The Love Book

by Nina Solomon

  Malcolm poked his head in the doorway.

  “Hold on, Cathy.” Beatrice covered the receiver with her hand. “Did you need something, Malcolm?”

  “Just about to take a shower and then turn in.”

  “Fine, Malcolm. I’m on the phone.”

  He closed the door behind him. Beatrice heard running water.

  Whether it was impulse or inspiration, Beatrice found herself inviting Cathy to Rob Roy’s birthday bash. Libby still wasn’t in any condition to make the seven-hour trip to Montana. It was too late to cancel without losing her deposit, and, as chintzy as the Rocking Horse Ranch in Whitefish, Montana, probably was, she couldn’t pay for a double-room occupancy herself. Cathy was thrilled at the invitation. She’d always wanted to go to a rodeo.

  A floorboard creaked and then she heard Malcolm’s elephantine footfalls on the stairs. She told Cathy she’d call her tomorrow with the details. She’d already hung up before she realized that she’d forgotten to ask Cathy why she’d called.

  Malcolm was in the kitchen wearing a robe over a pair of navy pajamas with white piping, warming up a glass of milk, the first time she’d seem him sans chapeau, revealing a less-than-hirsute pate, another thing that distinguished him from his brother with his thick shock of silver hair.

  “Helps me sleep,” he said, pouring the milk into a mug. “Join me?”

  “No thanks. Nothing ever works for me. I’ve been an insomniac for years.”

  “Winnie and I always shared a glass of warm milk before turning in. I find if I add a few cloves I have even sweeter dreams.”

  With Albert, it was another glass of scotch and in the morning she could never remember her dreams. Maybe that’s why the years seemed to blend together.

  “I’ll send you a dream pillow,” Malcolm said.

  “A what?”

  “It’s a sachet of hops, chamomile, valerian, skullcap, and lavender. I make them myself from herbs in my garden. You’ll sleep like a baby.”

  “I’m not into all that hocus pocus.”

  “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. Sleep is vital to a person’s well-being.” He stirred the milk with a wooden spoon she wasn’t even aware she had. “You know, Freddy and Muriel will be celebrating their forty-fifth wedding anniversary next June.”

  “God, that sounds awful.” She’d said the line so many times it was automatic now.

  “He’s never going to leave her.”

  “Listen, Malcolm, it was swell spending the day with you and your bird-watching friends, but from now on you should keep your opinions to yourself.”

  “I’ve seen it happen before with other women.”

  “Well, I’m not other women,” Beatrice said, pouring herself one last drink before retiring.

  The next morning, after a pot of strong coffee, Malcolm on his way back to Boston in his Subaru, Beatrice found a copy of Peterson’s Field Guide to Birds in the guest room that Malcolm must have left behind. What a bother! Now she’d have to waste an hour standing in line at the post office. She flipped through it and saw that he’d inscribed the inside cover.

  To Beatrice,

  You never know what you might find right in your own backyard.

  —Malcolm

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  TRICK OR CHEAT

  HALLOWEEN HAD NEVER HELD MUCH APPEAL for Emily. It wasn’t just that she had been terrified of vampires ever since seeing Dracula at summer camp (the George Bush masks actually freaked her out most of all), it was the uncontrollable urge to devour the entire bowl of leftover candy, in hierarchical order, until only strawberry Charleston Chews remained, her self-esteem diminishing in direct proportion to the amount of candy consumed.

  Little by little, since Duncan came into her life, her kitchen had been purged of anything nonorganic, processed, or sugar-laced. Even ketchup. The only remotely decadent items remaining in her pantry were bars of 72 percent ethically harvested, rain forest dark chocolate, basically crayons, which would never satisfy her the way her old standby, a one-pound bag of M&Ms, could.

  Zach had been invited to his first-ever coed sleepover at Dylan’s Candy Bar. He’d been vacillating between going dressed as a hippie or baseball player, finally deciding on Elvis, and had been practicing his hip gyrations in the mirror for days. Emily had seen enough Little Mermaids, Zombies, Harry Potters, and Angry Birds to last a lifetime, and since Zach wouldn’t be home, she didn’t put her name on the building’s trick-or-treat list. But Charles had. He’d bought mini candy bars, carved a pumpkin, decorated the vestibule with spiderwebs, and resuscitated his Green Lantern costume. She was already anticipating the quizzical look from Adele Weisenbaum, trying to guess the identity of the guy in the green mask, skintight jumpsuit with “rippling” abs, light-up logo, and shiny boots.

  After an early breakfast meeting at Bouchon Bakery with her friend David, the editor, Emily went to the Columbus Circle gym to take an exercise class. The third sticky bun had done her in.

  This was not the super-mommy-on-the-go crowd she was used to at the Upper West Side club. This was where the beautiful people worked out—models, newscasters, talk show hosts, fashion designers, moguls, and celebrities—in eco-friendly fibers and pseudo low-key vibe. Some didn’t even mix with the hoi polloi, gaining entry into an even more exclusive area with private cabañas and fancy French towels, not by flashing a membership card but with a retinal scan.

  It still surprised her how uninhibited women could be in the eucalyptus-scented locker room, putting on makeup, blow-drying their hair, and chatting about mundane things, completely naked. She found an empty locker, turned her back, and pulled on her loose black yoga pants, racer-back tank, and one of Zach’s hoodies. She didn’t hate her body, but she didn’t love it. She could look decent naked provided there was good lighting, she had a little color, a push-up bra, heels, wasn’t retaining water, and made no sudden movements. She was already regretting venturing out of her comfort zone. And the full-length mirror confirmed her worst fears. She looked as frumpy as she felt.

  The long wooden bench was already nearly occupied by a row of women who looked good in ponytails and no makeup, an unofficial queue. Finally, the door to the studio opened and a wave of perspiring women poured out and the next class filed in. Drips of sweat dotted the floor. She found a spot near the center, not too close to the front. She liked to have someone to follow as the instructor walked around realigning the women into perfect chakra-balanced poses.

  The stereo system began blasting, louder than usual for an intenSati class. The instructor entered, tucked her short blond hair into a black bandanna, and adjusted her mic. When she turned around, Emily realized it was Max. She waved, but Max seemed not to recognize her. Class began, not with guided meditation and sharing, but with instructions called out like a drill sergeant. Emily tried not to cause anyone bodily harm as she alternated between roundhouse kicks and uppercuts, but she could barely tell her left from her right.

  “This is intenSati, isn’t it?” she whispered to an older, very fit woman in front of her.

  “No, KarateStrike.”

  She was about to grab her things and slip out, but Max caught her eye and smiled. With that simple acknowledgment, she found enough courage to ride it out. What was the worst that could happen?

  * * *

  The last person Max ever expected to show up in her class was Emily. There were always a few lost souls unfamiliar with her reputation, but never on a Friday. Fridays at 9 a.m. were for diehards. Occasionally, a newbie managed to make it through the class, but it was rare. Most never came back. Several left in tears. Her classes were no joke and that was the reason they always filled up. There was a waiting list for her spin class. Women loved the competition; she gave them something to aspire to, but it was the men, cutthroat condescending business bastards, reduced to groveling toads, who were most desperate for her approval. Max derived pleasure in making them believe they could keep up, maybe even seduce her, then leaving them in the dust. It wa
s a mental game. She could bring any man to his knees. Until Garrett. No one had hurt her like that since Calvin told her she couldn’t live with him anymore.

  Pam was in the front row. She had a towel on one side of her and a water bottle on the other, marking her territory. They hadn’t spoken since Max fired her as a client at the Maritime Hotel. After the warm-up, Max called out the moves for the first combination. She was expecting Emily not to last five minutes, but while she wasn’t performing the combos with grace or intention, she was keeping up. As the moves became more complicated, though, Emily seemed to lose her focus. Pam didn’t try to hide her annoyance, and if it hadn’t been obvious enough, she made it clear with a roundhouse kick that nearly knocked Emily off her feet.

  Pam tapped Emily on the shoulder and pointed behind her. Looking chagrined, Emily navigated her way to the back of the room. The only available spot was behind a pillar.

  Max wasn’t going to allow Pam to run the show. “Did you all take spaz pills this morning? Drop and give me twenty. And no girlie push-ups. On your toes.” She did ten plyometric push-ups with claps to show them she meant business.

  While the class was grunting and trying to keep up with her count, Max pulled Emily front row center, shoving Pam’s towel aside. Emily looked as though she had been thrust into an orchestra seat without a ticket.

  “Take off your sweatshirt,” Max said. “It’s show time!”

  Emily unzipped her hoodie. She was about to tie it around her waist when Max grabbed it from her. Just as she suspected: Emily’s upper body was lean and defined. She had the posture of a dancer. Why was she the one hiding when Pam, with her jelly rolls, was wearing short shorts with zippers on the side?

  Pam was clearly disgruntled at having been supplanted, but Max wouldn’t even look at her. She turned up the volume and stood facing Emily.

  “Do what I do, like you’re staring in a mirror,” she said. “And then imagine I’m someone you want to kick the shit out of.”

  Tentative at first, Emily shadowed Max’s movements, a fraction of a second off, like bad lip-synching. Once she got the hang of one combination, Max switched it up so she couldn’t go on automatic. Just as she had the night in the hedge maze in Normandy, she let Emily take the lead, surprising Max with her ability to anticipate her next move before even she did, though Emily didn’t seem the least bit aware of it. As she and Emily sparred, Max felt a sense of ease. For some reason she didn’t feel competitive with Emily like she did with the others. There was no need to keep her guard up because there was nothing to prove.

  After class, Emily sat on the bench outside the studio, drenched in sweat, drinking a bottle of water, a towel around her neck.

  “See you at spin class tomorrow?” Max asked.

  “If I can walk,” Emily said. “Are you going to the Soul Mate Soirée next week? 11/11/11 is a once-in-a-century event.”

  Max smiled. “I’ll probably live to regret it, but I said I would.”

  Pam caught up with Max and begged her to train her again. Max ignored her, enjoying watching her squirm.

  “Look at me. I can’t go to Vail looking like the Michelin Man.”

  Max wouldn’t have said yes, but she’d lost her job at Philomel after telling one of Antoine’s partners he could suck her dick.

  “Okay, if you promise not to be such a bitch.”

  “I promise,” Pam said, crossing her heart. “Are you busy tonight?”

  “Why?”

  “I have two extra tickets to the Devil’s Debauchery Ball. Bring your oceanographer. Did you see that article about him winning that award at the Kennedy Center in the Daily Beast?”

  “He’s history,” Max said.

  “You should still come. Invite Hector.”

  As if that was an incentive.

  Max glanced over at the bench where Emily had been sitting, but she’d disappeared into the locker room.

  * * *

  Emily dropped Zach off at Dylan’s Candy Bar for the Halloween sleepover. Sasha was wearing a long blond wig like Daryl Hannah in Splash. She grabbed him by the hand and the two of them ran off without saying goodbye to take advantage of the all-you-can-eat candy frenzy. It was rush hour, and taxis were scarce. Even the double-articulated buses were crammed full. Emily began walking, annoyed at having to fend off overly solicitous pedicab drivers. She entered the park at Grand Army Plaza, hoping the crowds of tourists and the nauseating smell of hot dogs and candied nuts would recede. But the drive was still open to traffic and she was caught in a riptide of horn-blaring livery cabs. She waited for a white horse pulling a carriage with red fringe to pass before crossing over to the footpath. A few lone skaters were gliding across the ice at the Wollman Rink. The sound system was playing a tinny version of a Beatles song so stripped of character it was unrecognizable.

  The melody was still playing in her head as she headed underneath the canopy of elms on Literary Walk and through the Wisteria Pergola. The day she and Charles told Zach they were separating, the latticework roof was a purple sun-dappled arbor. Today it was choked with gnarled, leafless vines, much more fitting for that sad occasion, as neither she nor Charles had been able to find the right words.

  On the other side of Terrace Drive, she leaned against the limestone balustrade and looked out over Bethesda Fountain. The Angel of the Waters was presiding over a dry fountain basin. Emily dreaded telling Max about her encounter with Garrett in DC, but had the situation been reversed, she’d want to know. Then, as if the universe had been listening to her, she received one of Cathy’s inspirational emails, a quote by Tom Stoppard, and she was off the hook: Every exit is an entry somewhere else.

  The clouds parted in the distance and the lyrics of the Beatles song suddenly came to her: I’ll follow the sun.

  If Garrett was history, why stir the pot?

  * * *

  An odd feeling came over her when she walked through the front door, as though she were visiting an ailing maiden aunt with a tin of butter cookies.

  The Green Lantern was glowering. What had she done now? The doorbell rang. Charles picked up the basket of candy and opened the door. In unison, Spider-Man, a pirate, a ballerina, and a six-foot-tall blue M&M yelled, “Trick or treat!”

  “Look, Dad,” Spider-Man said, pointing at Charles as he grabbed a huge handful of candy, “it’s the Green Giant!”

  “Actually, I’m the Green Lantern,” Charles corrected him. “And leave a few for the other kids.”

  “But you’re holding a green corn,” Spider-Man said.

  “That’s my Gatling gun.”

  “Looks like corn to me.”

  Charles’s temples were pulsing. “It’s not corn. Want me to try it out on you?”

  “I’ll spray you with my Spinning Web Blaster,” the boy said, holding up a red and blue can of Silly String.

  Emily took the basket from Charles. “Juliette, is that you?”

  The little ballerina nodded, then looked at the floor. She was holding a small plastic pumpkin. She reached in and took one Smartie.

  “You can have another one,” Emily said. The ballerina shook her head then hid behind her father. “Okay, kids, say trick or treat.”

  “Happy Halloween, Green Giant!” Spider-Man taunted, then ducked into the elevator.

  Once the door had closed, Emily asked, “What’s wrong with you? Why’d you have to be so mean to Adam Klein?”

  “I don’t give a shit about Adam Klein, although someone should teach the kid some manners. I think I have the right to know if the mother of my child is into BDSM. The courts might rule to change custody.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He pointed to a large white box tied with black ribbon on the front hall table, which had obviously been opened. Kalman told her she had a package, but she’d been hoping it was another red envelope.

  “This is addressed to me,” she said.

  Underneath several sheets of orange and black tissue paper was a latex bodysuit, dog chain with stu
ds, hooker shoes, and cat-o’-nine-tails. She read the card: I’d like to make an appointment for a private screening . . .

  It was from her chiropractor. She’d been going to the guy for years with nary an untoward comment or inappropriate glance, until last week, when he told her she “stirred” his soul. She knew better than to think The Love Book had cast some kind of weird spell on her, but still. Even more disconcerting was that a chiropractor would encourage a woman to wear six-inch heels.

  Maybe it was the sight of Charles in that silly Green Lantern outfit, or the sugar buzz from eating two Twix bars, or the high from the kickboxing class, but she felt playful, not angry. “It’s my Halloween costume,” she said, holding up the corset. “Like it?”

  He shook his head. “You’ve lost it this time.”

  She picked up the cat-o’-nine-tails and slapped it against her palm. Charles tried not to smile. As soon as her back was turned, he shot her with his Gatling gun. Their eyes met and for a split second a different Charles was in front of her, the one who used to light up and spin her around when he picked her up for dates.

  He was staring at her. The jack-o’-lantern he’d carved was flickering on the table. “How’d we let things get so screwed up?” he asked.

  Emily didn’t know what to say. There wasn’t an answer. The bell rang, and his whole demeanor changed, his face becoming impassive, opaque, as though he’d put his “Charles” mask back on. Emily opened the door. It was Clarissa, wearing her white fur vest, and Duncan, with a bit of spiderweb in his hair. Strangely, Emily felt guiltier about the huge basket of candy she was holding than the cat-o’-nine-tails still dangling from her hand.

  “I’m an idiot to have believed you,” Clarissa hissed.

  “It’s not what you think,” Charles said.

  “Oh really?” She looked at Emily. “You told me she was staying with her loser boyfriend.”

  “I take offense to that remark,” Duncan said. “Do you know who I am?”

  Even in the middle of this scene, Charles and Duncan paused to shake hands.