The Look of Love: A Novel

by Sarah Jio

  Lo shrugs. “Maybe you have some crazy ability.” Her eyes brighten. “Like, what if you could time-travel?”

  I let out a little laugh.

  “Just think. You could take me with you back to 2004, back to that asshole who broke my heart. Except this time, I wouldn’t let him break my heart. I’d break his.”

  Jed Harrison. Yes. The man who is, quite possibly, the reason Lo is the way she is today. She loved him—even wanted to marry him. And it turned out he was already engaged to the beautiful daughter of a Seattle real estate tycoon. In the end, his love was a business decision. And Lo was laid off.

  “Well,” I say, “I admit I’m a bit curious to know what this woman has to say.”

  “Then check it out,” she says. “And if you want, I’ll go with you, just to make sure it’s not some kind of sex slave operation where they kidnap you and ship you off in a crate to some foreign country where you end up as part of some harem of women for a sheik.”

  I grin. “A sheik, huh?”

  She nods. “Hey, ever heard of a sapiosexual?”

  “A sapio-what?”

  “Sapiosexual,” she repeats. “It’s a person who’s attracted to intelligence, to the human mind.” She smiles to herself. “Evan said he’s a sapiosexual. And at first I was a little annoyed. I mean, does it mean he isn’t attracted to me physically? But no, the more I thought about it, the more I realize that it actually was quite a compliment. If I ever write a dating book, I think I’ll include that as a section.”

  “You will write a dating book,” I say, printing off the thirty-three new orders.

  Lo grins as she looks up at the clock. “Hey, let’s get our work done and then rendezvous with this mystery card writer of yours. What do you say?”

  “Maybe,” I say, glancing at the pink envelope on the counter. Its presence is hard to shake, and I know, somehow, what I must do.

  The old brick building doesn’t look like much from the street. I stare at the card again to make sure I’ve gotten the address right. Waldron Building, Apartment No. 17. “I don’t know, Lo,” I say hesitantly. “I think we should turn around.”

  “No way,” she says, as a panhandler passes by and mumbles in our direction. Lo shoos him away with a flick of her manicured hand. “Now you’ve got me curious. I want to see what this is all about.”

  I look around Main Street. Pioneer Square has a grittier vibe than Pike Place, but if you’re looking for a taste of old Seattle, it’s here, where old lampposts preside over the streets and visitors line up for tours of the city’s once–fully operational underground city.

  “What if it’s a hoax?”

  Lo rolls her eyes. “Then we’ll get the hell out of here.”

  “All right,” I say tentatively, stepping ahead to the building’s double doors with elaborate brass hardware that looks like an ornate relic from the 1920s. I imagine all of the flappers and prohibitionists who might have walked through the entryway as I push open the heavy door. Inside, the lobby smells musty and perfumed. I scan the placard on the wall and see the name Colette Dubois beside apartment number 17.

  When the elevator bell dings and the doors open, we step inside.

  “This is crazy, you know,” I say as we move upward. My palms feel sweaty.

  “Don’t be scared,” Lo says, smiling. “We’ll go in briefly, check it out, and leave if it feels sketchy. In and out, OK?”

  “OK,” I say with a sigh, except I don’t feel OK. I feel scared and anxious. I’m possibly about to be told something about myself that I have no knowledge of—or, worse, find out that I’m on the receiving end of a very cruel practical joke.

  On the eighth floor, we walk down a long corridor until we come to a door where the brass numbers one and seven hang crookedly against the elaborate woodwork. I knock quietly at first, but when there’s no answer, I try again, this time louder. I hear footsteps beyond the door, and my heart rate quickens.

  The knob begins to turn and the hinges on the door creak. A cloud of incense-fueled air drifts out as a thin woman with silver hair spooled into a bun looks us over. When her gaze meets mine, her stern expression melts into a smile. “Ah, Jane,” she says in a thick accent that I immediately identify as French. “I’m so glad you’re here. Please come in.”

  Lo follows me inside the apartment, which looks like an illustration of 1890s Paris. Thick blue velvet drapes block out the light from the large bay window. Antique armoires hold trinkets that range from porcelain ballerinas to intricately painted vases. The floor-to-ceiling bookcases completely consume the right wall, where a ladder attached to a wheeled track provides access to even the highest shelf.

  “Please sit down,” Colette says, pointing to a couch upholstered in indigo velvet. The cushions are threadbare. “I’ll make us some tea.”

  Lo and I sit in silence, until she elbows me. “I feel like we’re in a movie right now.”

  “I know,” I say. “I’m getting the same vibe.”

  Colette returns holding a tray with a steaming teapot and three cups. She sets it down on the coffee table and sits in the chair opposite us, folding her hands in her lap. “It’s good to see you, Jane,” she says, before turning to Lo. “And who have you brought along?”

  “This is my friend Lo,” I answer, while pouring a cup of tea for Lo and then myself. “I—”

  “I’m glad she could come,” Colette says, but her smile fades. She looks at Lo, then at me again. “You’ll need someone to keep you accountable.”

  “Accountable?”

  Colette nods. “But I must ask, do you trust her?”

  “Of course I trust her,” I say a little defensively. “Lo is one of my oldest friends.”

  “All right,” the older woman says with a satisfied nod. “Then she must vow to never repeat what we discuss here today.”

  I look at Lo and swallow hard. Before I can open my mouth, she does. “Cross my heart and hope to die,” she says with a wink.

  Colette purses her lips. “Good, then,” she says. “Jane, I’m sure you are deeply curious about my birthday greeting and why I’ve invited you here today.”

  I smile tentatively. “I admit, I’m a little confused.”

  “And probably skeptical,” she adds.

  “Honestly, yes.”

  “I understand,” she says. “I was too, at your age. But, Jane, you must listen to what I’m about to tell you, and you must accept it.”

  I look at Lo, who is captivated, then back at Colette. “And if I agree to your conditions?” I ask.

  Colette stands up and walks to the bookcase on the far wall. She wheels the ladder to the center and climbs to a high shelf, where she pulls out a single book, then returns to her chair.

  I eye the aged book in her hand. It’s bound in leather, weathered by the sun. Its spine is tattered, and I spot a water stain on the edge.

  “I will tell you a story,” Colette says. “It begins in Paris, in 1893.” Colette pauses to open the book to the first page. “There was an impoverished but beautiful girl named Elodie who sold flowers on one of Paris’s most prosperous streets. She kept her cart outside a great home owned by Luc and Marceline Dumond, the Count and Countess of Auvergne. Marceline was deeply jealous of Elodie, for her husband, Luc, had become besotted with the young flower girl. He showered her with gifts—furs and elaborate jewelry—all within plain view of his wife. When she realized that Elodie returned her husband’s love, Marceline’s anger knew no end, but not because she loved Luc. No; in fact, there was little love in Marceline’s heart. Her marriage was a business arrangement between two wealthy Parisian families. And yet, she was deeply embarrassed and jealous. On the night of a masquerade ball, which Elodie would attend at the invitation of Luc, Marceline enacted her revenge. In her employ was a Gypsy man, known in dark circles as a caster of spells powerful enough to render his target paralyzed, or sy
philitic, or blind or dumb. He arrived at the party in costume, having been richly compensated to wreak havoc on Elodie. But when he reached for her hand on the dance floor, he felt, in her presence, a strange and unknown force. He felt a palpable aura of love so intense, he could hear the songs of a thousand children, the whispers of lovers across the city. With Elodie, he was in the presence of love. Great love.”

  I inch closer to the edge of my seat. “So did he place the spell on her?”

  Colette shakes her head. “No, he did not. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. Elodie was like a perfect rose, and he could not trample her. So he did the opposite.”

  I furrow my brow. “The opposite?”

  “He did not curse her that night. He gave her a gift.”

  I look at Lo, then back at Colette.

  “He gave her the gift of being able to see love. From that moment forward, Elodie could walk into a room, a crowded café, a parlor on the edge of town, and she could see love in all of its truth and beauty.” Colette looks at me for a long moment, and I feel goose bumps erupt down my arms and back. “I have this gift too, dear. As do you. The gift was passed down to me, and I gave it to you on the day you were born at Swedish Hospital.”

  I startle. “You brought the green bouquet. My mother remembered you until the day she died.”

  “Yes,” she replies. “That hue is Elodie’s legacy. Her story is yours, and it is mine.”

  I shake my head. “I know nothing of love.”

  Her eyes lock on mine. “But you do. It’s been inside of you all your life. And you must fulfill certain conditions of your gift before your thirtieth birthday or . . .” Her voice trails off.

  “Or what? I turn into a pumpkin?”

  Colette lays her hand on the ancient book. “Here, in these pages, are centuries of recordings. When the Gypsy gave Elodie her gift, it came with a very important challenge. In order to secure love in her own life and access the vision to see it, she had to identify the six types of love.”

  “Six types of love?”

  Colette nods. “You may already know of them. A woman with our gift in the nineteen sixties foolishly made a copy of one of the pages of this book, and it was discovered by a noted psychologist in the nineteen seventies, who wrote a best-selling book on the topic.”

  Lo clears her throat. “I’ve heard of that book,” she says. “It’s called The Colors of Love, right?”

  “Indeed,” says Colette, turning the page in the book. “But what people don’t know is that the concept of that book originated from the wisdom in these pages, the six types of love.” She pauses for a moment. “Have you recognized true love in your own life?”

  “That’s a personal question,” I say, “and I’m not sure how to answer it.”

  She sets her teacup on the coffee table. “I mean to ask, have you seen love in your own life, in the people you’re close to? If you have, it’s impossible to ignore the signs.”

  My heart beats faster as her words wash over me. I’ve never been in love, not really. But have I seen love in others? I pause to remember the way my grandmother spoke of my grandfather, the one who died when I was barely three. She used to look up to the sky longingly and say, “I miss my guy.” And then I think of my late mother, and the father who left when I was so young that his face will always be a blur in my mind. Their love had been intense and deep. He’d serenaded her with a mandolin outside her apartment on a warm Seattle night. She told the story over and over again, mostly after a second glass of wine. The memory of their love never ceased to send shock waves through her veins. It simply never let go. And she didn’t either.

  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.