The Love Book

by Nina Solomon

  In her study, Emily took a bite of her first cookie, the chocolate side first, so she could savor the vanilla. She turned on her computer to do some preliminary research on May Soon Nu, the author of The Love Book. The photo on the back cover was small and out of focus. The author was an attractive woman, probably in her early forties, with long dark hair parted down the middle, wearing a flowy white top and crocheted headband, a Joan Baez type. With the Internet, gathering information on her would be a snap. Even Salinger wouldn’t have been able to avoid the scrutiny of search engines. Oddly, though, the only thing that came up was Cheat-o-Matic, a Scrabble word builder, which Emily was loath to admit she had used once or twice. May Soon Nu was an anagram of Anonymous. She checked to make sure she had the spelling right, and tried various searches for the Love Guru. There were dozens of Love Book groups around the country, but not a single mention of the author. The ISBN number came from the acquiring publisher and while Emily was able to track down the original source of the book to a small press in Idaho, the author had a clause of anonymity. When she scanned the photo into Google images, it turned out it was of an Indian actress who’d died decades ago. Emily’s meeting with her friend the editor was on Monday. She couldn’t very well tell him the author was untraceable.

  Mrs. Weisenbaum’s television was blaring through the wall. Last week it was a Truman Capote biopic at one in the morning. Tonight it was Jeopardy! She tried to tune out the sound of Alex Trebek’s voice and concentrate, when she realized that Adele’s intrusive question might just be the answer.

  In love, as in research, it was best to cast a wide net. She began by updating her LinkedIn and Facebook accounts, joined Instagram, Tumblr, Hubpages, Wordpress, Google+, Pinterest, Vine, even something called CafeMom. Her new Twitter handle was @LookingforLoveBook. Excited to get started, she dropped her first 140-character lure into the worldwide web. Within minutes she had ten followers and one share.

  An email from Cathy appeared. Pink, of course, with pulsing hearts and exclamation points after every line:

  Reminder about the new venue for Soul Mate Soirée tomorrow! Bring your soul mate wish list! Games! Prizes! Love Potions! More!

  It sounded like a child’s birthday party. Emily wondered if there would be cotton candy and a petting zoo. Instead of writing up her notes from the reading, she found herself Googling Duncan Lebow. She downloaded his latest book and immediately began reading. His prose resonated with her on a deep level, her heart beating in anticipation of each new page. His words touched places in her that even she didn’t know could be accessed. She felt connected to him, as if he was speaking to her personally. He was so unlike Charles and his staid and controlled demeanor. His words exploded in all directions into vibrant colors, igniting her imagination, opening her up.

  By the time she looked up from her computer it was after midnight. She’d finished all three cookies, with no recollection of having eaten them, and had forgotten to call Zach.

  * * *

  The next morning, she couldn’t believe she was doing it, but she actually looked up Duncan’s address in the White Pages. She never would have supposed that an author as famous as he would have a listed number. But there it was and he lived only ten blocks away. His number was one of the old New York exchanges, the kind that used to begin with names like ENdicott, PEnnsylvania, PLaza, TRafalgar, or BUtterfield, and that conjured for Emily silk peignoirs and soigné apartments straight out of a Noel Coward movie. It was the equivalent of urban carbon dating. Whoever lived there hadn’t moved or changed the number for at least half a century. She left a message, something she wouldn’t have done if he hadn’t been on his way to Norway. Then she grabbed her purse and The Love Book, almost forgetting Charles’s shirts, and headed out for the Soul Mate Soirée.

  “Perfect timing,” Charles said, taking the dry cleaning from her when she stepped off the elevator.

  Zach was showing Kalman how he could “walk the dog” with his new light-up yo-yo. Clarissa was in the car, wearing a huge pair of sunglasses. Emily was tempted to tell Charles that she’d seen Clarissa at Barnes & Noble the night before, but then would have to admit she’d been there too. He’d always said she was a good writer and was wasting her time writing fluff pieces.

  Charles gave her that stony stare he’d perfected these last few years and that she could even detect over the phone.

  “Didn’t I tell you to give the dry cleaner’s a change of address?”

  “That’s not in my job description.”

  “Are you trying to screw things up for me? Because you’re doing a very good job.”

  “Charles, please,” she said, looking at Zach, who gave no indication that he’d been listening. But Emily knew better. He heard everything.

  “And try to limit yourself to one call a day,” he said.

  “You’re telling me I can’t call my son?”

  “Clarissa finds it intrusive.”

  “Tell Clarissa not to answer his cell phone if it bothers her so much.”

  Charles smirked when he noticed the subtitle of The Love Book. “Eleven Weeks to Finding Your Soul Mate? A cellmate’s more like it. I have a book for you. Eleven Weeks to Stop Being a Bitch.”

  “It’s for an article. Maybe you should get a copy for Clarissa.”

  Charles shook his head. “Still can’t take a joke, I see.”

  * * *

  Emily rolled up her windows as she entered the Lincoln Tunnel. Ordinarily, she would have avoided the tunnel altogether, but the bridge was closed for repairs. As much as she loved Manhattan, living on an island had its drawbacks. She was not a fan of tunnels. Or subways. Or elevators. The grotto in Normandy had made her break out in hives. Venturing underground was something she did only when absolutely necessary. To Charles, the subway, even in the sweltering summer heat, was freedom. In any city around the world, he could glance at the metro map, determine the most direct route to his desired destination, however remote or off the beaten path, and arrive within minutes. Emily, however, would rather walk six miles to jury duty than risk getting stuck between stations.

  She was still thinking about Duncan when the vehicle ahead of her stopped short and she had to slam on the brakes. Cars began honking. There was the sound of a distant approaching siren. Lights flashed in her rearview mirror. She rested her head on the steering wheel. No coffee, radio, or cell phone reception. Her only diversions were The Love Book or an old Rafi tape. She chose The Love Book, the lesser of two evils. When a Rafi song got into her head, it was impossible to get it out. She read a quote in the margin: The light at the end of the tunnel is not an illusion. The tunnel is. Maybe Rafi would have been the safer choice.

  By the time she emerged from the tunnel, the sky was a wash of magenta and midnight blue. A motorcycle and a New Jersey Transit bus had collided, blocking both lanes. She took out her cell phone to apologize to Cathy for missing the party, and noticed that she had a missed call.

  “With the jets firing behind me, I must be quick. Your message was like a breath of fresh air. I return from Oslo on the fifteenth. Until then, here’s my email . . .”

  A message from Duncan and the George Washington Bridge had reopened to traffic. Maybe there was something to this law of attraction stuff, after all.

  * * *

  Cathy waited until nearly five o’clock, when she was sure that no one was going to show up, before turning off the flameless candles and wiping the white board clean. She’d spent hours highlighting the salient details of the chapter and summing up this week’s lessons with a PowerPoint presentation. She’d even concocted love potions and made soul mate goodie bags. The distraction and intention to offer guidance and support to her unlucky-in-love friends had helped keep her spirits buoyed after the fiasco with Sean last night. But Max hadn’t even bothered to call. And while Emily and Beatrice both had good excuses, particularly Beatrice who was taking care of a friend who had fallen off a horse, she was still disappointed. Her father was due back from the lodge soon. Und
er normal circumstances, she would have packed up the deviled eggs and taken them to her aunt’s house or to the soup kitchen—waste not, want not—but she couldn’t muster the energy. She said a quick prayer asking for forgiveness, as one by one she shoved the eggs down the garbage disposal, ran the water, then flipped the on switch.

  CHAPTER NINE

  DRESS CODE

  BEATRICE WAS AT THE BAR at the “21” Club waiting for Freddy. They’d arranged to meet for lunch. Très civilisé. If you’re going to do it, do it right, she always said. She’d left Libby in the capable hands of Ursula, another college friend of theirs, who’d offered to pitch in from time to time until Libby was up and about. Beatrice was wearing a deep green jacquard shift and matching jacket. Freddy had always liked her in green. Funny, the things one remembered. She’d come in early for a little primping at Elizabeth Arden. In the mirror behind the bar, her hair shone as brilliantly as burnished copper. Coiffed and dressed and ensconced in old New York, she was beginning to feel like her old million-dollar self. One week of hanging around the hospital had taken its toll. It felt good to be out in the world.

  Yes, Freddy was right: it had been a day or so. But it felt like yesterday.

  She watched as the young male bartender assembled a Manhattan. Into a Yarai cut mixing glass, he poured bourbon, sweet vermouth, dry vermouth, and a splash of bitters. He gave it a quick stir with a slender silver mixing spoon until it formed a liquid tornado, then poured the perfect concoction into a sparkling cocktail glass.

  Beatrice appreciated his attention to detail. There was nothing she liked more than for things to be done comme il faut.

  “I always thought a Manhattan was supposed to be shaken to fox-trot time,” she said, playfully. She was quoting The Thin Man. She realized a moment too late that the flick was probably made before the bartender’s grandparents were born.

  “I’m a purist,” the young man said. “I believe that a Manhattan, like a beautiful woman, deserves to be treated with care, though I do on occasion like to jitterbug my martinis.”

  She was enjoying trifling with the young man. He seemed flattered. The interesting ones often were. There was something to be said for sticking with younger men. The ones who still had some imagination.

  “If you shake it,” he said, “the ice bruises the bourbon, and adulterates the taste.”

  “But what would Bond say?” Beatrice teased.

  He smiled. “James Bond? The womanizer with the drinking problem?”

  She was about to offer a rejoinder, when there was a small kerfuffle at the door. A tall brunette walked in wearing blue jeans under a plum-colored velvet tunic with a pair of killer five-inch strappy gold heels. The diminutive maître d’ looked aghast and took the woman aside. Beatrice found the whole thing terribly amusing. How could anyone not know about the dress code at “21”? Then she reprimanded herself for being so bourgeois. Hadn’t Glen Campbell been asked to leave when he’d come in wearing a pair of dungarees? But the tall woman wasn’t going anywhere. She disappeared into the powder room, emerging only moments later, before the brouhaha had even abated, in just the hip-skimming tunic, bared legs and gold heels, her jeans stuffed into her huge Birkin bag. The maître d’ apologized profusely as he led her to her table, but she laughed it off. According to the bartender, she was one of the women from the Housewives reality series, possibly even a countess. Pretending to be impressed, Beatrice said, “They ought to require aristocrats to learn a thing or two about dress codes before they’re allowed to roam freely.”

  She sipped her drink and swiveled in the bar stool, and there was Freddy walking with the maître d’ toward her like Moses emerging from the Sinai. She felt a shiver up the back of her neck. He looked exactly as he had at graduation in 1962. Well, all things considered he seemed in pretty great shape for a seventy-year-old man. He was wearing a blue blazer with gold D buttons, gray flannels, and a Tartan tie. His thick dark hair was now a lustrous shock of silver. But she would have known him anywhere.

  * * *

  Emily dressed in her most conservative outfit for her meeting with the school headmaster, a charcoal-gray suit and pumps she’d last worn when she and Charles went to the mediator, the first of two, both of whom Charles eventually “fired.” She looked like a paralegal.

  Charles had found her less-than-conventional fashion choices charming, even alluring, when they were first dating—fancy skirts with old T-shirts and jet beads—but it wasn’t long before he began to criticize the way she dressed. Especially when he was up for partner. You came to my office wearing that? Suddenly, her quirky outfits didn’t quite cut it when all the other women were in tasteful black cocktail dresses and Mikimoto pearls. He’d tried to steer her toward a more conservative style and at first she’d welcomed his input. It reminded her of her maternal grandmother who called her a ragamuffin with her macramé vests and magenta bell-bottoms with torn knees. Whenever she visited, they’d go to Bergdorf’s where Emily would be transformed into a little Renoir girl with a rabbit muff and princess coat. After lunch in the Tea Room they’d sit on one of the boudoir chairs and freshen up in the pink art deco bathroom. But it never stuck. She’d be back in her torn jeans and work shirt before dinnertime. Charles must have thought he was getting the put-together Emily, not the woman with a tendency to get so lost in writing she’d forget to dress or make dinner.

  Zach’s school was no less conformist. Emily felt like an imposter at school functions when she put on the “uniform” worn by the other mothers: black twill or khaki pants, leather for evening, sweater set, flats, and diamond studs. Then there were the overdressed mothers from the Upper East Side whose children hadn’t been accepted at one of the single-sex, Ivy League–feeder prep schools, who dropped their children off in their black SUVs and shopped at Barneys.

  The only other time Emily had been called in to see the headmaster was when Zach was in first grade, right after she and Charles separated. The huge bearlike school psychologist was on hand each morning until November to wrench a crying Zach out of her arms. It took all of her resources not to run back in and make sure he was all right. Of course, Charles never had any problem when he dropped Zach off at school. In fact, he didn’t even get out of the taxi, letting the boy go up in the elevator with the other kids. He’s not a baby, he told her. But when she asked if he could drop Zach off more often, it wasn’t possible because of a little thing called work.

  At that first conference, Charles had sat smug and self-satisfied in his pinstriped suit as though about to win a case. The school psychologist told her that Zach’s separation anxiety stemmed from his concern about her well-being and that she should let him know that it wasn’t his job to take care of her. Again, all her fault. That’s what Charles had said when they went for marriage counseling. He’d leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and, as if renegotiating a deal, told the therapist to “fix” her.

  The door to the office opened and in walked the headmaster and the school psychologist, followed by Zach’s math teacher, Kenneth, wearing his usual khakis. Zach was still complaining that Kenneth had been picking on him in class since that day she’d chewed him out on Broadway.

  After the usual pleasantries, the headmaster put his hand on her shoulder. “Emily, we’ve given the matter a lot of thought and decided that a three-day suspension and probation until Christmas break is fair.”

  “Probation? I don’t understand. Zach’s an excellent student.”

  “This is not about academics,” he said.

  “Then what is it about?” she asked.

  “Sexual harassment,” the headmaster answered.

  “You can’t be serious. What are you accusing him of?”

  “Snapping a girl’s bra,” he said.

  “A bra? They’re ten years old. Girls in fifth grade don’t wear bras.” She looked at the school psychologist for support. “You know Zach. He’s a good kid. Boys pull pranks like this all the time, don’t they?”

  The psychologist shook his
head. “No, Emily, they don’t. Not at this school. It shows a real lack of respect for women. And it’s not an isolated incident.”

  “Zach’s a good kid,” she said. Her voice quavered. She took a deep breath. She was not going to cry. “I’m sure he didn’t mean to do it.”

  “We’re concerned that if we don’t deal with it now, the underlying issue will only get worse. It’s most likely a cry for help.”

  She felt tears pressing behind her eyes. Charles would take care of this. With all of his faults, he was a very protective father. He’d probably threaten to file suit.

  “If it’s all right with you, Emily, we’d like to bring Zach in. He’s waiting in the hall.”

  She stared at the spines of books that lined the shelves. The Launching Years. Letting Go. The Fiske Guide to College. Cracking the SAT. When the door opened, she half-expected to see the little five-year-old boy with the head of curls, but instead, in walked a preteen wearing a backward Knicks cap. When had he grown up? He slumped into the chair, mumbled a hello, and fidgeted with the strap of his backpack.

  “You know why you’re here, don’t you?” the headmaster began.

  Zach nodded.

  “We’ve been discussing a suitable consequence for your actions. You’ll be on probation until Christmas break. Do you understand?”

  He nodded again.