, as if tears might spill from her lids at any moment. And I realize, for the first time, that she believes.

“You understand now, don’t you? You finally get it.”

Dr. Heller looks at Kelly, then back at me. “I do,” she says, wiping a tear from her eye.

“Now you see,” I say, standing up. “That’s what true love does to me.”

Kelly smiles at Dr. Heller. I turn to the elevator, then look back at the two of them. “I’m so very happy for you.”

As I drive out of the hospital parking garage, I reach for my phone to call Colette. Tomorrow is my thirtieth birthday, and I am ready, finally, to write my findings about love in the book. I want to tell her about it. About Cam. About the jumble of thoughts pulsing through my brain and heart.

I dial her number, but there’s no answer, so I decide to drive straight over, parking on the street in front of her building. I take the elevator up to her floor and see from a distance that her door is ajar. “Hello,” I say, peering inside. “Colette?” My voice echoes back to me.

As I push the door open wider, I’m shocked at the sight before me. The apartment is empty, the bookcases bare. The old velvet drapes hang limp and lonely from the bay window ahead. Colette is gone, and the only sign that she ever lived here is sitting at the center of the room. The old flower cart, which once brimmed with blossoms on a Parisian street, now sits empty in an abandoned apartment in Seattle. I reach for the envelope taped to its side.

Dear Jane,

I must leave you now, for my work here is complete. You must continue on as I have done before you. I wish you happiness, but most of all, I wish you love. Don’t ever lose sight of it.

Yours,

Colette

I can’t believe she’s gone. I think of her flying into New York City. Or Rio de Janeiro. But I really hope she has gone to Paris. I hope she will take a second chance at love, and I hope she will succeed.

I wheel the old cart to my car, and I’m happy to see that it fits, with a little angling, in the back of the station wagon. As I climb into the driver’s seat, my phone rings. It’s Mary. “Jane, tomorrow’s the big day. I want to make sure you can still be there to meet my baby girl.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I say. “What time is your induction?”