The Look of Love: A Novel (6 page)

“Of course I do,” she says. “They expire after the third date. I get bored after that.”

“You’re like a man, you know?”

She shrugs. “So what if I am? Women would do well to behave more like men.”

Sometimes I admire Lo’s bold take on love. But I worry about her too, and I wonder if she’s too caught up in the game to ever be happy. I sigh and reach into the pocket of my jeans for a rubber band to pull my hair back into a ponytail, which is when I find the strange birthday card I received in the mail. I tucked it in my pocket this morning, intending to show it to Lo.

“Hey,” I say, turning to her. “Will you do me a favor and read this? I have no idea who it’s from or whether it’s some kind of practical joke.”

Lo takes the card and reads it over. “That’s like no other birthday card I’ve ever seen,” she says.

“I know, right?”

She nods. “And the handwriting looks familiar, for some reason.” She looks thoughtful. “It reminds me of a guy I dated last year. Tristan, yes. He had the most beautiful handwriting.”

I roll my eyes. “So you’re saying this is from Tristan.”

“No,” she says. “And besides, I’d never let you date him. He was a narcissist. You know how I knew?”

I smile at her. “How?”

“His grocery shopping lists,” she says assuredly.

“Shopping lists, huh?”

“Yep,” she says. “You can spot a narcissist a mile away by the amount of money they spend on paper products.”

“Paper products?”

“Yes—you know, paper towels, disposable napkins, boxes of tissues.”

“Lo, you can’t be serious,” I say with a laugh. “That makes no sense.”

“Believe me, it’s a
thing
. They’ve documented it in research studies. Seriously, the dude went through a roll of paper towels every single day.” She shakes her head at the memory. “And he’d write out those shopping lists in that gorgeous handwriting of his. Too bad he didn’t have a gorgeous heart to match. They never do.” She looks at the card again. “But, I don’t know, this might be worth checking out. I mean, maybe . . .”

“Maybe what?”

Lo shrugs. “Maybe you have some crazy ability.” Her eyes brighten. “Like, what if you could time-travel?”

I let out a little laugh.

“Just think. You could take me with you back to 2004, back to that asshole who broke my heart. Except this time, I wouldn’t let him break my heart. I’d break his.”

Jed Harrison. Yes. The man who is, quite possibly, the reason Lo is the way she is today. She loved him—even wanted to marry him. And it turned out he was already engaged to the beautiful daughter of a Seattle real estate tycoon. In the end, his love was a business decision. And Lo was laid off.

“Well,” I say, “I admit I’m a bit curious to know what this woman has to say.”

“Then check it out,” she says. “And if you want, I’ll go with you, just to make sure it’s not some kind of sex slave operation where they kidnap you and ship you off in a crate to some foreign country where you end up as part of some harem of women for a sheik.”

I grin. “A sheik, huh?”

She nods. “Hey, ever heard of a sapiosexual?”

“A sapio-what?”

“Sapiosexual,” she repeats. “It’s a person who’s attracted to intelligence, to the human mind.” She smiles to herself. “Evan said he’s a sapiosexual. And at first I was a little annoyed. I mean, does it mean he isn’t attracted to me physically? But no, the more I thought about it, the more I realize that it actually was quite a compliment. If I ever write a dating book, I think I’ll include that as a section.”

“You
will
write a dating book,” I say, printing off the thirty-three new orders.

Lo grins as she looks up at the clock. “Hey, let’s get our work done and then rendezvous with this mystery card writer of yours. What do you say?”

“Maybe,” I say, glancing at the pink envelope on the counter. Its presence is hard to shake, and I know, somehow, what I must do.

The old brick building doesn’t look like much from the street. I stare at the card again to make sure I’ve gotten the address right. Waldron Building, Apartment No. 17. “I don’t know, Lo,” I say hesitantly. “I think we should turn around.”

“No way,” she says, as a panhandler passes by and mumbles in our direction. Lo shoos him away with a flick of her manicured hand. “Now you’ve got me curious. I want to see what this is all about.”

I look around Main Street. Pioneer Square has a grittier vibe than Pike Place, but if you’re looking for a taste of old Seattle, it’s here, where old lampposts preside over the streets and visitors line up for tours of the city’s once–fully operational underground city.

“What if it’s a hoax?”

Lo rolls her eyes. “Then we’ll get the hell out of here.”

“All right,” I say tentatively, stepping ahead to the building’s double doors with elaborate brass hardware that looks like an ornate relic from the 1920s. I imagine all of the flappers and prohibitionists who might have walked through the entryway as I push open the heavy door. Inside, the lobby smells musty and perfumed. I scan the placard on the wall and see the name Colette Dubois beside apartment number 17.

When the elevator bell dings and the doors open, we step inside.

“This is crazy, you know,” I say as we move upward. My palms feel sweaty.

“Don’t be scared,” Lo says, smiling. “We’ll go in briefly, check it out, and leave if it feels sketchy. In and out, OK?”

“OK,” I say with a sigh, except I don’t feel OK. I feel scared and anxious. I’m possibly about to be told something about myself that I have no knowledge of—or, worse, find out that I’m on the receiving end of a very cruel practical joke.

On the eighth floor, we walk down a long corridor until we come to a door where the brass numbers one and seven hang crookedly against the elaborate woodwork. I knock quietly at first, but when there’s no answer, I try again, this time louder. I hear footsteps beyond the door, and my heart rate quickens.

The knob begins to turn and the hinges on the door creak. A cloud of incense-fueled air drifts out as a thin woman with silver hair spooled into a bun looks us over. When her gaze meets mine, her stern expression melts into a smile. “Ah, Jane,” she says in a thick accent that I immediately identify as French. “I’m so glad you’re here. Please come in.”

Lo follows me inside the apartment, which looks like an illustration of 1890s Paris. Thick blue velvet drapes block out the light from the large bay window. Antique armoires hold trinkets that range from porcelain ballerinas to intricately painted vases. The floor-to-ceiling bookcases completely consume the right wall, where a ladder attached to a wheeled track provides access to even the highest shelf.

“Please sit down,” Colette says, pointing to a couch upholstered in indigo velvet. The cushions are threadbare. “I’ll make us some tea.”

Lo and I sit in silence, until she elbows me. “I feel like we’re in a movie right now.”

“I know,” I say. “I’m getting the same vibe.”

Colette returns holding a tray with a steaming teapot and three cups. She sets it down on the coffee table and sits in the chair opposite us, folding her hands in her lap. “It’s good to see you, Jane,” she says, before turning to Lo. “And who have you brought along?”

“This is my friend Lo,” I answer, while pouring a cup of tea for Lo and then myself. “I—”

“I’m glad she could come,” Colette says, but her smile fades. She looks at Lo, then at me again. “You’ll need someone to keep you accountable.”

“Accountable?”

Colette nods. “But I must ask, do you trust her?”

“Of course I trust her,” I say a little defensively. “Lo is one of my oldest friends.”

“All right,” the older woman says with a satisfied nod. “Then she must vow to never repeat what we discuss here today.”

I look at Lo and swallow hard. Before I can open my mouth, she does. “Cross my heart and hope to die,” she says with a wink.

Colette purses her lips. “Good, then,” she says. “Jane, I’m sure you are deeply curious about my birthday greeting and why I’ve invited you here today.”

I smile tentatively. “I admit, I’m a little confused.”

“And probably skeptical,” she adds.

“Honestly, yes.”

“I understand,” she says. “I was too, at your age. But, Jane, you must listen to what I’m about to tell you, and you must accept it.”

I look at Lo, who is captivated, then back at Colette. “And if I agree to your conditions?” I ask.

Colette stands up and walks to the bookcase on the far wall. She wheels the ladder to the center and climbs to a high shelf, where she pulls out a single book, then returns to her chair.

I eye the aged book in her hand. It’s bound in leather, weathered by the sun. Its spine is tattered, and I spot a water stain on the edge.

“I will tell you a story,” Colette says. “It begins in Paris, in 1893.” Colette pauses to open the book to the first page. “There was an impoverished but beautiful girl named Elodie who sold flowers on one of Paris’s most prosperous streets. She kept her cart outside a great home owned by Luc and Marceline Dumond, the Count and Countess of Auvergne. Marceline was deeply jealous of Elodie, for her husband, Luc, had become besotted with the young flower girl. He showered her with gifts—furs and elaborate jewelry—all within plain view of his wife. When she realized that Elodie returned her husband’s love, Marceline’s anger knew no end, but not because she loved Luc. No; in fact, there was little love in Marceline’s heart. Her marriage was a business arrangement between two wealthy Parisian families. And yet, she was deeply embarrassed and jealous. On the night of a masquerade ball, which Elodie would attend at the invitation of Luc, Marceline enacted her revenge. In her employ was a Gypsy man, known in dark circles as a caster of spells powerful enough to render his target paralyzed, or syphilitic, or blind or dumb. He arrived at the party in costume, having been richly compensated to wreak havoc on Elodie. But when he reached for her hand on the dance floor, he felt, in her presence, a strange and unknown force. He felt a palpable aura of love so intense, he could hear the songs of a thousand children, the whispers of lovers across the city. With Elodie, he was in the presence of love. Great love.”

I inch closer to the edge of my seat. “So did he place the spell on her?”

Colette shakes her head. “No, he did not. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. Elodie was like a perfect rose, and he could not trample her. So he did the opposite.”

I furrow my brow. “The opposite?”

“He did not curse her that night. He gave her a gift.”

I look at Lo, then back at Colette.

“He gave her the gift of being able to see love. From that moment forward, Elodie could walk into a room, a crowded café, a parlor on the edge of town, and she could see love in all of its truth and beauty.” Colette looks at me for a long moment, and I feel goose bumps erupt down my arms and back. “I have this gift too, dear. As do you. The gift was passed down to me, and I gave it to you on the day you were born at Swedish Hospital.”

I startle. “You brought the green bouquet. My mother remembered you until the day she died.”

“Yes,” she replies. “That hue is Elodie’s legacy. Her story is yours, and it is mine.”

I shake my head. “I know nothing of love.”

Her eyes lock on mine. “But you do. It’s been inside of you all your life. And you must fulfill certain conditions of your gift before your thirtieth birthday or . . .” Her voice trails off.

“Or what? I turn into a pumpkin?”

Colette lays her hand on the ancient book. “Here, in these pages, are centuries of recordings. When the Gypsy gave Elodie her gift, it came with a very important challenge. In order to secure love in her own life and access the vision to see it, she had to identify the six types of love.”

“Six types of love?”

Colette nods. “You may already know of them. A woman with our gift in the nineteen sixties foolishly made a copy of one of the pages of this book, and it was discovered by a noted psychologist in the nineteen seventies, who wrote a best-selling book on the topic.”

Lo clears her throat. “I’ve heard of that book,” she says. “It’s called
The Colors of Love
, right?”

“Indeed,” says Colette, turning the page in the book. “But what people don’t know is that the concept of that book originated from the wisdom in
these
pages, the six types of love.” She pauses for a moment. “Have you recognized true love in your own life?”

“That’s a personal question,” I say, “and I’m not sure how to answer it.”

She sets her teacup on the coffee table. “I mean to ask, have you seen love in your own life, in the people you’re close to? If you have, it’s impossible to ignore the signs.”

My heart beats faster as her words wash over me. I’ve never been in love, not really. But have I seen love in others? I pause to remember the way my grandmother spoke of my grandfather, the one who died when I was barely three. She used to look up to the sky longingly and say, “I miss my guy.” And then I think of my late mother, and the father who left when I was so young that his face will always be a blur in my mind. Their love had been intense and deep. He’d serenaded her with a mandolin outside her apartment on a warm Seattle night. She told the story over and over again, mostly after a second glass of wine. The memory of their love never ceased to send shock waves through her veins. It simply never let go. And she didn’t either.