The Look of Love: A Novel (10 page)

“Why didn’t you invite her to your party?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I guess I’m—”

“Feeling scared to talk to a girl for the first time in your life?”

“Yeah,” he says. “And here’s the thing. I think she’s sad. Deeply sad. Sometimes I’ll get up at three a.m. to get a glass of water in the kitchen, and I’ll see her doubled over on the couch, crying. A man came to visit her the other day, older than she is. He brought her flowers. But I could tell by the way she looked at him that he’d hurt her somehow.”

Just then, the woman appears at the window. It’s too dark for me to make out her face, but I watch as she lifts her hand as if to wave at Flynn, and he does the same. In that moment, my vision begins to fog, and the familiar aura covers my sight like a thick bank of clouds. I look away and rub my eyes.

“You OK, Jane?”

“Yes,” I say quickly. “I must have gotten something in my eye. I’ll just run to the bathroom.”

“Use the one in my master,” he says. “There’s a line for the powder room.”

I nod and walk through Flynn’s bedroom, where a couple in their early twenties is making out on the bed. They sit up like two teenagers who’ve just been caught by their parents.

I close the bathroom door and lean against the countertop so I can get a good look at my eyes. I open and close them several times, then take a deep breath.
Should I tell Flynn what I see? Would he believe me? Or would it ruin it for him? Would it send him running scared the way he’s done in the past when he’s gotten too close to a woman, too close to love?

I think of Colette next.
If I do accept her challenge, to identify the six different types of love, how will I know I’ve seen them for what they are? What if I get it wrong?

I walk back to the party and help myself to another glass of champagne. More people filter into Flynn’s apartment, couples and singles and women in sparkly, sequined tops. I find myself chatting with two men in their midtwenties. One’s a drummer in a rock band; the other is an artist. By eleven, the lights dim. Flynn turns up the speakers, and dance music fills the air. A girl who looks like she’s long since had too much to drink begins gyrating, and a group of her friends join her. My little drummer boy takes my hand suddenly and leads me into the center of Flynn’s living room. Before I know it, his arms are around my waist and he’s pulling me close.

“I’m not really much of a dancer,” I say, attempting to step back, but he pulls me closer.

“I’ll teach you, then,” he says.

“But I—”

I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn around and see Cam. “There you are,” he says, smiling at me before turning to the drummer. “Sorry, I’m afraid I’m going to have to retrieve my girlfriend. She tends to embarrass herself on the dance floor.” Cam shoots me a playful glance. “And we can’t have that, can we?”

“Oh,” the drummer says, immediately removing his hands from my waist. “Sorry, dude.”

“No harm done,” Cam says, confidently weaving his fingers through mine and leading me back across the room.

“Why did you do that?” I ask with a curious smile.

He winks. “Because I think you’re the type who’s much too nice to say no.”

“That’s not true,” I say indignantly.

“Then why didn’t you tell him no?”

“I was going to,” I say. “Just as soon as—”

“Exactly,” he says self-confidently. “Besides, it’s almost midnight. And there’s the matter of who I will kiss.”

“This, coming from a man who doesn’t believe in love?”

“Yes,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to kiss you.”

“You’re bold, you know?”

“I know,” he says with a self-assured look that I’m not sure if I love or loathe. “But I’m right.”

I think of Flynn again and the woman in the apartment across the street. I think of Elaine. I’m starting to add it up in a way that I can’t deny. “What if I told you something that would disprove your bah-humbug theory on love?”

“Ah,” he says. “I’d be intrigued, but I have to admit, I’m a difficult one to convince.”

He’s right, and when I look into his eyes then, I know my confession is like a runaway freight train. For a reason I cannot explain, I must tell him. “What I said earlier about my neurological condition being uninteresting—well, that wasn’t entirely true. You see, I was born with a special . . . ability,” I say.

“What, like the ability to roll your tongue into crazy shapes?”

I laugh. “No, it’s . . . much bigger than that.”

“Then what is it?”

“Well,” I say with a sigh. “So, I can see . . . love.”

Cam stares at me for a long moment, then bursts into laughter. “You’re
funny
.”

“No,” I say, “I’m serious.”

“So let me guess, do little hearts fly out of people’s heads when they’re in love? Do you hear birds chirping in your ears? No, wait, is Cupid in on this? Do you see him puncturing hearts with bow and arrows?”

“You’re mocking me,” I say. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

His smile fades away. “You’re actually serious?”

“I am,” I say. “I’ve had vision issues my whole life. I’ve seen a neurologist since I was a kid, and the latest thinking is that I have a tiny tumor on my optic nerve. And, and . . . I don’t even know why I’m telling you this.” I pause to rub my eyes. I’ve had too much champagne. I regret the last glass. But I’m in this deep, so I decide to finish. “Last week, on my birthday, I got a card from a strange woman who was present on the day I was born. She knew all about my gift. And, anyway, she told me things, big things.”

“Well,” Cam says. “I don’t quite know what to say.”

All around us people are chanting.
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six.
The countdown to a new year. My head spins when I feel Cam’s lips on mine, and when he presses his body against mine, I don’t pull back. In fact, I seem to melt into him. And for a moment, I don’t know where he ends and I begin.

“Happy New Year,” he says.

“Happy New Year,” I reply.

“So, did you or did you not?”

I look up at him, confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Love,” he says. “Did you see love when we kissed?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” I say. “Nothing in my own life is clear.”

“Ah,” Cam says with a wink. “That’s convenient.”

I look up at him and shake my head. “You think this is all a bunch of bullshit, don’t you? You think I’m lying to you.” I take a step backward. “This was a mistake. This all was a mistake.”

I tear off the “Happy New Year” hat I seem to have acquired and toss it on the couch as I wend my way through the living room. I find my shoes by the front door and grab my bag from Flynn’s closet. I take one final look behind me. I don’t see my brother, so I push through the door and head to the elevator. I want nothing more than to be home, out of this horrible dress, and in my bed with Sam lying on the floor beside me.

4572 Sunnyside Avenue

M
ary hears the chime of the doorbell and lets out a long exhale. She almost wishes that she would have canceled the appointment with the contractor today. She has so much to do before Eli’s return. Somehow, details of the kitchen remodel seem almost meaningless when her husband’s homecoming is imminent. She wants the house to be just right—the bed made with new flannel sheets; his favorite dessert, apple crisp, ready to be baked, with vanilla ice cream in the freezer. They’ll open that bottle of 2002 Dom Pérignon she received as a gift from a client two years ago. Surely, he’ll see the love in her eyes, the love she knew he missed. He’ll give up his intense touring schedule and focus on recording. They’ll build a home studio for him in the backyard. Mary smiles to herself and imagines them clinking glasses together, Eli looking at her the way he used to, with eyes of love. She’ll have to find something new to wear, of course, something stunning. A red dress, maybe. Eli loves red.

The doorbell rings again, and she walks to the front entryway.

“Hello,” she says to the man standing on the stoop. “You must be from Ridgeway Construction.”

“Yes,” he replies. His accent is thick, and Mary immediately places it as Italian. In a moment, she’s transported back to her year abroad in Rome, where she danced the night away with men named Dino and Giovanni. “My name is Luca,” he says.

“Come in,” Mary says, smiling. He’s handsome, in a quiet way. Tall, with strong features, but soft, kind brown eyes. “You must be from Italy.”

“Yes, I am,” he says, tucking a lock of hair behind his right ear. It’s wavy and unruly, and just as he’s tucked it away, it falls back over his eye. “I live here for two years only.”

Mary smiles at his sentence construction. “Well, I hope you’ve enjoyed Seattle, then.”

“I like it very much,” he says. “In Italy, I make cabinets. And here I make cabinets. I do what I love.”

“Me, too,” Mary says. “We’re in the lucky minority.” She points to the kitchen. “So I explained to Ridgeway that I would show you around today, and the demolition should start next week. You see, my husband is coming home tomorrow, and I’d like us to have some time together before everything’s torn up. I imagine there’ll be a lot of dust.”

“Of course,” Luca says quickly. “I understand.”

Mary leads him to the kitchen, and together they stand near the fireplace. When they purchased the house, Eli didn’t like the idea of a fireplace in the kitchen. “It’s such a waste of space,” he said. But Mary had always loved the thought of having a log flickering away in the fireplace while she cooked dinner. “My mother had a fireplace in her kitchen in Italy,” Luca says. “It makes memories for me.”

“My grandmother had a fireplace in her kitchen,” Mary says, reminiscing, “in an old farmhouse in Skagit Valley. All through the cold winters and rainy springs she’d keep a fire burning. My sister and I used to love to sit by it and warm ourselves while she cooked.”

Luca sets his bag down on the kitchen table and pulls out the architectural renderings for the new space. “There must be a mistake,” he says. “This plan show no fireplace.”

Mary nods. “My husband wants it out.” She finds herself speaking in a very convincing manner, as if perhaps she’s trying to convince herself. “We’ll need the space on that wall for the Sub-Zero,” she says. “There just isn’t room for the old fireplace, sadly.”

Luca nods as Mary’s cell phone rings in her pocket. She glances at the screen. “Sorry,” she says. “It’s my husband calling from New York. I have to take it.”

“It’s OK,” Luca says, turning back to the plans.

Mary walks out to the living room. “Eli, hi!”

“Hello, beautiful,” he says. She loves his terms of endearment.

“I miss you so much,” she says. “I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.”

There’s a long pause, and at first Mary wonders if the call was dropped. “About that,” Eli finally says. “I’m going to have to stay out here for a few more weeks. All of my shows at the venue have been sold out, so my manager wants me to stay awhile longer, possibly follow up with another leg of the East Coast tour.”

“But I . . . I thought you were coming home tomorrow,” Mary says, her voice faltering. “I miss you so much. This distance is killing me.”

“I know, beautiful, I know. And I’ll be home right after this next round of shows. We could use the money, with the kitchen remodel and all.” Mary thinks of Luca in the kitchen, poring over the drawings, which she’d just as well toss in the kitchen fireplace and incinerate.

“Right,” she says, almost robotically.

“Thanks for understanding,” he says. “Call you later?”

“Sure,” she says.

Mary stands stunned in the living room for a long moment. A single tear streams down her face as she glances at the mantel, where a framed photo of her and Eli on their wedding day sits. She turns around when she hears footsteps behind her. Luca stands across the room. She almost forgot he was there.

“I’m sorry, I interrupt?”

With the edge of her wrist, she quickly wipes away the tear on her cheek.

“Are you OK?” Luca asks, walking toward her. His eyes are big and filled with concern. She notices, for the first time, a scar beneath his right eye.

“Yes,” she says quickly. “I’m fine.”

“Sit down,” he says.

She nods.

“Why you cry?”

Another tear falls onto her cheek, and this time Mary doesn’t try to conceal it. “My husband isn’t coming home.”

Luca nods as if he understands, but he doesn’t. This world is too impossible for him to make sense of. Here is a woman, a beautiful woman, and her husband has let go of her hand, just as his fiancée let go of his four years ago. She walked into the café in that pale blue dress, told him about the other man, and broke his heart so badly, it still aches.

He doesn’t say anything. There are no words that will mend her, and besides, even if there were, he knows he could not string them together into a sentence that would be well understood, much less meaningful to her. So he sits beside her on the couch as the clock on the wall ticks, and he offers her his only gift: his presence. They will go over kitchen construction plans another time.

“I’m sorry,” Mary says, standing up quickly. “You must think I’m a lunatic.”

“A lunatic?” he says.

She smiles. “It means . . . a crazy person.”

Luca grins. “You are not crazy, no.”

“Well,” she says, reaching for a tissue from the box on the side table. “Maybe you can come back tomorrow. I’ll have my act together then.”

“Of course,” he says. “Tomorrow.”

The word echoes in Mary’s ears long after Luca has left. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
The problem is, she heard the tone in Eli’s voice on the phone—the doubt, the hesitation. And while Mary’s tomorrows once looked bright, she now has to squint through the darkness to see.