The Idea of Love (23 page)

“What?”

“Did you … fall for her? Sleep with her?”

“God, no. What are you talking about?”

“The way you describe the main character, this ‘Emily.' It's like she's a goddess. You have her photos all over the bulletin board out there. You describe her hair and eyes like you … really know her.”

“It's called fiction, Ashlee. Writing. Making it up. She's just … a girl who lost her husband and designs wedding dresses.”

“Okay, then.” Ashlee continued reading. “This is brilliant, Blake. Really amazing. You're right. You nailed it.”

“Thanks so much. I'm going for a run. I'll be back in a bit.”

“Uh-huh,” Ashlee mumbled and scrolled through his script. He could see over her shoulder. She was at the part where the boat's rudder was found.

Blake slipped on his running clothes and when he bent over to tie his shoes, he was dizzy. The room spun like he'd been drinking JD for days. He was so deeply tired that he changed his mind and walked into the living room, flopped down on the couch, and fell into a sleep so deep that he didn't even notice when Ashlee came in, dropped a note on the desk, and left.

*   *   *

Nesting. That was the divorce term for their week-on-week-off arrangement, although usually it applied to families who were taking turns living in the house and taking care of the kids, not to a man staying put while two women rotated in and out of his life. Being there, in her house, with her things, obliterated almost all other concerns.

Amber was there the last morning of Ella's “week.” They sat across from each other at the kitchen table where they cradled their coffee mugs in their hands.

“Either he's in or out,” Amber said. “He can't have it both ways like this.”

“You want him to end up with your sister, don't you?” Ella didn't feel any heat in the words; it just seemed a fact. “Can't you just be happy that we are trying to work things out?”

“I am happy for you. If you want Sims back and he's coming back, I'm happy for you. But I'm not happy that he's jerking you both around. Keeping you both on a string while he figures out what is best for him.”

“That's not what he's doing. He's been with me every day. We've never talked so honestly. We are talking about why it might have happened. Where we went wrong. How we can fix it. We've talked about forgiveness and reconciliation and how to prevent growing apart again.”

“Prevent what he did? Like you can get a shot for it? Or wear protective gear?”

“No.” Ella exhaled. “I don't know what to say to you, Amber. I love him. He's my husband. We're talking it through. I haven't even let him spend the night yet.”

“Well, then where do you think he's spending the night?”

“At the apartment he rented.”

“Sure thing.”

“What are you saying?”

“I'm not saying anything. I just don't want you to get hurt again.”

“Listen, there are two parts to every marriage and I know that I wasn't perfect, either. Relationships are complicated and…”

“Have you considered therapy or anything like that?”

“Maybe … not yet.”

Amber reached across the table and took Ella's hand. “I know. And I also know that I'm not a relationship expert. Hell, I can't make one last more than six months. But please don't take blame where there isn't any.”

“Can we talk about something else, please?”

“Absolutely. Like me?”

“Like you,” Ella agreed. “Tell me what is going on in Amber World.”

“Well—” Amber leaned back in the chair and smiled. “Now that you ask. Let's see. Best Day Bakery wants to sell my cookies but I really don't want to get into that—you know, becoming a full-time baker or whatever. I love just making them for special occasions. What would my parents do? I mean, I'm here to run the family gift shop. It would collapse without me.”

“But you could be the Sister Schubert of sugar cookies,” Ella said.

“Great, so I get famous for making everyone fat, and my parents lose their store.”

“So dramatic,” Ella said. “But you know what this town really needs?”

“Good men?”

“That, and a movie theater and a bookstore.”

As they talked through the options, life appeared as it always had: something manageable that could be solved over a cup of coffee. They talked about friends Ella hadn't seen or had been avoiding, about Amber's parents' need for her to work for them and not go out on her own. They debated the pros and cons of the town's wedding business and whether Amber would ever want to marry after seeing all the heartbreak of her best friend and sister.

When Amber finally left, Ella returned to her preoccupation with the house. She was so immersed in reunion with Sims, with her soft bed and familiar kitchen, that she called in sick to work. She filled the refrigerator, cooked Sims a few good meals, and caught up on some sleep without Bruiser barking below.

Tomorrow she'd return to Crumbling Chateau and Swept Away. The honeymoon was over, so to speak, but it had been a remarkable high even without Sims spending the night. Some semblance of normalcy was starting to take hold. He'd rented a loft apartment in the new building downtown: fresh and clean, with a view of the square. Ella wasn't even jealous. She was just content to be in her house for a full week spending time with Sims, talking, and trying to find their way again. She felt hopeful. No, more than hopeful. He'd tried to spend the night every night, but she'd refused. “Not until you come home for good,” she told him. Hope, it was a light and breezy thing.

Her walk to work the next afternoon was glorious, the kind of day when the wind was gentle and the sun held its full blaze behind the clouds. The sidewalk, cracked and uneven, seemed right. Almost everything seemed right. Except when she thought of Hunter.

Ella approached the front door of Swept Away just as Margo walked out. She moved aside to let Ella in. On instinct, Ella glanced toward the shoe section and made sure it was all in order. Far from it. Boxes were stranded in the middle of the floor, shoes were unmatched and discarded on the couch and chair. “God, who had the shoe section yesterday?” Ella asked.

“No one because you called in sick,” Margo answered.

“Why didn't Nadine or Jackie do it?”

“Because they were busy with their jobs while you weren't doing yours.”

Ella didn't give Margo the satisfaction of a reply. She just walked to her section and began to put everything back in place. Dead flowers drooped over the white vase like they'd fainted. Ella threw the rotting stems in the trash. It might be a crap job, selling shoes to bratty brides, but she took pride in it.

Margo entered the section and stepped over a box. “I have a big announcement, so there's a staff meeting in fifteen minutes in the backroom.”

“Okay,” Ella said.

“You don't look sick,” Margo said. “That was a quick recovery.”

“It must have been food poisoning,” Ella said.

“Sure thing,” Margo said.

In the fifteen minutes before the meeting, Ella had her section looking exactly as it should. She ran next door, grabbed peonies from the flower shop, and then entered the backroom where the staff waited. Margo entered the room in her white suit, one she only wore for important occasions or interviews with new clients, and clapped her hands. “I have the most fabulous news,” she said. “One that's not only career changing for me, but will affect the store in the most positive way.”

No one said a word. The four staff members waited while Margo just beamed at them. She stood in front of a desk and leaned back on its edges, her hands behind her back.

“Well, what is it?” Nadine finally asked.

Margo flung her hands out and held up a drawing, a wedding dress in full color on cotton paper. Ella took in a breath; God, she wished she could sketch something that beautiful: the way the bodice held at the waist and then blossomed out like a flower, the lace and threading pattern in expanding echoes through the skirt and to the hemline. The tiny pearls that lined the sleeves and neckline were exquisite.

“This design, my White Diamond, which is named after my favorite hydrangea bush, has been chosen as a finalist in the Vogue Bridal Design Contest. I'll fly to New York in two weeks to attend a ceremony where they'll announce the winner.” Margo took a deep breath and placed the sketch back on the desk. “Even if I don't win, the design will be featured in
Vogue
. This can only be good news for all of us.”

Nadine was the first to respond. She jumped up and ran to hug Margo. “This is so fantastic.”

Margo clasped her hands in a prayer position and said, “Prayers for all of it.”

Ella couldn't move. Something was wrong. The wistful need to have drawn something that beautiful turned upside down, inside out: she
had
drawn that dress. That was her dress. Yes, it was gussied up, as her mom used to say. It had been colored in and brought to life, but it was still hers, the one she'd drawn at the caf
é
table with Hunter.

Jackie and Trey had joined in the congratulations, but Ella couldn't move. She was stuck to her seat, a weight like concrete on top of her.

“Ella?” Jackie called back. “Are you okay?”

For Ella, this was a familiar feeling, one she wished she didn't know, the same one she'd had when Sims had said, “I'm in love.” A fearful loneliness without a way out. An almost claustrophobic panic.

“She's been out sick,” Trey said, and then walked to Ella. “Baby, you need water or something?”

Ella shook her head and then stood. She would do this differently. She walked to Margo. “You know that's my design. We both know that.”

“Wait”—Nadine touched Ella's elbow—“What are you talking about?”

“That design. It's mine. You took it, Margo. You know that.”

“No.” Margo's voice was so calm, like Sims's, as if the facts were indisputable. “I gave you back your design. I told you—it was too much like mine so I didn't keep it.”

Ella shook her head. “No.”

“Oh, please,” Margo said. “You're not a designer. I saw a little drawing you did and then gave it back to you.”

“I have it,” Ella said, and turned to Nadine and Trey and Jackie. “I can show you.”

“Oh, Ella,” Margo said.

Ella felt the crazy coming on, the need to tear apart Margo's sketch, or throw all the shoes in the river. That wouldn't get her anywhere. She needed solid ground to stand on, some self-respect. She took in a long breath and walked out of the room, through the dress shop, past the dressing rooms, through the flower pavilion, and veils. She grabbed her bag, put one shoe box back in its place so it lined up perfectly with the others, and then walked out the front door, hollering over her shoulder, “Bye, bye.”

Ella paced through Watersend, back and forth, landmarks familiar and not seen as her mind scrolled through the options. Even if she showed everyone the sketch, they would say she drew it right there, right then. She could call
Vogue
and tell them, but she'd sound like a jealous employee, a wannabe who sold shoes in a small town.

“Enough,” she said out loud to the sidewalk, to the air, and to the world. “Enough.”

She was exhausted. She was finished with things happening
to
her. Sims. Margo. Amber. The landlord. It was time to
make
things happen.

Mimi's apartment was so quiet that Ella didn't want to knock. She placed her ear on the door and listened. Nothing. She reentered the stairwell and went back up to her apartment, where the musty smell washed over her. She lit a candle and put on some music—her mom's favorite—Ella Fitzgerald. She turned the volume to high and put the kettle on to boil. Her sketches were still on the table, and there it was: the dress. She ran her finger over the edges of the sketch, the pearls on the sleeves and neckline. This was hers, even if Margo claimed it as her own. This design was Ella's alone.

With a hot cup of tea, she sat down and organized her portfolio. Lost in the anatomy of dresses, she divided them by style. She named each dress and sorted them according to waistlines, sleeves, and embellishments. Hours passed. Her mind quieted, the heartache of the day became a dull throb.

When she'd finished, she looked down and saw what had been there all along in the art of her designs: collections. She had three distinct collections. She was, without anyone labeling her as such, a wedding dress designer.

In a long stretch, she surveyed her apartment. She wouldn't stay. She was going home and staying home. Sims could make his own decisions. It didn't take long to pack her suitcase, put her few dishes and kitchen appliances in a box. The bedspread and sheets were folded and in a plastic bag when she called Sims and left a message. “I'm moving back into the house for good. You can join me if you'd like or you can stay in your apartment.”

*   *   *

Blake sat on the metal bleachers at the lacrosse fields, watching his daughter play midfield. Her plaid skirt and navy T-shirt made her indistinguishable from any of the other girls. But Blake knew the way she ran, the twist of her arm when she threw, the holler of joy when something went right. What he didn't know was how she felt about anything. He'd tried to spend time with her—every day, in fact. They'd had nice times, but still she was quiet. She spoke only when spoken to. He fought hard not to ask too many questions. How are you? What do you feel? What do you need? Do you still hate me?

While the game went into overtime and Amelia sat on the bench (he could not and would not call her Amelie), Blake let his mind wander to the screenplay. The meetings were going well. Reese Witherspoon and Anne Hathaway were both “interested.” A director was circling and as soon as an actor or director the studio loved actually committed to the project, others would fall into place and they'd be off and running. Blake was telling anyone who would listen that he knew the perfect small town to shoot it in.