“Bertie,” she said softly, with a faint smile.
The day had been a trip down Bert’s memory lane, and he was an engaging and evocative guide. They’d managed to get a lot of the inventorying done, but not much else. When they put all the pictures and mementos back on the shelves, it felt more like creating a shrine to Julie than actually organizing. Perhaps, though, creating a shrine was a kind of organizing. Maybe even the best kind.
As he ushered them out of the library/office, Bert stopped in front of a picture of Julie on a beach—a candid picture, nota studio cheesecake photograph. She was in her twenties, sun-kissed, radiant, joyful. Her eyes were full of love; her smile was full of life.
“You can see why I fell for her. And I still get to see this woman every day. I am a very lucky man.”
It was a foggy night, so navigating the hairpin turns of Mulholland was even more harrowing than usual. In the mist, every headlight blasted a miasma of blinding, refracted light.
Jane was thinking about Julie and Bert and the wonderful life that was slipping out of their grasp. Bert seemed stoic, and yet so vulnerable. Was love nothing more than an invitation to profound loss? But the looming losses were mitigated by their gratefulness for the lives they had led, and most of all, for each other. It was beautiful. It was very romantic.
Anna had been so surprised that Jane considered herself a romantic—but when she saw a love like Julie and Bert’s, she recognized it, and she wanted it. Even if it was as alien as it was aspirational. She touched her face and realized she was crying. It had been so long since she cried—she couldn’t recall a time since middle school—that it was like an out-of-body experience.
Jane pulled onto the shoulder, parked, then rolled down the window and took a deep breath of the bracingly chilly air. She touched her cheeks again, then looked at her wet fingertips with wonder. She was crying. And it felt good. Cleansing, cathartic.
She looked over at today’s precious cargo, perched next to her on the passenger seat: one of Julie’s albums from the sixties,Julie Is in Love!It was autographed in florid cursive with a gold marker,Love Always, Julie. On the cover, Julie gazed out wistfully, eyes twinkling, with a cryptic, alluring smile. Bert had insisted that Jane and Lindsey each take a signed copy, tellingthem how much it would mean to him if they listened to it often. That was a way Julie could be alive forever.
And then Jane started sobbing. She wasn’t going to try to staunch it.
The host ushered Jane to the table on the patio where Teddy waited for her, sipping a cocktail.
She leaned over and kissed him before sitting down. A heat lamp positioned right behind her bathed her with warmth. She took off her jacket and looked at him appreciatively, even gratefully.
“What?”
“Nothing, I’m just really glad to see you.”
“I’m glad to see you, too. You look beautiful.”
Jane blushed. Her crying jag had left her feeling spent, and if this dinner had not been planned well in advance, she might have stayed home and listened to Julie Robin’s album (Teddy’s turntable was still in their living room). But she could not back out of this plan, and in fact, she did not want to back out. Now that she was seated opposite Teddy, her whole being felt weighty, the tug of gravity palpable. Maybe this is what it felt like to be present. Maybe she was in her body, instead of watching herself from above.
“You look really nice, too, Teddy.”
“Thanks, just got a haircut.”
“I can’t tell—you have your beanie on.”
“Oh, duh.” He took it off and Jane appraised the cut: it was short and neat, and made him look even more boyish.
“It’s a great cut. I like it a little shorter like that.”
“Cleaning up my act, you know?” He started to put the beanie back on, but Jane stopped him.
“Don’t, Teddy, let me admire your super cute haircut!”
He laughed and stuffed the beanie in his coat pocket. Jane looked down at the menu. She was ravenous.
“You can do all the ordering, you pick the best stuff,” Teddy told her. It was a shared plates restaurant, so they usually split a few dishes.
“Is there anything you are craving?”
“Just you, Jay.”
Cheesy, but she loved it. She took his hand and moved his arm onto the table, displaying his new tattoo.To thine own self be true. It was written in a vaguely Shakespearean/Renaissance font.
“It’s healed nicely.”
“Yeah, I’m really happy with it.”
