It was here, in the Rose Tattoo, that Olivia had met her husband. That was another thing she would like Amanda to know, the story of how David and Olivia met. She would like to tell Amanda about her life before David, too, because somehow that made finding him—and losing him—even more important. Sometimes when Olivia tried to write a letter to Amanda, these were the things she thought of. “Dear Amanda,” she’d write, “I was a woman who liked to dance alone. In my apartment, in my hat shop, I would put on music and close my eyes and dance. What I liked to play most was the tape of Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald singing together. Their rendition of ‘They Can’t Take That Away from Me’ always sent me twirling across the floor.”
On the winter night that David walked into the Rose Tattoo, that’s exactly what Olivia was doing: dancing alone while Louis and Ella crooned “They Can’t Take That Away from Me.” It was Valentine’s Day. For Olivia, it was the first Valentine’s Day without her long-term live-in boyfriend, Josh, and she was planning on celebrating. At home, she had a bottle of champagne in the refrigerator, which she planned to drink with a take-out Indian dinner, alone. She had a new apartment, so small that she cleaned the floor with a Dustbuster instead of a vacuum cleaner. For a thousand dollars a month, she got one room on Avenue A, a galley kitchen with a bathtub in it, and a tiny balcony where she stood every morning and drank her coffee—it was too small for chairs to fit.
When she glided, eyes closed, right into David, she stopped and gasped. Olivia thought she had put up the CLOSED sign, but she saw the window signless except for the curlicue writing of the store’s name.
“I’m here for a hat,” he said, grinning.
Olivia frowned at him. Unlike her humming, her dancing was a private thing. In her years with Josh, he’d never caught her at it.
“We’re closed,” she said.
She saw that he was clutching a wrinkled clipping from New York magazine’s “Best Bets” column about her hats.
Still grinning, he took a step toward her. Behind them, Louis and Ella were reaching a crescendo in their singing.
“It’s Valentine’s Day,” he said.
Then he did the most unexpected thing. He took her hand in his, placed his other one around her waist, and danced a perfect waltz. She heard him humming softly to himself as he spun her away from him, then into him. The humming made her nervous.
The song ended, and he released her as easily as he had taken her.
Olivia stepped back to look at him. He had curly brown hair and eyes too close to his nose. But it was a lovely nose, straight and Roman, slightly too large for his face. His teeth were also a bit too large, and very white. He had on a beat-up leather bomber jacket, faded jeans, and sneakers, despite the winter slush in the streets. Olivia liked the face she was studying. Josh had been shorter, blonder, with broad Scandinavian features. He had always worn black: boots, pants, jacket. A bit of bright blue poked out from the collar of this guy’s jacket and made Olivia smile. But he was moving past her, toward the hats.
She stayed in the middle of the floor and watched him.
“What’s with the name of this place?” he said as he rubbed the felt brim of a hat between his thumb and forefinger.
“Well, The Rose Tattoo was a play—”
“I know that,” he said, without turning toward her. “Tennessee Williams.” He picked up another hat, a buttercup yellow felt one with black trim, and looked at Olivia. “I saw his house once,” he said. “In Key West. So tiny, like a miniature house, a doll’s house. With these tomato-colored shutters. I don’t know why, but I stood in front of it for a very long time and it made me so sad.”
He’s probably a frustrated writer, she thought, almost satisfied. Nothing was worse than a wannabe writer or actor or artist.
“I thought budding writers went to Key West to see Hemingway’s house,” she said.
“That was a bit of a letdown,” he said. He handed the hat to her. “Would you mind trying this on? To give me an idea, that’s all.”
Olivia put it on her head and pulled it low, the way a person was supposed to wear hats.
“Of course, she’s much taller than you,” he said absently. “And she doesn’t have those wonderful ripples of hair.”
He traced the air on both sides of her head, drawing curly lines with his fingers. Olivia reminded herself how much she was enjoying her still-new independence. She had hung every painting in her apartment exactly where she wanted, had bought sheets in a girlie pink, had arranged the silverware and glasses in the order she preferred. At night, she ate in bed, let her cat, Arthur, eat out of her dish, watched whatever she pleased, sometimes sleeping with the television on all night. Plus, she didn’t have to trip over Josh’s ridiculous bass every time she walked through the dark to the bathroom. It was so large, it had been like a third roommate.
He sighed. “She does look good in yellow.”
Olivia took off the hat and tried to smooth her uncontrollable hair. It had been damp all day and now rain splattered the shop’s windows. Her hair frizzed and curled, had a mind of its own.
“It’s a great hat,” she offered. “Your wife will love it. Women are always extremely satisfied with my hats.”
He held up the wrinkled clipping. “So it says.”
No wedding ring, Olivia noticed as he reached for his wallet. But also no correction on the word wife. She reminded herself how she’d sworn off dating until summer. After six years with someone, she thought six months alone was more than necessary.
“What’s that?” he said.
“What?”