The Book of Love (18 page)

Everyone has secrets, Lucy.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Pete asked.

“Yup,” said Olivia. She ran her fingers down his arms, took his hand, and led him back outside.

Lucy counted to one hundred, then reached into the back of the closet, pulled out the thing she’d smashed into, brought it out into the room, and turned on the light.

It was a framed photo of three people sitting on a porch swing. On the left was a man in his early forties, round faced and handsome; on the right was a woman of around the same age, striking with dark hair and bright blue eyes, her etched gold necklace catching the light. And in the middle was a girl, around twelve or thirteen, with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, freckles across her nose, and a tiny space between her two front teeth. The three of them had their arms around each other. They were all laughing.

Lucy stared at the girl in the middle, at her light eyes, sharp cheekbones, dark eyebrows. This was Olivia. And these were her parents.

And judging by the ages of everyone in the picture, this had to have been taken shortly before they died.

How strange it was to see this picture and know what was about to happen. She imagined stepping inside it and warning them, warning this smiling girl who was so different from the Olivia that Lucy now knew.

Lucy shook her head. She put the picture at the back of the closet right where she found it, and she closed the closet door. This wasn’t what she was here for. And who knew how long it would take, so she’d better get started.

Twenty-Seven

H
ours later Lucy sat slumped on Olivia’s floor,
The Book of Love
in front of her. She’d flipped through hundreds of spells, hundreds of recipes for potions and elixirs, hundreds of accounts of hearts broken and tips on how-to, thousands and thousands of pages in total. But there wasn’t anything in this book telling her how to rebreak her own heart or even referencing the fact that such a thing was possible. Lucy had thought this was her one chance, but it had never really been a chance at all. Olivia hadn’t said no because she didn’t have to. Of course there was no going back, there never was. That’s not how life worked.

With a freshly broken heart thudding heavy in her chest, Lucy had thought a broken heart was the worst thing in the world. But now Lucy understood that the real worst thing was a completely solid unbreakable one. Lucy breathed out as she stared at that last blank page. This was it for her now. This cold detached feeling was only going to get worse. Worse and worse until it was all she had.

And she realized, then, just how dangerous hope was. The higher it lifted you, the farther you have to fall. And Lucy was falling.

She felt an itch behind her eyes, a strange tingling, a tightening, and finally a release. And for the first time in a very long time, a tear escaped. It dripped out, down her cheek and onto the blank page.

She looked down at the book, blinked twice. Something was happening there now—dark purple words were slowly swirling into view.

Forget the fear, follow the
LOV

If you can still cry, it’s not too late. . . .

Lucy gasped. Below the words a purple flower with heart-shaped petals was beginning to bloom, green leaves, and vines unfurled below it. And then a moment later the words began to fade, bit by bit, until they, and the flower, were gone.

But it would be burned into her brain forever, that flower, because this wasn’t the first time she was seeing it. No. She’d seen it before inked onto skin, lit by fire and moonlight and explosions of sparks.

Now she just needed to find it again.

Twenty-Eight

T
he next morning, instead of going to school, Lucy rode her bike to the bus station and bought a ticket to Bridgewater. Then she leaned back against the seat and stared out the window, watching the town turn to highway, to trees, to rocks, to hills, to an open field filled with horses, back to trees again, then slowly back to buildings and houses. Two hours after she boarded, the bus stopped at the end of a small town’s main street.
WELCOME TO BRIDGEWATER
, the sign said. And Lucy got off.

“You don’t get shows like this in Bridgewater” is what that girl had said. At the time it had just seemed like the kind of random thing you say to a random stranger who you’ll never see again. But now, looking back, Lucy wondered if maybe the girl had been trying to give her a message. Maybe she’d been telling Lucy to come find her. Maybe she had the answers.

Then again, maybe Lucy was just desperate.

She started to walk. Quaint was what people might have called this place, or charming. There was a glass-blowing shop to her right and an ice-cream parlor to her left. And what was Lucy looking for exactly? She had no idea. She just hoped she’d know when she found it.

Lucy passed a used bookstore, a store that sold framed art prints, another that sold organic scented candles, and another filled with fruit-themed baby clothes. She wandered down tiny alleyways and up sets of cobblestone steps. At the top was a pretty little shop with a purple painted awning.
LOVELY
was written in big white letters, and then below it,
SWEET SHOPPE AND CAFÉ
.
And there was a small sign hanging in the window:
TRY OUR HOMEMADE MARSHMALLOWS
.

He uses me for my tickets, I use him for his access to treats.
That’s what Phee had said back at the fire.

In a flash Lucy knew that this was what she’d been looking for.

The door swung open. A woman carrying a small brown bag held the door as she walked out. A wind chime jingled.

Lucy stepped inside.

A dozen or so people sat at tables reading, nibbling snacks, and sipping tea. The shop was filled with purple cushioned chairs set at tiny black wrought-iron tables. Big bold flower paintings hung on the walls. Lucy approached the counter. It was lined with glass cases filled with cookies and sandwiches, and a tower of fluffy white marshmallows.

“Well, hello there,” said the girl behind the counter. She had a long dark braid that hung over her shoulder. It was thick like a rope. She was a few years older than Lucy. “Can I help you?”

Lucy looked at the hand-drawn blackboards hung up behind the counter.

“That’s our list of organic teas,” Braid said.

Lucy’s eyes scanned the list:
Peppermint Snow, Orchard Apple, Violet Bloom . . .
And there it was. Next to
Violet Bloom
was a tiny drawing of a flower with heart-shaped petals, curling leaves, and twisted vines.

Lucy’s heart was hammering.

“That symbol, next to the violets up there . . .” Lucy pointed.

“You like it?” Braid’s lips spread into a smile. “I drew that. Do you want to try the tea? It’s pretty delicious.”

“No,” Lucy said. “I mean, no thank you.” Lucy looked at the girl. Did she know? Could she possibly? “Do you happen to know a girl with a tattoo like that?”

Braid tipped her head to the side. “What’s her name?”

“I don’t know. She has a tattoo of that symbol, though. And I think she lives here, in Bridgewater. She might even work in this café.”

Braid shrugged. “Lots of people live here in Bridgewater, and lots of people work here.”

“But that flower. Does it mean something? Because I saw it tattooed on a girl’s chest and also in a book. . . .”

“What, like a tattoo guide?”

“No,” said Lucy. “Like in something . . .” She stopped and took a breath. “Magic.”

Braid stared at Lucy like maybe she was crazy.

“Darlin’, I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” She shook her head and motioned to a tray on the counter. “Would you like a free sample of our chocolate marzipan cake? Now
that’s
what I call magic.”

“No thank you,” Lucy said. “I just . . .”

Lucy was watching Braid’s face, trying to figure out what to say next, and then something happened: Braid’s eyes flicked down to Lucy’s chest and focused on her tattoo. A tattoo she should not have been able to see.

Lucy looked back up. Their eyes met. The girl reached up to her own chest, as if on instinct. And through the sheer fabric of her floaty white shirt, Lucy saw the outline of a deep purple flower.

“I’m not one of them anymore,” Lucy said quickly. “Or at least I don’t want to be.”

“One of who?”

“The Secret Sisterhood of Heartbreakers,” said Lucy. “That’s why I came here. I’m trying to find my way out. . . .”

Braid’s expression turned serious. She placed her own hand over her tattoo. “Put your hand on your heart,” Braid said. And Lucy did. Then Braid reached out and took Lucy’s hand. And she stood there for a minute with her eyes closed, just breathing. Lucy felt something shoot up her arm, and then there was a tingling in her chest. Braid opened her eyes and she nodded.

“Well, why didn’t you say that in the first place?” the girl said. She smiled. “I’m Clara. Follow me.”

Twenty-Nine

T
hey walked for a long time, mostly in silence. And as they did, Lucy realized that if this girl was indeed magic too, then her magic was different from Lucy’s. She watched the way Clara seemed to engage with absolutely everything and everyone around her—she waved at an older couple holding hands, smiled at a father holding a newborn baby, and when a dog ran by and dropped its slobbery rubber toy at her feet, Clara picked it up and threw it hard. She wasn’t separated from this world, she was a part of all of it.

Finally they reached a white stone house with huge plate-glass windows. The walkway leading up to it was lined with brightly colored enamel pots. Growing out of each was a bunch of violets.

“Here we are,” Clara said.

They made their way to the front door. It opened before they knocked. And there was the girl from SoundWave. She was grinning. “Hey, stranger,” she said. “Well, this is a surprise.” But she didn’t look surprised at all.

“See you later, chickies,” Clara said. She waved to both of them. “I better get back before the locals take off with all the cheese sandwiches.”

“Bunch of ruffians around here,” said SoundWave girl. And both of them laughed.

Then she swung the door open and stepped aside. “Come in. I’m Kai, by the way.”

“I’m—” said Lucy.

“Lucy.” Kai nodded. “I know.”

Kai led Lucy into an enormous high-ceilinged living room that connected to an open kitchen. There was a massive sectional sofa in the center of the room on a fluffy white
rug facing a glass and white stone fireplace. Above the mantel was a huge painting of a warrior goddess done in reds and browns and golds. Through the windows at the back was a large deck overlooking a garden, a greenhouse, and a little stream.

There were at least twenty women there, maybe more. They were of all different ages, from around Lucy’s age all the way up to the two women chatting at the kitchen counter, who appeared to be in their seventies or eighties. Some of the women were typing on sleek-looking laptops, two were painting, a few were relaxing with books.