The Look of Love: A Novel (25 page)

“It’s been moved to later in the afternoon,” she says. “With any luck, I’ll be holding her in my arms by evening. You can be the first to hold her, after me.”

I know it then. The final piece of my journey that I have been most concerned with now makes sense. I will give Mary’s baby girl my gift. I think of Mary, wide-eyed and kind; hurt deeply but not hardened. Her heart, somehow, has remained tender and beautiful through her pain, like my mother’s. Yes, I think to myself. Mary’s daughter will have access to her heart, to love, in the very same way. And she will see the world through the foggy lens of love the way I have done. She will find her way, just as I have, even when it doesn’t always end with the loose ends tied up neatly in a bow. That is life, and that is love.

After I hang up the phone, it buzzes, and I glance at the screen to see a text from Cam that reads, “I’m so very sorry.”

I sigh and tuck my phone into my coat pocket. I am too.

J
ane, it’s Katie.” She sounds scared, frantic.

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know how to say this. . . . Josh left me.”

A customer walks into the shop, and I motion to Lo for assistance. “Wait, what?”

“Yes, he left me. He walked out of our house to get coffee and said he’d be back soon, but instead he had breakfast with a blonde and decided not to return.”

“Katie,” I say with a gasp. “This makes no sense. I have never seen two people more in love than the two of you. Surely you’re mistaken.”

“I’m not,” she says. “He hasn’t even come home to get his stuff. He’s done. Done with everything. I just wish I’d known this was coming. There were no signs. Not even one.”

“Honey, I don’t even know what to say. This makes zero sense.”

“I know,” she says. “But I do know that if he’s chosen to leave, I need to move on. I can’t sit around in this house we used to share and wait for him to come home. I’ll have to sell the house. Jane, I feel like I’m living a nightmare right now.”

“It does sound like a nightmare,” I reply. “I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

“No,” Katie says. “Actually, yes. I think I need to get out of town. How do you feel about going somewhere sunny and beachy with me soon? Next month, maybe. Mexico? Hawaii? Somewhere away from here. With fruity cocktails. Let’s get Lo to come too. We can sit around by the pool and drink ridiculous amounts of alcohol and not think or talk about men.”

“That sounds like heaven,” I say.

“Good,” she says. “I just need to get my mind off all of this. Jane, I’m so heartbroken.” She sighs. “I’ll look at flights and let you know.”

“OK,” I say. “And, Katie, I don’t know what is going on with Josh. And it doesn’t sound good. But here’s what I do know: I have seen you two together; I have witnessed your love, and it is real. Don’t ever discount that, OK?” I know she’s crying. I can hear the faint sounds of sniffles. “Promise me?”

“I promise,” she finally says.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” I say to Lo. “Time to head home.”

“Nah, I’ll stay. There’s more to do.”

“No, there’s not,” I say. “And what am I? Scrooge? Go home, drink some mulled wine, listen to Bing Crosby.”

She nods. “Alone.”

“Me, too,” I say. “Though, honestly, I’m so tired after this week, I really don’t mind. I just want to sleep, for a thousand years.” Lo has been sad, introspective for the past few days. “You need rest. Aren’t you leaving for Paris in the morning?”

“Yes,” she says, forcing a smile.

“Then get out of here,” I say. “I am going to shoo you out with a broom if you don’t leave right this second.

She slips her apron off and hangs it on the hook behind the counter. “OK, boss,” she says with a smile.

Just as she walks out the door, I hear the bells jingle again, and a wave of cold air breezes through the shop. Without looking up, I say, “Sorry, we’re closed. I—”

And then my eyes meet a man’s. The customer who comes in every year on Christmas Eve, the one with sad eyes who walks with a limp, and tips heavily, for a reason unbeknownst to me.

“Oh, hello,” I say, recognizing him immediately.

“I’m sorry,” he says with a shy smile. “My train was late.” He’s a little out of breath. “I was worried I wouldn’t make it before you closed.”

“Train?”

He nods. “I live in Portland.”

My eyes narrow. “Portland? So why does someone from Oregon come to a Seattle flower shop every year on Christmas Eve?”

His expression is serious and his eyes, sad. “You have the best flowers,” he says after a long moment.

“Well, then,” I say. “Let me get started on an arrangement for you.”

“No,” he says quietly. “Don’t put yourself through the trouble. I’ll take something from the case.” He points to a vase of red roses and greenery. “That is perfect.”

I carry it to the front counter. As I reach forward to rearrange a rose that looks a little off kilter, I feel a prick on my index finger.

“Darn,” I say, as a drop of blood pools on my skin. “The growers always get sloppier around this time of the year. If I had a dollar for every thorn I’ve seen on a stem this month, well.”

The man nods. “And every time I’ve held a rose, it seems I only felt the thorns.”

“Billy Joel,” I say with a smile.

“Yes,” he replies. “‘And So It Goes.’”

“It’s a beautiful song.”

I bandage my finger, as he hands me a check.

“Merry Christmas,” he says, heading toward the door, before turning around once more. “That was your mother’s favorite song.”

I am too stunned to speak, frozen in place as the door closes and the man walks out to the street. I look down at the check and read the name printed on it: Eric Williams.

My father.

An hour later, I close up the shop, carrying an extra wreath and a holiday arrangement with me, and walk through the market. It’s quiet, almost eerily so. I hear Christmas music coming from an idling car ahead. Inside the SUV is a man and his wife, and their three children, two boys and a girl, who are licking candy canes in the backseat.

The air is crisp and cold, and I can see my foggy breath all around me, and Mel in the distance. His suit looks like it might have fit him well—in 1983.

“Jane!” he exclaims. “Just the lady I was hoping to run into.”

“Merry Christmas, Mel,” I say softly.

“Merry Christmas, beautiful,” he replies with eyes that twinkle under the streetlights. “I need your finest bouquet of flowers. I’m going to give them to Vivian tonight.”

I smile at his enthusiasm. Even in one’s seventies, love can be young. “Here,” I say, handing him the arrangement I made for my mantel: green chrysanthemums, interspersed with yet-to-bloom lime-green hyacinths, Mom’s favorite Christmas bouquet. “Take her these. She’ll love them.”

“But I couldn’t—”

“Please, I want you to.” I feel the sting of a tear in my eye when I think of how much my mom would have loved giving flowers to Mel and shooing him off to woo his beloved.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he says.

“I hope they do the trick.”

He straightens his tie with his left hand. “Me, too.”

I walk past Meriwether next and admire the rings of fruitcake and braided bread in the window. Elaine is probably home putting the finishing touches on the kids’ Christmas stockings, but I know her mind—and her heart—is full with weighty decisions.

Bernard is just packing up to leave as I enter the lobby of my apartment building. “I’m so glad I caught you,” I say, reaching into my pocket and handing him an envelope with a little Christmas cash. “Merry Christmas,” I say, smiling.

“Merry Christmas, and an early happy birthday,” he replies. “Oh, that boyfriend of yours, what’s-his-name . . .”

“Cam,” I say. “And he’s no longer my boyfriend.”

“Oh,” Bernard replies. “Well, he was here earlier today to see you. He said he stopped in at the flower shop but didn’t find you. Anyway, he asked me if I’d give you this.” He places an envelope in my hand. “I was about to slide it under your door before I left. I get the feeling that it’s urgent, something you should read tonight instead of finding it in your mailbox in a few days.”

“Thank you,” I say curtly, tucking the envelope in my pocket.

“Can I give you some advice?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say cautiously.

“Whatever you’re punishing him for,” he says, “don’t do it for too long. Forgive him. Life is too short not to extend forgiveness, even for the worst offenses.”

I nod and venture a smile. “I’ll think about it,” I say, stepping onto the elevator as I give Bernard a parting smile. “Merry Christmas.”

After I greet Sam, I pour a glass of wine and turn on a Johnny Mathis Christmas CD. It reminds me of Mom, and I ache a little, for Mom, for my past, for the future that—if Dr. Heller’s predictions are accurate, or if I fail to adhere to the rules Colette has laid before me—I might never know.

My coat is draped on the couch, and I reach for the envelope in the right pocket, tearing it open and pulling out the single page inside:

Dear Jane,

I won’t be here to wish you a merry Christmas and happy birthday, and even if I were, I know that you wouldn’t want to see me anyway. What I did was wrong, and you have every right to blame me, to hold a grudge against me for the rest of your life.

I’m going back to New York for a few weeks. After I refused to turn over my notes for the feature about you, my editor was forced to kill the story. They’ve laid me off as a result, so I’m pursuing other opportunities. I’ve just been offered the science editor position at
Newsweek
. It will mean moving back to New York. I don’t want to go, and yet . . . is there anything for me here anymore?

I felt something big with you, Jane. Something I haven’t felt since my fiancée died, and then I went and screwed it all up. For that, I will always have deep regrets.

I have never met a woman like you, and I know I never will again. You changed me. You made me see the power of love. You taught me to believe in it, to trust it.

I will always love you, Jane. Always.

Cam

A single tear falls from my eye and lands on the letter. I run my hand along Cam’s signature, studying the curve of his
C
. And then I take a deep breath and tuck the letter back into the pocket of my coat.

342 Pine Street #4

I
t’s Christmas Eve. Tonight there’s a candlelight service at the Presbyterian church on Fifth Avenue. At breakfast, Vivian said she was going, and even though Mel has never considered himself religious in any way, he has never felt more drawn to a church service in all his life.

He selects a tweed suit from his closet, the nicest one he owns, which isn’t saying much. Adele patched the elbows years before. He dresses and then combs his hair, what he has left of it, at least. Should he get her a Christmas present? He scolds himself for not thinking of that ahead of time. He’s never been good at presents. But Vivian deserves something. He can’t afford anything fancy, certainly not the expensive jewelry she’s accustomed to. But something. Surely, he can think of something. He glances at his watch. Most of the shops at the market will be open for another hour. Flowers. He’ll stop at Jane’s shop and get Vivian the most beautiful bouquet he can find. That’s the ticket.

The air outside is cold. Cold enough to snow, maybe. But the sky is clear, and he’s glad of that. The walk to the church on Fifth would be complicated in the snow.

Mel is disappointed when he notices the lights are dim in the flower shop ahead, but he breathes a sigh of relief when he sees Jane approaching and she kindly offers him the vase of flowers in her arms.

Jane’s voice sounds cheerful, but her eyes don’t match. They look weighted down, heavy with some matter of the heart, and he worries about her the way a father might worry about his daughter.

“You’re not going to be alone tonight, are you?”

She deflects his concern with a smile. “I have Sam, don’t forget. And where are you off to on this wintry Christmas Eve?”

He smiles shyly. “A church service.” He lowers his voice. “Where Vivian will be.”

Jane smiles. “And you’re going empty-handed?”

“Well,” he says. “I was hoping to bring her some flowers, but I see that you’re all closed up for the night.”

Jane regards the arrangement in her arms. “Take these,” she says suddenly. “They’ll be perfect. Everyone thinks they want red roses to express their love. And it represents love, yes, but more of a fleeting love. A fire that burns hot but ultimately burns out. You want to show her the purity, the realness of your love. And this arrangement will make your point.” He can see tears in her eyes then. “I promise you that.”

Mel beams. “Thank you, sweet Janey.”

Jane can tell he wants to linger. He wants to make sure she is OK, but she waves him on. “Go,” she says. “Go find her.”

He winks at his young friend and continues along the sidewalk. It must be thirty degrees, definitely below the freezing point, but Mel doesn’t feel the cold, not really. He’s warmed by his love.

The church is just ahead. A glow of orange bathes each street-facing window as he makes his way up the steps. Inside, the sanctuary is filled with the quiet hum of an organ and the sweet voices of the children’s choir singing “O Holy Night.” He takes a seat in one of the back pews and scours the church for Vivian. He doesn’t see her at first, but then he notices a woman sitting tall in the pew, with an elegance that could belong only to Vivian. In the dim candlelight, she turns slightly, and he can see the curve of her beautiful cheeks, her exquisite mouth, her regal nose. It’s her. And as the children’s choir shifts octaves to begin “Silent Night,” Mel notices the man sitting beside Vivian. He’s impeccably dressed, tall, and broad shouldered. His suit, well pressed and expensive looking. Yes, this is the type of man she deserves, his Vivian. And as he sits in the back pew, holding the bouquet of flowers, listening to the choir, Mel is struck with the realization that he only wants the best for her. And as much as his love is true, he is not the best for her. He will never be good enough for her.

She turns her head then, and their eyes meet, only for a moment, and her regal face melts into a smile. Mel stands to leave, and on his way out to the reception area, he hands the vase of flowers to a man in the entryway. “I have to go,” he says. “But would you mind giving these to someone?” He describes Vivian to the man and then walks out to the street alone.