The Book of Love (20 page)

T
he bus bounced along, and Lucy flicked on the overhead light. She took the letter off her lap, opened the flap, and pulled out four sheets of creamy white paper. The handwriting was elegant and bold. She began to read.

Dear Olivia,

I know that after what I’ve done, I don’t deserve to have you in my life. And I know that you will probably return this letter unopened as you’ve done with all the others, but I have told you so many lies over the years, and you deserve to understand the choice I made for you and the one you are continuing to make. You deserve to know the truth.

So here it is, my story right from the beginning, starting back when I was just an innocent naive girl with a soft heart that had not yet been broken. And unlike the stories I told you in person, this one is true.

It was Christmas Eve of my seventeenth year when I got my first kiss. His name was Albert, and he was twenty. I’d loved him from afar for years, but only recently had he noticed me at all. We were standing together under a frozen starry sky when he handed me a small box covered in gold paper and tied with a satin bow. I saw the care with which the box had been wrapped, and I knew this meant he loved me too. That realization was the happiest moment of my life up until that point. Funny how we can “know” things that turn out not to be true at all. Our brains are liars, and sometimes so are our hearts. But I hadn’t learned that, not yet.

I forced myself to unwrap it slowly, imagining what might be inside—a silk scarf to match my eyes, a book of love poems, maybe a bracelet or pin that I’d wear every day so I would always have him with me. I held my breath as I opened the box, cheeks sore from smiling. And there it was, his gift to me: a clump of dirt and a small dead bug. I could barely believe what I was seeing.

It was a joke, of course. It was supposed to be funny. Albert certainly thought it was. “But you said you’d love whatever I got you!” he said. I tried to laugh, but my lip was quivering. And this made Albert just laugh harder. And when he was finally done laughing, he turned my face toward his, and that was when he kissed me for the very first time.

Two months later, we were married. And a few weeks after that, he went off to fight in the war. I was sick with missing him. I wrote him every day, and dreamed of him every night. He didn’t write back, but I told myself that was because he was far away, fighting, scared for his life. Three months after he left, I got my first letter. The envelope was thin, the handwriting on the back dark and neat. My first thought was that it was a letter from his lieutenant telling me my Albert had died. Instead, what was inside that envelope shook me almost as much as that news would have. It was a single paragraph from Albert, in which he told me he had fallen in love with another girl, that I should get in touch with someone his father knew who could take care of the divorce. There was only one other thing in the envelope, a ribbon I had sent with him, my best hair ribbon, which I thought might bring him luck. Perhaps he thought that it had.

I was as devastated as one might expect. That first night, I sat there sobbing for hours, staring at a picture from our wedding, the only picture I had of the two of us. But the next day, my aunt Esther came to see me, all billowing scarves and exotic perfume. “Ellie, baby,” she said. “If you do what I say, I can fix your heart.” I did not question for a single moment whether listening to her was the right thing to do. And when she told me to break a heart, I did not hesitate, as there’d been a neighborhood fellow in love with me all his life. I became a Heartbreaker then. It was years before I ever looked back.

I left home not long after that with a few dollars and Esther’s going-away presents—a sack of potions, and a small book containing the names and addresses of a dozen other Heartbreakers. It turned out to be more than enough.

Years passed and life went on. And some of what I told you happened during that time actually did. When the war ended, I traveled the world. I got married a few times, sometimes for money, sometimes for amusement. I married a prince, then an artist, then a diplomat. I never had a Heartbreaker family—Aunt Esther had not made me part of hers—and I never recruited any others. And because of that, my power grew slowly and the barrier around my heart grew slowly too. I barely even realized that every time I broke a heart, or used magic for anything, the shell got a tiny bit thicker. The same is happening to you. I wonder if you’ve noticed yet.

When she was dying, Aunt Esther summoned me to her bedside. And I remember so distinctly exactly what she said. “People think memory is stored in the brain. But everything that truly matters is stored in the heart. If your heart is locked shut, your life won’t mean anything.” She told me she’d wasted her life by spending it as a Heartbreaker, and if I didn’t find a way out, I’d waste mine too. She also told me she’d heard that there was a way out, that there was a group who maybe could help. I just needed to go find them.

I didn’t listen to her then. I decided she was a crazy old woman, and if she was full of regrets, it was only because she hadn’t really lived. Not the way I was! Look at all the places I’d been! At all the people I’d met! At the fortune I had! Of course, I didn’t really care about any of it, but that, I thought, was beside the point.

It wasn’t long after that that I got pregnant with your mother. It was an accident, of course. Her father, your grandfather, was a sweet musician who loved me. I didn’t even realize I was going to have a baby until I’d already left him with a broken heart. When she was born, I brought her to her father, who I hadn’t seen in months. I watched the way his eyes immediately changed when he gazed at his child, who he hadn’t even known existed five minutes before. There was such caring and deep love there. I found it equal parts confusing and pathetic. I left her with him. And I was free again. I thought that was what I wanted.

By that point, my life was entirely empty. It had been years since I’d had any sort of connection with anyone. I told myself I did not care. That I wanted it that way. But I was too numb to have any idea of what I might have wanted.

I visited your mother occasionally at first, then less and less often as time went on. When you were born, I was in Paris, and I remember her telling me over the phone that she would be the mother to you that I had never been to her. And I told her good luck, but thought what a fool she was even to want to try.

Then something happened: the accident. And I don’t need to tell you about that. I was your closest living relative, so you came to stay with me despite—and I am ashamed to say this, but it’s true and I’m trying to tell the truth here—my best attempts to find somewhere else for you to go. It was a week before your thirteenth birthday. And when you arrived at my house, with nothing but a suitcase bigger than you were, and a bewildered look on your face, I actually felt something for the first time in longer than I could recall. I thought, “This is not a pain this child should have to deal with.” And so I found a way to make you one of us. You were the blood descendant of a Heartbreaker, which meant I could easily give you what I thought was a valuable and remarkable gift—the gift of an impenetrable, unbreakable heart. And you know what happened next—I taught you how to win a boy and how to break him.

And just like that, you were okay.

You never had to grieve for your mother and father. You never could.

But you still needed someone to learn from, so I taught you what I knew, or what I thought I knew anyway. You loved my stories—you insisted I tell you all about my life. And I didn’t mind. I liked seeing someone else’s reaction to my life, because while living it, I had barely felt anything at all. And I suppose this is the crux of what I am trying to say: I told you stories the way I knew you wanted to hear them, the way I wished they went, instead of how they actually happened. When the Venezuelan poet took me to that waterfall, I did not stand in awe of the beauty and the power of that rushing water. When the Parisian composer dedicated a symphony to me, there were no tears in my eyes.

Appreciating art, music, poetry—that requires an open heart, which I did not have. And when you came to live with me and told me you loved me, and I said “I love you” back, I never really did, never could until now.

By the time you were fourteen, I felt nothing but the occasional buzz of power, and a boring, listless emptiness. And that’s when I realized that Esther had been right all along—I had wasted my life. And it was my fault that you were wasting yours too. So I told you my very last lie—that I was dying, and that I was leaving to do it in peace. It seemed easier than telling you the truth and taking the risk that you’d try to stop me, or come with. And I left and went in search of a way back. I vowed to find it or die trying.

And I suppose that was my last in a series of unforgivable mistakes—not giving you the chance to follow me when you might have. I am so sorry I didn’t.

I know I have no right to suppose what your mother may have wanted, but one thing I do know for sure, she wouldn’t want you to spend your time on this planet like this. She would want you to live, to love.

Please come see me and let me help to make this right.

Love always,

Your grandmother

Hours later, Lucy got off the bus and pedaled home to an empty house. She walked slowly from room to room. It was
cleaner than she’d ever seen it before. Everything was put away. The kitchen was spotless, and there was a big vase of flowers on the counter. It was all fresh and brand-new. She went upstairs to her parents’ room and opened her father’s dresser. There was nothing there but a single navy blue sock.

So they were really doing it this time.

Lucy took out her phone and dialed Gil.

“What’s up, slut?” Gil said. Her tone was light and easy.

“When I was at your house before, you said you’d teach me how to open the safe. I want to know now. Can you tell me how to do it?”

“I’M ON THE PHONE WITH HER RIGHT NOW, LIZA!” Gil yelled into the background. And then back into the phone she said, “There’s some house party on Darby Street tonight. Hot guys, strong drinks. We’re going around ten. You in?”

Lucy stared at her phone.
Huh?
“No,” she said. “No, I don’t think so. But about the safe . . .”

“Well, suit yourself,” Gil said, and then she hung up. Lucy stood there. She had no idea what had just happened.

But a few minutes later the phone rang. “Listen,” Gil whispered. “Here’s what you need to do. . . .”

Thirty-Two

T
he driveway was empty when Lucy arrived. She dropped her bike on the grass and slipped inside the house. Lucy knew they must have just left—the scent of perfume, amber, and musk still hung in the air. Lucy went up to the magic room, flipped on the lights, and pulled up the floorboard, revealing the dark gray safe. She took two bobby pins from her pocket, bent them into Ls, and then, hands shaking slightly, inserted them into the keyhole, just the way Gil had told her to. She twisted carefully, listened for the clicks, and pulled one pin back and pushed the other forward. She held her breath and gave one final tweak, and the lock popped. She opened the door to the safe, and there
in front of her were piles and piles of tiny amber vials. Each contained the tear of a brokenhearted boy.

Lucy reached out and grabbed a handful and tossed them into her backpack. She grabbed another, and another until the safe was empty. She closed the door, locked the lock, and put the floorboard back.

Then she walked into Olivia’s room, placed Eleanor’s letter on her pillow, and draped the locket next to it.

She headed for the door. She could hear the tiny glass vials clattering in her backpack. She rode home.

She went upstairs and got into bed and lay there, silent and still, brain racing, body on fire. She lay like that, wide-awake until morning.

Thirty-Three