Loonglow (26 page)

When she'd left him, he had tried to drink himself into amnesia, but it hadn't worked. How could agony like this not kill him? Everywhere he went, he looked for her; every day, he waited for her call. How could she have done this to him? He hated himself for wanting her so much; he hated her for making him want her. He hated the smug, insular world of women who needed only each other. Why had he imagined she could ever care about him?

“Come on,” he whispered late at night, his body aching. “It's not funny anymore.”

Still, after months had passed, he started thinking more dispassionately: this must be what she'd been going through with Mia, he realized. And even as she'd longed for Mia, she had come to love him—him. That was no small thing, was it? Who would have believed that he could love someone so different from himself, so far from what he'd always thought he'd end up with, and that she could love him, too? Somehow she had made him realize there was more to him than he had thought, and more to life.

When he thought of what she'd given him—he who hadn't had any right to expect anything from her—he lost all will to hate her, to begrudge her happiness with someone she still loved. One thing she'd taught him was to let go of useless longing, to be happy for whatever someone else could give you, and not dwell on what they couldn't give. At least she'd never gotten tired of him—not that she ever would have, he thought huffily.

Whether he could see her and still feel such noble sentiments, of course, was not quite as clear. Yet when the book became an actual living thing (he was surprised at how he thought of it—another thing he'd picked up from her), he couldn't help but try to find her.

The operator had no listing for her, and her old number now seemed to belong to someone with a heavy Rumanian accent. Her office said she'd taken a leave of absence to do freelance work but wouldn't tell him where she'd gone. Short of putting an ad in the newspaper or pasting signs all over New York, it seemed he had no way of finding her.

His agent jostled his arm, smiling at him—everyone was smiling, as if he'd suddenly done something, accomplished something miraculous. If only she were here, the only person whose approval would mean anything; he ached to see her smile at him. Wherever she was, he hoped she was all right—happy. He hoped she was happy.

The drinks flowed and chatter enveloped him like an embrace. His friends and so many people who had worked to help him—even some of his family—all were here to celebrate in these lovely rooms above a bookstore. It amazed him: people gave so freely of themselves for something they needn't consider for an instant. “Wait till your
next
book,” they said, as if he could write without her help. (Now, now, he told himself: no more of that.)

He had tried to write about her, but his attempts to call forth her silly glee rang false. The passages he wrote about her pain brought him up short—how strange to draw forth tears from the hand you wrote with!—but he could barely read them by the light of day.

Some of her friends had shown up, no doubt as surprised by his invitations as he'd been to send them. They seemed to brighten up the room, glimmers of cheer among the earnest faces.

Looking around the animated crowd, he imagined he saw Louey, teasing someone playfully; she would glance up, catch him watching her and wink. The thought was painful. He couldn't stand another minute in this room, he realized; he could hardly bear another second in a building full of people who weren't Louey. Thanking as many people as he could, he turned and fled. As he hurried down the stairs, it seemed to him that he could hear her laughter float above the others' in the room.

“Let's spend lots of money,” Mia said. “God, let's go do something crazy.”

Louey looked at the calendar and counted off the time: three, four, five months and six days. They'd had less than half a year; she could never go back.

“What are you waiting for?” asked Mia.

She wouldn't say she never should have; it had shown her something: what the past had meant and how much she had changed. Crazy? she thought. Why? What had once seemed daring now seemed somehow pointless; wildness meant so little without something like joy to fuel it.

“You seem—different,” Mia said.

She was different—someone else entirely. She'd been luckier than most people alive to have had a love like Mia once. But she could never be a girl again.

Closing the closet, she finished packing the clothes into her suitcase. She had moved in and out of so many sublets over the past year that she'd become expert at packing all her possessions in less than an hour. The feeling of rootlessness and despair that had begun to overtake her the last few times had mellowed into a kind of carefree adventuresomeness. If she wanted to, she realized, she could pick up and go live in any city in the world. Freelance work had proven plentiful, despite the cautionary tales she had encountered when she'd talked about quitting. She had even started to find solitude enjoyable.

Life with Mia had been heaven on earth the first time around—for longer than she'd had any right to expect. The light had blinded whenever Mia came into a room; all life had drained away once she had left it. The second time around, though, everything was different. “What's the matter?” Mia would ask—but Louey didn't know how to explain why she could no longer be the blissful playmate Mia wanted, or why the world they'd lived in, that enchanted island, seemed to have vanished forever.

“All I want is to be happy,” she tried to explain: to love her work, hear music, and love Mia. Yet though the bodies still worked perfectly, the hearts were now somehow too far apart to bridge the past. She had learned something by loving Clay: other things mattered as much as bodies. Truly being happy with another person meant being utterly and happily yourself, not turning into someone else. You traveled through the world alone, and if somebody gave you love and you could give it back, if you drew forth someone's best self and she drew yours, it was miraculous. Yet ultimately, being happy was in your hands alone. Whatever anyone else could give you was pure bonus.

She'd lost Mia. Mia, who still took pleasure throwing everyone off balance, was now, herself, undone. Louey loved her, but it wasn't any use; it only left her wanting something else. Mia skimmed the surfaces of life, afraid to go too deep; the things that lay beneath frightened her too much to test. Louey had seen a glimpse of what Mia feared: a father married to someone who grew more and more aloof the more he worshipped her. Once Mia had tried to explain why she had left: how she'd come home one day to find Louey so absorbed in her work she hadn't even noticed Mia's presence. “The walls closed in on me,” said Mia. “It took every last drop of strength I had just to turn and walk out of the room.” But Mia didn't seem to understand that everyone was not her parents; real love didn't have to overwhelm, or turn into contempt.

Louey wasn't certain why Mia had loved her, why Clay wanted her. She'd never given Clay all he'd hoped for, though she'd given all she could. She hated herself for hurting him, but she could never have been the woman he wanted; no doubt it would have ended badly if she'd tried.

What was it that made people love each other? Would she ever know?

She could close her eyes and still recall the time she'd first made love with Mia, and with Clay. The memories were as clear as if the first times had been only yesterday. Now she would also remember the last.

It was the middle of a warm summer day when Clay walked down a narrow London street, turned a corner, and came face to face with Mia D'Allesandro. “Look at this,” she said, as if he were a scientific oddity she was pointing out to someone other than himself. Numb with surprise, Clay started to move past her, but she shifted the packages in her arms, putting out a hand to stop him. “Don't you dare. I'll never live it down if you don't come with me.”

“What might you be doing here, Mia?” he asked as casually as he could manage. She steered him to a bench in one of the multitude of small parks that graced London, this one opposite a row of greengrocers and small stores.

“We flew in to see a show,” Mia replied, “just for the weekend.” She seemed distracted, and he followed her wandering eyes to a store filled with women shopping for their families. “Oh, wait, I've got something to show you,” she added, fussing with her packages until she produced a book from a small brown paper bag. “You've got to inscribe it for Louey.” She handed him the British edition of his novel. Seeing his surprise, she explained, “She just bought it for me, but I'll get another one back home.” He frowned; why buy the book while they were traveling, instead of just going to their neighborhood store—wherever their neighborhood was? “Come on, you have to write something, it'll mean so much to her.” Mia cracked open the book. “Here, near the tacky dedication.” He looked at her for a moment, then had to laugh. She smiled, an actual smile, and handed him the book.

“What do you think”—he searched for a pen—“witty or sincere?”

“I think you've already covered sincere.” She pointed to the printed dedication.

He read it: To Louisa Mercer, for a gift I can never repay. “Maybe you're right.” He smiled, putting pen to paper and considering. Quickly he wrote a few words, closed the book and turned to face her. “Anything else?”

“I understand it's not too bad,” she said, “all things considered. She loved the ending, by the way.” Clay stared at her, confused to feel grateful for any words from Mia's lips. Could he really be sitting on a bench in London with this woman, waiting for Louey? He felt nervous hysteria well up in him.

When Louey found them, they were both laughing so hard the tears were streaming down their cheeks. “Well,” she drawled, “this is a pretty picture.” She came and put her packages down, shaking her head. “The last face on earth.” She hugged Clay quickly. “I was wondering when I'd run into you.”

“I just
got
here.” He wasn't sure if he was stunned or delighted, but Louey didn't seem surprised to see him. “What show did you see?”

“What? Oh, I didn't come for the show. I live here.” She laughed at his expression. He drank in the sight of her, all glowing eyes and skin. “Mia and Sally came to see the latest Andrew Lloyd Webber.”

“Sally?”

“Yeah, Sally,” Mia interjected. “Which reminds me, I have a plane to catch and we aren't even packed. Baby”—she put her arms around Louey—“thanks for everything. We had a great time. See you—?”

“November, I think.” Louey kissed her, making Clay feel strangely avuncular.

“You,” Mia told Clay, “I'm sure I'll run into again.” She held her hand out and he took it (she had a firm handshake, naturally). “Bye.” She glanced again at Louey, then abruptly left them alone.

“Sally?”

Louey turned to him. “You guys rehearse this?”

“‘Sally'?”

“Sally”—Louey took one of his hands—“is Mia's new girlfriend.” Seeing his expression, she smiled sadly. “You know how it is—once you break a heart, it never quite works the same again.”

“I know how it is,” he said. Her smile faded. “Please tell me she didn't break your heart again.”

“No. This time, you'll be happy to know, I was the one who left her.” She cleared her throat. “We won't dwell on the fact that Sally looks suspiciously like me, however, since we both know it was the inner woman she loved.”

“I'll
bet.
”

“I cannot believe Mia ran into you.” He took her hand. “Oh, but—Clay, the book is wonderful. I loved the ending.”

“So I hear.” He proffered the copy Mia had made him inscribe, and she flushed, reading his words.

“Thank you,” she said softly, not looking up.

“So you missed the British publication of my book,” he teased.

“Who do you think sent those purple tulips to your hotel?” He stared at her. “Or are there so many possibilities you can't keep track?”

“Louey. I never—” He covered his face. “When I first saw them, I thought of every—I thought it was a cruel joke, some sick twist of fate.”

“Fate?” She shook her head. “Not even Fate would dare torment a boy like you.” She grimaced. “I'm the only one who does that kind of thing.”

He didn't answer.

“So have you—” She couldn't bring herself to say it. “Do you—?”

“Nothing to forgive,” he said. It startled him that it was true.

“I see we have a difference of opinion. Perhaps you'd like me to jog your memory.”

“I won't pretend I wouldn't have hoped for things to work out differently.”

She fastened shining eyes on his.

“You could at least have left me the children,” he added.

Her smile was tremulous.

“Louey,” he blurted, “it wasn't your fault what happened, not with Mia or with me. I wish you hadn't gone the way you did”—she looked down—“and there's no point denying I would rather you had loved me—loved me more.” He put a hand up, stopping her. “For about half a year I hated you. I did. But then I realized I'd expected you to give up everything for me.” He paused. “Of course you blamed yourself for all of it, right?
Someone
had to leap to your defense.”

She kept her eyes fastened on her feet, blinking back tears.

“No, of course you're right,” he went on. “I never should have let you—
touch
me, for God's sake.” He shuddered. “Once that happened, you got so pushy, I—well, I don't know how I put up with it.”

“It was wonderful,” she said. He waited for her to look up and smile. Instead, she opened his book and read the dedication. “You're wrong, you know. You've more than repaid me.”

“You mean the mink, the diamonds, the Mercedes?” He waved a hand. “Keep 'em.”