The Love Book

by Nina Solomon

  She put the book aside; Beatrice might get some benefit from it. To her surprise, though, once she was in her comfy wicker chair in the sunroom, the Harlequin she’d chosen did not entice her. Instead, she was drawn to the book her mother had never gotten around to finishing, marked with an unsent postcard from a place she’d never visited. Cathy opened it to the spot where her mother had left off and read a few lines: Many of us treat life as if it were a novel. We pass from page to page passively, assuming the author will tell us on the last page what it was all about.

  * * *

  The next day, as Cathy was driving into the city for the Soul Mate Soirée, this time with Alan Rickman guiding her journey (she and David Hasselhoff had parted ways—amicably, of course), she realized she’d not only enjoyed the silence, but she didn’t need to know what happened on the last page.

  * * *

  Oysters, quail eggs, caviar, blinis. Max never would have thought she’d ever be hosting a Soul Mate Soirée on her own rooftop oasis. But then so much had changed since Normandy.

  One of her clients was an architect and had a friend in the Department of Buildings, so there was no delay or red tape. The decking was completed in a week. He’d even helped her install heat lamps and white pine benches. Twinkle lights were strung from the railing. The elevator only went up to the thirtieth floor, so Max placed mini votive candles leading up the next five flights. She had never given a dinner party. Store-bought guacamole and chips didn’t count. Her mother Didi had thrown lavish dinners, a thrice-weekly affair. Calvin would have roared with laughter at the sight of Max, his favorite “grandson,” making bishop’s hats out of linen napkins.

  She’d left just enough time to do her one hundred flights. She checked to make sure Simon wasn’t lingering in the hall before leaving her apartment; it had been tricky avoiding him these past two weeks. She put an extra twenty pounds in her backpack. If she had any chance of winning the Empire State Building race, she’d have to be able to carry twice that much and it would have to feel as if her backpack was filled with helium, not bricks.

  The first year she did the Run-Up, the initial rush of climbers had the force of a crashing wave. She’d tried to push through the mass of scrambling, jostling bodies, but she’d felt like she was being carried by a riptide.

  Her backpack was heavy, but not that much heavier than usual to explain the resistance she felt today as she climbed. As always, the shadows began to catch up with her. With each passing landing the stairwell seemed to grow darker, and with the darkness, the doubts crept up behind her. What if she didn’t win? What if she would never be good enough? Usually she could push through these feelings, but today, the harder she pushed the stronger the resistance became, as though bungee cords were attached to her ankles. She closed her eyes, trying to ignore the pain in her quads, but her muscles were in spasm. She heard a loud crash on the landing above her, then out of nowhere a furry white creature darted between her legs. By the time she realized it was the drug dealer’s ferret, it had disappeared. Then, before she could react, someone grabbed her from behind. She struggled to get free but the tip of a blade pressing into her skin drained all her strength.

  * * *

  Emily stood in front of Max’s building, removed her pink cashmere gloves, and rang the buzzer for the third time. She’d called Max’s cell, but gotten no answer. Just when she was about to give up, a tall, handsome man with dreadlocks opened the door.

  “If you’re looking for Shorty, she’s on the stairs,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, who?” Emily asked.

  “Max. She’s doing the stairs. She told me she was having a rooftop party. I’m Simon, her next-door neighbor.”

  Emily held out her hand. “I’m Emily.”

  “Pleasure to meet you. Any friend of Max is a friend of mine. I happen to be heading up there right now, to find my bandito ferret. You can come with me, unless you’d rather walk.”

  She laughed. “I’m not bionic like Max, and this bag is pretty heavy.” She switched hands so the circulation would return to her left arm.

  Everyone was bringing a dish for the soirée. Emily’s contribution was the dry ingredients for Soul Mate Cookies, which she’d layered into decorative Mason jars. She’d been amazed when she found the recipe online, yet all manner of soul mates and sweets were readily available with a click of a button. She’d felt empowered measuring brown sugar and pink M&Ms without Duncan to tell her that sugar, in any form, was poison, though now that she was pregnant, she had become even stricter about her own eating than he was. But sugar, she discovered, wasn’t light.

  “Here, let me get that for you.” Simon put out his hand and took the bag, then pressed the elevator button.

  On the thirtieth floor, Simon went off in search of his ferret and Emily climbed the last five flights alone. She stopped on every landing to catch her breath. Most of the votive candles had been blown out by a draft. She expected to hear sounds of the party with each passing floor—music, laughter—but there were none, just the squeak of her shoes on the tacky steps. The stairwell narrowed, growing slightly brighter the higher she climbed, illuminated by a weak sun filtering through a dirty pyramid-shaped skylight.

  On the top floor were two dented metal fire doors, both rigged with alarms. Afraid to set one off, she peered down the staircase, hoping to see Simon so he could tell her which door led to the roof, but there was no sign of him. She jiggled one of the doorknobs, which wouldn’t even turn. The other seemed stuck at first, but eventually creaked open into what looked like a boiler room. Steam hissed from a configuration of pipes on the ceiling in the cavernous, barely lit space. The only light was a dirty low-wattage bulb with a glow-in-the-dark traffic pull chain. Oddly shaped nooks, recessed into the wall, radiated in various directions. The floor began to vibrate beneath her as some sort of motor or HVAC turned on, the sound louder than the garbage trucks that rumbled beneath her window and kept her awake at five in the morning.

  She took a few steps inside, peering around the bend, hoping to locate the door to the roof. Something was moving in a corner. She stopped, just able to make out the shape of a large hunched man in a secluded alcove on the far side of the room. He was wearing blue coveralls and crouching down, working on something. She waited for him to finish before asking the way to the roof, but as her eyes began to adjust to the darkness, she saw that the object the man was bending over was actually a woman, lying facedown on a stained futon, her hands tied behind her back. Emily registered details: a torn white tank top, running shorts, blue backpack. She momentarily froze as panic pulsed through her body, then she began to walk backward slowly toward the door, careful not to bump into anything. A few more steps, she kept telling herself; she was almost back on the landing. Her hands trembled as she located her cell phone, warm in her palm. Two more steps. Breathe.

  She’d made it to the door when the man grabbed the woman by the back of her hair—short blond hair—and turned her over. The woman struggled, kicking and screaming. “Get off me, you fucking son-of-a-bitch asshole!”

  The instant Emily realized it was Max, something instinctual kicked in and she screamed louder than she thought she was capable, “STOP!”

  The man turned, his shaggy hair covering his eyes. When he spotted Emily, he rose mountainous and began moving toward her. Without hesitation and from a place within her so deeply primal that she didn’t have a name for it, she summoned all her resources and, using the sack of Mason jars like a medieval flail, swung it from the shoulder strap and brought it crashing down on the assailant’s head.

  There were footsteps and then a rush of activity. Time sped by like one of those flipbooks she used to read to Zach. Simon barreled up the stairs and straddled the attacker, pinning his arms behind him. Emily kneeled down to comfort Max who was just barely conscious, blood smeared across her face. Cathy and Beatrice arrived a few moments later, out of breath. Once Cathy realized what was transpiring, she accidentally spilled her spaghetti casserole down the
stairs. Beatrice, in prosecutor mode, called 911, then snapped photos with her cell phone, which she promptly sent to a friend at the DA’s office to cross-check with a police database.

  Before long the paramedics and police arrived and arrested the man. After taking Max’s vital signs, the EMTs lifted her onto a stretcher and, careful not to slip on spaghetti casserole, brought her to the hospital.

  Simon escorted the three shaken women downstairs. In the vestibule, they saw another man in handcuffs—the real drug dealer—the chain-smoking pothead who lived on the second floor. Max’s assailant was one of his clients and had gained entry through the unlocked service entrance. It turned out that Simon was, if not an actual brain surgeon, as close as it gets. He was a professor of neuroscience on sabbatical from the University of the West Indies in Kingston, Jamaica. He had recently decided to stay in New York, accepting an offer from Rutgers University.

  * * *

  Beatrice, Emily, and Cathy were in the waiting area at New York–Presbyterian, each on a different color fake Eames molded plastic Eiffel chair. They still hadn’t gotten any information about Max’s condition. Beatrice reassured Cathy for the third time that their friend was not going to die. Emotions were running high and Emily feared that if Cathy asked Beatrice even one more time, Cathy would be in the ER too.

  Emily turned just as a man wearing a leather bomber jacket stepped off the elevator.

  “I’m here to see Maxine Forsythe,” he said to the nurse at the intake desk. He removed his jacket and sat down across from the three women. Emily hid behind a magazine.

  Beatrice leaned close. “Who’s the Robert Downey Jr. look-alike?” Emily’s nonresponsiveness only seemed to fuel her suspicions.

  From behind a copy of People magazine, Beatrice added, “Oh, please let my instincts be wrong and don’t let that be Max’s Garrett.”

  He was staring at Emily. Once he’d finally placed her, he greeted her warmly. “Thank you for the flattering piece you wrote about me. I hope I can live up to it.”

  “I don’t think you’ll have a problem,” Emily replied.

  “I’m here visiting a friend,” he said. “You?”

  “So are we,” Beatrice interjected, assuming the role of spokesperson, watching his reactions like a hawk. “We’re here to see our friend Max.”

  Garrett looked slightly stunned, but recovered quickly. “I rushed over as soon as I heard what happened. She’s been through so much. I don’t want to cause her any more stress, you know what I mean?”

  “Perfectly,” Beatrice said.

  “Please tell her I was here.”

  After he hurried away, Beatrice explained the situation to Cathy, who hadn’t put the pieces together. “Poor Max,” she said.

  Emily remained silent. Her arms were wrapped around her like a straightjacket.

  “I wonder what she did to attract all this,” Cathy said.

  Beatrice peered over her glasses. “Did I hear you correctly? Are you blaming Max for some sicko in a stairwell who gets his jollies by attacking women?”

  “I’m not blaming her; I said she might have attracted it.”

  “Listen, kiddo,” Beatrice said, “let’s get one thing straight. I humored you by going along with your woowoo soul mate sorcery nonsense, but this goes beyond. You can’t blame the victim for being attacked.”

  “It’s energy,” Cathy said. “I’m not saying it’s anyone’s fault. You wouldn’t be with a married man if you were really available. Like attracts like. Max has to clean up her vibration or this might happen again.”

  Beatrice was fuming. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing! Clean up her vibration? I spent twenty-five years as a prosecuting attorney. I’ve seen children, some as young as five years old, testify in court that they were molested by their father. Are you saying they attracted that? How about the pregnant mother who was caught in the crossfire of a gang-related shooting? Did she attract that? Did her unborn child?”

  “Ho’oponopono,” Cathy said to herself.

  “What are you muttering?”

  “It’s an ancient Hawaiian forgiveness prayer. It means to put things right.”

  “Honopohooey!” Beatrice said. “I’m surrounded by dingbats.”

  “Please don’t yell at me, Beatrice,” Cathy said.

  “It’s the only way I can get your attention. Wake up,” She snapped her fingers in front of Cathy’s face. “You’re living in la-la land. I hate to break it to you, but this is the real world and you can’t control everything that happens by vibrating peace and love. Did that help your mother when she was diagnosed with cancer? Did it help her stop drinking?”

  Cathy put her head down; she had tears in her eyes. “I told you that in confidence,” she said quietly.

  Beatrice sighed loudly and moved to a blue chair on the other side of Emily. “Help me out here. She won’t listen to reason.”

  Emily tried to mediate: “Beatrice is right, sometimes bad things just happen.”

  “Finally, someone said something reasonable.” Beatrice had barely finished her sentence before Emily broke down and began sobbing.

  “I’m pregnant,” she said.

  “Pregnant?” Cathy whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s a fine mess,” Beatrice said. “I suppose the father is the guy you just broke up with?”

  Emily nodded.

  “Are you going to have it?” Beatrice asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “How far along are you?”

  “Eleven weeks.”

  “Time’s a-wasting,” Beatrice said, leaning back as though the case was now closed.

  Cathy sat next to Emily and held her hand. “Can’t you try to be a little more supportive, Beatrice?”

  “He’s married,” Emily said quietly.

  “Who is?” Beatrice asked. “The baby daddy?”

  “No, Max’s boyfriend.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Oh my god,” Cathy said, “how are you going to tell her?”

  Beatrice scoffed. “Tell her? Why? So she can clean up her vibration? The only thing she needs to clean is his clock.”

  “She has to tell Max,” Cathy said. “It’s the right thing to do.”

  “Tell me what?” Max asked, walking toward them on crutches, her head wrapped in a bandage.

  * * *

  When they left the hospital, none of the women were speaking to each other and it seemed unlikely that they ever would again. This was the first time all four women had been together since Normandy and it looked like it would also be their last. They once again seemed to be four strangers lost together in a maze.

  On the New Jersey Turnpike, Cathy suddenly felt too dizzy to drive and pulled onto the shoulder. Alan Rickman was silent. She doubted David Hasselhoff would have been any more helpful. She needed to clean this up on her own. Her hands were trembling as she dialed her father’s number.

  “Dad, it’s me. I’m sorry. Please forgive me . . .”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  GOODNIGHT MOON

  THE FOLLOWING WEEK, both of Emily’s 11/11/11 wishes came true: an editor at O, The Oprah Magazine who’d been following her blog wanted her to do a Valentine’s Day article, and Charles and Clarissa reconciled. Emily knew her wishes hadn’t been technically “soul mate” related, as Cathy had instructed, but they were as close as she could get. She should have been thrilled by the news, over the moon, but instead she felt empty. She was finally getting some traction on her career as a journalist and she would soon have her life back. She had been imagining this moment for months. But all she could think of was that she was pregnant and alone, and had no one with whom to share the news. As incomprehensible as it seemed even to her, the person she most wanted to tell was Duncan.

  She was only wearing a camisole and jeans and hadn’t even brushed her hair. She threw on her down coat and grabbed her purse. She knew she couldn’t take a moment to look at h
erself in the mirror, the equivalent of stepping on a scale before an ice-cream-sandwich binge.

  It was an intensely bright, cold day. The wind stung her cheeks as she walked up Broadway. But she felt invigorated, more purposeful and awake than she had in weeks.

  Duncan answered the door, wearing a pair of faded jeans and a T-shirt. He looked surprised and relieved when he saw her.

  “I came to return this,” she said, handing him the red raining-cats-and-dogs New Yorker umbrella.

  “Come here, you,” he responded, pulling her close. “And you,” he added, kissing her abdomen.

  Even as she was melting in his arms, a place she’d said she’d never allow herself to return to, Emily registered every change since she’d last been there. The new comforter on the bed. A bird’s nest with three blue eggs on the mantle. A steamer trunk by the window.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have come,” she said.

  “Yes, you should.”

  He led her to the bed, kissed her, then unclasped her bra. But Emily’s eyes were focused on a long blond hair glinting from the folds in the sheets. She had the urge to inspect it, wrap it around her index finger, examine its texture, the subtle variations in gold and yellow. Instead, she swept it to the floor. She was not going to act out of fear. False evidence appearing real, she repeated in her head, until she believed it.

  They didn’t make love. There wasn’t enough time; he had an appointment. Later. Tonight. I have plans for you.

  They kissed at the door and Emily floated down the stairs. Duncan watched her the way he had that first day they met at Barnes & Noble. “I’m putting the champagne on ice,” he called after her. “So proud of you.”

  In the courtyard, she looked up at Duncan’s window. She was hoping he’d be looking down. When she turned, she saw Lara walking out of the shadows of the cobbled archway. She was holding the hands of two little girls. One was Astrid. Suddenly, Emily felt queasy.