The Look of Love: A Novel (15 page)

May

P
ike Place Market is laden with the bounty of late spring, and the flower shop is bustling with customers who want to take home a token of the season. On this Tuesday afternoon, Lo and I have bridesmaid dress fittings for Katie’s upcoming wedding, and though I hate to close the shop early on such a peak business day, I don’t hesitate to honor the request of a friend.

My phone rings just as we’re about to lock up the shop. It’s Mary. And she’s in tears.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” I ask.

“I’m pregnant,” Mary says.

“Oh, that’s wonderful, you must be—”

“He’s not coming home, Jane.”

“What do you mean?”

“He met someone,” she says. “Her name is Lizzie. She works in the marketing department of his new record label.”

“Did you tell him about the pregnancy? Did that change things?”

“I might as well be adopting a dog, for all he cares. He’s not coming home.”

“Oh, honey,” I say. “There are no words.”

“There aren’t,” Mary continues, laughing and crying at the same time. “Happy-sad. That’s what I am.”

“Ready?” Lo asks after I tuck the phone in my purse.

I tell her about Mary, and we both agree that Eli is the most selfish man in the history of men.

“Let’s walk,” I say with a sigh. “The bridal shop’s up on Westlake, but it’s such a nice day.”

Fresh produce brims from vendors’ stalls, and everywhere there is the sense of possibility. People are in better moods after the long winter and drizzly April. Even the seagulls seem happier. But not Lo.

“Sure,” she says.

She seemed off when she arrived at work this morning, but I didn’t pry. “Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you, or am I going to have to guess?” I ask.

She shrugs despondently.

“Oh, no,” I say. “So things aren’t working out with Grant.”

“That’s the paradox,” she says. “It’s working out. Beautifully. I’ve never felt more into a man in my entire life. And for the first time, I really am thinking about a future with someone. With him. And that uncharted territory seems so . . . murky.”

“Why?”

“Well, for starters, there’s his wife.”

“Oh,” I say. “So he hasn’t left her.”

“It’s complicated,” Lo says quickly. “He has two kids with her, and they’re fairly wealthy, so there’d be a lot of money to divide. It’s a lot to consider.”

“But how do you know he’s worth waiting for?”

“Connection,” she replies.

“What do you mean?”

She smiles. “It’s hard to put into words. It’s as much a feeling as it is the way your stomach flutters when you think of him. It’s the feeling of being reached and reaching someone. It’s the feeling of being seen by someone for who you really are and being adored for it. That, for me, is connection.”

“And yet?” I ask, sensing the weight of her words.

“I feel that he’s hesitating.” She wraps her shiny brown hair into a ponytail with the rubber band on her wrist. “I sometimes wonder if he likes this arrangement, being to and fro, being secretive.”

“As in, he wants to have his cake and eat it too?”

“I guess you could say that,” Lo replies. “I think he likes the rush he gets from seeing me, and then he goes home and has the comforts of married life.”

“You said he sleeps in the guest room.”

She nods. “But he once let on that his wife is an amazing cook. And she buys his clothes, takes them to the cleaners. That sort of thing.”

“So what he really wants is a lover and a housewife.”

Lo smiles. “Men. Why do we even bother with them?”

“This one is getting to you more than the others,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I’ve grown accustomed to maintaining an edge, Jane,” she says. “And I’ve lost it, even in my subconscious.” She clears her throat. “I’ve been having a recurring dream.”

“That sounds intense.”

“It’s a cold, windy night, and I’m standing alone on a deserted gravel road through the forest. I kick at the gravel, waiting for Grant to drive up to me, open the car door, and say, ‘Get in.’”

“Kicking the gravel,” I repeat.

She nods. “The action must signify waiting, impatiently, in that middle place.” She frowns. “I
hate
the middle place.”

“The imagery is so passive,” I say. “You’re letting someone else be in the driver’s seat, call the shots.”

“What else can I do, Jane? I love Grant. All I want is for him to take my hand and live a life with me.”

“I’m sorry, Lo.”

This morning, she blended white tulips with white hyacinths, and the effect was stunning. Her flower arranging skills are perfection, perhaps better than mine. “Do you know what my grandma told me about tulips?” I ask.

“She knew the secrets of every flower,” Lo says.

“Tulips are the only flowers that continue to grow, up to an inch or more, after they’re cut. Have you ever watched them? They reach toward the sun, seeking it, reveling in it. They are strong, even as they fade. Their petals take on a wrinkled grace and fall like brave teardrops.” I nod. “You’re a tulip, Lo.” I reach for her hand and squeeze it. “You are graceful through pain. And you never stop pushing forward.”

“Thanks, Jane,” she says. “I needed to hear that today.”

When we arrive at the bridal shop a few minutes later, Katie waves us inside.

“Hi!” she exclaims, throwing her arms around us. “Can you believe I’m getting married next month?”

“Care for some champagne?” the saleswoman, pretty, in her early thirties, asks. Her eyes are downcast, as if she might have been crying earlier and is trying to hide the signs.

I look at Lo, then at Katie, and shrug. “Why not?”

She hands us each a flute, and as I watch the bubbles float and dance in my glass, I think about the woman standing beside me. A person would have to truly believe in love, or perhaps be very jaded, to work in a bridal shop. I glance at her ring finger and see that she is unmarried. When Katie and Lo wander off to gawk at a Vera Wang dress, she pulls a tissue from her pocket and dabs her eye with it.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m having a very hard day.”

“That seems to be going around,” I say.

Tears well up in her eyes, but she smiles through them, as if trying to be braver than her grief, smarter than it. “Nothing is all right in my life right now,” she says. “This time last year, I was a bride. I walked down the aisle with the very best intentions and hoped for a future with someone I loved, or thought I loved.”

“What happened?”

“It turned out that everything I thought I knew about him was a lie, an illusion,” she says. “His job. His past. His promises. All lies.” She dabs her eyes with the tissue again, and I think about my gift and how I could have saved her from this heartache. But could I have told her?

We sit down on the bench, and I watch as groups of women ooh and aah over their respective brides-to-be. “Do you like working here?”

“To be perfectly honest, no,” she says. “I only work here part-time, to make ends meet. This job pays my rent. When I’m not here, I’m working on my art.”

“Oh, what sort of art?”

“Pottery,” she replies.

I think of Flynn. He’d like this woman. He’d like her beauty, of course, but he’d also like the cracks in her porcelain. She isn’t like the other women he’s dated, vapid and airbrushed. “My brother owns a gallery in Pioneer Square. I should introduce you two.”

“Oh, thank you,” she says. “But I’m really shy about my art. I haven’t been able to share it—well, besides with my cat. Ce-zanne’s a kind critic.”

I smile. “It must be hard to be surrounded by so much happiness when you’re feeling sad.”

She shakes her head. “This is not what I’d call a happy place.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bridal shops are filled with artificial happiness,” she explains. “Of course, you see the happy brides come in now and then. But they’re usually the ones who couldn’t care less about their dresses, or the bridesmaids’ dresses. They are simply happy to be marrying the one they love.” She shakes her head. “But those types are rare. Most people don’t marry for love. They marry for the idea of love.”

“Did you?”

“Looking back, yes. I knew on my wedding day I should have heeded the hesitation I felt in my gut. I wish someone would have taken me aside and said, ‘Don’t marry him.’”

“Would you have listened?”

“I might have.”

Katie and Lo return with an armful of bridesmaid dresses. “Any favorites?” I ask Katie.

She smiles and shrugs. “To be honest, you girls pick. I’m not that hung up on bridesmaids’ dresses.”

I exchange a knowing look with the saleswoman.

“Katie seems so happy,” Lo says on our walk back to the market.

“Yeah,” I say. “I see it, you know. Love. When they’re together. It’s intense, Lo.” I pause to remember the way my vision clouded in their presence. I should be happy for them, and I am. But I’m also destroyed by the mere idea of never seeing that same kind of love in my own life, of being blind to it.

“You’re having drinks with Cam later, right?”

I look at my watch and smile. “Six o’clock at Il Bistro.”

“He’s pinged your heart,” Lo says.

I let out a nervous laugh. “I don’t know if I’d say
that
.”

“Well,” she says, “I don’t have your gift, but I can tell you a thing or two about what I see. And I think you’re smitten with this man.”

“Smitten?” I say. “I’m not so sure. Intrigued, yes; but I’m also a little cautious. There’s so much I don’t know about Cam. He’s a bit of a mystery, actually.”

“First of all,” Lo says, “you’re way too cautious for your own good. And second, mystery is an ideal quality in a man.”

I nod. “There’s a side of Cam that he keeps hidden. For example, he rarely talks about his career or his writing. I had to stalk him online and read his stories to get a sense of what he cares about, what inspires him.”

“And what is that?”

I hesitate. “People, well . . . like me.”

“What do you mean?”

“His coverage area is neuroscience. Just Google his name and you’ll find a ton of articles on all manner of brain science.” I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

“So he writes about the brain and is dating a head case,” Lo says with a grin. “Photographers marry the models they shoot. Chefs go home with hostesses. So you are aligned in that way. I don’t see the big deal.”

I grin. “A head case, huh?”

“Better than a basket case,” she says with a sarcastic smile.

Before I change into a skirt and a flowy top, I take Sam on a quick walk through the market, blowing a kiss at Bernard, who’s on the phone, as I pass through the lobby of my building. I pass Meriwether but don’t see Elaine at the counter, so I continue on.

“Hello, beautiful,” Mel says. “Need anything? A copy of
Vogue
? A newspaper?”

“Thanks, but no,” I reply. “I’ve got to get Sam back.” I lower my voice to a stage whisper. “I’m going on a date tonight.”

Mel beams. “With the
writer
?”

“Yes.”

He nods. “Good-looking chap.”

“Wait, you’ve met?”

“Yeah,” he says. “He was down here yesterday. Said he worked for
Time
. He asked me if I knew the owner of the Flower Lady, and of course I said I did. He seems like a curious fellow. But that’s the journalist in him, eh? He said the two of you were friends.”