The Love Book

by Nina Solomon

  “That’s one fine young man,” he said, placing the book back on the shelf. “And so well behaved,” he added, to Emily’s relief, without a hint of sarcasm.

  “Thank you. He gets that from his father.”

  * * *

  After Duncan left, Adele Weisenbaum rang her bell. The timing was rather suspicious. Prepared to be grilled about the quirky but handsome man who had just left her apartment, she was surprised when Adele just said a curt, “This was delivered to me by mistake.” She handed Emily a red envelope, sealed with a ladybug sticker, and slammed her door.

  The envelope contained just a single sheet of onionskin paper. Written in a lovely old-fashioned script with a fountain pen was one sentence: We are glad that our Love Book is in the hands of a fellow seeker.

  It was the first lead Emily had gotten. If only she knew where it was taking her.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  HOMECOMING

  AFTER THE INCIDENT IN THE ELOISE SUITE, Beatrice didn’t ever want to see Freddy again. But he’d called, sent flowers, apologized backward, forward, and sideways, and if people convicted of misdemeanors or Class D felons could seal their records, the least she could do was allow Freddy to appeal his case.

  They’d met at the Oyster Bar in Grand Central for a half-dozen Bluepoints and two dry martinis before their 11:45 train to White River Junction, and, after slipping a five into the bartender’s hand, two more martinis in to-go cups. Once in Hanover, right before the fifty-foot-high wooden structure was set ablaze on the quad, heralding the official opening of homecoming, she got a text from Emily.

  Are you pinned yet?

  No. Do you have a book deal yet?

  She smiled. How had these four unlikely women become so bonded?

  The bonfire was made of old railroad ties steeped in creosote, making it burn like mad. A fire truck was on hand just in case. The flames were so intense it looked like a rocket had just taken off as the incoming freshmen did laps around the green. She’d only worn a light shawl. The air was crisp, so Freddy offered her his jacket. Slipping her arms into the sleeves of his herringbone coat with the wide shoulders and smell of cherry pipe tobacco made her feel young again, cared for, protected, like her whole life lay ahead of her, not just a weekend together until Freddy’s wife returned from her trip to Portland to visit the grandchildren.

  “Remember skating on Occom Pond?” he asked. She nodded. “How about Winter Carnival 1957? When Malcolm and I had that sudden-death match? I’d say the stakes were pretty high then too.”

  Beatrice knew exactly which match he was talking about. The past seemed so close she could almost touch it. It was Valentine’s Day, sophomore year. Beatrice’s birthday. Freddy had been lacing up his hockey skates. Malcolm sat down next to him on the wooden bench. He was wearing a pair of well-worn hockey gloves. Freddy continued lacing his skates without looking up, as though Malcolm weren’t there.

  “Why don’t we settle this with a little one-on-one while the ice is free? May the best man win.”

  Freddy had hesitated then reconsidered, unable to resist the challenge. He finished lacing his skates, removed the skate guards, and wiped the blades with a soft chamois. “Okay, you’re on,” he’d said, zipping up his jacket. He grabbed a stick from his equipment bag, then glided out onto the ice with the assurance of someone who’d been skating nearly as long as he could walk.

  “Wa-hoo-wa,” Malcolm said, knocking Freddy’s stick with his.

  “Yeah, wa-hoo-wa,” Freddy said, returning the arcane Dartmouth expression, his eyes so fierce and piercing they looked as if they could cut ice.

  They had played to the death, or so it seemed, as if it were a championship game and the entire season was riding on the outcome, only it was just the two of them, two brothers, alone, facing off on the ice. Neither Freddy nor Malcolm had noticed when Beatrice left the pond that night nearly fifty years ago, teetering along the wooden walkway on her white calfskin skates. She’d let boys be boys. From the porch, she had watched as the two of them fell into that familiar rhythm of teammates, brothers able to anticipate each other’s actions, moving in tandem even though they were adversaries competing for the same goal. She’d watched so many of their practice sessions, some in the middle of the night, depending on when the ice was free.

  After the match, Freddy had swept her off her feet and spun her around. “The best man won.”

  But that was all ancient history. The bonfire was dying down. Beatrice pulled Freddy’s jacket tighter around her. “What do you mean the stakes were high?”

  “Nothing, Beatrice, nothing,” Freddy said. “That was a long time ago, another lifetime. By the by, just in case anyone asks, we just ‘happened’ to run into each other.”

  “I’m not a ninny, Freddy. I know the drill.”

  “My no-nonsense gal.”

  He’d booked a room at the Hanover Inn—a non-themed room, he promised—and had made reservations for dinner at Jesse’s Steakhouse. They were both serious carnivores, another thing besides no-fuss, no-muss relationships they had in common. He was glad she’d enjoyed the Eloise Suite, but he hadn’t spoken to Malcolm since. It was childish, as if they were in grade school and Malcolm had put the key to Freddy’s roller skates on the train tracks. Boys will be boys. Thank goodness she hadn’t married him.

  * * *

  At Jesse’s Steakhouse, Freddy and Beatrice followed the hostess to a booth in the back of the dimly lit tavern, conveniently located near the salad bar. They ordered steak, baked potatoes, and iceberg lettuce with blue cheese dressing. Freddy chose the wine, a nice pinot noir from a local winery. Beatrice liked a man who was concerned about his carbon footprint. Albert never recycled; he used to throw cans or empty bottles of single-malt scotch in with the regular garbage, mixing paper and plastic willy-nilly. Every day she’d fish bottles out of the trash, eggshells sticking to her hands, and even with her daily reminders, he still persisted in flouting the recycling laws. The funny thing was that after he died, she sort of missed his annoying habits, like finding his orange boxers and Gold Toe socks under the bed.

  The waitress brought their salads. Freddy asked for olives and breadsticks. They were famished and quickly getting tipsy—they hadn’t eaten anything since the Oyster Bar.

  Freddy lifted his glass. “To us, my dear.”

  “Yes, to us. And to living like an oyster,” she said. From the blank expression on his face she knew the reference to Flaubert’s letter to George Sand had gone over his silver head. “How about to no strings attached!”

  He reached across the table, taking her hand. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that.”

  The waitress set down a basket of bread and a ramekin of olives. Freddy waited for her to leave before continuing.

  “I kind of like the idea of string,” he said. “I was even thinking I like the idea of eventually tying a knot in that string.”

  “Well, cut it out!” she responded, laughing at her pun.

  “Cut it out? Why? I thought you’d be happy.”

  “You’re married, for one thing,” she said.

  “Married in name only. Muriel and I haven’t been—how shall I say?—intimate, for the last few years.”

  “But you are married and if you want to keep seeing me, I suggest you stay that way.”

  “I don’t understand, Beatrice. You and I were engaged. Now that Mother isn’t here to object, I thought that’s what you wanted.”

  “I never said that. You have a life, children, obligations. I’m not looking to get encumbered.”

  “Beatrice, be sensible.”

  “I’m the only one being sensible.”

  Freddy snapped a breadstick in half. “I’m too old to be sneaking around. How would it look? I’ll make sure that Muriel is taken care of, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I’m not worried about Muriel,” she said. “I told you, no fuss, no muss.”

  “I assumed you were just being coy.”

  “I’
m a straight shooter, Freddy. I thought you understood.”

  “Nothing I can do will change your mind?”

  “Nope. I’m pretty set in my ways.”

  “I guess we have nothing more to discuss then.”

  “Guess not,” she agreed.

  Freddy shoved a large green olive into his mouth, as if putting a stopper in a bottle, and poured himself another glass of wine, but left her glass empty. Their steaks arrived. He tucked his napkin into his collar and began to eat in stony silence. She tried to make polite conversation, but he was still pouting and pretended not to hear, so she gave up. She asked him to pass the pepper. After the third time, he finally pushed the pepper grinder toward her. How did they get from that feeling of safety she’d had watching the bonfire to this? From lovely to lousy in sixty seconds flat. She wasn’t even sure that what she was saying about not wanting to get married was really how she felt or if it was merely a knee-jerk reaction, her automatic response to any situation that made her uncomfortable. She liked Freddy; in fact she might even love him. What she didn’t like was feeling cornered. It was fight or flight. But what on earth was she afraid of?

  No nonsense. That’s how she liked it, or said she did. She thought of her decade-long affair with Albert, each successive year a carbon copy of the last, the intensity of their passion fading ever so slightly with each reproduction. But it was reliable, convenient, stable. Until his wife threw him out, calling Beatrice on a Sunday morning to tell her she could have him! He showed up at her row house, a lost Paddington Bear with his suitcase embossed with his initials, one of a matching set bought for his honeymoon. Six months later he was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. She loved him, but she didn’t want to care for him; she couldn’t. Telling him to leave was the hardest thing she’d ever done.

  “Freddy,” she said now, her voice tender and soft, “it’s a beautiful night. We’re together. You planned a lovely weekend. Let’s try to enjoy ourselves.”

  He smiled faintly and was about to speak, when all the blood suddenly drained out of his face and he broke out in a sweat. “I’m feeling a little . . . Can’t catch my breath.”

  “Here, drink something.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it. “I think we let things get out of hand.”

  He slid out of the booth, bracing himself on the table. “I’m going to splash some water on my face.” He’d only taken two steps when he collapsed, his head hitting the floor with a clunk like a bowling ball.

  “Freddy!” she shouted.

  Then there was a blur of people rushing about. Freddy’s body started to convulse. The manager arrived with a young bearded man wearing a Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center fleece. The doctor checked Freddy’s pulse and vital signs.

  “Your husband has had a heart attack. I’m going to begin CPR until the paramedics arrive.”

  Beatrice felt like an interloper as she rode in the back of the ambulance to the hospital, a privilege only afforded to next of kin.

  * * *

  Beatrice hadn’t known whom else to call when Freddy was taken to the hospital, except Malcolm. He told her not to worry; he’d be there before she knew it. Hanover was only two hours from Boston, but for Beatrice that wasn’t soon enough. As she sat in the egregiously cheerful waiting area in this perfect soap opera–esque hospital with rolling hills, manicured grounds, and Stepford nurses, she felt a pit in her stomach. Had she caused this? The doctors said he’d had an “event,” but that there had been no damage to his heart. She tried to be optimistic, pretended she was Cathy, but it was easier said than done. The only silver lining she could find was that Freddy’s heart attack hadn’t happened in flagrante delicto. Considering his prominence, the world didn’t need another Nelson Rockefeller scandal splashed across the Wall Street Journal.

  And then she saw Malcolm walking down the corridor, his cheeks flushed, wearing a blue hooded toggle coat and chinos. From a distance he could have been mistaken for an undergrad on his way to class, which gave her an immediate feeling of relief.

  “I came as soon as I could,” he said. “His doctor’s been warning him about his high cholesterol for years. The stubborn old goat.”

  “So, the foie gras at “21” might not have been the best idea?” she said.

  He laughed. “That’s Freddy. He thinks he’s invincible.”

  Malcolm brought her tea in a Styrofoam cup then went to talk to the ER doctor. Beatrice stared off into space, watching the steam swirl as if from a genie’s lamp. A memory slowly surfaced: She was in a navy sailor suit and wide-brimmed hat sitting on a fence tangled with blackberry vines. She’d been waiting with the other kids for her mother to pick her up from the bus stop. She stayed there, as she did every day, until they’d all gone before walking the half-mile home alone. Her mother wouldn’t return for another six months. She’d found a job in New York working for the Associated Press, an opportunity of a lifetime, and left Beatrice with her Aunt Sue in Oklahoma City. Poor little girl, Beatrice thought. If she were that little girl again, she wouldn’t even want to speak to the Beatrice who was sitting in this soap opera hospital, still waiting for someone who would never show up. And to think, when she was at Alice’s she hadn’t thought there was anyone she needed to make amends to.

  Malcolm was back and standing in front of her. It seemed like only minutes had passed, but her tea was cold. Where had she been?

  “Superman needs angioplasty,” he explained. “It’s scheduled for the morning.”

  “Oh my heavens!”

  “Don’t worry, Beatrice. Dartmouth has one of the best cardiac teams in the country.”

  * * *

  After visiting hours were over, Malcolm drove Beatrice to the Hanover Inn. He inquired about vacancies, but it was homecoming weekend and the hotel had been booked for months.

  “Gee, what are you going to do?” Beatrice asked.

  “Spend the night at the hospital, I guess.”

  “Freddy booked us a suite,” she said. “You’re welcome to the couch.”

  “I couldn’t,” he demurred.

  “At least come up for a glass of scotch. We have a bottle of nineteen-year-old St. Magdalene.”

  “Maybe just for one drink. It would be a crime to let that go to waste,” he said.

  Upstairs, Beatrice poured them each a dram. Once the scotch had “bloomed” and not a moment sooner, they would drink to Freddy’s swift recovery. Truthfully, she didn’t know which she had been looking forward to with more anticipation: consummating her affair with Freddy or tasting this exquisite and noble malt.

  Malcolm placed a drop of spring water in each of their glasses and then lifted his. “Come hither, dear one. I’ve been waiting all my life for you. You are a thing to behold.”

  He was speaking to the scotch, of course. She followed suit with three long inhales, allowing the fragrance to envelop her.

  “I didn’t know my brother was such a connoisseur. He’s usually a Dewar’s kind of guy.”

  “He isn’t. I brought the scotch.”

  “Perfection,” he said, after taking his first tiny sip, then put down his glass. He looked as if he wanted to say something to her.

  “What’s on your mind, Malcolm?”

  “Beatrice, may I talk to you, friend to friend?”

  “I guess, if you must.”

  He took a deep breath. “Well, no sense beating around the bush. I know this is none of my business, but I think you should know that my brother is never going to give you what you want.”

  Beatrice sat up. “And what exactly do you think I want?”

  “For him to marry you.”

  Her inner Betty Friedan bubbled to the surface. “Why does everyone assume that because at one time I had a uterus, all I want to do is get married? I’d rather be the woman a man wishes he were with than the one he wants to get away from.”

  “Are those really the only two choices? I was devoted to my wife Winnie, never looked at another woman. Don’t you want your own special someon
e to share things with? Explore the world? Inspire you? Make you laugh? Hold you when you cry? Be there when you need him?”

  “What does that have to do with marriage?”

  “What I’m saying is Freddy already has that person.”

  The former DA was suddenly rendered uncharacteristically speechless. She’d never thought of it that way. She and Albert had had so many adventures together it hadn’t occurred to her that anything was lacking, but had he been there when her mother died, or when she discovered she had to have a hysterectomy and would never bear children? No, he was with his wife and kids, where he belonged. She always thought that was the way she wanted it. It was fun and easy, an escape. But an escape from what? For him it was from the woman who kept his home and raised his children, cried when their grandchildren were born. Who lay next to him each night, who loved him despite his philandering. Who let him go, then took him back when he was dying because Beatrice hadn’t wanted to deal with it. Why would any man leave that?

  “I don’t judge, Beatrice, but I know my brother. Don’t you think you deserve more?”

  Malcolm wound up dozing off on the armchair, sleeping like a baby, while Beatrice tossed and turned in the bedroom. She’d had no answer to his question. It was true. When Freddy had offered more to her, she’d pushed it away. It wasn’t because she didn’t think she deserved more. It was because she didn’t think she could give more.

  * * *

  Freddy’s procedure didn’t begin until well into the following afternoon. It was some sort of robot-assisted surgery done through an artery in the groin, a routine procedure, but it was taking longer than anticipated. Beatrice hadn’t planned on going to the hospital. She hated hospitals and didn’t want to be there when Freddy’s wife arrived. But Malcolm said her flight from Oregon had been canceled because of bad weather in Chicago and wouldn’t be arriving until tomorrow. The doctors put in three stents, noninvasively, but he’d be in the hospital for two or three days.

  Once visiting hours were over, Malcolm drove Beatrice back to the Hanover Inn. He went to park the car and Beatrice secured two seats at the bar. She ordered cornmeal-dusted fried calamari and pork belly sliders. While she was waiting, she reread an email she’d gotten from Cathy. She was still trying to figure out what the devil she meant by it: All sins are attempts to fill voids. —Simone Weil