On the other hand, the parties aren’t for everyone, and Carpe Diem doesn’t offer a cheaper option. That’s never been an issue before, but should it be?
“I’m not sure, Coco,” I say pensively.
She gives me a knowing look. “You’re thinking about what Bellamy said on her podcast, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” I sigh. “Is it that obvious?”
“Like you hired a skywriter to spell it out across the sky,” she says.
Her words ripple through my brain and bump into what Bellamy said about how love should feel. “Do you think love should feel like it’s written across the sky?” I ask my grandmother.
She gives me a look that says oh, you foolish child. “If it doesn’t, what’s the point? You might as well spend your time on life’s other pleasures. Hot chocolate, a fantastic Broadway show, good sex, a night out with captivating friends. I don’t accept mediocre in any of those areas, so why would I bother with mediocre love?”
I study her expression for a moment, then ask, “Is that why you haven’t been serious with anyone since Grandpa?”
Her husband died nearly a decade ago, and she hasn’t had a steady boyfriend since. Only dates and, well, lovers.
She sets down her mug. “Why do you think I haven’t?”
“I honestly don’t know. You seem happy with life. Loving it. Eating it like a peach.”
“I’m quite content with the peaches and life’s other pleasures.” Her smile turns soft but a little sad. “But I know how precious that kind of love is, how hard to find. I had written-across-the-sky love with your grandfather, and I haven’t found it since.”
Those last words surprise me. I hadn’t thought she was on the market for love again.
“Are you looking for true romance?” I ask.
Her gaze is far off and a little wistful. “Darling, we humans are always looking. That’s how we’re wired. But are we ready to handle it if it comes our way?” She studies me intensely through cheetah-style glasses. “I wouldn’t turn love down if it came my way.”
“You’d go for it? Even after forty-seven years with Grandpa?”
She chuckles. “I’d go for it like a lioness chasing a gazelle.”
I laugh. “Never let it be said you aren’t a romantic.”
She roars like a lioness. When our chuckles fade, she sighs deeply. “There are two kinds of people in the world—those who know what they’d do for love and those who don’t. I suppose readiness comes down to which one you are.”
What about a third type—those who know the worth of love, but also its cost? Who’ve learned that sometimes the risk outweighs the rewards. For that type, love is best . . . denied.
“On that note,” I say, shifting to work mode, “let’s plan the hell out of this elitist shindig.”
Questions linger in my mind about the way Carpe Diem lubricates the path to love. But I don’t have the time or mental space to evaluate my professional moral compass right now. I have a party to plan, and a corporate client to save.
“So, these submissions,” I say. “Let’s see who can round out the guest list before my meeting with the PR team to come up with a way to deal with the Victoire situation.”
“Tell me some of your ideas for that,” she says.
“While I was running the other day, I noticed all sorts of couples, and I had the idea of reaching out to some happy couples who had met through the parties, showcasing them on our social media and perhaps in ads with our corporate partners. Focus on the results, show people who found love at Carpe Diem parties.”
“I love that idea,” she says, and we get to work on how to tackle it.
If I won’t have that kind of big love for myself—and I shudder at the thought—I can help others to find it. That’s got to count for something.
Elitist or not.
Before my afternoon meeting with the PR team, I swing by for lunch with Rory and Jo at a café around the block. When I find them in a booth at the back, my sister holds up her phone, her green eyes lit with victory. “Look at this! We scored front-row tickets to the Dirty Rotten Scoundrels revival.”
Jo pumps a fist in musical fangirl solidarity then sings from the chorus of “Great Big Stuff.” Then she adds, “When Emerson flies in next month, the three of us are going to see it and fangirl over Tremaine Groff. He’s playing the lead role, and I love him. Love, love, love. We’re talking true love.” She says it so dreamily, I half believe she is. And then I wonder if Bellamy likes musicals, whether she’d go see the production if I snagged us tickets.
I bet she does, and I bet she would.
“You two and your love of musicals,” I say as I grab a chair.
“Musicals are life,” Jo says solemnly.
“How did you pull off front-row seats?”
“I heard about the special block of tickets on Twitter this morning, and snagged the hell out of them,” Rory adds with a victory shimmy.
Jo bats her blue eyes at me. “Speaking of, you’re all over Twitter too.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask. Is there more wreckage from the podcast piece? Worry tightens my throat. “Is it more of the whole elitist thing?”
Rory smiles, the devilish kind that only a younger sister can deliver. “No. The opposite. I thought you engineered the chatter.”
Jo shoves her phone at me, scrolling through her Twitter feed. “I can’t believe you haven’t seen this yet. Check it out, rock star.”
I peer at the hashtag #CarpeDiemLove. Alongside it are photos of happy couples with captions.
-We met at a Carpe Diem party last December. This weekend, she said yes.
* * *
-Three years ago, I was introduced to this fantastic woman at a party. Now? She’s the love of my life and my wife.
* * *
-A couple months ago, I walked through the doors to a party with a tiny bit of hope. Walked out with this fantastic man, and we’re getting hitched at Christmas!
A few more fill the feed. A closer look tells me Bellamy of A Million Frogs has retweeted them all.
35
Octopi Style
From the Email Correspondence of Bellamy Hart and Easton Ford
* * *
Dear Easton,
* * *
I hope you saw the photos and love stories on Twitter. When you told me what happened with Victoire, I wanted to do my part to fix it.
* * *
Yours in owning your shit,
Bellamy
Dear Bellamy,
* * *
Never has the phrase owning your shit melted my cold heart so much. Thank you. I’m truly touched. You didn’t have to do that and yet you still did.
* * *
With so much gratitude,
Easton