When Love Fades Not Even A Handmade Quilt Can Help ‘The Perfect Man’ When The Love Just Isn’t There

He was nearly perfect in every department. In his professional life, he was sought by leaders in his field, respected by everyone. For analysis of demographic trends, Christian was the expert they wanted. He would sit in his stark white office with his graphs and charts, plotting the meaning of it all. This clean-cut, solid-looking man was a statistician by training, his short hair parted as if with a ruler. In his spare time, he coached the swim team at his alma mater, played viola in the chamber group. He could throw together dinner for eight and have it look like a catered affair.

“There’s no easy way to say this,” the note read, “but I think we should stop seeing each other. Please don’t call or come by the house.”

The note was signed by Janna and delivered that morning on her way to work.

Christian read and re-read the note, sniffed her perfume on the envelope, wondered what he had done wrong. He sat down with the newspaper, but found himself doodling tiny rectangles in the margin.

What did Janna mean?

Why should they stop seeing each other?

How could she change her mind?

He reconstructed their last couple of months together - the ski weekend, her parents’ visit, the surprise birthday he gave for her 35th birthday. His gift was a weekly flower arrangement for the next year - and not just whatever the florist might send. Christian enrolled in a workshop at the local botanical garden. He learned about orchids and lilies, topiary and bonsai. He would try to please Janna in every way he knew how.

If there was a twist in the road, he couldn’t find it. With so little information, the statistician in him felt stumped.

It was all he knew of the world, this orderly procession of things - charts and graphs, numbers in neat columns. His reconstruction of what seemed like wonderful time together was leading him nowhere. In fact, the time was wonderful, he concluded; the problem was something else.

But what was it?

And in the absence of Janna, how could he find it?

He called two of Janna’s friends in search of clues. “I don’t mean to impose,” he said, “but I was wondering if you might be able to help.” He asked if they knew why Janna might be upset, or if she may have said something. He was grateful for what little they could offer.

At the same time, he embarked on a plan to win her back. Janna had a favorite quilt on her bed that had become faded and ragged with time. Her grandmother made it 50 years before. Christian’s plan was to replace the quilt, though not, of course, in any ordinary way.

He went to the library to research quilt patterns. He found the starburst design that most closely resembled Janna’s and copied it on the Xerox machine. He then went to a fabric store and bought all the requisite materials. He was not about to give Janna some store-bought quilt, or even hire someone to make it.

His own untrained hands would fashion this quilt.

Christian pondered the fabric squares and triangles as he cut them out and pieced them together.

It was a puzzle, of sorts, not unlike the one Janna had left him. It was five weeks in the making, this quilt that was now occupying the time that Janna once filled. The result was remarkable - an almost perfect replica of the quilt on her bed.

He had the quilt delivered to Janna’s house and waited eagerly for her response. It arrived three days later - a hand-written note, wedged beside the morning paper.

“Christian,” she wrote, “The quilt is magnificent. Who else would go to these lengths? You are a wonderful man, but sometimes love fades for no apparent reason. The loss is as much mine as yours. Always, Janna.”

Christian read the note and tried to grasp its meaning.

He believed what Janna said; didn’t doubt her words. He just couldn’t understand. Like an equation, love given should produce love in return. That’s how he saw it. In his professional life, at least, that analogy was true.

But the rules of love were different - less predictable, less exact. When it came to love, he was unprepared for the ways in which we have no control.

MEMO: Joan Silverman is a free-lance writer who lives in Boston.