The Love Book

by Nina Solomon

  “Hey, Cathy,” he said.

  “Lawrence.”

  “Nice haircut.”

  Cathy suddenly burst into tears. “It’s awful! I look like a labradoodle!”

  Lawrence seemed mystified. “Did I put my foot in my mouth again?”

  “No, this has nothing to do with you,” she sobbed. “This time,” she added.

  “I’ve been told I’m a pretty good listener. You want to come in? It might make you feel better to talk. I can make tea.”

  She didn’t know why, but she found herself saying, “Okay.”

  Lawrence’s kitchen looked like it had been decorated by a senior citizen addicted to the Home Shopping Network. Cow-themed knickknacks were everywhere. He filled two Holstein mugs with water and put them in the microwave. He fumbled with a tea bag, spilling tea leaves all over the red countertop and floor.

  “I have another tea bag somewhere,” he said, rummaging through a drawer. “Wait a minute. I can do even better than that. Voilà! Swiss Miss!”

  Always on the lookout for inspirational messages, Cathy read the quote on the discarded tea bag, but this one left much to be desired: You can go amazing places when you quit stepping on the brakes. It belonged on a brochure for a car dealership.

  Lawrence set the mugs on the Formica table. He gave her a plastic spoon still wrapped in cellophane. She took a sip of the tasteless tepid drink, crunching on the rock-hard marshmallows.

  “Too hot?” he asked.

  “It’s fine.”

  He took a sip. “Maybe next time I should read the instructions.” He pretended to push an imaginary button. “The cone of silence has been deployed.”

  “You’d never understand,” she said.

  “Try me.”

  What did she have to lose? She didn’t give a hoot what he thought anyway. Once she began talking, though, she couldn’t stop. She told him everything—about alienating Beatrice, her father canceling Thanksgiving, even Mrs. Beasley’s dental surgery. For a jerk, he was a surprisingly good listener, and when he wasn’t talking, he actually wasn’t that bad looking. But what was with the sweater vests?

  There was so much more weighing on her, though she wasn’t about to tell him about her “almost” fling with Sean. She needed to talk to someone “higher up” about that. And soon.

  “And I’m going to have forty kids next fall,” she said.

  “Forty kids? Holy moly!”

  “Students, Lawrence.”

  “I know. I heard about the furlough,” he said.

  “And as you know, my house burned down.”

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “Don’t you think walking in on your father getting a blow job,” she mouthed the words, “would be enough for a lifetime?”

  “Yeah, that’s intense.”

  She began to tear up. “It was awful. And I don’t get it. None of this is on my vision board!”

  Lawrence looked pensive. “I had no idea fellatio was covered by Medicare.”

  Cathy scowled. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

  “Sorry. That was a failed attempt at humor. I thought it would make you laugh.”

  “It didn’t.”

  “I guess you’re going to leave now,” he said.

  “I should.”

  “Anything I can do to make you feel . . .”

  Cathy was about to chastise him when the ludicrousness of the conversation they were having in this crazy cow-themed kitchen suddenly hit her and she began laughing uncontrollably. Lawrence appeared stunned at first, but then he started laughing too.

  “What are we laughing at?” he asked a few minutes later.

  “Your Medicare joke. It was kind of funny.”

  She took a deep breath. She felt lighter even though nothing had changed, at least not in her life. Then they sat in silence. The sun was streaming through the frilly eyelet curtains making a kaleidoscope of daisy patterns on the table.

  “Hey, Lawrence?” Cathy began.

  “Yeah?”

  “Remember that night at Pat’s Tavern?”

  He nodded.

  “I’m sorry I said you had love handles. It was just your sweater.”

  “That’s okay,” he said. “I’m sorry I said I liked your boots.”

  She smiled.

  “If by any chance you and Mrs. Beasley find yourselves alone on Thanksgiving, you’re always welcome here. I usually have about thirty people, give or take a few munchkins and various other creatures.”

  There were only four green vinyl chairs at the cramped fifties-style table. She couldn’t believe she was actually considering spending Thanksgiving with Lawrence Weiner. But she had nowhere else to go and if she was having car troubles, it was an easy commute.

  “Mrs. Beasley has plans,” she said, “but I’m free.”

  On the way back to her house, she burst out laughing again and didn’t stop until she’d walked inside, taken off her coat, fed Mrs. Beasley, and changed into her Love Stinks scrubs, this time not ironically. The mental image of Lawrence Weiner, the man who couldn’t boil water, trying to juggle thirty Hungry Man frozen turkey dinners, was so ludicrous it made her forget everything that had happened during this disaster of a week.

  There was a message from Sean on her answering machine: “Hey there, stranger. Got a call from your dad. He says your spaghetti casserole is not to be missed. If you need a date for Turkey Day . . .”

  * * *

  It wasn’t until Beatrice had been back from Montana for a week that she realized how much she missed Cathy. But she wasn’t about to call. The girl had crossed a line. And for Beatrice, once that line was crossed, there was no going back. She wouldn’t let Little Miss Prissy or anyone, even Freddy, cramp her style. She had her pride. She also had the Rhinestone Cowboy’s email address. But now, she kind of missed the little brat. Cathy was her little brat. And who was going to be her bridesmaid now?

  Last Saturday in Montana, after another tipsy dip in the hot tub, Ed had told Beatrice she belonged in Montana. He said she had a little cowgirl in her. For Beatrice, even three short days in Whitefish, where every free moment had been programmed with rodeos, huckleberry cooking sessions, and county fairs, was beyond stultifying, though it was kind of nice to be the only female elk in the harem.

  The next day, everyone had piled into white Outbacks and driven to Glacier National Park for the Cowboy Cookout Ride. As far as Beatrice was concerned, the only redeeming aspect of this three-hour ride through no-man’s-land had been the Triple-A Alberta steak dinner waiting for her under the “shady pines.” The rest was just a matter of not falling off.

  She had still been feeling a little wobbly, having had a touch too much to drink the night before and the night before that, but when she saw Cathy in her floral stirrup pants and white high-top sneakers on a Shetland pony, she nearly fell off her horse. Luckily, she and Ed were riding double and he made darn sure with those cowboy thighs that she stayed right in the saddle.

  “I thought you’d left,” Beatrice had said icily.

  “I couldn’t change my flight,” Cathy replied. “I thought you hated horses.”

  “Easy there, ladies,” Ed said.

  It quickly became evident that Cathy was allergic to horses—highly allergic—and had neglected to bring her EpiPen. The girl had lugged her “emergency” backpack all over Normandy, but to Montana the only survival item she’d thought to bring was a magnetic Bear Bell, as though a little tinkle could fend off an angry bear. Beatrice waited for the medic to arrive and wound up missing the cookout, the whole raison d’être of being on horseback to begin with. Ed saved her a s’more, but that didn’t even begin to make up for it. And Cathy’s feeble, “I’m sorry,” had only made her feel even more put upon. Besides, it was clear that the apology was for making her miss the steak dinner, not for judging her for a little harmless flirting with the cowboy.

  On the flight home, Cathy had gripped the armrests in anticipation of an imaginary unforeseen calamity ab
out to befall her and her fellow passengers. She was in the middle seat, and Beatrice, chancing a case of Economy Class Syndrome, was by the window. During a particularly rough pocket of turbulence, Cathy’s knuckles had turned white. Beatrice pretended to be asleep. Every once in a while she’d steal a glance out of the corner of her eye just to make sure Cathy hadn’t lost consciousness.

  * * *

  One sleepless night in Albany, after tossing and turning more than usual, Beatrice decided to drop Ed a line. She still couldn’t believe the geezer even had a computer. But lo and behold, before she’d logged out she received a response. He said he was tickled to hear from her. He even called her his darlin’ lass. She liked the sound of it. She liked a lot of things about Ed. Malcolm was right, it was nice to be someone’s one and only. She and Ed corresponded all night. It was harmless fun. A distraction while she was waiting for Freddy to settle his affairs with Muriel, though who knew how long that would take. He hadn’t even broached the subject with Beatrice in quite some time. When she asked him if he was having second thoughts, he said he just needed time. Another two weeks, he kept telling her, and then another. He’d better not send her a basket of apricots. Ed was halfway across the country, what harm could it do? But when she received an email the next afternoon from the Rhinestone Cowboy’s “other” darlin’ lass, she knew that not only was this not fun anymore, it had never been harmless.

  * * *

  Thanksgiving morning, Beatrice rose early to prepare her signature cranberry sauce with the cranberries from Malcolm’s bog. Like every Thanksgiving for the last twenty years, she was going to her friend Bob’s. Even when Albert was alive, they never spent holidays together.

  It was only eleven when she finished her morning routine, but it was a holiday, so she poured herself a scotch. She rinsed the cranberries in a colander with ice-cold water. She knew the recipe by heart and barely needed to measure. One cup white sugar to two cups water. No, wait; it was two cups sugar to one cup water. Or was it equal parts? It rattled her that she couldn’t remember the proportions for a recipe she had made dozens of times. Maybe drinking before noon was not such a good idea, after all. As she was transferring the cranberries from the colander to the saucepan, half of them spilled onto the floor. Her knees cracked as she bent down to clean them up. She was rubbing the pain away when she noticed something small and white, the size of a head of garlic, tied to the handle of the lowest cabinet.

  It was Malcolm’s sleep pillow, a silk bag embroidered with a few lines by Emily Dickinson:

  “Hope” is the thing with feathers—

  That perches in the soul—

  And sings the tune wihout the words—

  and never stops—at all—

  She inhaled the scent of lavender and chamomile. Beyond the French doors in the courtyard, something was fluttering around her asters, still in bloom even this late in November. At first, from its bluish-greenish iridescent wings, Beatrice thought it was a dragonfly. But as she watched the wraith-like creature hovering above the goldenrod, she knew it was much too large to be an insect. Malcolm had asked if she’d ever seen a hummingbird in her garden. By the time she’d located Peterson’s Field Guide to Birds to check, it was gone. But funny thing: she suddenly remembered the exact proportions for the cranberry sauce.

  She picked up the phone on the kitchen wall and called Cathy. “Just reaching out to wish my favorite maid of honor a happy Thanksgiving.”

  * * *

  After watching the Macy’s parade, Cathy set out to the firehouse for Thanksgiving dinner, her spaghetti casserole in an insulated cooler on the backseat.

  For the first time in their relationship, David Hasselhoff led her astray. After driving in circles for an hour, she found herself once again at the convenience store where Sean’s brother worked. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t find any significance in her being there. The store was closed for the holiday; she couldn’t even go in for a box of malted milk balls to send to Beatrice.

  She pulled into the parking lot to try to reprogram David. It was drizzling lightly so she put on the wipers. As her GPS tried to locate her position, she watched as droplets of rain formed tiny constellations on the windscreen before being wiped away to reveal a lamppost with two signs with white arrows pointing in opposite directions. One said Parking, the other Change Machine. She took it as a sign that she needed to take a leap of faith, though it was a stretch even for her.

  She tried to back out of the spot, but her car wouldn’t move. It was a rainy Thanksgiving Day and it could take hours if she waited for a mechanic.

  When Sean arrived in the fire truck, he said she just had to take her emergency brake off. You can go amazing places when you quit stepping on the brake. Stupid tea bag!

  Everything about Thanksgiving at the firehouse was perfect. Sean was the man of her dreams. She felt like she’d known him forever. Then why was she so miserable? When Sean dropped her off at home later that evening, there was a basket containing an entire turkey dinner and a mini giblet pie for Mrs. Beasley. Thought you and Mrs. Beasley might be hungry. Hope everything is all right.

  How could she have forgotten to tell Lawrence she wasn’t coming? She already had a long list of things she needed to ask forgiveness for, even longer than her Toxic Ties list. She started up his walkway, but turned around. It was late and she didn’t want to interrupt a family gathering. Besides, she wasn’t sure she’d even be welcome now.

  The door swung open. A portly gray-haired man in a sweater vest called out, “Ahoy, there! We’ve been waiting for you.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes, you’re the guest of honor. Lawrence,” he said, “it’s Mrs. Beasley!”

  Lawrence was in the kitchen washing a roasting pan. He had on a frilly yellow bib apron over a dark gray sweater and pretty normal-looking jeans.

  “Hey, Cathy,” he said. “I didn’t think you were going to make it.”

  “I’m so sorry. I should have called. Something came up.”

  “No worries. You came for the best part. How are you at whipping cream?”

  She smiled. “I’ve been known to whip up a froth.”

  “I bet you have,” he said, smiling.

  The kitchen was warm and inviting and smelled like home. She thought of her father in the Dominican Republic and for the first time she felt happy for him.

  While she whipped the cream in a glass bowl, Lawrence prepared his “famous” banana bourbon layer cake. Slices of bananas were caramelizing in melted butter; cow-shaped oven mitts on his hands, he carefully poured in a cup of bourbon then set the bubbling syrup alight, shaking the pan until the flames died down and the alcohol had burned off.

  “Ecco!” he exclaimed, arranging the caramelized bananas on top of the cake.

  “I didn’t know you liked to bake,” Cathy said.

  “I have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

  For once his sweater actually did have sleeves!

  “You know the reunion is Saturday night,” he said. “I think I can scalp you a ticket if you change your mind.”

  Change. There it was again.

  “Who knows, maybe you’ll meet your soul mate there,” he said.

  “That’s so cliché, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” He wiped his hands on a dishtowel. “But I can’t help it.”

  “Okay, you win. But I reserve the right to change my mind again.” She smelled smoke and tried to locate the source. “Um, Lawrence . . .”

  “What?”

  She pointed to the drawer next to the stove.

  “Not another flaming potholder!” he said.

  She laughed as Lawrence tossed the potholder into the sink. “Don’t you just hate it when that happens?”

  At home, she put on a Lanz of Salzburg flannel nightgown and looked out her bedroom window at Lawrence’s house. Smoke was coming out of the chimney, lights were blazing. Before going to sleep, she sent an email to her Flaubertian sisters, a Chinese proverb she had all bu
t forgotten: My house having burned to the ground, I can now see the moon.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  FINAL FLIGHT

  INITIALLY, CATHY HAD TAKEN MAX’S OFFER to host the next Soul Mate Soirée as a good omen, as encouraging as a flower sprouting from a crack in a sidewalk in a sketchy neighborhood, a harbinger of love having taken root in inhospitable terrain. But al fresco, on the roof of her building? The first week of December? During flu season?

  But that was tomorrow. She still had a whole day of now to get through.

  Today’s assignment in The Love Book was Cultivating Silence. No television, no phone calls, no music, and obviously no talking for an entire day, not even to Mrs. Beasley, who seemed quite content to be left alone. Cathy didn’t see how not talking would help speed up her soul mate’s arrival, but she’d already made an executive decision to forgo the “Make a Vulva Puppet” project and she only allowed herself one skip per week. For Cathy, silence was the equivalent of wearing no makeup. Her only remedy was to escape into romance. So, like a doctor writing a prescription for a patient, she decided a Harlequin romance administered quaque hora would get her through the day, with the added off-label benefit of helping her tweak her soul mate intentions in time for the new year. She found comfort in romance novels. They always ended up the way they were supposed to. After suffering trials and tribulations, heartbreak and obstacles, true love triumphed. Luckily, her Harlequins were stored in a corner of her father’s basement and hadn’t gone up in smoke with her Nancy Drews. She’d sneaked them out one morning when her father was at his lodge meeting. While she had come to terms with her father’s Thanksgiving assignation in the Dominican Republic, he was no longer speaking to her for basically calling Mary a sex worker.

  Two dozen Harlequins were fanned out across her living room. Fabio on horseback. Fabio on a cliff. Fabio the Viking lover. How to choose! Somehow mixed in among them was a lone self-help book: The Middle Passage: From Misery to Meaning in Midlife. She was always so vigilant about keeping romance and psychology in separate boxes. It was her mother’s book—her name was written in pencil on the front cover and she’d marked her place with a yellowed postcard from Normandy. As far as Cathy knew, neither of her parents had ever left the country.