The Look of Love: A Novel (7 page)

I turn to Colette and search her face. “How can I be sure I’ve seen love when the experience is so different for everyone?”

“Ah, you are right, my dear,” she replies. “There is not one form of love. There are six, and in fact, many shades in between.”

“Fifty Shades of Love,” Lo says with a snicker.

I give her an annoyed look.

“Wait,” I say. “So this . . . gift . . . that you say we have. You say there are others who also have it, or have had it?”

“Yes,” Colette says. “Fourteen, in fact.”

“How did they . . . ? What did—”

“How did their stories end, you mean?” She nods to herself. There’s regret in her eyes. “Some fulfilled their legacy and, in turn, led fulfilling lives. Others, well, did not. And that’s not what I want for you, Jane. I want you to be able to also experience the love you see in the lives of others. I want you to have that for yourself.”

I shake my head. “But that’s just it,” I say. “I can’t
see
love.”

“Ah, but you can, dear,” Colette replies. “Your vision, it’s been a little off all your life, has it not?”

“Well, yes,” I say. “But I have a tumor on my optic nerve. I’ve been seeing a neurologist since I was tiny, and my medical team thinks they’re getting close to understanding the exact cause of my episodes.”

“It’s your gift,” she says matter-of-factly, “not a neurological condition.”

I swallow hard. “I hate to disappoint you, but my vision is clouded by a medical abnormality, not some romantic condition.”

“Describe your vision problems to me,” Colette says. “What happens, and when?”

I look at Lo, then back at Colette. “Well, it’s been going on all my life. For a long time, I just assumed that everyone’s eyes clouded up at one point or another. It worried Mom, and she took me from one specialist to another. For a long time, they thought it was anxiety or something psychological, because it seemed to come on when I was in social situations, never when I was alone. My blue-eyed mom used to try to cheer me up by saying that it was a result of my being the only member of our family with green eyes. ‘Your eyes are as vibrant as the green gladiolus,’ she would tell me. ‘The secret name of that flower is “sword lily,” the bloom that signifies the power to pierce the heart.’” I look at Colette then. “You have green eyes too,” I say, a little stunned.

“I do.” She smiles before continuing. “All the women with our gift share that trait.”

I shake my head in disbelief.

“Tell me more about when your vision changes,” she says.

“For me, the timing has always been random,” I reply. “I can be walking down a street, or talking to friends, or gazing into a crowd, and there’s a halo effect in my sight. For so many years, doctors told me I was having ocular migraines. Sometimes I get headaches associated with it; but mostly just this foggy, cloudy aura, and often really intense pressure. It’s hard to explain.”

Colette nods. “And when’s the last time it happened?”

I stop to think for a moment. “Yesterday, at my friend Elaine and her husband Matthew’s house.”

“Ah,” Colette says knowingly. “And this happened in their presence, when the two of them were together?”

“No, actually,” I say. I pause for a moment, remembering Elaine standing in her kitchen yesterday, making Christmas dinner. “It happened when she was mashing sweet potatoes, talking to a new neighbor. His name was . . . Charles.” In an instant, I recall the glance they shared.

Colette clasps her hands together in her lap. “You can see why our gift comes with great responsibility.”

I shake my head. “You can’t possibly be implying that Elaine is
in love
with her neighbor? Because you couldn’t be more wrong. She only met him yesterday. And she and Matthew are so happily married that it makes most people nauseated.”

“Our vision doesn’t lie,” she says insistently. Her green eyes flash. They’re a deeper, darker shade than mine, almost emerald in hue. “What you saw yesterday was true, no matter how hard it is to believe.”

I close my eyes tightly, then open them again. “Hard to believe?” I say. “More like impossible to believe.”

“Love itself, dear, doesn’t make much sense,” she continues. “Its very nature is confounding. Why, for instance, would a count fall in love with a flower cart girl? Or a seemingly happily married woman find herself inexplicably drawn to a stranger in her kitchen on Christmas Day? Love is not always logical, but when you see it, you know it. And, Jane,
we
can see it.”

At once, my mind is flooded with memories, of cloudy vision and smiling faces, of the banging sound of MRIs and needle pricks, of glasses with thick lenses and medication. I hear Dr. Heller’s voice in my head. “You’re special, Jane. Yours is a condition rarer than any I’ve seen.”

I take a deep breath.

“It will take time to sink in,” Colette says. “You’re feeling the same shock I did when I first learned of my gift. But I implore you to heed my words today, for your very future depends on it.” She turns to the book again and flips to an interior page. “It’s all explained here. Before sunset on your thirtieth birthday, you must identify the six types of love. You must have seen them and recorded the names of two people, as well as their story, for each category. Or . . .”

Her voice trails off, and in that moment of silence, I feel a tug at my heart. Truth? Understanding? I’m not sure. “Jane, you see, if you fail at this, you lose the ability to experience love for yourself. And a life without love is . . .” She pauses as she extends the book to me. Her eyes pierce mine. “Well, it is perhaps the worst fate of all, Jane. No matter what you feel about our meeting, no matter what you believe at this moment, promise me you’ll at least consider what we’ve talked about today. Eros, Ludus, Storge, Pragma, Mania, and Agape. You must identify them, and you must not fail. Promise me you won’t.”

Because I am momentarily frozen, Lo takes the book from Colette and nods. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t.”

“Thank you,” Colette replies, standing up. We follow her to the door and find our coats hanging on the rack. I notice an old flower cart by the door, the type you might have seen in nineteenth-century Paris packed with nosegays of lilies of the valley and big white peonies.

I reach for the book in Lo’s hands. “After I, er, after I do my part, and write the names in the book, what do I do with the book?”

“You will be its caretaker,” she says. “Until you notify the next woman of her gift.”

“The next woman? But how will I know?”

Colette smiles to herself. “There will be a child, and you will be drawn to her, on the day of her birth. You won’t have to wonder. You will simply
know
.” She nods. “Before sunset on your next birthday. The circle must be completed by then.”

I reach for the doorknob but then turn around to face Colette once more. “Wait,” I say. “I’m a stranger to you. Why do you even care if I succeed or fail at this so-called gift? What does it matter to you?”

She smiles to herself. “We are a sisterhood, dear. In a world where all are blind, we see.” She places her hand on my arm. “You mustn’t fail.”

H
ow can we help you?” Lo says to an attractive man as he walks through the door of the flower shop. Lo handles our male customers with such skill that by the time they’re ready to make a purchase they are either head over heels and asking for her phone number or charmed into submission and eager to buy any item she recommends.

“I have a problem,” the man says. He’s wearing a fedora and a well-tailored pinstripe suit.

Lo grins. “Nothing that a flower arrangement can’t fix.”

“That’s what I’m hoping,” he says, cocking his head to the right, somewhat playfully, at Lo. “Here’s the thing. I messed up. I broke a woman’s heart, and I, well, I want to mend it.”

“Mend her heart, eh?” I hear the sarcasm in her voice. She doesn’t like this man. Not one bit. “And, may I ask, how bad was the, er, heartbreak?”

“Bad,” he says. “Listen, I’m not proud of it, but I cheated on her.”

At my place behind the counter, I bite my lip. It never ceases to amaze me how men regard florists as therapists. One whiff of a rose and they spill their guts.

“I see,” Lo says, taking guarded steps toward our front-end case, where we keep the type of arrangements a certain subset of the population likes: vanilla combinations of roses and baby’s breath, with the occasional carnation thrown in for good measure. No matter how inventive, creative, and imaginative you can get with floral design, some people just want boring. “And you’re looking for flowers that say, ‘I love you. I’m sorry. Take me back.’”

“Yes,” the man says, looking at Lo as if she has psychic abilities. “Exactly.”

“Right, then,” she says, opening one of the refrigerator doors. “Then I’m going to suggest pink roses, with a generous helping of baby’s breath.” I cringe as I watch her reach for the vase.

“This is perfect,” the man says.

“Good,” Lo replies with a sly smile.

As she swipes his credit card, another customer enters, the man in his forties from the other day. “Want me to help?” I say to Lo, who looks up and catches his eye.

“No,” she says, looking ahead intently. “You have all that paperwork to do, and you have a hair appointment this morning, right?”

I nod.

“I’ll take him,” she says as Mr. Cheater walks out the door.

I can see the way her hips sway as she approaches him. Lo is a pro at the game of love, and I love to watch her do her thing, even if I sometimes disapprove of her tactics.

“Well, hello again,” she says, smiling and tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear.

He scratches his head, accentuating his gold wedding band.
No, Lo, no.

“I need something simple,” he says. “Peonies, maybe. With freesia?”

Men aren’t typically familiar with peonies, so I know Lo is impressed. “Oh, what’s the occasion?” she asks, obviously prying.

He rubs his forehead. “It’s, well, it’s for someone special.”

“A lady in your life?” she says, walking to the back counter.

“Yes,” he replies.

“Your wife?”

He hesitates, then shakes his head. “We’re going through a rough patch. But no, these are for my mother. Tomorrow would have been her wedding anniversary, but my father passed away last year.”

“I’m sorry,” Lo says, “and about your wife too.” But on the latter point there is no true concern in her voice, only curiosity. “Are you separated?”

“Well, we’re headed that way,” he says, shaking his head. “I mean, can I be honest with you?”

She nods with rapt attention.

“I’m trying to go through the motions of someone trying to save their marriage, but”—he rubs his forehead—“I just don’t know that my heart’s in it.” He sighs. “That probably sounds awful.”

Lo places her hand on his forearm. “Or honest.”

He grins. “Well, thanks. I guess that’s all we have, our truth, right?”

She nods. “That’s what
I
always say. You’ve got to own it.”

He grins.

“And so you find yourself in a flower shop,” she continues.

He looks around. “Yes, here I am. Again.” He smiles. “I’m Grant.”

“I’m Lo,” she says, extending her hand.

My vision clouds just then, and I rub my eyes as I always do, but this time, I feel a thousand goose bumps on my arms, because I
know
.

Lo creates a classy arrangement—peonies, hyacinths, and greenery in a square vase—then she sets it on the counter. They admire it together. “You know,” she says boldly, “life’s too short not to be happy.”

“I know,” he says. “I know this all too well right now.”

She smirks. “Then what are you going to do?”

I shoot her a look. Lo can be unfiltered, but I don’t always love it when she’s so direct with our customers.

“You’re right,” he says, staring at the enormous arrangement on the table at the center of the shop. The ceramic vase, as large in diameter as a decent-size cherry tree, is peppered with white and pink roses, sprigs of stock, and freesia, calla lilies, and shoots of bells of Ireland for dramatic flair. Following in my grandmother’s floral tradition, we create something new, and enormous, every few days. Sometimes someone buys it, sometimes not. But it made Grandma happy to walk into the shop and see such grandeur, and it makes me happy.

Grant’s eyes light up momentarily. “Is that for sale, by chance?” he asks, pointing to the large arrangement.

“It is,” Lo says, confused. “If you’d rather buy that one for—”

“I’ll take it,” he says, walking to the center table and lifting up the vase, which partially obscures his face. “Both of them.”

“You have excellent taste,” she says, grinning as she takes his credit card.

“Have dinner with me,” he says suddenly. “Monday night.”

She looks at me, then back at Grant. “Yes,” she says decidedly. “Yes, I’ll have dinner with you.”

“Good,” he says, grinning. “I’ll swing by here at six and get you?”

“Come and get me, yes,” she says flirtatiously.

He walks to the door, then turns back with a smile. “See you soon, then.”

Lo eyes the enormous arrangement on the counter, which he seems to have forgotten. “Wait,” she says. “You forgot this one.”

He turns to face her a final time, grinning. “Those are for you.”

Once the door is closed, I turn to Lo. “
What
just happened?”

Her smile is infectious, and the corners of my mouth lift as I watch her staring at the flowers in front of her. “An amazing man asked me out, is what happened,” she says, looking up at me.

“Honey, he’s married. Don’t go there.”

“But you heard him,” she continues. “He’s separated, or almost separated. But, anyway, he’s done.”

“But you don’t really know that, Lo. And he’s too old for you. Remember, you said you’d never date men in their midforties.”

She looks lost in thought for a moment. Then her eyes flash. “Did you see it?”

“What are you talking about?” I say, though I know exactly what she’s talking about. I know what I saw.

“Did you see any signs of
love
? Did your vision change? Jane, tell me.”

“No,” I lie. I feel a guilty pang, and yet, I’m overcome with doubt.
What if Colette was wrong?

“Oh,” Lo says. I can hear the disappointment in her voice. Does she feel a spark with this man, something that sets him apart from the others? Does she want me to confirm it? “Well,” she says, quick to recover, “who’s to say that love can’t grow?” She sighs and tugs at her sweater dress. “I’m going to have dinner with him. And what will be, will be.”

Mary owns a hair salon two blocks from the market. Initially, it was a hole-in-the-wall space, just large enough for a few chairs, a sink, and a small reception desk. She fell in love with its rustic hardwood floors and one exposed brick wall when she found it ten years ago, and as a result, she stayed. She was able to open a wall and take over the neighboring space two years ago, which provided room for two other stylists, but the salon retained its cozy feel.

When I walk in, Mary is at the reception desk speaking to one of the stylists. Mary is a year younger than I am, and gorgeous, with auburn hair and olive skin. She’s married to Eli, a musician. And it’s a certifiable fact that they are one of the most beautiful couples in Seattle.

She waves and points to the empty chair, the one I’ve sat in year after year and laughed, or cried on days when I miss my mom. I sink into the familiar seat and sigh.

Men may spill their guts to florists, but stylists have that effect on me. For a decade, Mary has been listening to my secrets as she cuts my hair, but I hesitate to share what Colette has told me. I think about how I can ask her advice without worrying her with the details of the burden I now carry.

“Hi, honey,” she says, running her fingers through my long blond hair, which is in dire need of a foil, and, well, perhaps a whole new style.

“Hi,” I say in an exhausted tone.

“Oh,” Mary says. “You don’t sound so good.” A true friend can understand your complete emotional state from a single word.

“I was feeling sentimental and decided to look through my mom’s keepsakes,” I say. “You know what a hopeless romantic she was, in spite of the way my father broke her heart. There was an old book with a holiday fable, the story of a woman with a rare gift: the ability to see whether people were in love or not.”

“Oh, what a perfect tale for this time of year,” Mary says.

“So her dilemma got me thinking, what if someone like you or me had to make the decisions she did? If a person has revelations about the love in the lives of people she cares about, should she tell them? Or is that, well, meddlesome, somehow?”

Mary nods. “As in, if she sees that a husband loves his wife, but the wife loves someone else, or vice versa?”

“Exactly,” I say. “It’s delicate, isn’t it?”

“Very,” she replies. “If someone told me that Eli wasn’t in love with me, well, I don’t think I’d want to know. It would ruin me.”

“Here’s the strange part,” I tell her as she guides my head back into the bowl and begins shampooing my hair. “The end of the book is blank, almost as if I’m meant to fill it in, even though I’ve never been in love myself.”

“Well,” Mary continues, reaching for the conditioner, “I imagine she could help people come to their own conclusions, make educated decisions without telling them outright, you know?”

My eyes narrow as she rinses my hair. “Sort of nudge them in the right direction? Like a gentle matchmaker?”

“Yeah, that,” she says, “and also, well, just help them along their path. Play cupid a little.”

“I can’t stop thinking about this story,” I say. “She has no sense of love in her own life. In that way, she’s blind.”

Mary raises her eyebrows as she blots my hair with a towel before running a comb through the ends. “Blind? I get that, I guess. I’ve felt a little lost lately, with Eli on the road so much. Anyway, I’m doing what a lost one does: remodeling the kitchen.” She shrugs. “Eli surprised me at Christmas with the plans. We’ll finally get rid of those circa-1982 cabinets.”

I sit down in a chair in front of the mirror, and she reaches for her scissors. “That’s great,” I say, remembering an observation about home remodeling being a way to mask, or dull, the inevitability of a broken relationship. As if custom cabinets and fresh paint can fill the gaps of love gone wrong. But I don’t say that to Mary. I just smile. “I bet it’ll look beautiful.”

She nods a bit vacantly. “He’s been gone so much this past year,” she says. “Honestly, I’d rather have him home than have a new kitchen.”

“I’m sure,” I say. “But he’s on a tear with his music, isn’t he? You must be so proud of him.” When they married, Eli was an unemployed songwriter, but five years ago, he got a big break when one of his songs was picked up by a Hollywood producer and put into a movie that ended up winning an Academy Award. It injected life into his career, and last year, he signed with a major record label.

“I am,” she replies, then bites the edge of her lip. “I mean, I sound like a jealous wife or something. It’s not that I’m not happy for him; it’s just that, well, it’s really hard to be married to a musician. Especially a touring musician. A touring, incredibly hot musician.”

Eli is hot, yes. In Lo terms, he’s “sizzling.” The type of guy who can walk into a bar and attract the eyes of every woman in the room, even the married ones. Eli is highly aware that he possesses this ability, and for Mary’s sake, that has always given me pause.