The Look of Love: A Novel

by Sarah Jio

  “Yes,” she says. “But, Jane, you already know what you must do.”

  “Do I?”

  She nods. “What would you tell yourself, if you were me?”

  I sigh. “That the mind has an excellent way of causing us to second-guess our choices, but it’s the heart that knows. The heart is always right. We just have to learn how to listen to it.”

  “Yes,” she says, smiling at me like a proud teacher with her pupil.

  I nod. “Then I think my heart is telling me to continue on my journey. I’m so close. I know I am. I’m nearly ready to record the names in the book.” I take a deep breath, thinking about my contribution to its storied pages, passed down through the years. I’ve studied it carefully in the past months. Beneath each name, each woman with my gift wrote an account of the love she’d observed. Sometimes recorded in French, sometimes English, the vivid descriptions moved me, and in each case, I could hear their voices, feel the love they so intricately and intimately described. I’ll have to do the same. Soon. “Colette, you said that if I fail, if I don’t complete this journey, I will spend the rest of my life regretting it. I can’t stop thinking about that.”

  She nods. “If you fail, you will end up like me.”

  “Like you?”

  “Yes,” she says. “I did not complete my journey.”

  I did notice that Collette’s section of the book had been left blank, and yet I hadn’t made the connection until now.

  “I didn’t believe in the gift until it was too late,” she continues. “My time ran short.”

  “And what were the consequences, for you?” I gulp.

  “A life without love,” she says.

  I shake my head. “You mean, you’ve never been in love?”

  “Oh, I have,” she says nostalgically. “There was a man, a long time ago, Pierre. I was twenty-nine, living in Paris. He walked into my life one day and, I suppose, my heart, and never left.”

  “And did he return your love?”

  “No,” she says. “It’s the curse I live with. No one I ever love will return my love. It is my consequence, my destiny, now. It’s why I came to America after my thirtieth birthday. I couldn’t bear to live in a place where he was, if he could never love me.” She closes her eyes tightly, then opens them again. “Jane, I don’t tell you this to elicit sympathy. I only want you to succeed, and I hope you will learn from my mistakes. Because . . .”

  I search her eyes. “Because what?”

  “Because I saw you . . . with your date, at your friend’s wedding.”

  “You did?”

  She nods. “I was collecting some discarded flower arrangements from a previous reception, donated by the hotel, and I glanced into the ballroom, and there you were, dancing with him.”

  I swallow hard.

  “Jane,” she says. “I saw love.”

  “You did? You really did?”

  Colette nods. “And I don’t want you to lose it the way I did. I have never forgiven myself for that.”

  I shake my head. “But that’s not how love works,” I say. “Love is forgiving. Love is unconditional. It perseveres, and gives second chances. Colette, couldn’t you be granted a second chance?”

  She nods. “There is one way,” she says. “Flip to the back of the book, and read the inscription on the last page.”

  “What does it say?”

  “It says that those recipients of the gift who fail at following its mandates will be given one final chance. On the night of a full moon, when snow is falling, love can be restored.”

  “Do you believe that for you and . . . Pierre?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “But I will admit that I am hopeful. I have thought about the possibility often over the years. But I try not to dwell on it. After all, time has passed. I don’t even know if he’s still living. And if he were? It’s foolish to think I could return to him and that he’d love me the way I have loved him all these years.”

  “But it’s worth a try,” I say.

  She nods. “Love is always worth a try, yes. Even after my great failure. And it’s worth a try for you, too.”

  I nod. “Colette, why did you choose me? Of all the babies at the hospital that day, why me?”

  The edges of her mouth form a soft smile. “It was your mother,” she says. “She exuded love in a way that I so admired and longed for. And I thought that anyone who was born from a woman with such a spirit had a legendary capacity to love and be loved.”

  “She had love in her eyes, yes,” I say, wiping a tear from my cheek. “She always said that when you love someone once, it changes your heart forever. That it lives on in you. I never told her, but the idea of that frightened me. I knew what her love for my father did to her. I heard her weeping in her room late at night, or in the mornings when she thought I was still asleep. Her love persisted like a wound that wouldn’t heal. It tormented her.”

  Colette gives me a knowing look. “And it’s why you’ve closed yourself off to love.”

  “Yes,” I say. “But something is changing in me. It’s scary, and also wonderful.”

  “I know,” she says in almost a whisper. I see tears in her eyes. “Enjoy every second of it, for to give love and feel it returned is life’s greatest gift.” Her nostalgic expression melts away as she straightens her shoulders. “Now go, and live out the final days before your thirtieth birthday, acting in accordance with the responsibility you have been given. And don’t be afraid. I believe in you in a way that I never did in myself.”

  “Thank you,” I say, giving her a hug.

  Beside the door, I linger near the old flower cart. Its emerald green paint is buffed to a glossy shine, but I can see layers of rust where the topcoat has bubbled and chipped away.

  “It was hers,” Colette says.

  “Whose?”

  “The first woman who had our gift. Elodie, the flower cart girl. I found it at a flea market in Paris. Her name is etched on the underside. I knew it wasn’t happenstance that I found it, and I’ve kept it with me, always, as a reminder of the beauty and love she shared with the people of her city. All around her, she saw the same love that we see.”

  I run my hand along the edge of the cart, which is when I notice the French words engraved at the front: “Amour vit en avant.”

  “What do those words mean?” I ask.

  Colette smiles. “Love lives on.”

  It’s cold but clear, too nice a day to hail a cab, so I walk back to the market along First Avenue. When I pass Mary’s salon, I peer into the window and see her sweeping the floor, alone, so I stop in.

  “Jane!” she says, setting the broom aside.

  “Look at you,” I say, rubbing her belly.

  “I’m huge, aren’t I?” she says.

  “And why are you here and not in bed with your feet up?”

  She frowns. “Honestly, I hate being home. It’s lonely.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “It must hurt so much that he’s not even going to be here for the birth of your baby.”

  She nods.

  “My mom mourned the man who left her, my father, until the day she died. The sadness lived in her heart. She could never rid herself of it. I don’t want that for you.”

  “Me, either,” Mary says, sighing.

  “Then don’t be so focused on the past that you forget to see what’s in front of you. My mother could never love anyone else because she was too busy looking backward. You must look forward to the life you are building, to the joy you have ahead.”

  “Yes,” she says. “You’re so right, Jane. And when I look forward, you know what I see?”

  “What?”

  “I see Luca.”

  I smile. “Did you tell him that?”

  She shakes her head. “No, I didn’t. It’s too late, anyway. He already went home
to Italy.”

  “It’s never too late,” I say. “Remember that.”

  I walk home along First Avenue with an undeniable feeling of heaviness. As I step into a crosswalk, the loud crash of metal on metal jars me from the depths of my mind. I stop, heart racing, and look up to see two crushed cars only a few feet in front of me. Smoke billows from a blue SUV, which is crumpled, accordion-style, into the side of a white Volvo station wagon. The woman beside me lets out an ear-piercing scream. “Oh my God!” she says. “I’m calling 911.”

  A middle-aged bald man in the Volvo springs from his car unscathed, though he’s clearly horrified by what we all see: the spray of bright red blood on the windshield of the SUV.

  I run to the side door, where a woman lies unconscious in her seat. The man beside her, presumably her husband, is awake, moaning something unintelligible. I open the passenger-side door, and his eyes flutter. He sees me. “Please, help us.”

  “Help is on the way,” I say. “Just hold on.”

  “Is she hurt?” he cries. “My wife. Is she hurt?”

  Blood drips from her nose, and I can’t tell if she’s breathing, but I don’t say that. “Yes,” I say. “But she’s going to be fine. Just be still. Try not to move.”

  “We were fighting,” he says. “Before the crash. She told me she was through with me. I . . . I . . . I did a terrible thing. I broke her trust.”

  “No, no,” I say. “Don’t think about that now. Please.”

  “This is my punishment.”

  “No, it’s not,” I say, looking over my shoulder, praying an ambulance is coming.

  “She said she didn’t love me anymore,” he cries. “And it makes sense. After what I did, I don’t deserve her love.”

  His wife sits lifeless in the seat beside him. Will the medics be able to resuscitate her? The faint sound of sirens is now in the distance, and I take a deep breath. “Help is coming. Just a few minutes more.” I think of Cam and Joanna. I think of the desperation he must have felt after her accident. Did they also have an unresolved fight? Do these memories still jar his heart? Is it her face he sees when he closes his eyes each night?

  The ambulance pulls up beside us. I step aside as paramedics rush to the scene. I watch as they extricate the woman’s bloodied body from the vehicle and set her on a stretcher. The man, now in a neck brace, walks around and kneels beside his wife. “Please, honey, come back to me!” he screams. “I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.”

  And in that moment, through tears, my vision clouds. I steady myself and approach the tragic scene before me.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” a paramedic says. “We lost her.”

  “No, no, no!” the man cries. “No, it can’t be. Try harder. Try again.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the paramedic says, standing up and stepping back. “I’ll leave you with her for a few minutes if you’d like. To say your good-byes.”

  “Dana,” the man cries. “Dana, I’m so sorry. Honey, I love you. I love you. You are the only woman I have ever loved, the only woman I could ever love.” He looks up at me then, tearfully. “I didn’t tell her that enough. I did so many things wrong. And now it’s too late. She didn’t know how much I loved her. And how could she have loved me, after my betrayal?” He lays his head on her chest and weeps.

  “She knew you loved her,” I say in a faltering voice.

  The man lifts his head. “What do you mean? How do you know?”

  I kneel beside him. “Just take heart in knowing that she loved you, up until the end. And she felt your love, just as you feel hers. Keep that with you always; let it overshadow the pain. Love is bigger. And the two of you had it.”

  He lays his head back on his wife’s chest, and I turn to the sidewalk, providing space for the moment he needs. For his good-bye.

  I think of Mary’s observations about beginnings and endings as I walk back to the market. Cam’s ending with Joanna might have broken his heart, but I pray that there’s still room for a new beginning. With me.

  “Well, don’t you look fancy tonight,” Bernard says as I step off the elevator. I’ve had a few hours to rest, shower, and decompress after the dramatic scene downtown.

  “Cam’s taking me to Canlis for dinner,” I reply, eyeing my black dress in the large wall mirror.

  “Lucky you,” he says. “I took my wife there on our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. It’s a special place.”

  I’ve learned to be cautious, when going to restaurants, especially nice, special-occasion restaurants where love is prone to lurk, sometimes in every square inch.

  I see Cam’s BMW pull up outside, and he waves as he jumps out, dressed in his tailored suit and skinny tie. Time feels frozen as I watch him fiddling with his windshield wiper. A simple, everyday gesture. A moment that stands in stark contrast to the accident I witnessed earlier. And it gives me peace, somehow. Cam gives me peace.

  Bernard grins at me. “You look stunned, like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “That’s Cam,” I say, collecting myself.

  “Have you ever heard that old quotation?” Bernard continues, “True love is like ghosts, which everyone talks about and few have seen.”

  “True love, huh?” I force a grin as I walk to the door.

  We’re seated side by side at Canlis, on an upholstered bench seat, which provides a complete view of Lake Union. I watch as a sailboat glides across the water and wonder about its passengers. A couple? A family? Two old friends shooting the breeze?

  Our waiter pours the wine, then leaves us alone. I turn to Cam. “I’ve always wished I had some way to disguise my gift.”

  He grins. “Cloak-and-dagger?”

  “Yeah, some way to throw a trench coat and glasses on and not have to face what I see, or just have the freedom to see what I want without the constant worry of an episode happening.”

  “I’ll talk to my neuroscientist friends,” he says playfully, “and see if we can design a pair of specially patented sunglasses.”

  I laugh, then drift back to a thoughtful state. I tell him about the accident earlier today.

  He looks out to the lake beyond the window. “I know what it feels like to watch someone you love slip away.”

  “I know.” I reach for his hand under the table. “And I thought of you today in that moment. I thought of your loss and, well, how moved I am that after all of that, you’re willing to begin again.”

  He turns to me, and his eyes search mine for a long moment. I feel a flutter deep inside. “I am, Jane.” He smiles. “And I have this vision for a new beginning, for a new life. I lie awake at night thinking about it. About us.”

  “Us,” I say, grinning. “We’re an ‘us.’”

  “We’re an ‘us,’” he repeats, grinning back. “Tell me what you want, Jane. Tell me your vision for the future.”

  “What do you mean, exactly?”

  “I mean, do you want a house, kids, a flower garden in the backyard? Do you want travel and adventure? Do you want security, to have and to hold, till death do us part, and all of that?”

  “That’s a huge question.”

  “It’s an important one,” he replies. “I want to know everything I can about you.”

  I let my eyes search his for a long moment. “Tell me first.”

  He nods and takes my other hand in his. “I want to play and laugh and fight. And have great make-up sex. I want to dream and grow and travel, but always come back to the same walls, the same person. I want to hear my children’s laughter. I want to play catch on a freshly mowed lawn, with the smell of dinner on the barbecue in the backyard. I want to go to bed happy and wake up happier.” He smiles. “And I’d like to have all that with you.”

  I feel an emotion I can’t describe cropping up in my chest. It washes over me like a rush of adrenaline. It grows stronger when I look into Cam’s eyes, when I squeeze his hand
s tighter. It’s love; I know it’s love.

  “Now your turn,” he says, smiling.

  I blink back tears as I think of all the days of my life that have brought me to this place. Doubt. My mother’s tears. Every flower I have ever placed into an arrangement. Every look of love I have ever seen on the faces of friends and strangers. And now I’m seeing my own love. He sits beside me, and he loves me in return. I know it, and I feel it. For so long, I have been on a journey, a race, that has been long and grueling, lonely at times, and uncertain. And I have made it to the finish line, tired and weak, but whole and grateful. “Exactly what you said,” I reply, searching Cam’s face and seeing our shared future in his eyes. “Every single word.”

  After dinner, we decide to go back to Cam’s apartment, where I kick off my heels and curl up on his leather sofa, draping a soft throw blanket around me.

  “Glass of wine?” he asks, heading to the kitchen.

  “Sure.”

  He returns with two glasses, then sets the bottle on the coffee table beside us. “My editor gave me this bottle. It’s supposed to be a pretty rare Bordeaux.”

  I glance at the year: 1984. “I was barely alive when this was bottled.”

  “I can’t remember exactly,” Cam says, eyeing the bottle, “but there’s some story about why this was a really good year for wine in that region. Some sort of full moon harvest, during a freak fall snowstorm. I don’t know.” He eyes his laptop on the coffee table. “We could look it up.”

  I nod. “A full moon snowstorm? That’s a coincidence. I was just talking to Colette—you know, the French woman who told me about my . . . gift.” I pause for a moment. Even now, after months of getting to know each other, I feel self-conscious talking to Cam about my vision, as if he’s evaluating the logic of it at every turn.

  He looks interested. “What did she say?”

  “Something about the fact that if we—I mean, I, or she—failed at love, there is always the possibility of a second chance, but only on the night of a full moon, when it is snowing, or about to snow, or something along those lines.”