The Look of Love: A Novel

by Sarah Jio

  I reach for the book in Lo’s hands. “After I, er, after I do my part, and write the names in the book, what do I do with the book?”

  “You will be its caretaker,” she says. “Until you notify the next woman of her gift.”

  “The next woman? But how will I know?”

  Colette smiles to herself. “There will be a child, and you will be drawn to her, on the day of her birth. You won’t have to wonder. You will simply know.” She nods. “Before sunset on your next birthday. The circle must be completed by then.”

  I reach for the doorknob but then turn around to face Colette once more. “Wait,” I say. “I’m a stranger to you. Why do you even care if I succeed or fail at this so-called gift? What does it matter to you?”

  She smiles to herself. “We are a sisterhood, dear. In a world where all are blind, we see.” She places her hand on my arm. “You mustn’t fail.”

  Chapter 4

  How can we help you?” Lo says to an attractive man as he walks through the door of the flower shop. Lo handles our male customers with such skill that by the time they’re ready to make a purchase they are either head over heels and asking for her phone number or charmed into submission and eager to buy any item she recommends.

  “I have a problem,” the man says. He’s wearing a fedora and a well-tailored pinstripe suit.

  Lo grins. “Nothing that a flower arrangement can’t fix.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping,” he says, cocking his head to the right, somewhat playfully, at Lo. “Here’s the thing. I messed up. I broke a woman’s heart, and I, well, I want to mend it.”

  “Mend her heart, eh?” I hear the sarcasm in her voice. She doesn’t like this man. Not one bit. “And, may I ask, how bad was the, er, heartbreak?”

  “Bad,” he says. “Listen, I’m not proud of it, but I cheated on her.”

  At my place behind the counter, I bite my lip. It never ceases to amaze me how men regard florists as therapists. One whiff of a rose and they spill their guts.

  “I see,” Lo says, taking guarded steps toward our front-end case, where we keep the type of arrangements a certain subset of the population likes: vanilla combinations of roses and baby’s breath, with the occasional carnation thrown in for good measure. No matter how inventive, creative, and imaginative you can get with floral design, some people just want boring. “And you’re looking for flowers that say, ‘I love you. I’m sorry. Take me back.’”

  “Yes,” the man says, looking at Lo as if she has psychic abilities. “Exactly.”

  “Right, then,” she says, opening one of the refrigerator doors. “Then I’m going to suggest pink roses, with a generous helping of baby’s breath.” I cringe as I watch her reach for the vase.

  “This is perfect,” the man says.

  “Good,” Lo replies with a sly smile.

  As she swipes his credit card, another customer enters, the man in his forties from the other day. “Want me to help?” I say to Lo, who looks up and catches his eye.

  “No,” she says, looking ahead intently. “You have all that paperwork to do, and you have a hair appointment this morning, right?”

  I nod.

  “I’ll take him,” she says as Mr. Cheater walks out the door.

  I can see the way her hips sway as she approaches him. Lo is a pro at the game of love, and I love to watch her do her thing, even if I sometimes disapprove of her tactics.

  “Well, hello again,” she says, smiling and tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear.

  He scratches his head, accentuating his gold wedding band. No, Lo, no.

  “I need something simple,” he says. “Peonies, maybe. With freesia?”

  Men aren’t typically familiar with peonies, so I know Lo is impressed. “Oh, what’s the occasion?” she asks, obviously prying.

  He rubs his forehead. “It’s, well, it’s for someone special.”

  “A lady in your life?” she says, walking to the back counter.

  “Yes,” he replies.

  “Your wife?”

  He hesitates, then shakes his head. “We’re going through a rough patch. But no, these are for my mother. Tomorrow would have been her wedding anniversary, but my father passed away last year.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lo says, “and about your wife too.” But on the latter point there is no true concern in her voice, only curiosity. “Are you separated?”

  “Well, we’re headed that way,” he says, shaking his head. “I mean, can I be honest with you?”

  She nods with rapt attention.

  “I’m trying to go through the motions of someone trying to save their marriage, but”—he rubs his forehead—“I just don’t know that my heart’s in it.” He sighs. “That probably sounds awful.”

  Lo places her hand on his forearm. “Or honest.”

  He grins. “Well, thanks. I guess that’s all we have, our truth, right?”

  She nods. “That’s what I always say. You’ve got to own it.”

  He grins.

  “And so you find yourself in a flower shop,” she continues.

  He looks around. “Yes, here I am. Again.” He smiles. “I’m Grant.”

  “I’m Lo,” she says, extending her hand.

  My vision clouds just then, and I rub my eyes as I always do, but this time, I feel a thousand goose bumps on my arms, because I know.

  Lo creates a classy arrangement—peonies, hyacinths, and greenery in a square vase—then she sets it on the counter. They admire it together. “You know,” she says boldly, “life’s too short not to be happy.”

  “I know,” he says. “I know this all too well right now.”

  She smirks. “Then what are you going to do?”

  I shoot her a look. Lo can be unfiltered, but I don’t always love it when she’s so direct with our customers.

  “You’re right,” he says, staring at the enormous arrangement on the table at the center of the shop. The ceramic vase, as large in diameter as a decent-size cherry tree, is peppered with white and pink roses, sprigs of stock, and freesia, calla lilies, and shoots of bells of Ireland for dramatic flair. Following in my grandmother’s floral tradition, we create something new, and enormous, every few days. Sometimes someone buys it, sometimes not. But it made Grandma happy to walk into the shop and see such grandeur, and it makes me happy.

  Grant’s eyes light up momentarily. “Is that for sale, by chance?” he asks, pointing to the large arrangement.

  “It is,” Lo says, confused. “If you’d rather buy that one for—”

  “I’ll take it,” he says, walking to the center table and lifting up the vase, which partially obscures his face. “Both of them.”

  “You have excellent taste,” she says, grinning as she takes his credit card.

  “Have dinner with me,” he says suddenly. “Monday night.”

  She looks at me, then back at Grant. “Yes,” she says decidedly. “Yes, I’ll have dinner with you.”

  “Good,” he says, grinning. “I’ll swing by here at six and get you?”

  “Come and get me, yes,” she says flirtatiously.

  He walks to the door, then turns back with a smile. “See you soon, then.”

  Lo eyes the enormous arrangement on the counter, which he seems to have forgotten. “Wait,” she says. “You forgot this one.”

  He turns to face her a final time, grinning. “Those are for you.”

  Once the door is closed, I turn to Lo. “What just happened?”

  Her smile is infectious, and the corners of my mouth lift as I watch her staring at the flowers in front of her. “An amazing man asked me out, is what happened,” she says, looking up at me.

  “Honey, he’s married. Don’t go there.”

  “But you heard him,” she continues. “He’s separated, or almost separated. But, anyway, he’s done
.”

  “But you don’t really know that, Lo. And he’s too old for you. Remember, you said you’d never date men in their midforties.”

  She looks lost in thought for a moment. Then her eyes flash. “Did you see it?”

  “What are you talking about?” I say, though I know exactly what she’s talking about. I know what I saw.

  “Did you see any signs of love? Did your vision change? Jane, tell me.”

  “No,” I lie. I feel a guilty pang, and yet, I’m overcome with doubt. What if Colette was wrong?

  “Oh,” Lo says. I can hear the disappointment in her voice. Does she feel a spark with this man, something that sets him apart from the others? Does she want me to confirm it? “Well,” she says, quick to recover, “who’s to say that love can’t grow?” She sighs and tugs at her sweater dress. “I’m going to have dinner with him. And what will be, will be.”

  Mary owns a hair salon two blocks from the market. Initially, it was a hole-in-the-wall space, just large enough for a few chairs, a sink, and a small reception desk. She fell in love with its rustic hardwood floors and one exposed brick wall when she found it ten years ago, and as a result, she stayed. She was able to open a wall and take over the neighboring space two years ago, which provided room for two other stylists, but the salon retained its cozy feel.

  When I walk in, Mary is at the reception desk speaking to one of the stylists. Mary is a year younger than I am, and gorgeous, with auburn hair and olive skin. She’s married to Eli, a musician. And it’s a certifiable fact that they are one of the most beautiful couples in Seattle.

  She waves and points to the empty chair, the one I’ve sat in year after year and laughed, or cried on days when I miss my mom. I sink into the familiar seat and sigh.

  Men may spill their guts to florists, but stylists have that effect on me. For a decade, Mary has been listening to my secrets as she cuts my hair, but I hesitate to share what Colette has told me. I think about how I can ask her advice without worrying her with the details of the burden I now carry.

  “Hi, honey,” she says, running her fingers through my long blond hair, which is in dire need of a foil, and, well, perhaps a whole new style.

  “Hi,” I say in an exhausted tone.

  “Oh,” Mary says. “You don’t sound so good.” A true friend can understand your complete emotional state from a single word.

  “I was feeling sentimental and decided to look through my mom’s keepsakes,” I say. “You know what a hopeless romantic she was, in spite of the way my father broke her heart. There was an old book with a holiday fable, the story of a woman with a rare gift: the ability to see whether people were in love or not.”

  “Oh, what a perfect tale for this time of year,” Mary says.

  “So her dilemma got me thinking, what if someone like you or me had to make the decisions she did? If a person has revelations about the love in the lives of people she cares about, should she tell them? Or is that, well, meddlesome, somehow?”

  Mary nods. “As in, if she sees that a husband loves his wife, but the wife loves someone else, or vice versa?”

  “Exactly,” I say. “It’s delicate, isn’t it?”

  “Very,” she replies. “If someone told me that Eli wasn’t in love with me, well, I don’t think I’d want to know. It would ruin me.”

  “Here’s the strange part,” I tell her as she guides my head back into the bowl and begins shampooing my hair. “The end of the book is blank, almost as if I’m meant to fill it in, even though I’ve never been in love myself.”

  “Well,” Mary continues, reaching for the conditioner, “I imagine she could help people come to their own conclusions, make educated decisions without telling them outright, you know?”

  My eyes narrow as she rinses my hair. “Sort of nudge them in the right direction? Like a gentle matchmaker?”

  “Yeah, that,” she says, “and also, well, just help them along their path. Play cupid a little.”

  “I can’t stop thinking about this story,” I say. “She has no sense of love in her own life. In that way, she’s blind.”

  Mary raises her eyebrows as she blots my hair with a towel before running a comb through the ends. “Blind? I get that, I guess. I’ve felt a little lost lately, with Eli on the road so much. Anyway, I’m doing what a lost one does: remodeling the kitchen.” She shrugs. “Eli surprised me at Christmas with the plans. We’ll finally get rid of those circa-1982 cabinets.”

  I sit down in a chair in front of the mirror, and she reaches for her scissors. “That’s great,” I say, remembering an observation about home remodeling being a way to mask, or dull, the inevitability of a broken relationship. As if custom cabinets and fresh paint can fill the gaps of love gone wrong. But I don’t say that to Mary. I just smile. “I bet it’ll look beautiful.”

  She nods a bit vacantly. “He’s been gone so much this past year,” she says. “Honestly, I’d rather have him home than have a new kitchen.”

  “I’m sure,” I say. “But he’s on a tear with his music, isn’t he? You must be so proud of him.” When they married, Eli was an unemployed songwriter, but five years ago, he got a big break when one of his songs was picked up by a Hollywood producer and put into a movie that ended up winning an Academy Award. It injected life into his career, and last year, he signed with a major record label.

  “I am,” she replies, then bites the edge of her lip. “I mean, I sound like a jealous wife or something. It’s not that I’m not happy for him; it’s just that, well, it’s really hard to be married to a musician. Especially a touring musician. A touring, incredibly hot musician.”

  Eli is hot, yes. In Lo terms, he’s “sizzling.” The type of guy who can walk into a bar and attract the eyes of every woman in the room, even the married ones. Eli is highly aware that he possesses this ability, and for Mary’s sake, that has always given me pause.

  “I can only imagine,” I say. “But you wouldn’t have it any other way, would you?”

  She sighs. “No, I wouldn’t. He’s the love of my life.” She reaches for the hair dryer and round brush. “But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to wondering about his life on the road, wondering about all the amazing women he meets. They throw themselves at him, Jane. I’ve actually witnessed it.”

  “You are an amazing woman, honey,” I say, locking eyes with her in the mirror in front of me. “He’s married to the very best one. You have nothing to worry about.”

  She shrugs. “We’ve been talking about starting a family.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful,” I say. “You’d be a great mom, Mary.”

  “We’ll see,” she says. “We’ve been trying for about six months now. No luck yet. I mean, his infrequent trips home don’t really help matters.”

  “Well, if it’s meant to happen, it will happen.”

  Mary nods. “Yes, you’re right. Eli gets home soon.” She finishes blow-drying my hair, then turns me around to face the mirror. “There.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “Perfect, as usual.”

  “Big plans for New Year’s Eve?”

  I shake my head. “My brother’s throwing one of his usual parties, and he’s hell-bent on getting me to go.”

  “Oh, how is Flynn doing?”

  A long time ago Flynn had a crush on Mary, but knowing his track record with women, I did not encourage it. “He’s all right,” I say. “Roaming from one woman to the next, you know.” I grin. “Nothing new.”

  Mary spritzes my hair with hair spray that smells like citrus. “Well, I think you should go to his party. You never know who you might meet.”

  I roll my eyes. “No, I know exactly the type of guy I’ll meet, and he’ll be an artist, probably have a sleeve of tattoos and wear skinny pants, and possibly suspenders.”

  Mary grins. “You’re too picky, Jane. Those guys can be great too.”

 
Just then, the salon door opens and an older woman walks in. I immediately recognize her as the British woman who recently passed Mel’s newsstand at the market. She is so polished and proud, and yet her presence has a lonely tenor to it. When her eyes meet mine, I smile, but she quickly looks away.

  “What’s her story?” I ask Mary in a whisper.

  “Oh, Vivian,” she says in a hushed tone that matches mine. “She comes in every Thursday for a wash and blowout. She doesn’t say much. For a long time, I thought she was an ice queen, but . . .” Mary stops and shakes her head. “Do you know what happened to her husband?”

  “Her husband?”

  “Yeah, she was married. I had to use some serious detective skills to connect the dots. One day she paid with a check, and I noted her last name. A quick Google search turned up quite a story. Jane, she’s the widow of Alastair Sinclair.”

  I shake my head. “The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “It didn’t for me at first either, but I did some more searching. He was a big deal. Knighted by the Queen for his humanitarian work in Africa. From what I can tell, she was fairly involved too.” Mary shakes her head. “He died in a helicopter accident ten years ago in Africa. With his mistress beside him.”

  I gasp. “Oh, no.” I look over at Vivian sitting at the far end of the salon, staring down at her manicured hands, face pinched into a frown. “No wonder she’s bitter.”

  Mary nods. “I suppose she has the right to be. To lose the love of her life and find out that his heart belonged to another in the same moment.”

  I think of Mel, the antithesis of Vivian’s larger-than-life late husband. Could he thaw the ice around her heart?

  After lunch, I drive downtown for my monthly appointment with my neurologist, Dr. Amy Heller. She’s been following my condition since childhood, and after Mom died, she became my mentor and mother figure, although she couldn’t be any more different from Mom. Where Mom was a romantic who’d sometimes put on her favorite Billy Joel song, “And So It Goes,” and listen to it over and over as she cried, practical Dr. Heller regards life with fact, not feeling. Nothing stands in her way, and as successful as she is, I’ve often wondered if she’s happy.