The Love Book

by Nina Solomon

  Max wrote one line, tore off the top sheet, and crumpled it up.

  Emily’s letter to Charles had started out fine—clear and detached—but then took a strange turn. Charles, I’m so sorry. I didn’t deserve you. Please forgive me. She slipped it into the envelope, then between the pages of Cathy’s Love Book.

  After paying the bill, they went to a dingy supermarket across the street to buy bread. The sound system was tuned to a call-in radio show about relationships. Beatrice was saying something, but Emily didn’t seem to hear a word as though she were a million light years away. The relationship expert was giving advice to a caller. Listen, you may never get over him. You might be alone forever, for all I know . . .

  Beatrice was quickly losing patience. Earth to Emily! What had gotten into the woman? She’d seemed fine a few minutes ago. “I’m going to grow mold if we don’t get a move on,” she said, tossing a loaf of marked-down bread into the basket. “The ducks won’t care if it’s white or wheat.”

  When they emerged from the store, it was as if the heavens had opened up. The release ceremony would have to wait for better weather.

  Max headed off to her hostessing job and Beatrice agreed to wait out the storm at Emily’s. Emily made hot chocolate and they watched The Women on TCM in the den. Emily had brought in the bag of marshmallows. She took the ratio of hot chocolate to marshmallows very seriously. She thought they’d only watch until the rain let up, but two hours later they were still watching. Near the end of the film, Norma Shearer, dressed in a silk peignoir, reads a passage from Kahlil Gibran’s book The Prophet. Emily had seen the movie at least three times but had absolutely no recollection of the scene. Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.

  In the next scene, Norma Shearer runs off to be reunited with her estranged husband, uttering that famous line, “Dignity is a price a woman in love can’t afford,” which Beatrice found amusing.

  “What a bunch of simps. I say, skip the bromide. Give me some straight gin. Not one man in the whole darn movie and that’s all they ever talk about.”

  It was still pouring, so Emily insisted that Beatrice spend the night. While Beatrice called her friend Libby to tell her she was stuck in town, Emily put fresh sheets on the pullout couch, clean towels in the bathroom, a new box of Kleenex and pitcher of water on the nightstand, happily obliging when Beatrice asked if she had anything a little bit stronger.

  Emily said goodnight and went to write up her notes from the release ceremony. And that’s when she realized she’d left Cathy’s Love Book, and the letter to Charles, at Alice’s.

  A year after Emily and Charles had separated, Valentine’s Day weekend, Zach and Emily had gone skiing with two other families. When they returned from the slopes after the first day, Charles was in the parking lot. He’d driven six hours just to give her a Valentine’s Day present: a black pearl necklace she’d always wanted. Instead of feeling grateful for the gesture, she’d gotten angry, and told him he couldn’t stay. She said she couldn’t accept the gift and couldn’t explain it to him, or anyone, including herself. She still felt like a horrible, unforgivable person, not worthy of anyone’s trust, least of all his. She remembered how defeated he had looked when he waved to Zach from the car. How could she have been so unfeeling?

  She went into Zach’s room, something she often did when he was with Charles. Yoda was on Zach’s bed dressed in a Knicks jersey and cap, more thug than Jedi master. Emily pressed his hand. “Will I ever find love?” Yoda’s blue eyes blinked. His ears wiggled. “Simple question, simple answer. No.” She asked again. “Hmm, squeezed too hard, you have.” The third time, the master refused to speak. She put Yoda back on the bed and turned out the light. Yoda’s eyes suddenly lit up like green marbles in the darkness. “Feel the force all around you. Then clear the answer will become.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  TOUT DE SWEET

  WHEN FREDDY TOLD BEATRICE TO MEET HIM at the Oak Bar on Thursday and that she was in for a surprise, she wanted to be ready on all fronts, mentionable and otherwise. She hadn’t given much thought to undergarments except in a utilitarian Land’s End sort of way. Probably not since Albert died. Had it been ten years already?

  The salesgirl at Agent Provocateur had looked at her like a curiosity when she walked in. Her feathers were already a little ruffled from the frigid welcome, but when the salesgirl suggested that she might find the lingerie department at Lord & Taylor more her style, Beatrice made it clear she had no intention of wearing panties from the fifty-shades-of-beige granny section. She wasn’t going to let this buxom brunette sexpot in a lab coat intimidate her.

  The salesgirl arched her eyebrow, and then smiled. Beatrice knew she’d win her over eventually. Game on.

  “I have just the thing,” the young woman said, opening the mirrored drawers behind the long glass counter one by one until she found exactly what she was looking for, and draped a few barely there wisps of silk over her arm.

  In the dressing room, though, Beatrice lost all her nerve. She sat on a tufted boudoir chair and counted the minutes until she could make her sortie without losing face. It didn’t feel right, she’d say. Then the curtain parted and a glass of wine appeared, conveyed by an arm tattooed with two interlocking Venus symbols. Next, a pair of patent-leather slingbacks and body glitter.

  Tipsy but fortified, Beatrice emerged, wearing a short white silk robe, her legs shimmering like a bronze figurine. Twenty-five years of Jane Fonda had a silver lining.

  The salesgirl adjusted the hook-and-eye closures. “You’re one hot mama.”

  Beatrice thanked her. And it was true. She was still attractive, no matter what the odometer said. She didn’t feel half bad either. The Love Lava was flowing!

  At the counter, the salesgirl slipped a three-pack of neon condoms gratis into the shopping bag and recommended Beatrice try the Drone, a pair of remote-control vibrating thong panties.

  “Your man can pilot you from across the room at a cocktail party,” she said.

  “No thanks,” Beatrice replied. “I like to be the pilot in command.”

  “Take it anyway,” the salesgirl whispered. “You’ll thank me.”

  * * *

  Sitting at the bar in the Oak Room on a high green stool all “tarted up” waiting for Freddy (already twenty minutes late), Beatrice felt as conspicuous as a red cape in a bullring. What must the other patrons be thinking? A woman alone at a bar at four in the afternoon? She felt like some sort of specialty AARP prostitute waiting for her geriatric john.

  The place looked different since the last time Beatrice had been there before the renovation. Impossibly newer. Her memories of mayhem in the dark corner booths were wiped clean with the recent renovation. The coffered wood ceiling gleamed. Never in a million years would she have guessed that the famous murals of Central Park in winter had been intended to be so vibrant, but then it was amazing what a person could get used to. Decades of smoke-laced varnish had been stripped, revealing the painting’s true colors: touches of pale blue moonlight on the Pulitzer fountain; the red lipstick of hopeful young women strolling the southern end of the park. She remembered feeling that way herself in the early days, racing across Grand Army Plaza to meet Albert on the rare weekends they spent together.

  Freddy entered the Oak Bar, trailing clods of dirt from his white-knobbed shoes. Obviously he’d been golfing, or maybe mowing the lawn. He looked “faux” dapper in his checked pants and yellow pullover. The green key blazer with gold buttons, however, Beatrice found a little smug. He kissed her and rested his hand on her lower back.

  “Dewar’s on the rocks,” he said to the bartender.

  Beatrice winced. She almost made a comment, but let it go. Freddy should be Freddy. Albert had always complained that she was trying to improve him. Still, Dewar’s? And maybe he shouldn’t drink too much. Didn’t want her cowboy to have to pop one of those little blue pills.

  “I hyperventilated on Metro-North,” he said. “The conductor
was about to call the paramedics. I told him I was just lovesick.”

  “Stop it, Freddy. You’re acting like a schoolgirl. Now, what’s this about a surprise?”

  “You’ll know soon enough. Malcolm arranged everything.”

  “Malcolm? Why did you even tell him?”

  “What? Put the room on my credit card? Muriel would have a cow.”

  Somehow the man in the safari suit she’d run into on the Peter Pan bus, as sweet as taffy, did not quite seem the paradigm of discretion. Well, no sense worrying now.

  Freddy downed his scotch and threw some bills on the bar.

  “What’s the rush?” Beatrice said. “I could stay here forever. I always think if I sit here long enough, a girl I used to know might show up.”

  “You incurable romantic, Beatrice.”

  “Hardly. I just feel at home in a place that’s been around the universe a few times and had its share of scandals.”

  “We’ll come back for a nightcap,” he said. “I can’t wait another minute.”

  The bellhop escorted them upstairs, regaling them with the history of the hotel, rattling off movie titles filmed on the premises, the famous celebrity guests. “You’ve heard the story of Cary Grant and the three English muffins?” he asked.

  “Who hasn’t?” Freddy answered.

  “It’s rare to meet such an aficionado as yourself,” the bellhop said. “I usually do the teen tours and all they want to hear about is Gossip Girl or if the bathroom fixtures in the Edwardian Suite really are plated with 24 karat gold.”

  “I thought they were 14,” Freddy said.

  “No, 24, sir.”

  “I’m pretty sure they’re 14,” Freddy said. “I have a photographic memory.”

  At the fifth floor, the elevator opened. A little girl and her mother stepped on. The girl was sulking.

  “I’m sorry, dear,” the mother said.

  “You promised,” the girl whined.

  Freddy gave an exaggerated sigh.

  “We’ll do it for your birthday next year,” the woman said. “I promise.”

  The girl cheered up. “Can I bring my guinea pig?”

  “Yes, sweetie.”

  Freddy shook his head. “Little girl, they don’t allow pets at the Plaza.”

  “Actually they do,” the bellhop said. “As long as they’re in cages, under twenty-five pounds, and kept on a very short leash.”

  Beatrice looked at Freddy. It was tempting to make a joke at his expense. Again, she bit her tongue.

  In front of room 1832, Freddy handed the bellhop five singles and ordered a bottle of champagne.

  “The key, sir,” the bellhop said. “Enjoy your stay.”

  Without turning on the lights, Freddy rushed her inside, pressed her against the wall in the small entry foyer, and kissed her. Now that’s progress. A far cry from the altar boy she knew at Dartmouth. She heard his belt unbuckling and the jangle of pocket change as he slipped off his trousers.

  “Don’t you want to wait for the champagne?” Beatrice asked.

  “Damn it,” Freddy said. “I thought I had a rubber in my jacket pocket.” He fumbled with the light switch.

  The room brightened. The suite was a pink jewelry box. Above the bed, a neon sign flickered before settling into a cool pink light after the mercury vaporized. The Eloise Suite! Malcolm hadn’t arranged this; Freddy had. She felt the same tingles of anticipation she had all those years ago when the two of them had collapsed into a sea of pink in his younger sister’s Eloise-themed bedroom.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck, but Freddy pulled away, reaching for his cell phone. “I need to call Malcolm.”

  “Please thank him for the pink surprise,” she said. But from Freddy’s tone, it was clear he was neither pleased nor amused. In fact, he was annoyed, angry even.

  He stepped into the entry hall wearing only his green blazer and boxers and closed the French doors. “What on earth were you thinking, Malcolm? Romantic? Are you out of your mind? You always were a jealous little . . .”

  After he finished dressing down Malcolm, he called the concierge and asked if they could change rooms. Nope. The hotel was totally booked up. He slumped at the foot of the pink bed. So Freddy didn’t remember the first time he’d made love to her, but apparently Malcolm knew the story.

  “Let’s cut our losses,” he said. “I’ll call you a car.”

  “The room’s paid for,” she said, sitting next to him.

  “How silly. You’re right,” Freddy softened. “You came all this way.”

  “And gladly, I might add.”

  “I’m very glad you did too.” He stood up. “There’s absolutely no reason not to take advantage of being in New York.” He put on his overcoat. “If I hustle I can just make the 9:45.”

  “You’re leaving because you don’t have protection? I brought rubbers. What color would you like?”

  Freddy didn’t seem to find the assortment of neon condoms in her hand at all amusing.

  “Really, Beatrice. Look at this ridiculous room.”

  “I can’t believe you’re letting something so silly, or anything, ruin the night.”

  “Malcolm ruined the night.”

  “You’re a big baby, Freddy. When did you turn into a stick in the mud?”

  Freddy looked as if she were speaking another language. He was straddling the doorway, one foot in, the other out.

  “Just go, Freddy,” she said, and he was off.

  Moments later there was a knock on the door. A smiling waiter in a white jacket wheeled in a cart, a silver ice bucket, a bottle of champagne, and two flutes.

  Beatrice handed him a twenty to pop the cork, then collapsed into a floral armchair. She made an attempt to turn on the flat-screen using the gold-plated remote, but could only get it to dim the crystal chandelier and adjust the thermostat. She rummaged in her bag for her Stephanie Plum novel, laughing when she came across the Drone, but the only book in her bag was that silly Love Book, a seeming force of nature which had once again insinuated itself uninvited into her tote bag. She tossed it across the zebra carpeting and searched for some other distraction, but the only thing to read in the entire place were Eloise books.

  How nauseating! Then, in the stack of books, another title caught her eye: Eloise’s Guide to Life, or How to Eat, Dress, Travel, Behave, and Stay Six Forever!

  Beatrice read the first page: Getting bored is not allowed.

  The little kid certainly seemed to have it all together.

  She drew a bath and undressed. It was only after taking off the bra from Agent Provocateur that she realized she hadn’t removed the legendary Lessons of Seduction tag. Underneath a black-and-white photograph of a woman wearing the skimpiest of white lace thongs: Leçon n°114. L’emmener jouer dans le grand bain.

  Take him to play in the deep end.

  If she wasn’t going to listen to The Love Book, she certainly wasn’t going to take advice from a bra, although it was admittedly a good marketing campaign.

  After soaking in the marble tub, the body glitter rising to the surface like an oil slick, Beatrice wrapped herself in a pink chenille robe hanging next to a matching pint-sized one. Curious, she put on her reading glasses and read the instructions on the back of the box of the vibrating panties. Batteries not included. Of course. But a 24 karat gold–plated remote control had to be good for something.

  Before falling asleep between crisp white sheets, she said to herself: I am Beatrice. I am sixty-nine years old. I’m an Oklahoma City girl. But tonight I’m staying at the Plaza.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  À LA CARTE

  CATHY PULLED INTO THE PARKING LOT at Ruby Tuesday, purposefully choosing a spot with no cars on either side. Her bumper had already “fallen off” twice when she’d tried to back up while stuck behind a garbage truck. She couldn’t believe she’d agreed to go on a blind date, especially with one of her father’s lodge brothers, and probably wouldn’t have if not for the fact that the other day when she
opened The Love Book to do her daily meditation, a white feather magically appeared as if out of the ether and landed on the exact line she was reading: Create a flight plan and learn to fly. Your dreams have no limits. It was a sign. Of what, however, had still to be determined. So, when her father said he wanted her to meet his lodge buddy, Bob Plume, who lived near Teterboro Airport, she knew it was the universe guiding her yet again.

  Cathy had always been especially attuned to coincidences and happenstance; fortuitous accidents or forced delays masquerading as obstacles; chance meetings and glimmers of synchronicity; but especially signs of divine intervention, like a white feather miraculously appearing out of thin air with dating advice. Miraculous, even though she had been finding feathers all over the house since she’d patched her grandmother’s feather blanket with a strip of medical tape, too lazy to get a needle and thread.

  She entered and waited at the bar. It was happy hour. She scanned the crowd; dubious at best. What a relief not to be there for a punitive mission. She ordered a cranberry juice spritzer from the bartender, pleased for once to be waiting for someone besides the maître d’ to help her with her coat and pull out her chair. She’d worn a demure outfit, a printed empire waist dress and her grandmother’s pearls. It was always best to err on the conservative side. Her more funky outfits, like the floral pedal pushers that everyone had loved in Normandy, could wait until she and Mr. Plume knew each other a little better.

  She closed her eyes and did a “sensualization” to get herself in the right Love Vibration. It had been a trying day at school. One of her students had freaked out during the eighth grade proficiency assessment exam and she’d spent two hours trying to calm him down so he could complete it. Standardized tests were a necessary evil in the public school system; federal funding for special needs programs was contingent upon it, but she resented it all the same. Like all the other teachers, Cathy “taught to the test” and as a result, her students always ranked among the highest in the district, but that didn’t mean students who performed less well weren’t gifted. She knew she could be a little Hallmarky sometimes, but her students weren’t the ones with disabilities, they were the “able” ones, more open and connected to who they really were than “mainstream” students. She didn’t believe that a student’s self-worth should be measured by how well they could fill in ovals on a piece of paper.