The Idea of Love (29 page)

He thought he heard his name, but the sound was so soft he wasn't sure.

“Blake.” This time there was no mistaking it. He glanced to his left and saw Ella, standing at the edge of the building.

“I thought you might be here,” she said.

He walked toward her and she to him until they were both moving faster, until they were together. She buried her face in his shoulder. “I'm sorry.”

“It's okay, Ella. It's…” He wrapped his arms around her.

“Let me tell you everything, okay?” she asked.

He nodded.

“He wasn't dead,” Ella said. “But it seemed like it at the time. He left me…”

“So we lied. Both of us. We don't even really know each other. This is absurd to think that we could make something of it. Con artists.”

“You're right.” Ella took a step back. “I told you who I wanted to be instead of who I was. I lied.”

“Tell me everything now.”

“It's ugly,” she said.

“Tell me anyway.”

“Sims. My husband. He left me for my best friend's sister. He's back now—back from the dead, I guess. Remorseful. We're working things out. Trying. My job—mostly I sold shoes at the wedding shop. I've never designed a real dress. I just have some sketches and ideas. It's a dream. It's what I wanted and then I pretended it's what I had. I wanted to stop lying to you. I did want to…”

“But you didn't,” he said. “Life and death and jobs and husband…”

“You kept going … too.”

“What did you say once? That you can't let the facts get in the way of a good story?” Blake shrugged. “So I guess this is where we say good-bye.”

“Why did we do this?” Ella asked. “Why would we keep doing that? What's wrong with us?”

“I swear I thought I was falling in love with you, and not just with the idea of you.”

“But it's all just an idea, right, Blake? The falling in love. Something you made up with this story. You wrote me into your work and I became someone else. Not me.”

“Maybe under different circumstances, if we'd met without the fake lives, we'd have a chance.”

“A chance for … what?”

“Us,” he said. “This.” He drew her closer and placed his fingers under her chin, lifted her face to his gaze. “How it feels when I'm with you.”

“I'd like to think so.”

“Me, too.” Blake released her chin and dug his keys out of his pocket. “Ella, I'm glad he's back from the dead for you. I'm glad I met you. My life is better for it.” And he walked away, because it was the only thing left to do.

*   *   *

She stood in front of the movie theater as if there was another way to finish this scene, another act to this story, which should be a romance, not a tragedy. It took her a long while to move, to walk to her own car and drive toward home with her emotions so banged up that she felt them rattle in her chest. She needed Hunter, or Blake, or whoever the hell he was to go home. She needed him to stay. Something felt amiss and yet she now had all she ever wanted. The world of opposites existed at the same time.

Mimi sat on the garden bench, waiting for Ella's return. Ella sat next to her and took her hand. “That was a little crazy. I'm sorry you had to see it.”

“You okay, dear?” Mimi asked.

“A little confused, but yes, I'm fine. I mean, look at all I've got. My dress is a
Vogue
finalist. Sims is home. You're here. The dark moments have passed and here we are, still standing. Or sitting on a bench. Or whatever.”

“What did
Vogue
say when you called them back?”

“I'm invited to the big gala in NYC this coming weekend. They offered to let me add my name to the dress collaboration. But of course I can't go. I need to stay here. I mean, with everything happening. If by some odd chance the dress wins, my name will be attached and that's enough.”

“That's enough?” Mimi asked. “Really? You dream your whole life of having a real wedding dress design. You sketch and draw and devour magazines and books. You do research and read and have natural talent, and that's enough? Whoever told you that crumbs were enough? Who the hell told you that?” Mimi's voice rose, fighting for something Ella was unsure about.

“What? I mean, if I win, it will be amazing.”

“Then forget about ‘everything happening.' Get yourself a dress. Buy yourself a plane ticket. Go to New York. What are you waiting for?”

Ella closed her eyes. Right. What was she waiting for?

She'd tell Sims she was going to New York.

“Where is Sims?” Ella asked.

“He took off when you did,” Mimi said. “I thought he ran after you.”

“I don't think it's me he's running after,” Ella said. “Not me at all.

“My God.” Ella leaned her head back on the bench, tears coming before the words. “This was all just some elaborate idea—the marriage, the house, the true love. I saw how I wanted it to be, instead of how it really was.”

“Yes, there is a difference,” Mimi said so quietly that Ella wasn't sure she said anything at all.

Ella lifted her head. “Why would I want him so badly? Why did I?” She paused before answering her own question. “Because I believed everything he said instead of everything he did, that's why. The sentiments. God, the beautiful words.” Ella slammed her hand on the bench.

*   *   *

It only took five minutes to find them—Sims and Betsy at the edge of the marina's dock. There they were, screaming at each other, hands flailing. The river dashed against the wood pilings, nature in its relentless ignorance of the human drama going on right there. Ella watched the river; she watched Sims and Betsy, so quiet that someone observing her might think she was holding her breath.

How could she have loved him? Was it the life and home with him that she loved or was it Sims she loved? Staring at him, begging his mistress to understand.

Ella was inside her car, but she could see them and she knew what was happening—the pleas and pulls of the conversation. Sims wanted Betsy back. Betsy wanted him to be the man he claimed to be. Good. Upstanding. Decent. But Sims wasn't that man. He never would be. Charming? Sure. Fun and exciting and romantic? Absolutely.

For so long she'd asked who Sims wanted her to be, now she would ask herself who
she
wanted to be.

A release, a surge of energy, rose from Ella's chest. The hole that had been there, the one she thought she needed to fill with him, now filled with something else. Strength and resilience. A sense of her own worth. It wasn't him she wanted back; it was love she wanted. Love.

sixteen

The ballroom looked like it was ready for a wedding, a royal one with all the accoutrements of bliss. White tulle hanging from the walls like the bustle on the back of a dress; sparkles and sequins scattered on the floor and on tables. Even the chairs were draped to appear like the bodice of a dress. Centerpieces reached taller than the crowd, spouting white feathers, silver branches, and orchids the size of Ella's fist.

Vogue
covers were framed on the tables—pictures of women too perfect to be real. And yet they were. Attendees wore long dresses that rustled when they walked and when the music paused, the rustling dresses sounded like soft rain. There were nervous introductions and hesitant greetings. Both the men and women servers wore full tuxedo with tails and gloves.

Ella hadn't seen Margo yet, and the expectation pulsed in her chest. Now? No, not yet. Over there? No. She'd practiced what to say to her, talked it over with Mimi, made her face into a resolute smile of acceptance and yet she knew, because she knew herself, that chances were that nothing would come out of her mouth. Or she'd apologize when apologizing was the very last thing in the world she should do.

Bridal music (violins and organ, piano and overwrought cellos) vibrated the room too loud as it came over the speakers from the ceiling, from the floor, from the side of the stage. The stage. Ella stared at it. In normal life it was a podium and a raised wobbly platform, but that was the beauty of adornment—it was now a stage for a winner.

Twelve finalists from thousands; that is what Ella had been told. There were three round tables up front to seat the finalists with one guest each. Name tags tented on top of silver plates told the designers where to sit. Mimi lagged behind Ella as she moved through the finalists' exhibit. Each dress design had been printed on silver paper and then sandwiched between plexiglass. The name of the designer was written below each dress. These designs hung from the ceiling and then were anchored to the floor so they appeared like floating and headless brides.

Ella didn't want to look at the other designs. Not yet anyway. She wanted the evening to be over, to know the outcome, to just get on with it. The thrill had faded and now there was only a nervous hum under her throat.

She looked around the room and finally added the last idea to her list, the list of how to get over your ex:
Find you inner strength and ask yourself, Who do I want to be?

The tables were set with place cards: Mimi, Ella, Margo. One. Two. Three. Ella picked up Margo's place card and switched it with someone across the table. Lila Hammer. That was a nice enough name.

There was her name on the place card. But Ella felt like an outsider. She wore a long red dress from Rent the Runway. She'd had her makeup done by a sales girl at Barneys, where she'd been talked into buying things she'd never use but at the time thought were indispensable for her beauty routine: illuminating base lotion; brush sets for application of everything from eyebrow enhancers to blush; lengthening mascara and lipstick that plumped her lips. When the woman had finished her makeup, Ella looked in the mirror and smiled back at a polished image of herself. Her hair had been coiffed by the hotel's hairdresser. She looked like she was wearing a souffl
é
on her head. Mimi waved from across the room and Ella smiled back at her.

The lights flashed and the music quieted. It was time.

“Which dress is yours?” Lila Hammer asked as they sat, smoothing out their dresses and sipping champagne.

“The White Diamond,” Ella said, and pointed to the display.

“That's a nice name for it,” Lila said.

“Which one is yours?”

“The Rosebud,” Lila said.

Ella ran her eyes over the display, for the first time taking in all the dresses and designs. She found the Rosebud at the end of the line, a dress that wrapped itself into multiple layers of lace over a tight bodice and ended above the knee with a train that trailed romantically behind. “It's so beautiful,” Ella said.

“They all are,” Lila said. “I wonder how they choose.”

“Wouldn't we like to know?” Ella took another sip of champagne and then saw her—Margo scanning for her place. She wore a white dress, of course, silk and gathered at the waist. Her hair was down and either she'd grown two inches of silken blond hair or had extensions put in for the night. Her lipstick so red that at first Ella thought her mouth might be bleeding. She caught Ella's gaze and nodded.

“Hello, Ella,” she said from across the table as she sat.

“Hi, Margo.”

“Well, you must be so excited to be included in this evening.”

“So must you.” Ella turned away, refusing to take the bait.

“You nervous?” Mimi asked with a smile.

Ella turned her attention to Mimi, away from Margo and her comments and red mouth. “Very.”

“Oh, look,” Mimi said. “Margo is wearing a white dress. Isn't she so creative and original.”

“Completely,” Ella said, grateful for more times than she could count for Mimi's presence and humor.

The noise level escalated so rapidly that there wasn't space or time for any more conversation. The woman MC rattled off the history of wedding dresses from Queen Victoria to Kate Middleton to Kim Kardashian. She talked about hemlines and veils, about famous designers and the intricacy of designing the right sleeve. Even Ella, taking small tasteless bites of her dinner, knew it was too much—all the explanation and blathering. There was only one thing everybody here wanted to know.

Finally, she said it. “So now on to the winner of our bridal design. It was a difficult decision this year. Our judges had a very hard time.”

Mimi leaned over and whispered into Ella's ear, her breath gathering in laughter. “Why do they always have to say how hard it was to choose? Just tell us.”

Ella took Mimi's hand and suppressed her laughter.

“Our winner this year will be featured in a full spread, but also each one of you, each finalist will be shown, so in essence, you are all winners.” The woman held up an envelope, and then pretending to be at the Oscars or Emmys or anywhere else an envelope was dramatically opened, she ripped it. “And the winner is the Helena, by Alex Linden.”

A man, beautiful and tall, wearing a tuxedo—of course—stood up to a loud whooping sound. Clapping and hugging and all the things done at an award ceremony commenced. A speech. Toasting. Mentions of the other contestants. It went by in a blur, colors and words and music blending together in a mosaic, until Ella stood with Mimi to congratulate the winner. But Margo rounded the table before anything else could be said or done. “Ella,” she said.

“Yes?”

“This is your fault. The dress, it would have won if you hadn't embarrassed both of us with your claim and your ridiculous need for unnecessary credit.”

“My fault?” Ella lifted her eyebrows, felt the makeup on her face like too much lotion, a mask.

“Yes.”

“Margo, it is my doing that we are even here. My doing that you are wearing that hideous lipstick and your name is hanging off the ceiling and you get again to wear a white dress. You would never be here without me. And you know that. You know that.” Ella stood taller, felt the straps of her high heels dig into her old ankle injury.