The Idea of Love

by Patti Callahan Henry

  “Wow,” Hunter said. “You’ve given this some thought. So, maybe that’s what we’re always doing—grabbing on to things in case the ground gives way?”

  “You can say ‘maybe’ because it’s never happened to you. You wouldn’t say that if it had. If your life had caved in, you would know that anything you grab on to doesn’t stop the fall. Life is like this thin bubble. It looks for all the world like something real and round and full. But it’s not.”

  “Your husband’s death,” Hunter said, taking a breath. “It changed the way you see the world.”

  “I didn’t know before that it was so fragile, so casually meaningless, so indifferent.”

  Hunter didn’t say a word. What could he say?

  “What about love?” he asked. “Don’t you want to grab on to that when it comes again?”

  “No. If it ever comes again, which I can’t imagine, I want it to walk next to me, hold me. I don’t want to grab it like a life preserver, like it’s the one thing that will keep the ground from giving way. Love can’t stop bad things from happening.”

  “No, it can’t. It can’t stop the tragedies, but surely it can help.”

  “And this from a man who doesn’t believe in love?”

  “In theory I believe it can save you. Sometimes…”

  “In theory,” Ella said, and smiled at him. “Yes, in theory everything is true.”

  “I love talking to you, Ella. I love the way you see things, like you’re looking out a different window than the rest of us schmucks.”

  “Right now I think I am, and so I should probably shut up.”

  Hunter stood, but before he went to clean away the dishes, he kissed her on the forehead. “You going to be okay alone?” he asked. “Should I call one of your friends?”

  That was it—one innocuous comment and she burst into tears. There was nothing to be done about it really. She just started and couldn’t stop, like grief was running amok, as her mom used to say.

  One time when Ella was in high school, she’d gone to the huge dictionary in the middle of the library, the one on a podium, and looked up “amok.” “A murderous frenzy,” she’d read. She’d gone home and told her mom to stop using that word, but she’d never stopped and what Ella would give to hear her say it now.

  Hunter leaned over and draped both arms over her shoulders, pulled her toward him. She knocked his glasses off as she put her head on his chest, her arm swimming through the air, weighing too much, to bang into his face. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “That’s okay,” he mumbled into her hair. “They don’t work anyway.”

  Contentment, a feeling so foreign that she had to search for the word, came over her and the tears stopped. Just like they’d been turned off. Quit. And she was laughing, looking up to him and laughing.

  She was never sure, even later, who kissed whom. Did she lean forward or did he? Or did they both? She liked to think they both did, simultaneously with the same intent. It was such a long, delicate kiss that in the middle of it she thought of the word “cashmere.”

  The kissing, it went on so long it moved into the category of making out, something she hadn’t done in years. Even when she and Sims made love, he kissed her gently and moved on. Hunter was so warm, moving closer, kissing her but making sure her foot stayed put, that he didn’t jostle her around. Then he picked her up, just like she was the pillow off the banquette, so easily. She didn’t object or speak, just kept doing exactly what she wanted to do: kiss him.

  He carried her to the living room and set her down on the chaise longue, the same one she’d fallen asleep on only a few hours ago. She pulled him toward her, wanting more of what they’d started, whatever that was. She closed her eyes and waited for the weight of him. It didn’t happen. Her eyes popped open, a spring-loaded shock to see him standing above her looking down.

  “You need to get some sleep.” He smiled in that way people do when they are about to disappoint you. “I need to go,” he said.

  “Go?”

  “Yes. I’m not going to take advantage of a Percocet.” He tried to laugh, but it came out like a cough.

  “Oh…”

  He walked away, talking over his shoulder. “I’ll get your ice, a glass of water, and the other half of the pill.” Then he halted in his steps and turned. Ella saw their reflection in the hallway mirror: his back and her looking at him. God, she looked so pitiful and needy. Her hair was a mess, and that mascara she’d put on hours ago formed two raccoon eyes. No wonder he was leaving. Hell, she’d leave herself if she could.

  “Do you have anyone to take care of you tomorrow? Get you to the doctor or whatever?” he asked.

  “Of course I do. Just leave,” she said and sounded … again, pitiful.

  “Okay.” He turned away and she closed her eyes. His footsteps were muffled as he headed down the hallway and into the kitchen. The freezer opened and shut with that hiss she knew. Hunter’s sounds were quieter in the house than Sims’s, not that he took up less space, but that he was gentler with the space he did fill.

  Hunter returned to her side, and she feigned the soft sounds of slow breathing and the slight twitch of early sleep. He fell for it; she knew he did because he just stood there at her side. He placed the ice on her ankle with a dry towel and if she opened her eyes she knew she’d see the pill and a glass of water on the end table.

  “Bye, Ella,” he whispered. “It was great meeting you. And I’m so sorry.”

  * * *

  He might be a scumbag lately, not giving his ex what she wanted, stealing love stories under pretense, sleeping with his assistant, but he would not, could not take advantage of Ella. No way.

  The hotel room was stifling. Housekeeping had turned off the air conditioner, probably in some revolt to his sixty-four-degree thermostat, where he’d kept it for days now. He punched the numbers down, pushing harder than was necessary and thought of the console at Ella’s house, the Elvis Costello blaring from the speakers. No. He would stop thinking about her now; only the story mattered. He’d obtained everything he needed from her, from her house, from her town.

  The computer was open on the bed and he plugged in his cell phone to download the photos onto his computer for safekeeping. Then he started to write on a pad, something he hadn’t done in years, and it felt good.

  Notes: While the two lovers are fighting their love for each other, he is living in a house surrounded by a cloud of wisteria. She is working and living in a terrible tenement house, fending off her feelings for a man she can’t have. Often, she wanders past his house, wondering what he is doing inside. And he does the same thing—driving by hers, hoping she will walk out. Split screen showing them pining for each other and walking past each other’s homes.

  Blake put his head back on the pillow and found himself remembering her kiss, still warm on his lips. Then he grabbed the pad and began to write again, furiously.

  Notes: Their first kiss was when he offered to teach her to sail. She didn’t know how, and yet she worked at the marina for him. This will foreshadow how he sacrifices himself for her. He is teaching her to do the one thing that will take his life.

  Added characters: The quirky mother who says things like “Don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story” and constantly mixed up her words to say things like “Let’s stay in a shore-far hotel” instead of a four-star hotel. Who uttered clichés that were never meant to be clichés, who wore mascara to bed and wouldn’t be seen without it.

  WHAT IS HER HAPPY ENDING? Does she discover she is pregnant? That he isn’t dead? (They never found his body?) Both? No, that was stupid.

  Can’t let a little truth get in the way of a good story, someone once said to him.

  Well, this was a good story and he would write it. He already saw it unspooling in his head. Reese Witherspoon would be perfect for the lead.

  For the rest of the night, Blake wrote notes, sent e-mails, and packed. By 5:00 A.M. he was out the door and on the way to the airport, exhau
sted and thrilled. This trip had been successful. It had worked—the harebrained scheme. No damage done.

  ten

  Blake jolted awake as the plane skidded into LAX. Sunlight flared through the streaked window. He squinted to look out at the tarmac. Home.

  He pulled out his cell, turned it on, and looked at the rolls of texts and missed calls. Ashlee. Ashlee. He closed his eyes because he stupidly realized that the only reason he looked so quickly was because he had hoped that one name would pop on the screen: Ella. But she would only text his second, Hunter Adderman phone. And really, why would she text him at all? He made sure, in his own self-destructive way, that she would never speak to him again.

  He does this. He breaks things into so many irretrievable pieces that what he wants, what he really wants, he will never get. If he really wanted Ella to call or text or even just say good-bye, he wouldn’t have done what he did.

  He was the first to stand when the jet bridge bumped into the side of the plane and the cabin door opened with that airtight swoosh. The baggage claim was packed and people were hugging and grabbing bags and “going to get the car.” He stood alone and rubbed at his face. He was exhausted but he had something he needed to do before he went home to shower and shake off the weirdness of the last few days.

  L.A. traffic wasn’t any better on a Sunday and after the freedom of wide open roads, these clogged highways seemed interminable. When he finally arrived at his old house, Marilee’s house, his throat was tight and his eyes itched for sleep.

  * * *

  The gate was closed to the driveway of the Tudor-style house where his ex-wife lived. Blake lowered the driver’s-side window and pushed the code to get in. Waited. Nothing. He tried again. Nothing.

  He pushed the button on the lower left side and a voice came over the speaker. “May I help you?” A male voice, smooth and cultured like he’d been taught how to answer in some intercom-answering class.

  “Yes, it’s Blake. Open the gate.”

  “Let me check with Marilee.” His voice distant as he hollered into the well-padded house. “Honey?”

  Her voice echoed back. “What?” Blake knew that voice, that irritated what-the-hell-are-you-bothering-me-for-when-I’m-working-out voice.

  “Blake is at the gate. Can I let him in?”

  “Shit. Why not.”

  A long screeching sound and then the gates swung open. Blake drove around the circular drive to park directly in front of the house. His lawyer and his ex-wife had both warned him not to act as if he owned the house, although he did own the house. So, he’d told them, if he wanted to act like he owned it, he would.

  The front door opened and Marilee stood in the doorframe as if she were posing for a photo, which is what she’d done most of her life. “What are you doing here?” she asked in her spandex outfit.

  Blake put on his best face, a smiley one. “I’m here to see my daughter.”

  “You look like hell,” Marilee said.

  “Thank you, darling. You look radiant yourself.” He’d been warned about this—the sarcasm. The petty meanness, which displayed his lesser self (according to his overly therapied ex-wife).

  She rolled her eyes, a habit she’d passed on to their daughter. “She’s still asleep.”

  “It’s eleven in the morning. Could you please get her up? I want to see her.”

  “You know I let her sleep in during the weekend. She works so hard during the…” Marilee’s voice trailed off because Blake walked toward her, and then around her and into the house. His house. The one he’d lived in when he’d believed in love and family. Before he turned into the villain in one of his own movies—the bad guy instead of the love interest.

  One mistake, that’s what he kept telling all his friends (the ones that remained), and his lawyer, and anyone who would listen. All it takes is one mistake. Granted, a big one.

  “Amelia,” he called up the staircase. Marilee stood behind him and he turned to her. “So, how are you?”

  “I was great until you walked in.”

  “Sounds like a country song.”

  “God.” She rolled her eyes again. “You make everything into a song or a story or some shit. Can’t you just see life as life?”

  “You know, darling, you’ve asked me that before. Sorry, I can’t answer it yet. I’ll still keep trying, though.”

  “As long as you don’t try here.”

  “Who had the smooth voice on the intercom?” Blake waved his hand toward the kitchen, where he assumed the body that went with the voice resided.

  “None of your business.”

  “Fair enough.” He nodded toward the top of the stairs. “Will you please go wake our daughter?”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “Okay. Will do.” He took two steps up before Marilee stopped him with her voice, that tight voice of anger.

  “And Blake?”

  “Yes?”

  “She likes to be called Amelie now. You know, like the French movie. She wants you to pronounce her name that way.”

  “Her name is Amelia.”

  “I’m just telling you what she wants.”

  Blake turned away from his ex and walked upstairs. Some of the art had been changed, and he wondered, only briefly, where the old photos had gone: the ones of their wedding and the family reunion, the ones at the fundraiser—he in a tux, she in a gown. These framed photos might be piled up in the attic, spiders crawling over them and wrapping their photo faces in webs, dust, and dead bugs.

  “Amelie,” he called out as he knocked on her door. He would do anything to repair this brokenness with his daughter. What had Ella said? Just be with her.

  Ella.

  Blake closed his eyes. She needed to be just a character in a screenplay.

  He knocked again. “Sweetie,” he called. “It’s Dad. Can I come in?”

  “No. I’m sleeping. Go far, far away.”

  He laughed, and opened the door. Her room was pitch-black, not a hint of light to let her know that she was missing out on the day. The blackout shades were pulled tight and Blake snapped the strings, one by one, letting the California sunlight pour into the room, spill onto her bed, and across her cheeks. Amelia buried her face into the pillow. “Dad!” she said. “Stop. It’s Sunday. I can sleep all day.”

  “Why would you want to miss a day like this?” he asked. “It’s almost perfect out. The beach. The pool. Your friends.”

  “My friends?” she mumbled into her pillow. “They’re all asleep and I hate them anyway.”

  Blake sat on the edge of her bed and touched the back of her head, her soft bleached hair. He loved her natural auburn color, but she insisted on the platinum. “Want to go to Egg-Land for breakfast? You can get a stack of pancakes with whipped cream.”

  She groaned. “God, I’m not five years old anymore.”

  “No,” he said. “You’re not. But that doesn’t mean pancakes aren’t the bomb-dot-com.”

  She lifted her face and looked at him through squinty eyes. “Oh, God, Dad. Don’t say that ever again. Please. At least not in public.”

  “Okay, I promise I won’t say it if you get up and go out to breakfast with me. Otherwise I will walk around mumbling ‘the bomb-dot-com.’”

  He swore she laughed but he couldn’t be certain.

  eleven

  Amber’s name sat on Ella’s phone screen, a text Ella ignored while she stacked the shoes on the shelves. A bride had tried on every shoe, every single one, to decide for her bridesmaids. Ella finished her job, popped another Advil for her throbbing ankle, and looked at the texts—Amber needing, oh, so desperately needing Ella to call her. A two-line string of question marks had ended the last text.

  Spend time with girlfriends. It was on the list of things to do to get over the ex. But what if that friend disappeared or if that friend’s sister slept with the ex? Amber had been her go-to friend since their sophomore year in college. Hardly a day had gone by that they hadn’t talked. It really didn’t matter abo
ut what. It was Amber who talked Ella into moving to Watersend. It was Amber who introduced her to Sims. It was Amber who had been her maid of honor.

  How many times had she picked up the phone to call Amber and tell her how she felt? How happy she was. How sad. How the world had caved in. How there was a great hole inside, so great that she felt the wind blow right through her. But that was then and this was now. And now Ella didn’t want to answer Amber’s texts. She wanted peace.

  This melancholy mood—Ella blamed it on her work situation. But she also knew it was because Hunter had returned to California. It wasn’t that she missed him. It was more that she missed who she was with him. She liked Ella, the confident woman, even if it was a false self. The new pretend Ella had laughed easily and hadn’t worried about how she looked. She spoke her mind, strong and sure, even offering advice. She was a wedding dress designer. She was a widow.

  When she was with Hunter, it was almost as if Sims was really dead. She rarely thought of him and his rejection. She basked in Hunter’s questions, in his creative way of looking at the world. She found herself almost free, looking at everything with new eyes. Curious. Maybe even hopeful.

  Now there was no escape from her bleak life, just this, these shoes, a purple ankle, and divorce proceedings. And the damn sketch—she wanted it back right now.

  The boxes were stacked neatly and by category. Ella hobbled, favoring her right foot, to the back of the store and knocked on her boss’s door. “Margo,” she called out.

  Margo came to the door and opened it in her white sundress and white headband. “Hello, Ella. Great job today with the bride. She bought seven pairs of the Princess Grace shoe.”

  “Thanks. It always feels good to make a strong sale. But I’m here about something else actually. I’d like to have my sketch back. I’d like it for my portfolio.” As if she had a portfolio.

  “What sketch?”

  “The wedding dress. My design. The one you were going to copy.”

  “Oh, darling. I gave that back to you.”

  “No, you didn’t. When?”

  “I put it in your paycheck envelope.”