The Look of Love: A Novel (29 page)

This has to end.

“Hi, baby,” he says, picking up after one ring. “Ready for Paris?”

“Hi,” she says vacantly. “I’m so sorry, Grant. I don’t think I can go.”

“What do you mean?” he says. “I don’t understand.”

Lo takes a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking about this so much,” she says. “And, Grant, what we had was real, and true. I will always believe that. But in the end, it . . . just wasn’t meant to be.”

He’s quiet on the other end of the phone. She knows she has stunned him. “And I realized something this morning,” she continues. “Something I’ve been trying to ignore about myself for a long time.”

“Baby,” Grant says, pleading, “what are you talking about?”

She doesn’t want him to call her baby. Not now, not when he probably calls his wife that too. While she used to love hearing the word cross his lips, now it sounds so cheap, so generic. “Grant,” she continues, “all this time, with you, and with other men in my past, I’ve only wanted to have the emptiness in me filled. I thought men could do that for me. But here’s the crazy thing: I could have filled that space myself a long time ago. I just didn’t know it.”

“I don’t understand,” he says. “Was it something I said? Did? Do you want me to leave my wife? Is that what this is all about? Because I told her this morning that we need to talk. I told her I am unhappy and that we need to figure some things out. It’s my process. My process for coming to you.”

“Your process?” Lo says with a laugh. “Grant, if you were coming to me, you would have been here months ago.”

He’s silent.

“Listen,” she continues. “Go to Paris. Meet a French girl. Drink wine. Eat the most glorious food. Stay out late. Better yet, take your
wife
.”

“But I want to do all that with you,” he says, injured.

“I can’t,” she says. “Not anymore. I don’t deserve to find love, real love, until I can learn to love myself a bit more.” She lets out a nervous laugh. “I’m almost thirty years old, and I’ve never really been alone. There’s something not quite right about that.” She pauses for a long moment. Tears sting her eyes. “Good-bye, Grant.” She doesn’t wait for his response before ending the call.

The wind picks up that afternoon, and when the lights flicker that evening and eventually go out, Lo lights candles in her houseboat. She sits in the semidarkness and considers calling Ryan or Jake or maybe even Conor. She could call any of them, really, and they’d be on her doorstep within the hour, with a bottle of wine and arms to fall into. They would help her pass the time, help her not feel alone. Band-Aids for her emptiness. Well, mandaids. She smiles to herself, then shakes her head with resolve. Men can’t fill the hole in her heart. Only she can do that.

She turns her phone off and tucks it in the kitchen drawer. She will pour a glass of wine, open her laptop, and start writing that memoir Jane always said she should write. Tonight she will not be alone. And she isn’t. She has herself.

Nat King Cole’s voice seeps through the speakers of her radio.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas.
She glances at the lonely Christmas tree in the corner of the room, the one she hasn’t had time to decorate. A box of ornaments from her grandmother’s estate sits beneath, and Lo kneels beside it. She reaches inside and unwraps a star-shaped ornament she remembers from childhood. She touches the words her grandmother painted on the edge: “Christmas 1984.”

She stands up and hangs the little star on a branch in front of her.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas.

Yes. She will.

Three days have passed when Lo gets the call. She has just stepped out of the shower when she hears her phone ringing from the kitchen. Normally she’d wait, just let it go to voice mail. Whoever’s calling can be called back. But in the back of her mind, she’ll admit, she wonders if it could be Grant calling from Paris. He’s been silent for three long days. And although she said her good-byes, love lingers. And perhaps it always will.

She wraps a towel around herself and runs to the kitchen, hair dripping along the wood floors.

“Hello?”

“Lo?”

“Yes, this is.”

“Lo, this is John, Grant’s best friend.”

Her heart begins to beat faster. She met John once, just briefly. He’s the only person from Grant’s life she ever formally met. “John, yes, hi,” she says, mind racing.

“I’m so very sorry to call you like this, with this news.” His voice falters a bit. “But I know he’d want you to know. I know he’d want me to call you.”

She clutches the phone tightly. “What is it? What’s going on?”

“Lo, Grant died.”

“He . . . what?” She’s breathless. Her mouth feels dry.

“We just found out. He went out for a meal in Paris and died at the restaurant. He was alone. It was an aneurysm. There wasn’t anything that could have been done. It was his time.”

“No,” Lo cries, falling to her knees. “No.”

“I’m so very sorry.” He pauses for a long moment. “I wanted to be sure you knew about the funeral. The service will be tomorrow afternoon, at Saint Luke’s.” There’s another long silence. “You know he loved you, don’t you? He loved you so much. I’ve never seen a man more in love.”

Lo walks into the church in a black dress and dark sunglasses and inconspicuously files into a back pew. She doesn’t want to be seen. And a part of her knows she doesn’t deserve to be seen. She was in the shadows of Grant’s life when he was living, and in the shadows she remains in death. To Grant’s friends and family, she is a blip on the timeline of his life. To his wife, a fly she’d probably like to swat away. But to Lo, Grant was the man who taught her to love wholly and completely. And even though their story was ill-timed, fraught with deception and pain, and despite the fact that she feels great sorrow for the pain she’s caused his wife, Lo does not regret loving Grant. Not ever. Remorse and regret are two very different things.

A man takes to the piano at the front of the church and begins to play, just as the funeral procession begins. The minister walks up the aisle first, and then the casket, carried by John and Grant’s three brothers. Tears spill from Lo’s eyes then. She can no longer contain them, or her sadness. In that wooden box is the man she loved with all her heart. A man she might always love.

Jennifer walks behind her husband’s casket. She looks beautiful in her long-sleeved black dress. The handkerchief slips from Lo’s hand as she passes, and Jennifer stops to pick it up, then turns to face her. The two women’s eyes meet.

In that moment, Lo feels panic wash over her. She feels shame. She feels sorely out of place and wonders if she should leave. Perhaps it was the wrong decision to come. She does not belong here. And her presence is only adding more pain. But just before she stands to depart, Jennifer places the handkerchief in the pocket of Lo’s coat, then extends her hand.

Lo weeps as she stands and takes it.

“Walk with me,” Jennifer says calmly, through tear-filled eyes.

Lo nods, astonished.

“Grant loved you,” she whispers. “I saw it in his eyes that day at the wedding.”

“I, I’m—” Lo tries to whisper her apologies. She tries to think of something to say in this moment, this profound moment.

“He’d want you to stand with me,” Jennifer says, nodding. “He’d want me to forgive you, and him. And that’s a gift I can give him today.”

The two women walk together behind the casket, both with hearts aching, with love for a man they will never see again. And yet, Jennifer’s love for her husband is bigger than the anger and hurt, the broken promises, the deception that rattled her world. Her love is not prideful or self-serving. In the end, it’s love.

Just love.

Christmas Day

I
have to hurry. It’s late in the afternoon, and it won’t be long before sunset, before the end of my journey, my year. Just one more task lies ahead, the biggest one of all.

I tuck the flower arrangement for Mary in the passenger seat of my car—a square vase packed tightly with pale green blooms—and drive to the hospital.

The elevator deposits me on the fifth floor, Labor and Delivery.

“Hi,” I say, out of breath, to the nurse at the desk. “I’m Jane Williams. I’m here for the birth of my friend Mary’s baby. She’s expecting me.”

The nurse lowers her glasses on her nose and scrolls through a screen on her computer. “Yes, I have your name down,” she finally says. “She’s in room 523. She’s not far from delivering now. You’re just in time.”

I hurry down the hallway and knock when I reach her door, then poke my head in. “Mary, it’s Jane. I’m here!”

“Come in,” Mary says, and I find her sitting up in bed, legs parted, about to endure another contraction. Luca clutches her hand, invested in every cry, every push, every word from the doctor, who is at Mary’s feet.

“Just one more push and you’ll meet your little girl,” he says. Mary obeys, and a moment later, the room is greeted with the high-pitched cry of new life.

I set the flowers down on a side table and watch as a nurse gives the baby a quick bath before swaddling her in a blanket, then handing her to Luca, who proudly tucks her in Mary’s arms.

“Jane,” Mary says, beaming. “Come meet her.”

I walk toward the bed, with shaking hands and a heart that booms in my chest.

“She’s beautiful,” I say, swallowing hard.

“Look, she has green eyes like you.” Mary wipes away a tear. “Grace. I’m going to call her Grace.”

“A beautiful name,” I say.

“Would you like to hold her, Jane?”

“Yes,” I reply, unable to prevent a tear from spilling out onto my cheek as I take the baby into my arms. I touch her cheek lightly, and I feel it then, a warmth that flows through me. A transfer of energy from one soul to another. It has happened.

It is done.

January 19, 2014

J
anuary tiptoed in quietly. On New Year’s Eve, Jane sat in front of the TV, watching the ball drop in New York City with Sam, thinking about the year before, when she’d spent a life-changing evening shivering on a balcony with Cam.

Cam . . . Jane said her good-byes, and yet Colette’s vision of the two of them lingers. She completed her journey, fulfilled the prophecies of the gift, and even Dr. Heller agrees that surgery is no longer needed and might not have ever been. Although her brain scans continue to be puzzling, Dr. Heller concedes that some things may defy medical explanation. Jane’s work is done, her health intact. And yet, her heart feels . . . empty.

Hawaii was nice, Jane thinks as the plane begins its descent into Seattle. A proper girls’ getaway, with plenty of sun, sand, and booze. Mary is brave to take an infant on a plane, but Grace has been the perfect travel companion. She’s sleeping soundly in Mary’s arms when Jane glances at the two of them across the aisle. Katie and Lo are asleep in the seats on either side of her. Lo’s black silk eye mask looks lopsided with her face pressed up against the side of the seat. Katie is snoring. She got wind of Mary and Luca’s situation and was able to help iron out his immigration issues from Hawaii, pulling a few strings with the right judge in Seattle, even, and to Mary’s delight, it looked like he would soon be a permanent resident of Seattle, and employed. Matthew put the word out in his architectural circles about Luca, who’d recently started his own construction company, and he’s apparently been flooded with calls.

As the plane touches down, Jane considers the past year, all of its ups and downs. Her journey, successfully completed; the handoff of her gift to little Grace; reuniting with her father, and having brunch with him and Flynn on New Year’s Day; and yet, there’s still a big gaping hole. Love.

She thinks of that as they walk to baggage claim and stand beside the carousel, waiting for their suitcases, which they retrieve and wheel outside. Katie’s father-in-law is in town, and he pulls up with Josh in their new handicap-accessible van. The house she was intending to sell in his absence has been retrofitted with a ramp to the front door, and the lower-floor guest bedroom is now the master. She waves and runs to the van. Lo boards a shuttle to the airport parking lot to retrieve her car. Luca drives up next and jumps out of the car to handle Mary’s luggage while she buckles the baby into her car seat.

And then Jane is . . . alone. She stands on the curb and hails a cab. The Seattle air is frigid, and she smiles to think that she can still feel sand between her toes.

“Where to, miss?” the driver asks. “Pike Place,” she says. “I live on Pike.”

The driver nods and turns out onto the road. Jane thinks of Cam then, how they parted. Tears sting her eyes, and she fights them back before they can spill out onto her cheeks. She had every right to be angry. He deceived her, after all.

But she loved him. Oh, did she love him. And she still does. She knows it with every beat of her heart. It’s the fact that clings to her now as the cab speeds down I-5. It’s the whisper in her ear as twilight sets in. The city is in sight. Her Seattle. The skyline is like a hug, a reminder that she will be OK. But will she?

Cam’s somewhere out there, she thinks. Yes, January 19. He was supposed to get home from his trip today. Maybe they even passed at the airport unknowingly. But what does it matter? Jane shakes her head. It’s over.

The cab turns onto First Avenue, then proceeds down the hill. She feels the familiar bumps and grooves of the cobblestones beneath the tires of the cab. Home. Her beloved Pike Place Market, welcoming her back. A few moments later, her building is in sight.

“Thank you,” she says to the cabdriver, handing him two twenties.

The driver thanks her, then fiddles with the radio. A second later, Dusty Springfield’s smoky voice fills the cab: “The look of love is in your eyes. The look your heart can’t disguise.” She remembers the dance she and Cam shared at Katie and Josh’s wedding. She remembers the way he held her. What did he say that night? “I want you to think of me, and this moment, whenever you hear this song. I want you to feel me.”

And she feels him now, deeply. She wheels her bag onto the sidewalk and stands in front of her building. A young couple strolls past, hand in hand.

It’s nearly seven, and Bernard walks out of the building. “Jane,” he says when he sees her. “Just getting back from vacation?”

She nods.

“Just in time for the storm.”

“Storm?”

He points to the sky. “Those are snow clouds up there.”

“I know,” she says, remembering her first lesson in clouds, given by Bernard more than a year ago. She feels a snowflake hit her cheek.

“But you never told me what you saw in the clouds that day.” He smiles. “Do you remember?”

“I do,” she says. “The image still jars me, in fact.”

“What was it?”

“It was a heart,” she says softly.

Bernard nods knowingly. “I expected as much,” he says approvingly. He tips his hat. “Good night, Jane.”

She turns to face the street, and in the far corner of the night sky, there’s a moon. Snow clouds are moving in, but they haven’t obscured it entirely yet, and when a wispy cloud passes, Jane can see its full round form. Her heart begins to race. She remembers what Colette told her about second chances, how love can be restored on a snowy night, with a full moon presiding overhead.

For a moment, the world is nearly frozen into stillness. A seagull flies above, but its wings barely move. The couple on the sidewalk pause in an infinite embrace. Even the snowflakes themselves seem suspended in midair, enraptured in this moment. Jane is too. And when the cab begins to pull away and she opens her mouth to hail it back, her lips don’t seem to work. Her voice is muted. But the driver sees her somehow, and stops the car. She gets in and scrolls through the e-mails on her phone until she finds the one Cam sent her in Hawaii about how he had rented a house in Wallingford after his lease downtown expired. She didn’t respond to it, of course, but now she wishes she had. “I have to see someone,” she says, breathless. “Can you take me to Wallingford? 4634 Densmore. Please, hurry.”

Across town, Cam is stepping out of a cab in front of the house he’s just rented, one of those old Craftsmans, quintessentially Seattle. Jane would like it; he’s sure of it. Of course that old Dusty Springfield song would play on the radio on his drive home from the airport. Jane haunts him still. And maybe she always will.

Cam sighs as he pays his fare and slides the strap of his bag over his shoulder. He thought about Jane every minute of his time in New York. He feels a snowflake on his cheek, and looks up at the streetlight.
Or is there?

The wind is picking up now, swirling a pile of shriveled autumn leaves this way and that. It’s weeks into winter, but a single leaf clings to a high branch on the old maple tree in the parking strip. It’s seen sleet and snow and wind, but it stubbornly hangs on. Could their love survive this? Could it hold on, just a moment longer?

Cam feels the bitter air brush his cheek. A cold north wind. A dog barks in the distance, and he hears a child laughing from a nearby front porch. A college-aged guy pedals past on a bike, leaves crunching beneath his tires. And then Cam sees the moon, big and bright and full, carving a hole through the clouds, hovering over him.

He knows he has to see her. Those green eyes. One last moment.

“Wait,” he calls out to the cab, which has already started off down the street. “Stop,” he says, dropping his bag, waving his arms. But the driver doesn’t see him. He motors away, oblivious to the part he might have played in this developing love story in which each moment is precious.

Cam looks down at his feet. The snow is falling harder now. He picks up his bag and walks back to his house, where he slumps over on the front stoop, staring ahead for several minutes as the snow falls. And then, headlights strobe through the snowy night like two giant sunbeams.

Jane’s cab pulls onto Densmore, and she wipes the foggy window with the sleeve of her coat. Her heart is in her throat now. Every year, every day, every second of her life has led her to this moment. The cab stops, and she reaches for the door handle. Her heart is so full she feels it may burst. It is January 19, and Jane knows it is the first day of the rest of her life. Cam is in the distance, sitting on his stoop. And for the first time, she can see clearly.