The Look of Love: A Novel

by Sarah Jio

  Elaine licks a splattering of sweet potato puree from her index finger and glances at the doorway, where a man and a young girl about Ella’s age stand.

  He is in his mid-to-late forties, balding slightly, and not especially tall. His eyes meet Elaine’s, and she drops the spatula in her hand.

  “Let me get that,” the man says, rushing to her side.

  When they both kneel down at the same time, their eyes meet again.

  “Sorry,” he says, handing her the spatula. “I’m Charles.”

  “Oh,” Elaine says. “Yes, the new neighbor. Welcome. Do you go by Chuck or Charlie or . . . ?”

  “Just Charles.”

  She grins. “Hello, Just Charles.”

  He shakes his head, a bit stunned. “That’s funny.”

  “What?” she asks.

  “It’s just that . . .” His voice trails off for a moment. “It’s just that, well, my late wife said the very same thing the day I met her.” His voice is nostalgic, a little sad.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Elaine says. “I hope I didn’t—”

  “We were married twelve years, before she passed away last year,” he continues.

  She doesn’t know what to say, so she doesn’t speak, and instead places her hand on his arm.

  “It’s OK,” he says. “I’m doing OK.”

  “I’ve been married twelve years too,” she says.

  Charles nods. “The last anniversary was hard. We’d always do something unexpected. One year I took her up in a hot air balloon. The year before she died, I hired a string quartet to serenade her at her office.”

  “How beautiful,” Elaine says. “The way you describe it, I can see the clouds and hear the notes.” She feels a pang of envy when she thinks of the way Matthew has typically handled special occasions over the years, most often with a box of chocolates and a Hallmark card.

  Charles grins, glancing at the bowl in front of Elaine. “My grandma used to make sweet potatoes,” he says. “Every Christmas.”

  “With marshmallows?” she asks.

  “It’s criminal not to have marshmallows,” he says, smiling.

  Matthew appears in the kitchen. “Good, the two of you are acquainted. Now we can open the wine. Laney, I told Charlie that he’s going to love this street. We’re all a bunch of highly productive winos.”

  Elaine and Charles open their mouths and say at the same time, “It’s just Charles.”

  Matthew pats Charles on the back. “Charles it is, then.” He grins at Elaine. “Has she been evangelizing about sweet potatoes again?”

  “Well, I—”

  Matthew grins. “I’m more of a mashed potato man,” he says. “But you know what they say—happy wife, happy life.” He pats Charles’s back again. “So what brings you to Seattle from Houston?”

  Charles grins. “Microsoft,” he says. “Like most other émigrés in Seattle, right?”

  “Ah, yes,” Matthew says. “Then you picked a great street. Your commute over the bridge will be a breeze from here.”

  He nods. “I was lucky to find this house. My real estate agent tells me there was quite a bidding war involved.”

  “We were lucky enough to be grandfathered in,” Matthew says proudly, tucking his arm around his wife’s waist. “Elaine’s grandparents owned this house.”

  Charles smiles. “It must be nice to live in a home with so many memories.”

  “Yes, I suppose,” Elaine says a little wistfully. “And Matthew’s right. You can’t beat this street.” She hands a spatula covered in sweet potato puree to Ella for a taste. “But I guess I have a bit of real estate wanderlust. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to live on a houseboat.” She thinks of her friend Lo’s charming floating home on Lake Union.

  Charles’s eyes brighten. “You know, that has always been my dream too. People say you can’t make it work with kids, but I disagree.”

  “Life jackets,” they both say at the same moment.

  A momentary uncomfortable silence falls on the kitchen, before Matthew speaks again.

  “Charles,” he says. “Let me show you the work we had done to the fireplace last fall. I think our homes are built in the same way. You could easily make some similar improvements.”

  The two men disappear to the living room, and Ella stands beside her mother in the kitchen and helps herself to a stray marshmallow on the counter. “I let Chloe play with my new American Girl doll,” she says.

  “That was sweet of you, honey,” Elaine replies.

  “They’re nice,” Ella continues. “I’m glad they moved here.”

  Elaine looks toward the doorway and takes a deep breath. “Me, too.”

  Chapter 3

  I open my eyes and am at once assaulted by the brightness streaming through my window. I’m on the couch, where I must have dozed off the night before, and Sam is sitting beside me, panting. I notice the half-empty wine bottle sitting on the coffee table beside me as I stretch, then walk to the window, where Seattle is awash in white. I smile when I notice three children happily building a snowman on the street corner below. A white Christmas.

  I walk to the kitchen and put a Nespresso capsule in the machine and watch as the shot pours into the little white espresso cup. As I take my first sip, I notice the pink envelope I received yesterday, with the strange message inside. I reach for my phone and pull up my brother’s number. It rings three times, and then I hear his cranky, tired, and likely hungover voice.

  “Hello?”

  “Flynn, that wasn’t funny.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asks. “And what time is it?”

  “Merry Christmas to you too,” I say, annoyed.

  “Oh right, and happy birthday.”

  “Is there a lady in your bed?” I ask.

  “No, of course there isn’t.” But I hear a woman’s voice in the background.

  “I can tell when you’re lying,” I say. “Anyway, I’m talking about the card you sent. Not funny. Did you really think I would go through with it? Did you think I’d go to that apartment so you could set me up with one of your friends?”

  “Janey,” Flynn says, yawning. “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

  I glance at the card again. “Really? You didn’t send it?”

  “No,” he says. “In all of my years as your brother, have I ever sent you a birthday card?”

  “No, you haven’t.”

  “OK, we’re settled on this, then.” He yawns again. “Want to come over later?”

  “Nah, I’m supposed to make an appearance at Elaine’s.”

  “Well, then if you’re going to deny your family on Christmas, and your birthday, at least come to my New Year’s party,” he says. “Promise?”

  “I said I’ll think about it,” I remind him with a grin.

  “OK,” he says. “Then tell me what this birthday card thing is all about.”

  I stare at the Main Street address. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” I say, but the truth is, the card stirred something in me, from the very moment I laid eyes on it.

  I stop at the flower shop and pick up one of the last peony-and-poinsettia arrangements before driving to Hamlin Street. The house, just off the Montlake Cut near the University of Washington, was owned by Elaine’s grandparents. When they passed, she bought it with Matthew, and together they remodeled it and made it their own. The home overlooks the gray water of Lake Washington, which is choppy and stormy today.

  I park, then gather my purse, the bottle of wine on the seat, the grocery bag with presents for Jack and Ellie, and the flower arrangement, then look out the window at the house. The old white Dutch colonial is dusted with a generous layer of snow. A snowman stands in the front lawn, and I imagine Matthew helping the children build it earlier, and I think of how lucky Elaine is to have such a life�
��idyllic, like an old Currier & Ives print.

  She greets me at the door with a hug that almost knocks me over. “You came! I’m so happy. I thought you were going to blow us off.”

  I grin, handing her the wine and flowers. “I have presents for Ellie and Jack too.”

  “Oh, honey, you didn’t have to, but they’ll love having gifts from you!”

  “Aunt Janey,” Ellie says with a squeal. She hugs my legs, and I am instantly glad I came. “We have new neighbors,” she says. “Come meet them!”

  I follow Elaine and Ellie through the house to the kitchen, where a man in a gray sweater stands at the stove stirring a pot of gravy. Elaine smiles. “Charles, this is one of my dearest friends, Jane.”

  Matthew smiles. “And she’s single.”

  Elaine elbows him. “Charles, you’ll have to forgive my husband. He’s always trying to set up our single friends.”

  I give Charles a knowing smile, which he immediately returns. “Pleased to meet you, Jane,” he says.

  Beside him is a little girl, and before he can introduce her, Ellie does. “And this is my new friend Chloe. She just moved to our street and we’re going to be friends.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I say, turning back to Charles. I watch as Elaine hovers over the pot he’s stirring, then dips a spoon into the mixture. “Needs more salt,” she says, and Charles is quick to offer the saltshaker he sees on the counter.

  My vision clouds then, and I rub my eyes. I scold myself for the extra glass of wine I had last night. Still, when Elaine uncorks the bottle I brought and pours me a glass, I take a long sip.

  “You OK, honey?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I say quickly. “My eyes are just bugging me; that’s all.”

  “It’s Jane’s birthday today,” Matthew says to Charles.

  “Happy birthday,” he says. “One of my best friends was born on Christmas. Special people, you are.” He’s speaking, but he’s not looking at me. His gaze is fixed on Elaine, and I see her eyes light up in a way I haven’t seen in years. She’s leaning against the counter and tugging at her white apron, which is splattered with a patina of culinary ingredients from countless dinners cooked over the years.

  Matthew tucks his arm around his wife’s waist and points to the brown paper bag on the island. “I had to go to three stores, but I finally got the flour you like.”

  “King Arthur,” Elaine says, lugging the flour out of the bag. “Matthew knows I won’t bake with anything else.”

  I think about the details of marriage. The thousands of tiny facts that make up a life with someone. The way two people can spend a lifetime becoming connoisseurs of the details. The brand of flour, or toothpaste, or large kitchen trash bags (drawstring or no?). Radio station preferences in cars. The precise spot on the sofa that makes one or the other happy. The minutiae, the fine print, of love. By all appearances, Elaine and Matthew have mastered it.

  Elaine looks at the kitchen wall clock. “If I can just get this cake batter made and in the oven, we should be able to eat at five.”

  I take a seat on a barstool beside Matthew. As Ellie and her new friend Chloe walk out to the living room, he watches his wife proudly. “Elaine’s making her grandmother’s famous olive oil cake,” he says to Charles and me.

  “I have to admit, it’s an acquired taste,” she says. “And I won’t be offended if no one wants to eat it. Grandma made it every year on Christmas, long before it became hip to bake with olive oil. She had it every year as a girl on Christmas morning. You know what the secret ingredient is?”

  I shake my head.

  “Citrus,” she says. “Of course, you can use whatever you have, but Grandma preferred blood oranges.”

  “I love blood oranges,” I say. “The color is so gorgeous.”

  Matthew smiles in Charles’s direction. “And what is your opinion on blood oranges, sir?” It’s painfully obvious that he’s trying to nudge us along in conversation. But if he’s aware of this, Charles doesn’t seem to let on. He looks up suddenly, at Elaine. “Was she from Sicily?”

  “Yes,” she replies, a little surprised.

  “My grandmother was too,” he says. “I’ve never met anyone, apart from my mother, who keeps that tradition.”

  Elaine is momentarily speechless, but I watch as she collects herself. “Well, good, then,” she says. “You can help me juice the oranges.”

  After dinner is served and the desserts are devoured, we say good night to Charles and Chloe, and Matthew and the children head to the basement to watch a movie. Elaine and I refill our wineglasses, and in the quiet of the living room, in front of the tree, we sink into the couch beside the fire.

  “Do you think it was a nice Christmas?” Elaine asks, watching the flames dance before us in the fireplace.

  “It was a beautiful Christmas,” I say. “You make it beautiful.”

  She shifts positions and takes another sip of wine before turning to me. “You’re lucky, you know.”

  “Me?” I let out a little laugh. “I’d hardly say that. You, on the other hand, are lucky.”

  Elaine shakes her head. “Jane, you have your whole life ahead of you, and you can make it anything you like.”

  I scrunch my nose. “Well, so do you. You’re only a year older than me, darling.”

  “No,” she says. “I’m not talking about age. I’m talking about the difference of being settled and set versus being open to new possibilities.”

  I nod and turn back to the fire. How strange to hear Elaine speak this way, when for so long I’ve looked at her life as the pinnacle of perfection, the destination on the road to happiness. The house. The husband. The kids. The life. She has it all.

  I place my hand on her arm. “What is it, honey?” I ask. “Tell me.”

  She’s quiet for a long moment, then wipes the hint of a tear from her eye and picks up a little white box from the coffee table and hands it to me. I lift the lid to find two shiny glass knobs, the old-fashioned kind that you’d find on an antique dresser. “Matthew gave me these for our anniversary,” she says.

  “Well,” I say, “they’re pretty.”

  “Knobs, Jane. Knobs.”

  I wonder if I am missing an important detail. “Is there something wrong with . . . knobs?”

  She shakes her head. “There’s nothing and everything wrong with them.”

  I nod with understanding. She doesn’t have to explain any more.

  Elaine wipes another tear from her eye. “Look at me getting all weepy,” she says, turning to me with a summoned smile. “I hate that I get this way on Christmas Day.”

  “Try having it be your birthday on top of it all,” I say, squeezing her arm again.

  “I’d be a wreck.”

  “But you’re not,” I reply.

  She nods vacantly and turns again to the fireplace. We sit together in silence, watching the logs crackle and hiss.

  Lo is standing behind the counter when I arrive at the flower shop the next morning. “Morning,” she says cheerfully. “I see you survived another birthday.”

  “I did,” I say, hanging my coat on the hook in the back room. I set my purse down under the counter. “How was your night?”

  “Oh, good,” Lo says. “Dom Pérignon with Lorne.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Lorne, huh? A new one?”

  “Yes, he’s an investment banker by day and a closet poet by night,” she says dreamily. “I think I like him.”

  I smirk playfully as I turn on the computer to review the orders that have come in online overnight. “You always like men on the first date.”

  “Of course I do,” she says. “They expire after the third date. I get bored after that.”

  “You’re like a man, you know?”

  She shrugs. “So what if I am? Women would do well to behave more like men.”

/>   Sometimes I admire Lo’s bold take on love. But I worry about her too, and I wonder if she’s too caught up in the game to ever be happy. I sigh and reach into the pocket of my jeans for a rubber band to pull my hair back into a ponytail, which is when I find the strange birthday card I received in the mail. I tucked it in my pocket this morning, intending to show it to Lo.

  “Hey,” I say, turning to her. “Will you do me a favor and read this? I have no idea who it’s from or whether it’s some kind of practical joke.”

  Lo takes the card and reads it over. “That’s like no other birthday card I’ve ever seen,” she says.

  “I know, right?”

  She nods. “And the handwriting looks familiar, for some reason.” She looks thoughtful. “It reminds me of a guy I dated last year. Tristan, yes. He had the most beautiful handwriting.”

  I roll my eyes. “So you’re saying this is from Tristan.”

  “No,” she says. “And besides, I’d never let you date him. He was a narcissist. You know how I knew?”

  I smile at her. “How?”

  “His grocery shopping lists,” she says assuredly.

  “Shopping lists, huh?”

  “Yep,” she says. “You can spot a narcissist a mile away by the amount of money they spend on paper products.”

  “Paper products?”

  “Yes—you know, paper towels, disposable napkins, boxes of tissues.”

  “Lo, you can’t be serious,” I say with a laugh. “That makes no sense.”

  “Believe me, it’s a thing. They’ve documented it in research studies. Seriously, the dude went through a roll of paper towels every single day.” She shakes her head at the memory. “And he’d write out those shopping lists in that gorgeous handwriting of his. Too bad he didn’t have a gorgeous heart to match. They never do.” She looks at the card again. “But, I don’t know, this might be worth checking out. I mean, maybe . . .”

  “Maybe what?”