The Look of Love: A Novel (20 page)

Claudia nods confidently. “I will.”

Cam fidgets in his chair. I can tell he’s embarrassed by his parents’ awkward exchange, and I realize he was right. His parents obviously aren’t in love. I look back at Claudia and Gerald. And then it happens. My vision begins to cloud. I blink hard and grip the edge of the table to steady myself.

“You OK?” Cam whispers to me. “This can’t mean that—”

I nod. “Yes.”

“Dear, I hope you’re not feeling ill,” Claudia says, reaching across the table to pat my arm.

“I’ll be fine,” I say. “I’m just—”

“Jane gets migraines,” Cam interjects.

I keep my eyes closed for a bit until the fog lifts. I’ll be left with a dull headache through dinner, and I’ll feel pressure behind my eyes, but I know that I won’t have another episode in their presence for the rest of the night. They never strike twice in the same interaction.

“You poor thing,” Claudia says. “Gerald gets them too. He won’t give up cheese. They bring the headaches on. He’s also lactose intolerant.” She shakes her head. “You’d think he’d give up dairy, but he absolutely will not see reason.”

Gerald frowns. “Cheese,” he says, shaking his head. “She wants me to give up cheese.”

I look at Cam and smile. They love each other deeply, his parents. Through the years. Through the fights. Through the grumblings about life, and cheese. This is love.

Cam invites me back to his apartment, and as we settle in on the couch with two glasses of wine, he runs his hand through my hair. “You know, I can’t believe it. I can’t believe what you saw at dinner between my parents.”

“Why not?”

He swirls the wine in his glass. “I was sure that any love they shared had evaporated over the years. They’re always bickering.”

I nod. “I heard that every love affair ends in pots and pans.”

Cam grins. “Pots and pans.”

“Yeah,” I say. “But your parents show that there is still love in the pots and pans. Deep love.”

He smiles as if he’s somewhat astonished. “Even in a forty-five-year marriage where all that’s left to talk about is my father’s lactose intolerance?”

I return his smile. “Love supersedes lactose intolerance, yes.”

He leans in closer to me. “Do you think we could find love?” he whispers. “Do you think someone with your gift could see it in us?”

He’s so close, I can smell his skin, his breath, sweet and intoxicating. My heart beats faster as I weave my fingers through his. I think of Colette and wonder if she’d see love between us. I both want to know and don’t want to know. Mostly, I just want to lose myself in this moment. And as I press my lips against his, I do. Completely.

4572 Sunnyside Avenue

M
ary pulls her car into the driveway. She’s happy to see Luca’s truck parked on the street in front of her house; in fact, the sight makes her heart beat a little faster. It’s late September. Because she decided to preserve the fireplace, the kitchen remodel and breakfast nook expansion are taking longer than expected, but she’s secretly grateful for the delay. It means Luca will linger longer. And now that it’s nearing the end, she’s worried. She so despises being alone, though her child is soon to join her.

Mary hears the hum of a saw in the backyard and smiles to herself. Luca. His friendship has come to mean more to her than she could have ever expected. He helped her assemble the baby’s crib and paint the nursery. In turn, she cooked for him, once the new stove was installed, or sometimes ordered takeout, and they’d linger over a meal, exchanging stories with tangled words and elaborate hand gestures. Mary sighs contentedly, remembering their dinner last night.

Luca had to turn the water off, temporarily, while the plumber installed the new faucet, so Mary suggested they walk to Julia’s, a little restaurant down the street. It was a warm night, and birds chirped from the maple trees along the sidewalk as they rounded the block. “Careful,” Luca said, taking Mary’s hand when she nearly stepped into an open manhole cover. Her belly was bigger than ever now, and on warm days like this, she often wondered how she would make it to her due date in December. As it was, most people stopped her on the street with the familiar question: “Are you having
twins
?”

It was the second time Luca had touched her. The first was an accident. They’d been hovering over the stove, inspecting the newly installed tile mosaic under the range hood. Their arms had brushed, and Mary’s skin had erupted in a thousand goose bumps. Luca had stepped back and rubbed his forehead nervously.

Mary sets her keys on the side table, still thinking about last night. At the restaurant, the hostess led them to a little table in the back, where a fish tank housed two plump goldfish.

“I always wanted a goldfish as a child,” she said to Luca. “But my mother never let me have one, though they’re the easiest pets on earth.”

Luca smiled and pointed to the smaller of the two goldfish. “That one is you,” he said. “And the larger one is me.”

“Look at them,” Mary said. “They look so happy, even in that tiny tank.”

Luca nodded. “You can be happy anyplace when there is love.”

It was the most perfect English sentence he’d ever uttered to her, and she loved the way his eyes sparkled when he said it. He was right, of course. Since Eli had left, the beautiful home she used to take so much pride in didn’t mean much to her at all now. Love was gone. But with love, she could live in a shack, a trailer . . . an aquarium made for two.

She peers into the kitchen, where Luca is hunched over a lower cabinet installing the knobs she purchased at Restoration Hardware. She went back and forth between the pewter and the brushed nickel, but opted for the latter, and they look perfect on the distressed white cabinetry.

The old fireplace, the one that Eli loathed, stayed. And Mary is grateful for it now, like an old friend.

“Funny,” she says, looking around. “At the start, a remodel and a pregnancy each seems like a never-ending project, and yet, it’s all gone so . . . fast.” She feels a pang of regret then, both because Luca will soon be leaving and because Eli will never see the kitchen she intended to share with him, this gourmet kitchen they planned together. She had imagined all the Sunday mornings they’d spend, the two of them sipping coffee at the island, trading sections of the
New York Times
, with bacon sizzling in a pan on the stove and blueberry muffins baking in the oven. Newsprint, bacon, and muffins. The smell of happiness.

But there’s another tinge of emotion swirling in Mary’s gut as she runs her hand along the butcher block island, sanded by Luca to smooth perfection. As soon as he finishes the trim on the doorway, he’ll be gone, off to his next project, and that thought frightens her, deeply.

Over these months, and through her pregnancy, he’s been a constant figure in her life, perhaps the only sure thing. She’d come home from a long day at the salon, and there he’d be—hammering, sawing, painting, nailing. Like the old chandelier in the entryway, he became a fixture in her home, and in her life, and she isn’t quite ready to say good-bye.

Luca stands to face her and smiles. Mary loves his smile, so boyish, so joyful, so completely present. Eli never smiled that way. He never looked at her so expectantly, the way Luca does.

“There you are, my red fish,” he says, taking a step toward her.

Mary can’t help but laugh. “You mean,
gold
fish?”

Luca smiles as he runs his hand through his dark hair. “Oh,” he says with a laugh. “Yes, I meant goldfish. My English.”

“No, no,” she says, through laughter. “Red fish is better. So much better.”

Their eyes meet and lock for a long moment. “Then you will always be my red fish,” he says slowly.

A week later, Mary stands in her beautiful kitchen, in her perfect home. Luca is gone now. Her KitchenAid mixer, a wedding gift from one of Eli’s aunts, whose name now escapes her, sits on the countertop where Luca’s circular saw was before. And instead of the metal toolbox with its rusty hinges, the island is now home to a white bowl of shiny Granny Smith apples. Luca did a beautiful job, and Mary’s architect, Stuart, even talked about sending in photos to
Architectural Digest
for their annual kitchen remodel feature. But as beautiful as the space is, she feels lost and lonely in it. Love does not live in her kitchen, or in her house.

Red fish.
She smiles to herself, thinking of Luca. She misses him. Before he left, he wrote his phone number on a piece of paper. “If anything goes wrong, if something breaks,” he said, “call me, and I’ll fix it.”

She looks at that piece of paper on the counter every morning. Sometimes she wishes the dishwasher would fail or that a cabinet hinge would appear misaligned or the faucet would leak. She longs for a reason to call him, to hear his voice again, to see him. He has been her friend all these months, and his absence now feels . . . achingly lonely.

Why not just call him?
Mary thinks.
Why not just call him to say hi?
Like two old friends.

She picks up her phone and takes a deep breath. But she doesn’t dial Luca; she calls her husband. They’re estranged, yes, but Eli is still her husband. He’s still the man she married. Her heart pounds in her chest, two beats for each ring. She can feel the baby kick too, and she rubs her belly on the spot where a little foot or knee or elbow just poked out. Their baby.

After four rings, there is a voice. A woman’s voice. “Hello?” The voice sounds young, sexy . . . annoyed. Mary presses the end-call button quickly, then collapses into a chair at the table, in her perfect, lonely kitchen.

October

M
orning,” I say to Bernard as I step off the elevator with Sam.

“Morning,” he replies with a smile, patting Sam’s head as I exit onto the sidewalk. The Seattle air has turned crisp, and pumpkins are displayed on every available surface of the market. I stop at a vegetable stand to admire a row of sugar pie varieties. I buy three: one for Mel’s newsstand, one for Elaine, and a third for the flower shop.

“Hello, beautiful,” Mel says as I approach.

“For you,” I say, setting a pumpkin near his cash register. “Happy October.”

“A very happy October, indeed,” he says, stepping closer to me as if he is about to reveal a secret. “Yesterday we talked about Parliament.”

I give him a confused look. “Parliament?”

“Yes,” he says victoriously. “We have breakfast together every Friday—well, at separate tables, but just the same. We eat our eggs together.”

“Wait, Mel, who?” And then I see the sparkle in his eyes and it hits me. “Oh, yes, the Queen of England. Of course.”

He beams. “Yes.”

“Good for you, Mel. Why don’t you ask her out on a date?”

“I’d like to,” he replies. “I’m working up the courage.”

“Well, don’t wait too long,” I say. “She might think you don’t like her. We women can get impatient.”

I wink at him as I continue along the sidewalk, stopping in front of Meriwether to tie Sam to a lamppost. Inside, Elaine is busily stocking the pastry case with fresh croissants. She smiles when she looks up and sees me.

“For you,” I say, depositing a pumpkin on the counter.

“Aw, thanks,” she replies, setting down an empty sheet pan. “I’m glad you’re here. Do you have a moment to talk?”

“Of course,” I say. She brushes a dusting of flour from her cheek and walks around the counter. Together we sit at a table by the window.

“It’s Charles,” she says. “It’s the real thing, Jane. I’m in this. Truly, madly, deeply.” The words fall out of her mouth like an avalanche.

I remember the way my vision fogged over in their presence. Of course Elaine is in love. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.

“People talk about soul mates,” she says, “and all my life I never bought it. The idea that two people are meant for each other.” She shakes her head. “But then I met Charles. And . . . well, I get it.”

“What is it that you see in him, Elaine?”

“Hot air balloons,” she says nostalgically. I notice the charm bracelet on her wrist.

I shake my head, not quite understanding.

Elaine smiles. “He loves hot air balloons. So do I. Matthew wouldn’t go up in one to save his life, even for me. But Charles?” She sighs, and smiles to herself. “He’s spontaneous, open, in a way that Matthew could never be. If I asked him to travel to Santorini with me tomorrow, by hot air balloon, he’d do it.

“But at the same time, it’s terrible,” she says. “I don’t know what to do. Last night, Charles asked me to make a decision. Leave Matthew and start a life with him. I know it’s agonizing for him to watch me draw the shades in our bedroom window every night. He sees me in the yard with Matthew and the kids, and all the while, he loves me, and I love him.” She sighs again. “To go on like this anymore, Jane, it’s going to destroy me. And it will certainly destroy him. He lost his wife recently. He’s had more than enough emotional upheaval in his life.”

“I worry about that,” I say. “Do you think he’s ready to love again? Could he be jumping in too soon?”

“I wondered that too. But I can see in his eyes that he is ready. He’s all in.”

“And his daughter? How does she fit into this scenario?”

She smiles. “We’ve talked about that. He’s always wanted to live on the water, just like I have, and we imagined the idea of us moving to a houseboat on Lake Union, maybe somewhere near Lo.” She pauses, as if to consider a beautiful daydream. “Bunk beds, barbecues on the rooftop deck, kids paddling around in kayaks.” Her expression gets serious again. “He wants a
life
with me, Jane. A beautiful life. And I want it too.”

“Wow,” I say. “What are you going to do, then?”

“I just don’t know.” She pauses. “I could leave Matthew, and I could follow my heart, and embark on this new, bold life with Charles.” She closes her eyes tightly. “I can see it, in all of its beauty. And it makes me feel absolutely
alive
. But there would be such regret—for my children, for my family. And I do love Matthew. I care for him, obviously. Hurting him was never my plan. I’m incapable of it, and yet, I . . . I would have to blow up my family to have Charles. And if I can’t do that, I stay. And I have to live with the realization that I let love go, that I stood in the face of true and beautiful love, love that completed me in a way I never thought possible, and let it go.”

“Oh, Elaine,” I say. “It seems like an impossible dilemma. But I think your heart already knows the choice you must make. Our hearts speak to us all the time, but it takes practice to learn to listen.”

In her eyes, I can see just how deeply entrenched she is. “No major decision is made without careful consideration,” I continue. “Tell Charles you need until January. That’s ninety days. Big decisions take time.”

And as I consider the enormous choice in Elaine’s life, I can’t help but also think of my own: Colette, the gift, love, Dr. Heller. In January, I will have succeeded, or I will have failed, perhaps miserably.

Lo has decorated the window of the shop with a display of pumpkins, some big and as bright as orange sherbet, others white and ghostly. “You beat me to the punch,” I say, setting my little pumpkin by the register.

“Grant asked me to go to Paris with him,” she says suddenly.

“When?”

“In December.”

“So he left his wife?”

“Not yet,” she replies. I can see that she’s deeply conflicted. “But he will. I know he will. He’s working through his process.”

“Process,” I say. “Sounds like a phrase from a business plan.”

She sighs. “I know.”

It seems almost incomprehensible that Lo could be in such a deflated state. She’s a force. And somehow a man has knocked the wind out of her sails.

“Don’t you worry about a thing today,” she says. “I know this is a big occasion for you. I’ve got everything covered here.”

Lo remembers, as she always does, the anniversary of my mother’s death. “Are you going to visit her grave?”

I nod. Mom wanted to be buried on Bainbridge Island, where she grew up. As a child she came to love a little cemetery tucked away along the coastline, near Hidden Cove Road. When I was a girl, she’d take me there and let me wander the rows of headstones. When Grandma died, I remember sprinkling freesia petals, her favorite, onto her casket before the men lowered it into the ground. And now Mom rests there, in this quaint little cemetery overlooking the sea. Oddly, it doesn’t feel like a place filled with bones and sadness. It’s a garden in its own right, bursting with flowers, bright pink azaleas and rosebushes dotted with vibrant orange and yellow buds. Perhaps that’s why Mom loved it. And I do too.

“Here,” Lo says, reaching behind the counter. “Take these.” She hands me two bunches of red and orange dahlias, with sprigs of mint and greenery interspersed between the blooms.

“Thanks,” I say, feeling fresh tears sting my eyes when I remember the way Mom and Grandma loved fall dahlias.

I let Sam leap into the back of my ailing Volvo station wagon, Mom’s old car, which I’ve never gotten around to replacing, and set out for the ferry terminal on Alaskan Way. It’s midday, and there isn’t a line of cars waiting, so I drive right on and secure a primo spot at the front of the vessel. What did Mom used to say about ferries? I smile to myself. Yes, that they’re the cheapest, most beautiful cruises in the world. She’d ride them back and forth when she wanted to clear her head.

I breathe in the smell of seawater and engine fumes, and at once, I am eleven again, sitting in the backseat with Flynn, who has his headphones on because he’s annoyed that Mom’s listening to her Billy Joel tape again, rewinding the song “And So It Goes” and listening to it over and over again.

I see tears in Mom’s eyes. “You still miss him, don’t you, Mama?” By “him,” I meant my dad, the man I could barely recall.

She nods. “Yes, sweetie. I will always love him.”

“How can you love him when he left us?” I ask.

“Yes, he left us,” she says. “But when someone does a bad thing, a hurtful thing, it doesn’t mean you stop loving them. You just change your course. You make adjustments. But love lives on.” She presses her hand to her heart. “It lives here. You’ll see, someday.”

Love lives on. And I suppose I know that now, because I’ve witnessed it. The concept lingers in the eyes of Mel, when he speaks of his late wife, and in the interactions between Cam’s parents, still connected after forty-five years of marriage. And I suspect it will for Elaine—no matter what her choice, she’ll keep Charles, or Matthew, in a quiet corner of her heart forever. I think about all of it as the ferry glides across the calm October water. The sky is blue and clear, one of those stubborn fall days that’s holding on, desperately, to summer.

My phone buzzes, and I look at the screen and find a text from Cam. “Thinking of you.” I smile and write back, “You remembered. Thanks.” He knows it’s the anniversary of Mom’s death. I told him on the phone last night, even though my first instinct was to keep it to myself. Mom was, and is, sacred.

I leave Sam in the car and walk up the stairs to the upper deck, where I buy a coffee, settle into a booth, and look out the big windows toward the water and the distant dot that is the island. A few moments later, I hear applause all around, and cheers from fellow passengers. At the center of attention is a couple in their thirties. They look like they stepped out of a Pinterest page. She’s tall and stunningly beautiful, wearing a striped knit dress and a stylish denim jacket. I admire her wedge heels. He’s handsome in a David Beckham way, with his dark fitted jeans, plaid shirt, and sport coat. Together they look like perfection, and I can see that the assembled crowd thinks so too, especially since he is down on one knee and has just presented her with a ring. A photographer in a navy sweater and a pair of blue Converse high tops snaps a photo.

All around, mouths are agape and eyes are wide as she lets him slide the diamond onto her hand. She hesitates for a moment, looks at the ring, then back at him, and smiles, then covers her mouth. “Yes,” she says, finally. “Yes!”

Cheers and applause break out again as he takes her into his arms. I don’t bother looking away; I’ve already seen too much. I brace myself for the foggy vision, the pressure, which is inevitably coming. I expect it to be intense. I mean, look at them. But I wait, and I wait. And it doesn’t come. I blink hard. I take a deep breath and I refocus on the beautiful couple ahead. A couple that is seemingly wholeheartedly in love.

Except . . . they aren’t.

The island is in sight now, so I get up, toss my coffee cup into the trash can, and head to the restroom, thinking about how someone can say yes to a marriage proposal when she is not in love. As I’m washing my hands, the newly engaged woman walks in and sets her purse down on the countertop in a defeated heap. I see the enormous diamond on her hand. It sparkles under the fluorescent bathroom lights as she looks at herself in the mirror. Her eyes are searching, unsure—frightened, even.