“Well, you’re going to have to persuade him,” says Robyn frankly.
I look at her. “But how?”
“I dunno.” She tilts her head to one side and chews thoughtfully. “You’ll just have to think of something.”
“And if I don’t?” I look at her anxiously.
“You’re together forever,” she says simply, and finishing off her toast, she grabs another slice.
With Robyn’s words ringing in my ears I pluck up the courage to call Nate on my way to work. As I expected, he’s not very happy to hear from me. Translated: He hangs up on me several times, calls me something unrepeatable, then finally agrees to listen “for thirty seconds.” I get about ten before he cuts me off. No, he’s not coming to Venice. Yes, I really am crazy, and don’t I know it’s the Venice Film Festival and I’ll never get a place to stay because everything is totally booked up, so good luck with that.
Then he hangs up.
“So basically I’m stuffed.”
It’s lunchtime and I’m with Robyn, standing in line at Katz’s, waiting to order.
“Are you sure he’s telling the truth? Maybe it’s a ruse to put you off,” she suggests optimistically. Unwrapping a brownie from her pocket, she takes a bite.
“No, he’s right—I Googled.” I sigh. “It’s the festival, so the flights are a fortune. I’ll never be able to afford one.”
“That’s easy—you can use my frequent-flier miles. I’ve got thousands from all my trips abroad.”
“Gosh, Robyn, that’s so kind of you.” I look at her with grateful astonishment, then frown. “But even if I can get a flight, there’s nowhere to stay—all the hotels are fully booked.”
“All of them?”
“All of them.” I nod. I did an online search that morning on Expe-dia, Travelocity, and every other travel website I could think of. I even made up this whole story about someone I knew wanting to propose to his girlfriend in Venice and got Magda to ask her friend’s daughter at the travel agency, but nothing.
“Hmm, true, that’s a tricky one.” She chews thoughtfully.
“Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Nate won’t come, so there’s no point.”
Robyn looks pensive. “You know what this is, don’t you?”
“Hopeless?”
“No, it’s the universe trying to keep you together,” she says knowingly. “The power of the legend. It doesn’t want you and Nate to go to Venice and break the spell of everlasting love. It’s throwing obstacles in your path to stop you.” She looks proud of her detective work.
“Great.” I shrug as we shuffle forward in the queue. “Now when I think it feels like the world is against me, I know that actually, it really is against me. And not just the world, but the whole universe.”
“Where there’s love, there’s hope,” she opines, taking another large bite of brownie.
“Oprah?”
“No, I think I read it on a bumper sticker,” she says, shuffling alongside me. “It’s true, though. If you love Adam, there’s hope. You just have to fight for him.”
“Like you fought for Daniel?” I raise an eyebrow.
Her jaw sets as she falls silent.
“What are you doing, Robyn?”
“Doing?” she replies tetchily.
“Mooning around the apartment, listening to the African drumming CD he bought you, comfort eating.”
She blushes and stuffs the rest of her brownie in her pocket.
“Why are you just letting him walk away like that?”
“He’s not my soul mate,” she says firmly.
“Says who?” I cry. “The psychic who couldn’t even see into her own future? Great fortune-teller she was!”
Robyn looks all twitchy and starts fiddling with her stacks of silver bangles, determinedly avoiding my gaze.
Now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. “I was like you once. I was convinced that I would know when I met the One, that I would just feel it. Everyone tells you, ‘You’ll just know.’” Well-meaning friends, books, films, poetry. And although you don’t know what it is you’re looking for, and haven’t a clue how it’s supposed to feel, you convince yourself that when you finally find your soul mate, some magical alarm bell will go off in your head and you’ll ‘just know.’
“When I met Nathaniel, I had all these intense, incredible feelings, and I thought, This is it. He’s the One. I truly believed it, which is why I was heartbroken when we broke up the first time. I’d lost the one person in the world who was meant for me, and without that person I could never be truly happy again. OK, so there’d be other guys, nice guys, funny guys, lovely guys, but not another Nate. I’d lost him, and that was it.
“So for years I carried on. I dated, had flings, a few boyfriends, but no one compared. Nate was always there in the back of my mind. Then, by some miracle, we found each other again and got another chance at it. And what happened?”
Urgently I look at Robyn. She’s standing next to me, looking a bit shell-shocked, and I don’t blame her. It’s all pouring out, a decade’s worth of feelings spilling out in the middle of a busy New York deli.
“I realized I didn’t feel the same anymore, and neither did he. I realized I’d got it wrong. Just like all the other millions of people out there who marry and end up getting divorced. I was lucky, though—if I hadn’t had a second chance with Nate, I’d still be hung up on him now. I would have spent my whole life looking back with rose-tinted spectacles and I would never have noticed Adam. I would have missed him. Because the moment that I stopped focusing on Nate, and what I thought love looked like, was the moment I saw Adam.”
“Hey, lady.”
I hear a voice, but ignoring it, I heave a sigh. “Look, I’m probably not making any sense, but I guess what I’m saying is that too many people miss out on real love because they’re too busy waiting for the One to show up. For this fantasy figure who’s going to complete them and who probably doesn’t even exist. For a sign to say, This is it. Just like you did. You’ve set your heart on Harold, your perfect soul mate, the dark, handsome stranger on your vision board. You’re so focused on him you can’t see you’ve got something pretty damned good already.”
Robyn seems almost to flinch, as if I’ve hit a nerve.
“There doesn’t always have to be a sign, Robyn. You don’t always just know. Sometimes it takes a while to see what’s been in front of you all along.” I stop talking and realize I’m almost breathless with emotion. Even if it’s too late for me and Adam, I don’t want it to be too late for her and Daniel.
She looks at me as if there’s a lot going on inside her head, then says stiffly, “Whatever’s meant to be will be.”
“Ugh, that is such a cop-out,” I gasp impatiently.
“No, it’s not,” she protests hotly.
“It is, and your logic is all skewed,” I argue. “You’re telling me I’ve got to take on the universe, like I’m some superhero, but you’re just going to sit back and see what happens?”
“Hey, lady, you got a problem hearing or somethin’?”
A loud voice hollers right behind me and I turn round, slightly irritated, then quickly realize it’s the sullen man who takes my order every lunchtime. “Oh, right, yes, sorry.” I snap to. “I’ll have a matzo-ball soup and a—”
He doesn’t let me finish. “Nah, forget the soup,” he says gruffly, shaking his head. “I heard you talking about Venice.”
I gape at him in astonishment. In all this time I’ve never heard this man grunt more than a couple of words, and now he’s talking to me? About Venice?
“Er, yes, that’s right,” I say uncertainly, wondering where on earth this can be leading.
“I think I can help you.”
I can’t believe this. Not only is he talking to me, he wants to help me?
“You can?” pipes up Robyn, speaking for me.
“My uncle owns a small pensione in Venice,” he says with a shrug. “I’m sure they have room, if you want me to make a ph
one call.”
I’m still staring at him in disbelief. I can hardly believe what I’m hearing.
“Wow, that would be awesome,” enthuses Robyn.
“Um . . . yeah, great,” I murmur dazedly.
“OK, give me your number and I’ll get back to you this afternoon,” he instructs, removing a pen from behind his ear. Taking the notepad from his breast pocket, he passes them both to me across the counter, and then, for the first time ever, he gives me a smile.
Chapter Thirty-seven
I spend the rest of the afternoon at the gallery still reeling from this recent turn of events. I don’t know which is more shocking, the fact that Mr. Sullen actually smiled at me or his phone call later that afternoon to say yes, that’s fine, his uncle has a room, and no, it’s not expensive. His real name is Vincent and he’s actually quite chatty once you get to know him. Thanking him profusely, I take down all the details and promise to pop in to the deli when I get back to tell him how it all went.
So that’s sorted, I think, hanging up. I’ve got my flight. I’ve got my hotel. All I need now is to get Nate to come with me. That’s a bit like saying, “All I need now is a billion dollars,” I think gloomily.
On the back of a press release I’m writing about Artsy, I doodle a list of options:1. Kidnapping? No. Impossible to smuggle on plane. Carries life sentence if caught.
2. Threaten? What with? My stiletto heel? A bridal magazine? Weapons of mass destruction? No. Don’t have weapons of mass destruction. Saying that, it’s never stopped anyone before.
3. Bribery? No. Ditto above. What with? Once I’ve paid for the room in Venice, I’m broke.
I’m just trying to think of another option when I hear the door and look up to see Daniel walking in.
“Oh, hi, Daniel.” I wave, quickly hiding my list. “How are you?”
It’s a pointless question. He looks totally miserable. Wearing a crumpled navy suit that looks as if it’s been slept in, he hasn’t shaved and has dark circles under his eyes. “Hi, Lucy.” He forces a smile. “Is Mom here?”
“Yeah, she’s in the back.” I gesture to the office. “You two going out?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I came to pick her up and take her home. I’m helping her pack up her apartment.”
“She’s moving out?” I look at him in dismay. “Already?”
“Yeah, ’fraid so.”
“She didn’t tell me,” I murmur.
I feel a wave of sadness. All day long Magda has been her usual indefatigable self, entertaining me with outrageous stories, being excited about the Artsy exhibition. Yet all the time, underneath, has been the knowledge that she’s packing up her home this very evening, moving out of the place she’s lived in for the past twenty years.
“Where will she go?” I ask anxiously.
“She’s coming to live with me,” replies Daniel, and smiles ruefully. “At least that’s something. You know it’s every Jewish mother’s dream to live with her son.”
Despite myself, I can’t help smiling.
“So how’s Robyn?” he says after a moment, trying to sound nonchalant and failing terribly.
“OK,” I say vaguely. I don’t know what to say. Do I tell him the truth? That I think she’s making a huge mistake, that I’ve tried and failed to talk some sense into her? Or do I keep out of it and not interfere? Take a leaf out of her book and accept that what will be will be?
“I guess she must be really happy about finally finding Harold,” he says, nudging for a reaction.
We look at each other, neither of us saying what we are really thinking. “Yeah, I suppose so.” I shrug noncommittally. I bite my lip. Oh God, this is killing me. “Look, Daniel, I think you two should speak,” I blurt, before I can help myself.
Well, I’m sorry. Sod leaving things up to destiny. If I’d followed the rule of what will be will be, I’d have flat stringy hair and thick bushy eyebrows. Sometimes you need to give things a helping hand, whether that involves hair products, tweezers, or your best friend interfering in your love life.
If I’m expecting him to yell, “You’re right!” and rush off to declare his undying love, I’m sorely mistaken.
“No.” He shakes his head resignedly. “She’s in love with someone else. It would be unfair of me to come between her and her soul mate.”
“But he’s not her soul mate!” I cry, a feeling of desperation rising up inside me. “Robyn isn’t in love with Harold. She thinks she is, but she’s not. She’s in love with—”
“Daniel, my boy!” I’m interrupted by Magda appearing with a shriek of delight.
“Hey, Mom.” He blushes beetroot as she flings herself against him, burying her head in his chest as if it’s their last good-bye.
“My boy, my beautiful boy!” she wails, clinging to him. Then she pushes him away from her so she can get a better look. “What’s wrong? Why do you look so sad?”
“I’m not.” He pins on a smile. “Everything’s great.”
“Wonderful!” She beams, her face flushing. “And how is Robyn?”
Watching them together, I suddenly realize he hasn’t told her yet.
“Great. She’s great.” He nods, flashing me a glance as if to say, Please keep quiet.
I run my fingers over my mouth as if to say, My lips are zipped.
“See, if you had trusted me with my matchmaking,” she says, throwing a pointed look in my direction. “So where is Robyn? Is she coming to the apartment?”
“Oh, no, she’s busy.”
“Busy?” Magda starts grabbing her plethora of bags and packages. “No, you have to wait. Mommy is busy,” she instructs Valentino, who snaps around her heels, wanting to be picked up. She turns back to Daniel. “What is she doing?”
“I . . . um . . .” Daniel looks incredibly awkward. “Here, do you want me to help you?” He reaches down, but Magda bats him away.
“Not with your bad back, Daniel.”
“Mom, I’m fine.”
“Remember what Dr. Goldstein said about your sciatica?”
Valentino is still jumping up and down trying to get attention. Daniel bends forward to grab a bag, and I’m not quite sure what happens, but suddenly there’s an earsplitting howl and Daniel goes flying, along with the bags and Valentino, who shoots out from underneath him like a bullet, and Daniel lands in a tangled heap on the floor.
“Oy!” shrieks Magda, rushing to her son’s aid. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine, Mom.” Throwing Valentino a furious glare, Daniel starts scrambling to his feet and brushing himself down, while Magda fusses around him. “Seriously, I’m fine. Don’t worry—” Suddenly he breaks off. “Oh shit.”
“What is it?” gasps Magda, her eyes wide with concern. “It is your back? Oy! I knew you would hurt your back, I knew it!”
“No, Mom, it’s not my back.”
“Then what is it?” She’s practically shrieking. “Oh, no, is it your heart? It’s your heart, isn’t it? You’re going to take after your father.”
“No, it’s the painting.” His face is ashen.
Magda stops shrieking and frowns in confusion. “What painting?”
With a stricken expression Daniel points to the wrapped package that was leaning against the wall, along with some of the bags. It’s the painting that Magda’s aunt left her. She’d obviously brought it out from the back office to take back to Daniel’s, but now the wrapping is all ripped off, and underneath the canvas is torn.
“Jeez, Mom, I’m sorry. It must have been when I fell—” he begins apologizing, but she stops him.
“Oh, don’t worry about that.” She quickly bats away his concerns. “It was terrible.”
“What was it?” I ask curiously. I’ve been watching this whole thing unfold, and now as Daniel picks up the painting, the wrapping paper in shreds, I look at it with interest.
“Looks like a clown,” says Daniel, peering at it.
“I hate clowns.” Magda gives a little shudder. “They are so c
reepy.”
“Maybe you could fix it,” I say, standing by Daniel’s shoulder. “I’m sure we could find a restorer.” Reaching over carefully, I peel back the torn flap of canvas with my fingers.
“No, I don’t care. Throw it away.” Magda wrinkles her nose. “I never liked it.”
“But it was from Great-Aunt Irena,” Daniel protests. “She wanted you to have it.”
“Hang on, wait a minute.”
They both stop squabbling and turn to me expectantly.
“What?” asks Magda. “What is it?”
“Look, underneath,” I say, feeling a beat of excitement. “There’s another canvas hidden beneath.”
“Oh, wow, yeah, you’re right,” says Daniel, nodding. “It’s another painting.”
“Well, would you believe it?” gasps Magda. “Aunt Irena always did say appearances could be deceptive.”
“I wonder what it is?” muses Daniel.
“Well, there’s only one way to find out.” I glance across at Magda. “May I?”
She throws her hands in the air as if to say, Sure, go ahead, and so, taking a deep breath, I tear back the tattered canvas of the clown, with its gaudy colors and amateurish brushstrokes, to reveal a whole new painting. It’s a portrait of a naked woman reclining on a cushion, while cherubic angels dance around her.
“That’s kinda nice,” murmurs Daniel with approval, but I can’t reply. My heart is thumping so loudly in my ears I feel dizzy.
The distinctive muted colors. The familiar religious subject. It can’t be. It just can’t be. With trembling fingers I turn it to the light and peer at the initials in the lower right corner. It is.
“Oh my God,” I gasp, my voice barely a whisper.
“What is it?” asks Magda.
“Your aunt was right, appearances can be deceptive.” Turning to her, I can barely say the words. “It’s a Titian.”
After that it’s bedlam. Daniel’s straight on the phone to a renowned art expert at an auction house, Magda has to sit down before she falls down, and I just stare dumbfounded at a priceless masterpiece. I can’t believe that it’s been here all this time, propped up in the back office, being completely ignored, and would have probably remained stuffed somewhere out of sight for years if Daniel hadn’t fallen against it.
You're (Not) the One Alexandra Potter Page 35
