The Love Book

by Nina Solomon

  Only a week ago, because of an outdated GPS, she’d happened upon a community for people with special needs, based on Rudolf Steiner’s philosophy, an entirely different model of teaching that fostered independence and self-reliance. Seeing firsthand how much more was possible made Cathy wonder if she could do better.

  She’d set out from New Jersey around noon for the second attempt at the first official Soul Mate Soirée, a tin of Wintergreen Altoids in her emergency backpack. She never went anywhere without mints! What she hadn’t counted on was that somehow the GPS lady was set to French, and even after three months of Rosetta Stone level I and two weeks in Normandy, she still didn’t know her droit from her gauche nor have any idea how to switch it back to English. She’d focused on the pink line guiding her route and said a quick prayer to Saint Anthony of Padua for a safe journey.

  Everything had seemed under control and she was making good time until the GPS sent her toward the Whitestone instead of the George Washington Bridge. She continued despite her better judgment, assuming that the Magellan lady must have devised an alternate route because of traffic or some other unforeseen real-time obstacle. Satellite technology was very sophisticated. According to the French lady, she’d be at Alice’s by seize heures et demi, which she also attributed to some sort of time zone glitch. Then when she saw the sign for New England she panicked and took the nearest exit, but the GPS seemed to be taking her still further off the beaten path, down winding unpaved roads. She kept reminding herself that it was the journey, not the destination, and managed to remain calm until she drove into a ditch and was hemmed in by a herd of cows. Not even satellites could have predicted a bovine obstruction.

  Vous êtes arrivé à votre destination.

  The middle of nowhere was not her destination! She saw a sign for the Steiner community and went to ask for help. At least she’d left Mrs. Beasley with enough food to last the winter. There was no telling when or if she’d get where she was going now.

  * * *

  The bartender at Ruby Tuesday brought her drink and a bowl of mixed nuts. He was cute, though not as cute as the bartender at Pat’s last week. She thanked him, but was careful not to flirt. She certainly didn’t want to give him the wrong impression, even though it hadn’t been Richie who’d gotten his signals crossed.

  Her cell phone vibrated. It was Beatrice texting from the Oak Room bar: Freddy’s late. I’m already on my third Malbec.

  Cathy texted back: All obstacles are for the best.

  Ruby Tuesday was filling up. At the other end of the bar, three overly made-up single women were sipping sodas and trying not to look desperate. Cathy wished she had a few extra copies of The Love Book on her. They could use a little help from the universe. She was about to advise Beatrice to go easy on the wine when Lawrence Weiner walked in. She quickly turned her chair, hoping he would pass by without seeing her, but he made a beeline right to her as though he had built-in sonar. Knowing Lawrence, he probably did.

  “Hey there, neighbor,” he said.

  “Lawrence,” she replied flatly.

  “If there was an empty seat, I’d keep you company.” At that very moment, the guy next to her stood up. Lawrence smiled. “Looks like my lucky day.”

  Cathy put her bag on the seat as a deterrent. “I’m meeting someone. He’ll be here any minute.”

  Lawrence was still hovering nearby, cheering with the other patrons at the bar to whatever sports event was on. Cathy checked the time. A few minutes turned into fifteen, then forty-five—still no sign of her Mr. Plume.

  Another text from Beatrice: Freddy stormed out! All men are babies!

  Truthfully, Cathy was glad that Beatrice’s tryst with Freddy at the Plaza had not gone as planned. She still wanted Beatrice to meet her father.

  She was about to text back when a tall blonde wearing a Jets jersey entered. A man who looked like Captain Kangaroo with muttonchops, who’d been standing next to Lawrence the whole time, introduced himself to the blonde.

  “You must be Cathy,” he said. “Your father told me all about you. And you were certainly worth the wait.”

  Lawrence put his arm around the blonde. “No, she’s with me. I’m Lawrence, a friend of Cathy’s. Nice to meet you.”

  “And where may I ask is Cathy?”

  Cathy wished she could disappear. “This is me,” she said from the barstool.

  There was a brief look of disappointment, then he said, “Well. Let’s find a table, shall we?”

  The waiter brought them special Travelzoo menus because Captain Kangaroo had a discount coupon. All through dinner, while he droned on about his two grown daughters, his split-level in Teterboro, and his tax certiorari firm, his cheeks growing even more chipmunk-like as he inhaled several onion rolls, she kept stealing glances at Lawrence and the blonde. They were sitting on the same side of an adjacent booth. She wondered if they were siblings. They seemed familiar with each other, relaxed and laughing and sharing food from each other’s plates. But then she kissed him. Nope, definitely not his sister. Not even Angelina Jolie and her brother kissed like that.

  Beatrice texted with an update: Just took a bath in a tub with a 24 karat gold faucet. If you think I’m doing that hand mirror exercise, you have another thing coming!

  Cathy knew exactly which exercise Beatrice was referring to. She had no intention of doing it either. Naturally, she’d also skipped the self-pleasuring exercise. She couldn’t even say the word vulva above a whisper and the last thing she wanted to do was look at . . . IT with a magnifying mirror!

  Her phone vibrated again. Captain Kangaroo was talking so much that he didn’t seem to notice that she had her phone in her lap and had been texting Beatrice since the waiter had taken their orders.

  Has he stopped talking yet?

  Nope, he can eat and talk at the same time.

  Incroyable!

  He signaled for the waiter. “More rolls, please.”

  Cathy stifled a laugh with her napkin. She sent another text to Beatrice but from then on it was radio silence.

  After dessert, the waiter brought the bill and two mints, which her date quickly pocketed. He tallied the check using a small calculator on the front flap of his wallet.

  “Let’s see. Your share comes to $22.95 plus tax. With tip, that’ll be $27.50. It would have been less if you hadn’t ordered the fries à la carte.”

  She looked through her purse. “I don’t have any change.”

  “Don’t worry, just round up.”

  She cringed as he wrapped the extra dinner rolls in a napkin. Then she got another text, but not from Beatrice. This one was from Lawrence: Halloween party, my house Saturday night! I’m going as Charles Lindbergh. Would you be my Amelia Earhart?

  She snapped her phone shut. So much for signs and synchronicities. Sometimes a feather is just a feather.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  HANGMAN

  EMILY LAY ON DUNCAN’S UNMADE BED reading submissions just as she had every day for the past two weeks, while he worked at his rolltop desk. She was wearing jeans and a black bra. Invariably, the rest of her clothes would be off by lunchtime.

  Even though every book on divorce recommended not introducing children to a new romantic partner too early, Emily was ready for Duncan and Zach to meet. It wasn’t the length of time they’d been together; it was the depth of commitment, and the relationship felt on very sure footing.

  After a “long” lunch, Duncan glanced up from his computer. “May I read something to you?”

  Emily got out of bed and wrapped herself in a patterned blue sheet with bamboo flowers. She sat on Duncan’s lap while he read her the op-ed he’d written for the Times.

  “I’ve been neglecting you,” he said, caressing her with one hand, while scrolling to the next paragraph with the other. “You’ve only come once today.”

  After leaving Duncan’s, she stopped at the health food store for some Duncan-approved ingredients, then went straight to Alice’s. She’d been meaning to go back
for Cathy’s book, but kept forgetting. Justin and Stevie were behind the counter. Apricot was dressed like Pagliacci, hat and all. The Love Book was next to a display of beautifully decorated cakes.

  Emily flipped through the pages. “Did either of you find a letter?” Her fingers were already stained red.

  Stevie was putting a tray of fresh scones into the display case. She looked up. “I didn’t, did you, Justin?”

  “No, but we’ll be on the lookout.”

  If only she hadn’t written the letter to Charles in the first place.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” Justin asked. “Silver Needle Jasmine, right?” Emily nodded. He filled a tea filter with loose tea leaves. “You know, that Love Book is voodoo!”

  “What do you mean?” Emily asked.

  “Freaky things have been happening.”

  Emily fumbled in her bag for a pen and notepad.

  “The day you left it, I read the introduction and out of the blue my ex calls and wants to talk. Then three guys tried to pick me up at Whole Foods. The same exact thing happened to Stevie. Her boyfriend pleaded with her to take him back. I told another friend about the book, she orders it, and that very day she bumps into her first love! Men are coming out of the woodwork. I just happen to be a little pickier than some other people,” he said, winking at Stevie.

  Emily had been experiencing something similar, but she was still skeptical. Of course, there was Duncan; and the security guard at Zach’s school who brought her homemade pastries; and the man behind her at Ansonia Station who chased her down with a bouquet of irises; and the deli guy who’d never even smiled at her before and was now suddenly offering her free coffee and Hungarian lessons. The Law of Attraction at work? Perhaps, but there was also that small niggly detail named Charles, whom she couldn’t seem to shake. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason. It was more like flypaper than enchantment. But what remained even more of a mystery was the author of The Love Book, whose identity seemed cloaked in a secrecy matched only by the witness protection program. She hadn’t received a single response to her daily Twitter queries.

  “I never realized I was in shortage mentality,” Justin said. “I used to tell myself all the good ones were taken, I’m too chubby, I’m not tall enough, I work in a teashop for minimum wage. Whatever! But it’s really true; love is like oxygen. There’s a limitless supply. I’m going to see if it works with money!”

  “How did you leave things with Daniel?” Emily asked.

  “It’s over, but we cleared the air. Who needs to hold onto anger? Like Buddha says: it’s like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.”

  * * *

  When Emily returned home she found a registered letter from a Park Avenue white-shoe law firm demanding that Charles’s name be removed as guarantor on the proprietary lease before the end of the fiscal year. Buddha was describing Charles in a nutshell!

  She was preparing dinner when Zach came into the kitchen, which meant he was probably hungry.

  “Who’s Duncan?” he asked. “And what kind of name is Duncan anyway? Does he own a donut store?”

  “No, silly,” she said, ruffling his hair. Charles had taken him to his Italian barber again, and now he looked like a mini Charles with faux sideburns. He had even started using gel when he combed his hair in the morning. “He’s a writer friend of Mommy’s. You’ll like him.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Just give him a chance.”

  “When is he going to be here?”

  “In about an hour.”

  “Are there any pizza bagels left?”

  “No, I’ll pick some up tomorrow.” She gave him a plastic Winnie-the-Pooh bowl full of pistachios to tide him over.

  “Mom, I’m not a baby.”

  “I know,” she said. “It’s just a bowl. How about a hug, ladybug?”

  He poured the pistachios into an NFL cup, grabbed a turquoise Gatorade he’d talked her into buying after soccer practice the other day, and said, “Peace out, Mom.”

  He returned a few minutes later with a pillowcase full of Beanie Babies. “I don’t want these anymore.”

  “But you love them,” she said.

  “Mom? Beanie Babies?”

  Emily rescued Princess Diana and the “Road Hog” squirrel with the leather jacket. The rest she stashed in the linen closet where she kept crumbling rolls of Zach’s paintings from nursery school. The only “toy” that remained on the loft was the talking Yoda. Oracles, apparently, were grandfathered in.

  * * *

  Duncan arrived just before seven. “A rose for Emily,” he said, handing a flower to her as if presenting it to the queen.

  Zach came out of his room wearing a Knicks jersey and mesh shorts, dribbling a mini Georgetown basketball.

  “Nice to meet you, young man,” Duncan said, shaking his hand. “Do you play hoops?”

  “Yup,” Zach answered.

  “What grade are you in?”

  “Fifth. Can I have another Gatorade, Mom?”

  “You drank the last bottle, sweetie.”

  “You don’t want to drink that stuff, anyway,” Duncan said. “It’s just sugar, salt, and food coloring. Real athletes train hard and don’t put junk into their bodies.”

  “My father drinks it and he played basketball in college.”

  “Really, where?” Duncan asked.

  “Georgetown.”

  Zach was staring Duncan down. Emily wanted to take him aside and shake him. Charles had gone to Georgetown, played the occasional pickup game on weekends, but he wasn’t a Hoya.

  Emily had planned dinner on the terrace, but the wind was coming off the river and the napkins blew away, fluttering off like white doves. Zach was virtually silent through the entire meal, playing with his iPod Touch under the table. Duncan barely ate a thing, scraping the breading off his chicken cutlet and not even tasting the spinach soufflé.

  “I used whole wheat breadcrumbs,” she said.

  “Look at the label. It’s still processed.”

  “How come you dye your hair?” Zach suddenly asked.

  Duncan dropped his fork and stared at the child with a look Emily had never seen before and could not interpret. “Don’t be ridiculous!” he said in a strained voice.

  Zach asked to be excused and cleared his plate and Emily’s, but not Duncan’s. He returned a little while later with a pad of paper. Pictionary? Tic-tac-toe? Maybe the evening could be salvaged. He smiled as he ripped off a sheet of paper and taped it to the sliding glass door.

  On it, he had written: I HATE DUNCAN.

  Luckily, Duncan was facing the opposite direction. She ripped the paper off the glass, and then chased Zach down the hall. She was wearing thick white socks and slipped as she rounded the corner. Zach slammed the door to his bedroom and secured the eye latch, but one good shove and she was inside.

  “You are very lucky Duncan didn’t see that. If you don’t behave, you’re grounded. From everything.”

  “I’ll just go stay with Daddy.”

  “Even if it were your choice,” she said, “which it isn’t, I’ll tell Daddy you’re grounded there too.”

  “He never listens to you. Daddy’s right, you only date losers.”

  “You don’t even know him.”

  “I don’t want you to go out with him.”

  “I’m the mother, and you’re the child. That means that you don’t get to decide these things.”

  “If you marry him I’m moving out.”

  If one of her friends had told her this story over tea, she would have found it amusing, but she had so much invested in the evening going well that she couldn’t hold back her tears. Zach had seen more than his fair share of tears, assumed the role of comforter more times than she cared to remember.

  “All right, Mom,” he said. “I’ll play a game with him.”

  Emily tried to hug him, but he squirmed out of her arms.

  Sitting on the arm of the couch as Zach drew a series of dashe
s on graph paper, Emily’s heart felt full. She wished she’d been more understanding. It must be hard on a son to see his mother with a man who isn’t his father.

  The hangman was nearly complete. “Looks like you beat me fair and square,” Duncan said.

  “You still have more guesses,” Zach prompted.

  “I’ve always played with only six body parts.”

  “We always do the eyes, nose, and mouth. Sometimes ears and hair.”

  “Are those regulation rules?” Duncan asked.

  Zach shrugged. “That’s how we play.”

  “Okay, how about an N?”

  “Good guess,” Zach said, filling in two N’s.

  Emily leaned over to see if she could decipher the phrase: I HATE D __ N __ __ N.

  She stood up. “Say goodnight, Zach.”

  “Mom! I was winning.”

  “Time for bed.”

  “Goodnight, young man,” Duncan said. “Maybe we can throw the rock sometime.”

  “Yeah,” he responded, feigning excitement, then muttered, “Not.” He not only had Charles’s haircut, he was acting like him too.

  Duncan was scanning Emily’s glass-fronted mission bookshelves and didn’t look up when she returned to the living room. She and Charles had found the bookshelves at a flea market in Lambertville when they first moved in together. They’d restored and refinished them, replacing a few broken panes of glass, and filled the shelves with their newly merged book collections. Duncan was holding a copy of Tess of the d’Urbervilles. She couldn’t remember to whom the book had originally belonged, her or Charles.

  She stood next to him, put her hand in his back pocket. She hoped he hadn’t overheard too much of the confrontation with Zach.