The Look of Love: A Novel (16 page)

I smile, but something seems off. “That’s funny,” I say. “If he was in the market, I wonder why he didn’t stop in to say hi.”

“He asked a lot of questions, but he didn’t give up much information,” Mel replies quickly. “For all I know, he was in a hurry to get to an interview or whatever those journalists do.”

“Yeah,” I say. “What did you think of him?”

“He seemed like a smart enough fellow.” His eyes fill with the type of concern I imagine my father might have felt had he stuck around. “Just use your noggin, sweetheart.”

I smile. “I will. I always do. Perhaps too much. I’m trying to think with my heart a little more.”

“Good,” he says. “But as much as you think with your heart, be sure to let your brain call the shots. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Jane.”

Just then, the British woman, Vivian, strolls by. Her heels clack on the cobblestone, and her chic-looking scarf, tied into a perfect knot around her neck, sways a little in the spring breeze.

Mel turns to look at her. “Hello there,” he says. His mouth hangs open a little.

Vivian turns to face him without a trace of recognition. “Pardon me,” she says, pulling her sunglasses lower on her nose. “Did you say something?” Her terrier yaps at her feet, just as a foggy film covers my eyes.

“No, no,” he replies quickly. “Just saying good day.”

“Well,” Vivian says in a huff. “Good day to you, then.”

“Hoity-toity,” Mel whispers to me after she’s out of earshot.

I rub my eyes, wondering how there could be love here. Mel, yes, he obviously has puppy dog eyes for her, but she doesn’t appear to have any interest whatsoever in him.

“Well,” he continues. I can tell he’s injured by the way she regarded him. “I suppose you should be getting on to your date.”

I smile at him. “Don’t take that too personally,” I say, hesitating for a moment.
Should I tell him?
“I think she . . . likes you.”

Mel’s eyes widen. “No, there’s no way she likes me. I am a humble street vendor. And she probably grew up in a palace.”

I shake my head. “None of that matters, and you know that. I still think she likes you.”

“You’re just being kind, Jane,” he says. “It’s OK. A man knows when he’s out of his league.”

“I don’t think you are,” I say. “She just doesn’t know how she feels yet. You have to be patient.”

He looks intrigued, and I hope I haven’t given him false hope, but my eyes don’t lie; at least, I don’t think they do.

“OK,” I say, squeezing his hand. “I’m off.” I walk a few paces, then turn back to face him. “By the way, love the bow tie!”

He tugs at the edges, cinching the knot tighter, and casts an appreciative smile my way.

As I walk, I scroll through my Facebook mobile newsfeed and see that Mary’s just announced her pregnancy. Beneath the sonogram photo are dozens of comments from elated family members and friends, peppered with Mary’s gleeful responses. But between the lines, beyond the smiley faces and emoticons, I can sense my friend’s deepest sadness.

I call her immediately. “I just saw the Facebook post,” I say. “Let’s pray to God this child looks like you.”

“Thanks,” Mary says. I can tell she’s been crying.

“You hanging in there?”

“Trying,” she says.

I hear a loud banging sound in the background. “What’s that?”

“Oh, it’s just Luca,” she says.

“Luca?”

“He’s my contractor. I’m remodeling my kitchen, remember?”

“Oh, that’s right,” I say.

“Yeah, I’m living in a construction zone. Dust everywhere. Doing the dishes in the bathtub. And Luca’s English isn’t good. But it’s weird, Jane; I really like having him around. I actually don’t know what I’d do if he weren’t here right now when I’m missing Eli so acutely.”

“Good,” I say. “I’m glad he’s giving you some comfort.”

I hear her crying now. “Jane,” she says in a weak voice, “how long do you think it takes for a heart to heal?”

“Oh, honey. You will heal. In time.”

“But how long do you think it will take? Because, Jane, I’m not sure I’m strong enough to walk around with this gash in my heart forever. God, I feel like I’m leaving a trail of blood all over Seattle.”

“It won’t be forever,” I assure her. “I promise you that.” I pause for a moment and remember the way Mom grieved after my father left. “My mom used to say that for every year you loved someone, it takes a month to recover.”

Mary sighs. “Nine years. Which means by the time I have this baby, I might be myself again.”

“Not might, Mary,
will
. You
will
be yourself again. You can’t see this now, but
I
can. Every runner who ever starts a race cannot see the finish line. But it’s there; it’s out there. Just trust.”

“Thanks, Jane,” she says. “Come over sometime, OK? I’ll show you the kitchen, and we can eat takeout on paper plates.”

I arrive at Il Bistro five minutes early. The quiet Italian restaurant tucked beneath the street has been in the market almost as long as my flower shop. There is wisdom in the walls of long-standing establishments. I walk in and hang my coat on a rack near the door, and I think of all the proposals and breakups and declarations of love that have happened in this space. I see Cam at the bar, and I wave to him.

“Hi,” he says, closing his laptop, then sliding a glass of whiskey my way. I take a sip.

“Working at the bar, huh?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Big deadline tomorrow. Just finishing it up. How was your day?”

“Interesting,” I reply.

The bartender walks over. “Can I get you anything, miss?”

“A Manhattan, please.”

“And why was your day so interesting?” Cam asks.

“Well, for starters, I drank champagne in a bridal shop.”

He looks intrigued. “I take it this isn’t an everyday occurrence?”

I grin. “No, not exactly.”

“I’ve been thinking about you a lot,” he says, eyes fixed on me.

“And I’ve been thinking about you.”

His eyes widen. “What about?”

“Well, lots of things,” I reply. My eyes scan the bar as I collect my thoughts. “I have this feeling that I hardly know you. You definitely know more about me than I do about you.”

He folds his arms across his chest. “Then what can I tell you?”

“Your career,” I say. “You hardly talk about it. And yet, I’ve looked up your stuff online, and you’re a pretty big deal in the world of science reporting. Why didn’t you tell me that you won a Pulitzer?”

“Shy, I guess,” Cam says, grinning.

“You are the last person I’d call shy.”

“Well, would you have preferred that I bragged about it on our first date?”

“Good point,” I say. “And what about you and past relationships? Have you ever dated someone long-term? Ever been in love?”

“Ah,” he says. “The elusive topic of love.”

“That’s right. You don’t believe in love; let’s not let this fact slip our minds.”

“That’s not true,” he says. “I told you I believe that love is a choice. It’s about choosing and doing rather than just feeling.”

“Ah, so you acknowledge that there
is
a feeling associated with love?”

“I guess there is truth in that, yes,” Cam says with a brief conciliatory smile.

“And when have you felt that . . .”

“Feeling,” we both say in unison, and I feel my cheeks burn and my heart rate quicken.

I think of what Flynn told me about the death of the woman Cam once loved, and I instantly feel guilty about prying.

“Her name was Joanna,” he says, clearing his throat in a way that tells me the very sound of her name still moves him, deeply.

I place my hand on his wrist. “It’s OK,” I say. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I didn’t mean to—”

“I want to go on,” he says softly. “I want you to know this side of me.”

I nod and listen as he tells me about the circumstances of her injury and her eventual death.

“I guess I feel, in some ways,” he continues, “that by writing about the topics I do, I’m doing her justice.”

“You are,” I say tenderly. And, at once, it all makes sense: his secrecy, his caution about love.

“Hey,” Cam says, breaking the silence. “I have to fly back to New York for meetings next week, and then I’ll be on assignment in Chicago the week after, but my parents are flying up for a visit shortly after. And, well, I’d like to introduce them to you. I mean, if that’s OK.”

“I’d love to meet them,” I say, beaming.

“I know it’s a little early to ‘meet the parents,’” he says with a grin. “I just don’t have a lot of friends in the city yet, and believe me, you’ll be doing me a favor. If I don’t bring you, I’ll have to endure a one-hour lecture from my mother about why I should be dating a nice girl.”

I grin. “A nice girl, huh?”

He returns my smile. “Be my ‘nice girl’ for the night? Please?”

“I’d be delighted to.”

He reaches for my hand and when he pulls me toward him, I feel a flutter in my stomach. “Want to get out of here?”

“Sure,” I say. “Where to?”

“My apartment’s just up the block, and I have a balcony,” he says. “Want to order takeout and watch the ferries come and go?”

“Yes,” I say, smiling. “That sounds nice.”

On the walk to Cam’s apartment, Flynn calls. “It’s my brother,” I say apologetically. “I’ll just be a sec.”

“No problem,” Cam says, stepping back a bit on the sidewalk.

“Hi, Flynn,” I say into the phone.

“How’s my favorite sister?”

“Good,” I say. “I’m with Cam.”

“Put him on the line. I want to get his word that he’s doing right by you.”

I glance at Cam, whose eyes are fixed on his phone. I watch as the muscles in his forearms flex as he rapidly types a text or an e-mail. I can’t help but wonder who the recipient might be.

“He’s not available to talk just now, but I want to know when you get that promise out of him,” I say. “How’s everything with you? Who’s the latest lady in your life?”

He pauses for a moment. “I’m not dating anyone.”

“My brother, with no love interests? This can’t be true.” I laugh. “Wait, are you still obsessing over the girl in the apartment across the street?”

His silence tells me my hunch is correct.

“You are! Have you met her yet? Tell me you have at least taken this flirtation to real life.”

“I haven’t met her yet,” he says. “And this is going to make zero sense, Jane, but I’m afraid to meet her. What we have is so intense from afar. I’m worried that if we were to meet, neither of us would live up to each other’s expectations.”

“So you’ll just continue to flirt with her from your window until the end of time?”

“No,” he says. “I mean, I don’t know. I’m worried about her. She always seems so sad. I would give anything to take away some of that sadness from her.”

“Then knock on her door.”

Cam lives on the corner of Cedar and Elliott, in a new apartment building with dark hardwood floors and big windows that open onto a balcony overlooking Elliott Bay. “You’re so neat,” I say as I walk into his living room, which consists of a black leather sofa, a side chair, and a coffee table with three remote controls arranged in parallel formation. Even the decorative pillow on the chair seems to stand in submission.