Page 79 of The Spirit of Love
I tell myself I don’t need his approval. Until three weeks ago in Rich’s office, I didn’t even know he existed!
Then why did I still want him there, meeting my eyes, giving me his serious, closed-mouth smile, half hidden in his beard? Why have I come to rely so much on that smile?
If Jude had been there at the end of our shoot today, I would have mouthedI’m sorryfrom the across the set. And he would have done that thing where he tips his head to the left and kind of grimaces, and he would have mouthedMe, too. Or we would have written it down on a coaster, or stared it out under the stars. There are many ways our rift might have been patched, but all of them required him sticking around today. Which he didn’t. And now, I fear the chasm between us will widen all weekend long. I fear that, with every passing minute for the next three days, I’m going to get both angrier at Jude and less confident in myself.
Why is he under my skin this much?
The beer slips from my hand.What the hell are Jude and Walter Matthau doing crossing the wishing bridge overmycanal?
As I stare at the apparitions, my canoe veers into the sandbar on the right bank of the canal and I plough into one of my neighbor’s boats, making a fairly loud metallic crashing din. My beer has spilled all over my Birkenstocks. Jude stops, and I crouch in the canoe so he can’t see me, but I strain my neck to look at him.
He’s hasn’t changed out of the suit he was wearing this morning, and he’s carrying a large white paper bag. I watch as he takes out his phone, as if double-checking something, and then looks up at the gold numbers of my address nailed to my front door. He strokes his beard. Walter Matthau sits. Jude’s shoulders rise and fall. Then he turns around and the two of them start walking back the way they came.
Over the bridge.
Right above me.
I drop my head a moment too late. Our eyes lock for half a second, and I see Jude freeze in the middle of the bridge.
“Fenny?”
“Shit,” I mutter, snatching my beer can from the belly of the canoe and pretending to sip it, pretending I’m not wearing its contents. “Changed your mind?” I ask, pointing in the direction of my front door.
“You saw that?” He sighs. “That’s embarrassing.”
I lift a shoulder and gesture at the state of my canoe. “Not as bad as running into your neighbor’s swan-shaped paddleboat at the sight of the last person you were expecting to see tonight.”
Concern takes over Jude’s expression. “Really? I made you crash? Let me help!”
He bounds over the ramp of the bridge and hurries across the path leading down to the water. At the sight of me, Walter Matthau barks excitedly, pawing the mud on the riverbank. When Jude gets closer, I make out the lettering on the paper bag in his hands.
Monsieur Marcel, my favorite French grocery store in the Original Farmers Market.
“What’s all that?” I ask.
“This is…” He glances down, at the bag, and at his dog, pausing before he answers. “Six types of tinned fish. Two baguettes. And one apologetic homme.”
I cover my laugh with my hand.
Jude cringes. “Awful, I know. I wrote those lines while I wasworking up the nerve to ring your doorbell. You can see now why I gave up and had to turn around.”
“It’s the delivery that needs work,” I tease. “But let’s just go with it. Maybe it will lead somewhere interesting. Take it from the top,” I coach, gesturing for him to retry.
“You mean the—”
“Say the line again, like you’ve perfected it. Like you’ve workshopped it with Scorsese and made him cry. Say it like it’s undeniable.”
Jude nods. He takes a moment and then holds the shopping bag above his head like John Cusack inSay Anything.
“Are you going to cue me in?”
“Hey, Jude. What’s all that?” I repeat.
When Jude speaks again, his voice is alive with a youthful bravado I’ve never heard from him before. “This, Fenny Fein, is six types of tinned fish, two baguettes, and one apologetic homme!”
“Wow,somuch better.”
“Yeah, but what happens next?” he asks. “I’ve never been the writer.”
