I was a little irritated they took it as a sign the book was working that I had wound up on a date with someone so self-absorbed and callous. A case of mishandling the product, placing all the blame on me, the product user. Couldn't they see this was clearly a case of 'buyer beware'?
“What I need is to handle this myself,” I said, but they weren’t paying any attention. Stephanie had dug a copy of the book from Kristen's bag.
"You have a copy, too?" I asked.
"I got an extra one for free," Kristen answered. Steph was leafing through the book again, pointing to a section towards the middle.
“What about Catherine from Wuthering Heights?" she asked. "She and Heathcliff had a deep connection going on. They were both passionate types of course—”
“Which Jodi’s definitely not,” Kristen chimed in. As if I weren’t sitting right there with them, listening to this evaluation of my personality.
I raised a hand, getting their attention. “Wasn’t Heathcliff psychotic?" I asked. "I mean, Catherine pretty much died of a broken heart, right? That doesn’t sound very romantic to me.”
They looked at each other. With a sigh, Kristen, the self-proclaimed bookworm, took the task of explaining it to me.
“This is about forming a deep bond with someone," she said. "Sharing the same kind of passions and ideas. Catherine and Heathcliff were friends before they were lovers. And Heathcliff was really devoted to her. It was a misunderstanding that drove them apart and made him act all weird and controlling.”
Stephanie gave me a pleading look. “It's about taking a leap, Jodi. You can’t expect to find a romantic guy if you’re thinking like a spinster. You need to channel the impulsive side of you that's been buried beneath that hotel uniform."
"Just don't make Catherine's mistake of rejecting love because of some tempestuous disagreement," said Kristen. "Which I'm pretty sure the sensible side of you would prevent, anyway."
"You’ll have to make some changes, of course," Stephanie said. "Maybe brush up on your poetry, learn a little more about art—”
“Creative stuff. Good thinking,” Kristen said, nodding enthusiastically. “Maybe she could take up doing water colors or something. And visit a couple art galleries at least…"
My last experience with painting was finger paints in kindergarten, I wanted to point out; and even when I was an enthusiastic English student, I had never really loved poetry. Not counting my one performance in the school play, my life as a passionate artist was pretty much reduced to my enjoyment of decorating cupcakes with shiny sprinkles.
But I’m pretty sure they forgot I was even there, so caught up in their plans to find my next great romantic match.
~5~
Your Inner Catherine Earnshaw is:
a) wild and passionate
b) deeply introspective and sensitive
c) stubborn, with a yearning for the unconventional
You can bet my friends remembered to include me in their plan later on, pushing me to sign up for a pottery class taught semi-weekly at the museum. And Monique had jumped on the Wuthering Heights bandwagon right away, inviting me to go with her to an art house movie that same week.
From what I could tell, the movie was about a little girl on the trail of an exotic, brightly-colored bird. She chased it through fields and rolling hills, where she came across various strangers. An old man with a hunchback, a girl with no shoes, a boy writing poetry in the dirt. The girl had cryptic conversations with each of these people, before running off in search of the bird again. She had just met a man with a guitar when I drifted off to sleep, dreaming I was helping a hotel guest hunt for lost earrings in a vast room at the Regent. Levi was helping me, lifting up the bed skirts, and wheeling aside pieces of heavy furniture for me with his parcel dolly. Only now I was wearing a ball gown, and he was in a tuxedo —
I woke to Monique elbowing me in the side, a look of disapproval on her face as the credits rolled across the screen.
“What happened?” I asked, groggily, as the other moviegoers filed up the aisle to the exit. “Did she find the bird again?”
“Finding the bird wasn’t the point,” Monique answered.
“It wasn’t?” I sat up, stretching. “What was it then?” I had pretty much expected the bird to be the symbol that brought the rest of the film together.
“The journey was the point,” Monique said, patiently. “She didn’t need to find the bird because she found a greater meaning instead. See?”
“Ah,” I said, pretending to ponder the truth of this. Instead, I was contemplating whether pizza or Chinese food sounded better for dinner. Don’t get me wrong—the movie was a nice enough production, visually speaking. The actors were talented, even if their dialogue was probably dubbed. It just wasn’t my cup of tea. I liked suspense movies and thrillers, romantic comedies with a strong subplot, and period dramas. This kind of symbolism and philosophical banter was over my head, truthfully, like reading Gore Vidal's work.
My failure to grasp avant-garde film wasn’t enough to discourage my friends, though. Stephanie headed experiment number two, loaning me her thick, leather-bound volume of Lord Bryon’s poetry, a graduation gift from a relative who clearly had never heard of giving gift cards.
“Now, I want you read this in a quiet, relaxing place,” she told me. “Somewhere you can really open yourself to the emotion of the words. Maybe burn a couple of scented candles for ambiance.”
“More reading?” I said. “Gee, Stephanie, who knew you could learn so much about romance from fiction? Librarians must be the most romantic people on earth by your theory.”
“Jodi—” She gave me an exasperated look. "Just try to be more open-minded, okay?"
“Fine, I’ll give it a try.” This was starting to feel like home work assignments, though—and for a class I didn’t sign up for, nonetheless. But the poetry was actually kind of relaxing. A little morose, but I cheered myself up by reading it in ‘happy’ surroundings, like the rose garden attached to the Regent’s patio area during my break period.
Unfortunately, I got distracted by customers who recognized me and wanted to chat. Ms. Dabree told me about the latest ballet she had seen, and Mrs. Holt, another frequent guest, showed me pictures of her grandchild who was studying abroad. I lost track of the poetry volume and didn’t even know it until Natalia slid it on to the reception desk, saying, “Someone left this on one of the garden benches out back, Jodi.”
“Oh, that was me,” I said, hurriedly claiming the book. But not fast enough to keep Levi from glimpsing the title as he waited for me to sign for the latest round of delivery packages.
“Lord Byron,” he said, looking impressed. “That’s some pretty heavy reading.”
It was the most personal comment he had made in a while, so I seized the opening. “It’s different from my usual choice, but it’s not bad," I answered. "I guess I never gave poetry a try before really. Back in high school and college, it was mostly Dickens and Trollope for me. And, you know, the romantic classics.”
I could only imagine his reaction if I told him why I was delving into it now, to channel my passionate side in order to attract a possible romantic match. Then again, maybe I didn’t want to imagine that.
“You know, I think I had to read Byron for a class once,” he said, heaving another box onto the desk. “I was more of a Robert Frost kind of guy, though. Maybe because of the nature theme.”
“Well, this volume is on loan from a friend,” I said. “She thinks I need more art appreciation in my life. Apparently I don’t nurture my creative instincts enough.” It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was close as I could come.
Levi gave me a sympathetic nod. “That would be the same friend who shamed you over Titanic?” he asked.
“One of them,” I said. “I guess they might have a point, though. I book museum tours for people every day, but I haven’t been inside an art gallery in forever. And I’ve never been a creative type of person, really. No painting or writing p
oetry or anything like that. Well, except for maybe a finger painting of a pink cat. My mom really loved it.”
I glanced up with these words, catching a glimpse of Levi's amused smile before he bent down to lift another package onto my desk. It made me feel better, given how much quieter he had been this past week.
"I tried a painting class in high school," he said. "It didn't work for me. My creativity had to find another way out. And I never achieved anything as recognizable as a cat, so you must have real talent by comparison."
I hid my smile, even though my friends' words on this subject were still playing through my head. Was there an artist trapped inside me somewhere? Or a poet? I didn’t think so, but I hadn’t really ever tried it, if I was being honest.
“Not everybody likes the same things,” Levi continued. “Or has the same kind of talent. It would be a pretty boring world if they did.”
“I guess so. I just feel I'm lacking in imagination sometimes. Maybe that's why I'm giving this a try now. Being open-minded.” I was thinking of how I couldn’t relate to the classic stories my friends were so fond of. Or how I could read Byron and find my thoughts drifting to my duties at the hotel. Shouldn’t I be ready to lose myself in the verses? Picture myself having the same kind of feelings that were inspired by love?
Levi chuckled. “No one could do your job and lack imagination,” he told me. “All the stuff you have to do—like booking helicopters and hot air balloons for special occasions, or suggesting the perfect restaurant for someone who's proposing. That takes as much creative thinking as spending your day in a museum looking at artwork. Or reading poetry, for that matter.”
“Thanks,” I told him. I was touched by his description; it was as if he understood my job in a way that nobody else I knew really did. “No one ever really sees my job as accomplishing anything special. It just seems like busy work to them, or else, grueling labor. They don’t see how anyone could sometimes be passionate about my work.”
“They’ve never seen you in action, then," he responded. "Your face completely gives it away when you're in the middle of helping a guest with a problem.”
I lifted my eyes to his, my heart skipping a beat. Wondering what expression was on my face, the pen frozen in my hand, my signature partway signed across the form for Ms. Dabree’s latest parcel. Levi stared back at me before he caught himself and averted his gaze, all business after that as he unloaded the rest of the boxes.
My hand brushed against his as I handed back the signed forms; a little flicker of emotion crossed Levi's face, I thought, making me feel confused and self-conscious. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by a smile that seemed sad as he took a step back from me. Raising the papers in a farewell motion, he told me, “See you later, Jodi.”
“Later,” I echoed. My smile was a mixed-up version of my usual one, part uncertainty and part pretend. Maybe it was the poetry doing it, I decided. Making me feel melancholy and unhappy because I didn't have a scorching passion like Byron's in my life. Or maybe it was just a touch of indigestion from something I ate. Either one might be to blame given everything that was going on in my life right now.
_________________________
The coffee nook at Book Bound was crowded with afternoon shoppers. I purchased my usual latte, then scanned the room for Kristen and Monique. They were sitting on one of the plush sofas, Kristen’s blond ponytail bobbing enthusiastically as she talked. Monique caught sight of me over her shoulder, raising a hand to wave me over.
“Where’ve you been?” she demanded, the moment I sat down next to them. “We texted you over twenty minutes ago. Kristen’s shift is about to start.” Kristen was working today, her employee name tag for the book store discreetly tucked beneath her sweater as she sipped her coffee. I gave her an apologetic smile.
“Sorry I’m late. I had to finagle some last-minute theatre tickets for a guest whose family is flying in from England for a reunion. It took a few tries, but I finally got them orchestra seats, so it was worth it.”
“Figures,” Monique said. “You shortchange your social life for your job—what else is new?”
Kristen had a different attitude, though. “Never mind,” she told me. “It gave us a chance to go over who your new prospect should be now that you’ve started exploring your creative side.”
“I have?” I echoed. "I mean, sort of, but I don't think reading a couple of poems counts." This announcement was news to me, since one art house movie and a half-hearted attempt at reading poetry didn’t seem like the transformation my friends were hoping for. They were more optimistic about it than I would have thought.
“Luckily, I have good insight for these kinds of things,” Kristen continued. “This guy is exactly what you need after that Rochester type last week.”
“Wait—who?” I set my latte on the coffee table, nearly spilling some of its contents. “Is this some kind of setup?" I demanded. "Because if you two lured me here to meet a guy—”
“It’s not a setup,” Monique assured me. “Think of it as an opportunity.” She ignored my eye roll. “It’s a chance for you to branch out and meet someone different. Someone who’s more in tune with their feelings.”
“And he’s totally hot,” Kristen informed me, grinning. “I’m telling you, if I wasn’t with Josh I’d be giving this guy a second look. He’s that handsome.”
"Remember your creative past, Jodi," said Monique. "When you took up knitting? When you repainted those kitchen chairs with funky colors? When you played Queen Elizabeth in the school play and helped make that gorgeous costume out of sequins and old curtains?"
"All right, all right," I said, shaking my head in exasperation. Their persistence was wearing me down. I sighed. “Fine. Where is this supposed soul mate you’ve found?”
“Straight ahead, four chairs down,” Monique instructed. “Sitting by the window, wearing a denim jacket and reading a coffee table book on art.”
My glance followed these directions to a brawny-looking figure sitting alone. His long legs were encased in a pair of paint spattered jeans, his denim jacket open to reveal a plain black t-shirt beneath. Longish chestnut hair fell across his face as he read from the book propped in front of him. He caught me watching him, a subtle smile appearing in response.
A Greek statue employed in auto detail. That's the impression I got at first glance. Way too muscular and beautiful for my taste in men — and there was something about his style of dress that suggested he knew it, although I couldn't put my finger on what it was.
“No,” I told them. “Just no.”
“Why not?” Kristen asked. “He’s good-looking. He’s interested in art, so you know he’s got a creative side. And he’s got that whole mysterious, deep-thinker attitude going on. Like Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights.”
“Again,” I told them, “didn’t Heathcliff’s girlfriend die of a broken heart? Anyone remember that besides me?”
Monique rolled her eyes. “It’s just an example, relax. Heathcliff is strong but sensitive; macho but with a vulnerable side in need of tender affection. He’s a classic Byronic hero.”
“Bionic?” I pretended to misunderstand, poking fun at her serious terminology. “Like the Bionic Man? From the old television show?”
“It’s Bionic Woman, Jodi. And I said ‘Byronic’—like the poet, Lord Byron.”
“Oh, right. Sorry. I thought you were commenting on his body of steel. Do you think he lifts giant coffee table books for weights or just regular gym equipment?”
They weren’t amused by this attempt to lighten the mood, so I decided to take a more direct approach. “Okay, so he’s probably not such a bad guy. But don’t you think a guy like that already has someone? Or several someone’s, even?”
“He doesn’t,” Kristen assured me.
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Because I asked him.”
I blanched at the words. “Please, please tell me you haven’t started asking strange men if they’re wil
ling to date me. Because I will seriously have to reconsider our friendship if that’s happening.” I buried my face in my hands.
“Relax, he doesn’t know why I asked. We just chatted a little, and I happened to mention I had a friend interested in art who was coming by today. He was looking for a book—”
“An art book,” Monique added, significantly.
“Right,” said Kristen. “A very expensive coffee table volume on art. I asked if it was a present for his girlfriend, and he said he doesn’t have one at the moment. So he’s available, Jodi.” She said this as if I had just struck the jackpot, squeezing my arm excitedly. “You can’t deny he’s got the wow factor. Just look at him. I mean, really, really look at him.”
"He hinted that he would really love to meet a serious girl," said Monique. "You know, someone with the soul of an artist. And maybe ... maybe Kristen suggested that you would be a nice fit."
"In a roundabout way, I'm sure." I groaned as I lifted my face from my hands with these words.
I gave him a thorough look, as my friends had ordered. He wasn’t my type exactly. His muscles were big—a little too big, bulging underneath his jacket sleeves. His hair was long and a little too messy for my taste. His eyes were arctic blue. They gazed into mine, his smile reappearing as he caught me studying him for a third time.
Why was he looking at me? Was it because I was staring at him — thanks to my friends' pointing him out like a piece of artwork in this place?
I quickly looked away, but it was too late. My friends had already spotted this connection, taking it as a sign their plan was working. Getting to her feet, Kristen said, “Well, it’s time for my shift. I’m supervising the new employees today. And Monique—you have a thing with Justin, right?”
“Justin.” She smiled, getting the hint. “Yes I do. I better get going.” Monique’s fiancé was the perfect last-minute excuse for her to ditch me here with Heathcliff guy, who had now exchanged glances with me more than once. As if a guy like that would actually want to date me, I thought, reassuringly. Yeah, right. And the Mayan calendar says the world is going to end in 2019.
Boyfriend by the Book: A feel good romantic comedy Page 5
