The Look of Love: A Novel by Sarah Jio Read Free Book Online Page B

Inside, the lobby smells musty and perfumed. I scan the placard on the wall and see the name Colette Dubois beside apartment number 17.
    When the elevator bell dings and the doors open, we step inside.
    “This is crazy, you know,” I say as we move upward. My palms feel sweaty.
    “Don’t be scared,” Lo says, smiling. “We’ll go in briefly, check it out, and leave if it feels sketchy. In and out, OK?”
    “OK,” I say with a sigh, except I don’t feel OK. I feel scared and anxious. I’m possibly about to be told something about myself that I have no knowledge of—or, worse, find out that I’m on the receiving end of a very cruel practical joke.
    On the eighth floor, we walk down a long corridor until we come to a door where the brass numbers one and seven hang crookedly against the elaborate woodwork. I knock quietly at first, but when there’s no answer, I try again, this time louder. I hear footsteps beyond the door, and my heart rate quickens.
    The knob begins to turn and the hinges on the door creak. A cloud of incense-fueled air drifts out as a thin woman with silver hair spooled into a bun looks us over. When her gaze meets mine, her stern expression melts into a smile. “Ah, Jane,” she says in a thick accent that I immediately identify as French. “I’m so glad you’re here. Please come in.”
    Lo follows me inside the apartment, which looks like an illustration of 1890s Paris. Thick blue velvet drapes block out the light from the large bay window. Antique armoires hold trinkets that range from porcelain ballerinas to intricately painted vases. The floor-to-ceiling bookcases completely consume the right wall, where a ladder attached to a wheeled track provides access to even the highest shelf.
    “Please sit down,” Colette says, pointing to a couch upholstered in indigo velvet. The cushions are threadbare. “I’ll make us some tea.”
    Lo and I sit in silence, until she elbows me. “I feel like we’re in a movie right now.”
    “I know,” I say. “I’m getting the same vibe.”
    Colette returns holding a tray with a steaming teapot and three cups. She sets it down on the coffee table and sits in the chair opposite us, folding her hands in her lap. “It’s good to see you, Jane,” she says, before turning to Lo. “And who have you brought along?”
    “This is my friend Lo,” I answer, while pouring a cup of tea for Lo and then myself. “I—”
    “I’m glad she could come,” Colette says, but her smile fades. She looks at Lo, then at me again. “You’ll need someone to keep you accountable.”
    “Accountable?”
    Colette nods. “But I must ask, do you trust her?”
    “Of course I trust her,” I say a little defensively. “Lo is one of my oldest friends.”
    “All right,” the older woman says with a satisfied nod. “Then she must vow to never repeat what we discuss here today.”
    I look at Lo and swallow hard. Before I can open my mouth, she does. “Cross my heart and hope to die,” she says with a wink.
    Colette purses her lips. “Good, then,” she says. “Jane, I’m sure you are deeply curious about my birthday greeting and why I’ve invited you here today.”
    I smile tentatively. “I admit, I’m a little confused.”
    “And probably skeptical,” she adds.
    “Honestly, yes.”
    “I understand,” she says. “I was too, at your age. But, Jane, you must listen to what I’m about to tell you, and you must accept it.”
    I look at Lo, who is captivated, then back at Colette. “And if I agree to your conditions?” I ask.
    Colette stands up and walks to the bookcase on the far wall. She wheels the ladder to the center and climbs to a high shelf, where she pulls out a single book, then returns to her chair.
    I eye the aged book in her hand. It’s bound in leather, weathered by the sun. Its spine is tattered, and I spot a water stain on the edge.
    “I will tell you a story,” Colette says. “It begins in Paris, in 1893.” Colette pauses to open the book