Yet I did go horseback riding-I, the one who preferred even a smelly human to animals, rode horseback with da Vinci on a sunny fall afternoon when I should've been working on my dissertation. But besides connection, I felt something else: freedom. Freedom to cut loose and do something new and completely unexpected. If I was channeling anything left behind of Joel, it was his passion for adventure, being spontaneous. The next thing I knew, after riding across the field like a painting on a romance novel, da Vinci hopped off of his horse, stopped my horse by grabbing the reins and I nearly leapt into his arms. And on the way down? I kissed him. On the lips. I considered it a “thank you for helping me down kiss” though da Vinci seemed to not think anything of it. They probably kissed in Italy the way we shook hands in America. So I didn't make a big deal out of that kiss, either. Yet like the first, I couldn't get it out of my head, either.
I couldn't tell Anh about da Vinci's kiss, because what was there to tell? She might think there was a budding romance, which there certainly wasn't. Not on my end. If you told Anh something, she wouldn't let it go. She would call and ask me about it each day, like a doctor checking charts on rounds.
And with da Vinci just starting college, he was making all kinds of new friends. The fraternities wanted to rush him, the girls were probably pawing all over him, and that's the way it should be. My role as his teacher and landlord and friend was to help him find himself in America and that meant making friends outside of my four walls. I told him not to judge the frat boys so quickly, to give things a chance-something I couldn't believe was coming out of my mouth.
I also had my dissertation to attend to, so when I dropped da Vinci off on campus, where he stood out like a beacon in the throng of students, I made my way through the college crowd to the library, where I would dive back in to my work. It wasn't until I cracked open the notebook that I hadn't touched since the week before Joel died, that the enormity of the work hit. The Language of Love. I scanned my notes-more than forty hours of research and thought had already been put into it. Should I scrap the whole thing and ask my professor for a new topic? But what? And my notes were really good. I had stopped working on it, in truth, because I had lost connection to the material, too. But now I could begin to appreciate the topic of love again, as someone might appreciate fine art, detached, but drawn to the subject. I would no longer see love through the blurred eyes of grief, but try to be objective. Besides, I wanted to finish what I'd started, a way to prove to myself that love does go on after your husband dies and especially that a dissertation on the language of love could survive even death. I did still have dreams, the biggest dream to be a professor with a doctorate.
I grabbed the laptop from my attaché case and clicked it on, the hum causing a few stares from all directions. I slunk into my seat and began typing, the material beginning to pull me in.
The Language of Love
– By Ramona Griffen
Where does love begin, and where does it end? Anthropologists who have studied love claim that for millions of years the ever-changing world has not changed the primal instinct of love, mating, and sexuality. Though technology and evolution have morphed the way in which we live, the language of love is the one constant in the universe, transcending time and cultures. And researchers say it all begins with one look.
The eyes have it.
Across cultures and even species, lovers begin their courtship with a flirting sequence highlighted by the copulatory gaze. As the potential mates stare at each other for two to three seconds, the pupils dilate, indicating a strong interest, and then look away. This powerful gaze is followed by an anxious diversion, fidgeting, or moving away, or it is reciprocated with another universal friendly exchange: the smile.
My cell phone buzzed, causing more angry warning glares, quite the opposite of the copulatory gaze, and I reached into my overstuffed bag to retrieve it. I whispered hello as I beelined for the entrance.
“You've got to help me.”
Rachel.
“Don't tell me. You gained a pound in San Francisco and need me to stand by you to make you look slimmer.”
“Very funny, though not a bad idea. Zoe is at Cortland's having a play date with his daughter, but my lame-brained assistant double-booked me, and I can't get over there. Can you be a doll and go pick her up for me? Mom's at a church thing and won't leave.”
“So you're dating the doctor, huh?”
“He's fabulous. I've been wanting you to meet him, anyway.”
“That serious already?”
“Can you do it or not?”
“I'm working on my… okay, fine. What's his address?”
I would give my sister the benefit of the doubt and believe she liked Cortland for Cortland and not because of his estate, a 3,500-square-foot, two-story house in a historic neighborhood where all the movers and shakers of Austin lived. Every mover and shaker, that is, except my enviro-friendly Anh who preferred her 1,200-square-foot modern abode near her corporate office.
I stood on the porch wondering if I'd ever seen such a huge front door and felt like a munchkin in the Land of Oz. Even the doorbell's sound was larger than life, echoing through tall ceilings, announcing my arrival as if I were a lady of the court.
When the door opened, our eyes locked. One. Two. Three seconds. Then we both looked away. And back again. I couldn't tell for sure-the afternoon sun could've been playing tricks on me, but I thought maybe his pupils were dilated. Then he raised his arm on the doorframe and puffed out his chest, a classic gesture of dominance and flirtation. It happened so quickly that I hadn't even realized that I had cocked my head slyly and tossed my hair over my shoulder. I was flirting back. Not just with the orange juice spritzer man from the singles mixer who had been nabbed by the redhead, but with my sister's boyfriend.
Two thoughts ran through my head: 1) Why was he at a singles mixer if he was dating my sister, and 2) why, oh, why is life not fair? He stuck his hand out for me to shake, yet my eyes never left his. “You must be Rachel's sister,” he said.
“Ramona,” I said, and my cool hand met his warm embrace and before he let go, he gave my hand a slight squeeze, and I entered the oversized foyer with a beautiful entry table, large sconces with vanilla candles and fresh fall flowers. I thought of da Vinci, spending his days arranging flowers, something that most men would be terrible at, yet da Vinci had the artistic eye for color and contrast and said he loved the work.
“Cortland,” he said and put his hand behind his head and scratched his neck, another common flirting tactic. I tried not to smile and wondered if I was reading him wrong. He was handsome for certain, tall and well-built with a natural tan and a full head of blondish-brown hair that shone in the sun. “I was disappointed you disappeared the other night,” he said. “Small world, isn't it?”
“Indeed. Are you a singles regular?”
“Hoping to retire,” he said, his fingers crossed. “I'm the current president.”
“President of the Lonely Hearts Club?”
“Something like that. Your sister didn't tell me you were so funny.”
“Surprise, surprise.” Who knows what she said about me? Of course the most attractive man at the singles group would be the leader type: the kind who wouldn't stay single for long. My mother had mentioned Rachel and Cortland had seen each other every day since meeting. When my sister saw something she wanted, she put her hooks in and didn't let go. Cortland didn't stand a chance. Not that he'd be squirming to get off the hook, either.