The Look of Love: A Novel Read online

  A PLUME BOOK

  THE LOOK OF LOVE

  Photo by Michelle Moore

  SARAH JIO is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of The Violets of March, a Library Journal Best Book of 2011; The Bungalow; Blackberry Winter; The Last Camellia; Morning Glory; and Goodnight June. She is also a journalist who has written for Glamour; O, The Oprah Magazine; Redbook; Real Simple; and many other publications. Jio’s books have become book club favorites and have been translated into more than twenty languages. She lives in Seattle with her three young boys and an elderly golden retriever. Learn more about her at sarahjio.com or facebook.com/sarahjioauthor.

  Praise for Goodnight June

  “If you’re looking for something to take you back to memories of reading to your children, try Goodnight June. Author Sarah Jio takes readers on a suspenseful yet heartfelt journey into the pages of the beloved children’s classic Goodnight Moon, when she inherits her great-aunt’s struggling bookstore and discovers letters between her great-aunt and the late author Margaret Wise Brown.”

  —The Wall Street Journal

  “Suspenseful, heartwarming, and uplifting . . . I didn’t want it to end.”

  —First for Women

  “Jio has a knack for creating parallel story lines that work well together while being strong enough to stand alone. . . . Readers will be as invested in the outcome of the bookstore as June is and they will be captivated by the imaginative backstory the author creates for one of America’s greatest children’s authors.”

  —Library Journal

  “Sarah Jio’s delightful and uplifting novel is guaranteed to melt even the toughest cynic and deserves a top rating of five stars (plus the moon).”

  —Historical Novel Society

  “This eminently readable novel with particular appeal for fans of children’s literature is a tribute to family and forgiveness.”—Booklist

  Praise for Morning Glory

  “Jio has become one of the most-read women in America.”

  —Woman’s World

  “Jio explores the degree to which time and distance give comfort to those who have experienced loss [with] a depth of feeling in her writing.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Praise for The Last Camellia

  “This tale has it all: an English garden, a brooding lord of the manor, and a story that bestselling author Jio deftly unveils as fast as you can turn the pages.”

  —Coastal Living

  “Jio infuses her haunting story of love and loss with an engrossing mystery that will linger long after the final page.”

  —Romantic Times

  “The images of the flowers, the landscape, and the manor house are vivid and make for a tantalizing read.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “An engaging story of two generations trying to move forward despite the powerful pull of the past. A thoughtful examination of history’s ability to haunt the present and the power of forgiveness to set things right.”

  —Booklist

  Praise for Blackberry Winter

  “Terrific . . . compelling . . . an intoxicating blend of mystery, history, and romance, this book is hard to put down.”

  —Real Simple

  “Ingenious . . . imaginative.”

  —The Seattle Times

  “Blackberry Winter never loses momentum. . . . Jio’s writing is engaging and fluid.”

  —Mystery Scene

  “A fascinating exploration of love, loss, scandal, and redemption.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “This novel will enchant Jio’s fans and make them clamor for her next offering.”

  —Kirkus Reviews, “A Most Anticipated Book of Fall 2012”

  “There’s no doubt that anyone who picks up this book will instantly fall in love with it and the author.”

  —Brodart

  “Sarah Jio’s writing is exquisite and engrossing.”

  —Elin Hilderbrand, bestselling author of Silver Girl

  Praise for The Bungalow

  Pulpwood Queens Book Club, Official Selection 2012

  “The Bungalow is my favorite book of the year.”

  —Jen Lancaster

  “Jio’s first-person, Hemingway-ish writing style, like her The Violets of March (judged by Library Journal as one of the Best Books of 2011), is a pleasure to read. . . . Jio has done a superb job of pulling together the themes of friendship, betrayal, and endearing love. These keep us engrossed in the novel to an unpredictable conclusion.”

  —The Historical Novels Review

  “Unabashedly romantic . . . thanks to Jio’s deft handling of her plot and characters. Fans of Nicholas Sparks will enjoy this gentle historical love story.”

  —Library Journal

  “A captivating tale.”

  —Booklist

  “A heartfelt, engaging love story set against the fascinating backdrop of the War in the Pacific.”—Kristin Hannah, author of Home Front

  Praise for The Violets of March

  A Library Journal Best Book of 2011

  “Feed the kids before you settle in with journalist Sarah Jio’s engrossing first novel, The Violets of March. This mystery-slash-love story will have you racing to the end—cries of ‘Mom, I’m hungry!’ be damned.”

  —Redbook

  “A gem . . . True escape fiction that can take you away.”

  —WGBH-TV

  “Masterfully written.”

  —The New Jersey Star-Ledger

  “In a sweet debut novel, a divorcee visiting her aunt on gorgeous Bainbridge Island, Washington, finds a diary dating to 1943 that reveals potentially life-changing secrets.”

  —Coastal Living

  “The right book finds you at the right time. The Violets of March will become a source of healing and comfort for its readers.”

  —The Costco Connection

  “In The Violets of March, debut author Sarah Jio beautifully blends the stories of two women—one of the past, one of the present—together to create a captivating and enthralling novel of romance, heartbreak, and redemption.”

  —Times Record News (Wichita Falls, Kansas)

  “Jio’s debut is a rich blend of history, mystery, and romance. Fans of Sarah Blake’s The Postmistress should enjoy this story.”

  —Library Journal

  “[An] endearing tale of past heartbreaks and new beginnings. The story’s setting and sentiment are sure to entice readers and keep them captivated page after page.”

  —Romantic Times

  “A perfect summer read for an escape into a fictional character’s challenges with the charm of a local Northwest setting.”

  —425 magazine

  “Refreshing . . . lovable.”

  —First for Women magazine

  “Mix a love story, history, and a mystery and what takes root? The Violets of March, a novel that reminds us how the past comes back to haunt us, and packs a few great surprises for the reader along the way.”

  —Jodi Picoult, author of Sing You Home and House Rules

  Also by Sarah Jio

  The Violets of March

  The Bungalow

  Blackberry Winter

  The Last Camellia

  Morning Glory

  Goodnight June

  PLUME

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  USA | Canada | UK | Irel
and | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  First published by Plume, a member of Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 2014

  Copyright © 2014 by Sarah Jio

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Jio, Sarah.

  The look of love : a novel / Sarah Jio.

  pages ; cm

  ISBN 978-1-101-62888-1

  1. Chick lit. I. Title.

  PS3610.I6L66 2014

  813'.6—dc23

  2014034131

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Contents

  About the Author

  Praise for Sarah Jio

  Also by Sarah Jio

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  For the dear friends who walked with me through my darkest hour and never once let go of my hand, especially Wendi Parriera, Natalie Quick, and Claire Bidwell Smith. That is true love.

  Unless you love someone, nothing else makes sense.

  —E. E. Cummings

  Prologue

  Paris

  1893

  In the fashionable fifth arrondissement along the river Seine, Elodie stands beside her flower cart watching couples stroll arm in arm. Love, she thinks, is not meant for her. Oh, yes, she could have a boy. An ice-cart driver, perhaps. A farmer in the countryside. A chimney sweep. One of those fellows outside the market who shine the shoes of wealthier men. But no. She takes a deep breath and plucks a ragged leaf from one of the peonies crowded in a basin of water. When she looks up, she sees the Count of Auvergne, Luc Dumond, his top hat towering above the crowd on the street. With his eyes fixed on hers, he crosses the cobblestone street, narrowly missing a horse and carriage.

  The count frequents her cart to buy flowers for his wife, Marceline, whose severity, pinched face, and stormy eyes make for an odd pairing with his obvious gentle kindness. And so Elodie sometimes daydreams about what life might be like as a countess, his countess. She often gazes up into the windows of his elaborate city house, just across the street, and wonders what life is like inside its walls.

  “Hello,” Luc says to her, removing his hat.

  “Hello,” she says in return, a little flustered in his presence. “Your usual selection for the countess?”

  As a tea maker might have a special blend, or a restaurateur has a dish that defines him, Elodie has a signature nosegay. Composed entirely of green blossoms—zinnias, chrysanthemums, and harder-to-find but entirely breathtaking roses in a shade of muted lime—this bouquet is made only once daily, and she keeps it in the back of the cart for Luc.

  He doesn’t respond immediately, for he is lost in her eyes. “They’re green,” he says suddenly.

  Elodie shakes her head, puzzled.

  “Your eyes.”

  She smiles. “Yes.”

  “They’re beautiful.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “It’s Luc.” He pauses. “May I know your name, please?”

  “Elodie.”

  “Elodie,” he says, surveying the flowers before him, then pausing when he sees the engraving along the edge of the cart.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he asks, pointing to the inscription, “Amour vit en avant.”

  Love lives on. These were her mother’s parting words to her, on her deathbed. “Do not give up on love, my sweet Elodie,” she had said through tears. “Do not become hardened like I did. Keep love in your heart. Be open to it when it comes, even if the circumstances seem impossible. Trust it. And do not be afraid to fail. Because if you do, it will still live on.” She placed her hand over her own frail heart. “It will live here. Love does not die. It lives.”

  “My mother’s words are a comfort to me,” Elodie says. “They guide me.”

  Luc smiles. “I would like to make a purchase.”

  She nods. “A small nosegay, perhaps? Something with—”

  “I would like to buy all of the flowers in your cart.”

  She shakes her head. “Surely you aren’t serious.”

  “I am.”

  “But what will you do with all of them?” she asks, grinning. There are hundreds of stems in today’s cart. Hyacinths, roses, stock, the most fragrant peonies of the summer.

  “I want to buy them for you,” he says.

  “For me?” she asks, stunned.

  “For you,” he replies. “So you don’t have to work today; so you can meander as you please in the Paris sunshine.” He tucks a stack of bills into her hand. “Walk with me?”

  Genevieve, another flower cart girl and a friend of Elodie’s, has witnessed their interaction from a distance. “Go,” she says with a smile. “I will watch your cart.”

  “Shall we?” Luc asks, offering his hand.

  Elodie knows no other choice: She takes it.

  Chapter 1

  2021 Pike Street, Apartment 602, Seattle

  December 24, 2012

  I steady my golden retriever, Sam, as I slide my key into my mailbox. Bernard, the apartment building doorman, looks away from the packages he’s sorting and kneels down beside Sam to scratch his ears. “Morning, Jane,” he says, looking up at me with a smile. “Did you hear? They say we’re getting snow tonight. Four inches at least.”

  I sigh. We’ll never get the flower deliveries out on time if the roads are icy. I collect the stack of mail and holiday cards inside the box, then cross the lobby to the front windows, which are lined with multicolored lights. Sam sniffs the Christmas tree in the corner as I peer outside. Pike Place is just waking up. Steam wafts from the awning of Meriwether Bakery, down the block. The fishmongers are hosing down the cobblestones in front of their stalls. A flock of eager tourists carrying umbrellas (tourists always carry umbrellas) pause for a photo across the street, disturbing a seagull perched on a street sign overhead. He lets out an annoyed cry and flies off in a huff.

  “Yep, those are snow clouds out there,” Bernard says, nodding toward the window.

  “How can you tell?”

  “Come here,” he says, standing and walking through the double doors. I follow him out to the street. “Let me give you a little lesson in clouds.”

 
I feel the bitter cold on my face as I breathe in the frigid air, which smells of coffee grounds and seawater—aromatic and salty at the same time. Seattle. Sam wags his tail expectantly as a passerby reaches out her hand to greet him.

  Bernard points up to the sky. “See those? They’re cirrostratus clouds.”

  “Cirro-what?”

  He grins. “They’re the first cloud formations you’ll see before a snowstorm. Look how they’re thin and rippled, like fallen snow.”

  I study them with curiosity, as if they might contain a message written in meteorological hieroglyphs. A cloud language that I might be able to decode if I stare long enough.

  “Now, look farther off over the sound,” he says, pointing out to the distant clouds lurking over Elliott Bay. “Those are the snow clouds moving in. They’re heavier, darker.” He pauses and touches his hand to his ear. “And listen. Do you hear it?”

  I shake my head. “What?”

  “The way the air sounds muffled.” He nods. “There’s always an unexplained quiet before a snowstorm.”

  Sam sits at my feet on the sidewalk. “I think you might be right. There’s something eerily quiet about this morning.” I gaze up at the sky again, but this time I do a double-take. “Do you ever see things in clouds? Pictures? Faces?”

  He grins. “Indeed I do. But what I see may be different than what you see. Clouds are illusive that way.” He pauses for a long moment. “I think they show us what we want to see.”

  He’s right. I do see something, and it startles me a little. I quickly shake my head. “Then I’m not telling you what I see, because you’ll just laugh at me.”

  Bernard smiles to himself.

  “What do you see?” I ask.

  “A roast beef sandwich,” he says with a grin, then reaches into his pocket. “Oh, I almost forgot. This came for you.” He hands me a pink envelope. “The postman accidentally left it in Mrs. Klein’s mailbox.”

  “Thanks,” I say, quickly tucking the envelope into my bag with the other mail—mostly an assortment of unwanted Christmas cards. Perfect, happy, smiling families posing for the camera. Talk about illusions.