He’d answered after the first ring.
“Bobby,” he’d said as though he’d been waiting for her call.
“Mark,” she’d said as though she’d been planning to call him all along. “I’m eating a croissant. I don’t think I’ve eaten a croissant in the last fifteen years, not since that time with the butterfly.”
“How is it?”
“It was worth the wait.”
She could sense him smiling through the phone.
They met that afternoon at the beach in downtown Carp, where they took off their shoes and walked along the water’s edge. When they dusted off their feet and scrubbed the tar from their heels to put their sandals back on, Mark held out his hand to stabilize Bobby. The contact was warm and familiar. It reminded her of the feeling of returning home.
“Oh, Alice,” her mother said again. “I don’t deserve Mark’s time. I’ve already wasted so much of it.”
“You deserve everything,” Alice said, meaning it.
“You do too, my love. You have a gift. Share it. Share it with everyone, everywhere you can. Be a beacon of love.”
A beacon: a warning, a signal, a guide. Alice could do that.
“But, honey?” her mother added. “Just remember to keep some love for yourself. It can take its toll, giving yourself away like that. Don’t forget to hold on to love for yourself.”
After they hung up, Alice continued her bike ride home, mulling over what her mother had said. Maybe she was able to give people the love they wanted because she didn’t want to hold on to any of it herself. Whatever the reason, Alice knew she was gifted. She shut her eyes as the wind brushed her face. She had the power to help people in a way no one else could, a way, unlike medicine, that she didn’t have to fear could incidentally harm them too. She was special. She was magic for sure. This feeling was better than love.
5
Love Scholarship
Now that Alice believed in her gift, the question was what precisely to do with it. Over the past four months, she’d written seven stories for eleven people all deeply, passionately in love. Eleven devotees of the church of Alice, all of whom had friends.
Kent was the twelfth person to contact Alice, a studio musician, who had gotten her number from Jane. It took Alice a moment to remember that Jane was Rebecca’s friend. Kentneededlove. That was how he explained it. Like it was a narcotic.
Then Lily got her email address from another of Rebecca’s friends and wrote to inquire whether Alice could draft her a story to help her fall back in love with her husband.I don’t want to divorce him,she wrote,but I can’t be in a loveless marriage. I just can’t.Alice felt for her, even though she wasn’t sure her powers extended to helping people fall back in love with each other. That seemed to require an alchemy of its own.
Nora texted next, then Tristan and George, followed by Jon, Stefanie, CeCe, and Raul. Some folks were deferential—Dear Ms. Meadows, I’m writing to inquire about your services.Others were embarrassed—I’m not normally the kind of person who would do this.A few were demanding,clearlyused to having people work for them—I need you to take care of this immediately.They were all looking for the same thing—love. Real and lasting. Eternal. Could she find that for them?
The sheer number of requests, not to mention the stories of heartbreak and loneliness and perseverance, overwhelmed Alice. She’d never be able to get to them all. There were only so many hours in a day, so many stories she could write in a week, a month, a year, a lifetime. Meanwhile, the requests kept coming. They paralyzed her. She needed a plan. So she told everyone the same thing—she’d get back to them.
Some were indignant—What do you mean you’ll get back to me? Don’t you know who I am?She didn’t. Others were too polite, apologetic, fearful that Alice was their last chance at love—Of course. Take your time. I understand you’re busy. I’m just so, so appreciative. Did I mention how much I appreciate you considering taking me on as a client?
Was that what these people were, potential clients? Was this the start of a new profession? What would she write on her taxes,magical love story writer? Or was it more of a hobby? A vocation? Could she be so bold as to consider it a calling? This was definitely the start of something, but what?
Alice could certainly use the extra income. The springs on her mattress no longer sprung. Her television had a curious stripe down the screen that only went away when she watched the news. The engine to her aging Honda coughed like a lifelong smoker when she drove it above forty-five miles per hour. She had no qualms about charging the individuals who barked orders at her. What about the others, though? What about Jackie, who was nineteen and so heartbroken because her boyfriend had dumped her for her roommate that she’d started sleeping in her car, not having enough money to move into another apartment? What about Phil, who was seventy and had loved so many women but never one who loved him back? What about Tammy, a single mother who wanted someone to love her children as much as they loved her? Could she charge people who were lonely and sad and would likely pay any price she named for a chance at love? Was there something morally corrupt about charging people for the most basic human desire? Shouldn’t love be free?
No, Gabby argued. It should not.
“Forty-seven,” Gabby said, holding Alice’s phone and scanning her emails. “Forty-seven people want you to help them.”
“There are twenty more voicemails,” Alice said. They were sitting by the pond in Gabby’s favorite park, feeding the ducks and turtles despite the signs expressly forbidding it. It was that special, expectant time of morning when the June Gloom had almost burned off, giving everything an ethereal look, like they were sitting inside a painting. Alice tore off a piece of bread and tossed it to the ducks and turtles congregating at their feet. “I’m not sure how word spread so fast.”
Gabby sipped her latte while she read the messages. “This guy’s been single for a decade since his fiancée left him at the altar. This woman has a horrible scar on her face from a fire when she was a child and thinks no one will ever love her because she’s deformed. This guy was an orphan, bounced from one foster house to another where no one wanted to keep him so he’s spent his entire adult life convinced he doesn’t deserve love.”
“It’s like they’re writing personal essays for college admissions.”
“This guy has outlined specifications for bust size and waist. Well—” she swiped “—let’s just delete that one.” Gabby gave Alice back her phone. “Can you believe it, all these people wanting you to help them?”
“It’s overwhelming,” Alice said, trying to lob a piece of bread to a turtle at the back of the huddle. It always felt like a small victory when the turtles were able to best the ducks, snagging a piece of soggy dough. A fable, like she used in her stories.
