Jane Austen Girl - A Timbell Creek Contemporary Romance

by Inglath Cooper

  At this, Grier sat back in her chair, feeling the color drain from her face. “What?”

  “Isn’t it great?” Amy went on without noticing that Grier had just choked out that last word. “To be able to go back to where you grew up and pick some lucky girl who might end up on a date with a duke? How cool is that?”

  “Why my hometown?”

  “Apparently, they want a small town girl makes good story. Like your own, I guess.”

  Quiet for a moment, Grier said, “Is that part optional?”

  “Which part?

  “The hometown part.”

  Amy looked at her, blinking as if she could not imagine where the question came from. “I don’t think so. It sounded like part of the setup.”

  “Could you call and check?” she asked, trying for nonchalance and hearing her own failure.

  “Why?” Amy asked, blue-shadowed eyes widening. “Is that a problem?”

  “Ah, yes, actually, it is,” Grier said. An understatement, if there ever was one.

  “But things have been kind of slow,” Amy reasoned. “This could keep us busy, like, forever.”

  “You might be right, but I haven’t been home in nineteen years. Going back to Timbell Creek isn’t even a possibility. Not for a duke. Not for anyone.”

  “Oh,” Amy said, all of the enthusiasm draining from her face almost instantly. She worried her lower lip with her front teeth, looking at Grier with uncertainty, as if she wanted to say something but wasn’t sure she should.

  “You can call me an idiot for turning it down, if you like,” Grier said. “Most likely you’d be right.”

  “It’s just that—”

  “Just that what?”

  “Mr. Goshen from the bank also called this morning. He asked me to let you know they can’t give you an extension on the remainder of your loan. He said the balance would be due at the end of the month as originally scheduled.”

  Grier sat back in her chair. “Why? He was just here yesterday and agreed to it.”

  “I know,” Amy interrupted. “He said to let you know it was out of his hands.”

  Grier turned to stare out the window, trying to remind herself that she had been in tight spots before. She wasn’t unfamiliar with the discomfort. But paying off the loan at this point would wipe out any cushion she had.

  “Did I tell you how much the KT Network is willing to offer you?” Amy wheedled.

  “No, you didn’t,” Grier said, not sure she wanted to know.

  “Twenty thousand,” Amy said. “To set it up, do an initial cattle call, narrow the choices down to ten, at which point they will send in some of their people for the final decision-making.”

  “Did you say twenty thousand?”

  “I did,” Amy said, her tone making it clear that she couldn’t see how Grier had any choice but to accept the offer.

  Twenty thousand dollars. Pay off the balance of her last loan and be debt free. In exchange for something she said she would never do. Go back to Timbell Creek.

  She thought then of the eagle she’d seen earlier, so conspicuously out of place. Was this its message? Alert: life-changing decision ahead. You’ll have to think long and hard about this one.

  She didn’t need an eagle to tell her that.

  From the Timbell Creek Gazette

  Hometown Girl in Search of Date for Duke

  Timbell Creek born Grier McAllister will be making a hometown visit this week as an ambassador for the hit reality television show Dream Date.

  McAllister will head up a Jane Austen Girl contest for eighteen-year old Irish-born George Fitzgerald, Duke of Iberlorn, in his quest to pick a date for the Harker Foundation Jane Austen Girl Ball.

  New York based image consultant Grier McAllister has been asked to return to her hometown of Timbell Creek to choose a young woman who may just fit the bill of perfect date for the duke. The reality series will film the interview process from start to finish, the last episode of which will be shot in Manhattan at the Jane Austen Girl Ball.

  McAllister owns Jane Austen Girl, Inc. an image-consulting firm in New York City. She is the daughter of Maxine McAllister. She is a graduate of Timbell Creek High School.

  Never, ever, wear open-toed sandals without a fresh pedicure. Chipped polish is the first thing a man will notice even if the rest of you is picture perfect. Think Boomerang with Eddie Murphy.

  Grier McAllister - Blog at Jane Austen Girl

  CHAPTER ONE

  Grier had long envisioned the day she rode back into her past on a white charger, swiping the muck from every bad memory with an industrial size mop until there wasn’t a single marred image left.

  But as she drove into Timbell Creek at noon on a beautiful Virginia May day, her white charger had begun to limp and the landscape of her childhood appeared distressingly familiar.

  The oil light on the BMW’s control panel had begun to flash a few miles back. Now, the engine made a startling sputtering sound, and then cut off completely. Grier glanced in the rear view mirror, gave the wheel a sharp yank to the right, managing to land two tires on the shoulder before the engine died altogether, and the steering locked.

  Sebbie, the twelve-pound ball of poodle fluff who had declared himself hers three years ago by following her home from a run in Central Park, cocked an ear at her.

  “Don’t ask,” she said. “When was the last time I drove the thing?”

  Sebbie barked once, now facing her on the leather seat. If he were a man, the translation would be, “So when was the last time you checked the oil?”

  “It’s not my fault,” Grier said. “Isn’t that what they’re supposed to do when the car’s taken in for service?”

  Sebbie whined and plopped down on the seat, head on his paws, as if he found the question unworthy of an answer.

  Not once in all the times Grier had designed her return-to-the-past stories had they ever contained a scene where she let her car run out of oil. Nonetheless, here she was. She tried the engine again, only to be met with a low groaning sound that signaled nothing more than a complete lack of cooperation. She sat for a moment, her head against the back of the seat, staring through the sunroof at a swipe of vivid blue sky.

  How exactly had she let herself be talked into returning to Timbell Creek?

  She reached for her phone, swiped the screen and tapped in 411. Nothing. No signal.

  Great. Sebbie emitted another low whine, as if this, too, could be blamed on her.

  “Looks like we’re walking, buddy.”

  At this new development, he hopped up and wagged his tail.

  Grier opened the door and slid out, glancing down at the strappy Via Spiga heels she’d paired with a Donna Karan sleeveless wrap dress this morning. The car had decided to have its oil crisis ten or so miles from the town limits of Timbell Creek, and she did a mental calculation now of how long it would take her to walk that far in these shoes.

  She snapped on Sebbie’s leash, and he leapt from the car, his opinion on the status of their day clearly having changed.

  “Maybe we can pick up a signal down the road a bit,” Grier said.

  Another bark of agreement, and Sebbie tugged at the leash.

  “Hold on,” Grier chided, grabbing her purse from the back seat and hitting the remote lock.

  They headed down the two-lane road, Grier’s heels clicking on the asphalt, Sebbie bouncing along on the end of the leash. The sun glared against her shoulders, its burn reminding her that she didn’t have on sunscreen. She flipped the cell phone open and held it up, waving it left and right like a compass in search of true north. Nothing. Nada.

  Sebbie pranced along with his head and tail high, as if the two of them were headed for an appointment with the Queen of England. Not for the first time it occurred to Grier that it would be nice to have a dog’s perspective of the world. Nothing to worry about beyond the immediately visible.

  To their right, a herd of black and white cows had called a halt to their grazing, staring at them w
ith big, blinking brown eyes. With a snort, a younger calf broke rank and trotted over to the fence for a closer look. Sebbie barked a greeting. The cow lowered its head and let out a long mooooooo. Grier wondered what they’d just said to one another. Probably something along the lines of “wonder what she was thinking when she picked out those shoes this morning.”

  The whole herd of cows followed the younger one’s lead, and they meandered along the fence until they reached the end, where they stood in a group and stared after them. Grier wished for a box of sugar cubes, a bag of carrots or something cows might like. The half-empty box of Tic Tacs hunkering in a corner of her purse wasn't likely to impress them.

  Just ahead to the left lay a sprawling cornfield, row upon row of short green stalks sprouting from the tilled earth. The musty scent of clay and fertilizer hurled her back to her childhood and the spring mornings she’d stood waiting for the school bus, watching as Mr. Brooks who had lived across the road, maneuvered his tractor up and down his long field, turning the dirt over for planting.

  Uncanny how a memory could send a person straight back to the past. A place she hadn't let herself visit, even in thought, for a long time.

  She glanced down at her clothes, aware that the shoes and dress alone cost more than her mama had ever made in three months of working at the sewing factory in town.

  She readjusted her sunglasses and blinked the thought away, holding the phone up again to see if it had changed its mind yet. Nope. Sebbie barked and trotted on a little faster, pulling her along with him.

  “Hold up there,” she said. “I’m getting a blister.”

  Sebbie actually looked at the shoes and, clearly unimpressed, forged on as if they were the lead contender in a bobsled contest.

  A vehicle sounded in the distance, and sudden relief washed over her. She stopped and turned around to glance back, urging Sebbie off the asphalt into the tall grass on the side of the road. Was it tick season yet? She reached down and scratched the side of one leg, the very thought making her itch.

  A truck appeared at the edge of what she could see of the long, straight road. The engine sounded like a mad lion, roaring even louder as it grew nearer, and Grier moved the two of them farther into the grass.

  The smell arrived a good ten seconds ahead of the mud green truck. If the stench surrounding it had a color, it would be that exact same shade of mud green. Grier pinched her nose together. Sebbie yelped and made a low-throated protest, before barking in all out earnest.

  As the truck rumbled closer, she read the banner inscribed across the front of the hood. What must have once been white letters had long since succumbed to a dingy brown. Horace and Son Septik Tanc Cleaning. Hard to say whether the spelling was intentional in the vein of cute advertising or just an honest case of illiteracy.

  To Grier’s dismay, the truck began to slow down. Sebbie looked up at her with a pitiful plea in his eyes, wrinkling his nose. She put her hand over her own nose and mouth and blinked hard, her eyes beginning to sting.

  The driver hit the brakes and came to a tire smoking stop fifteen yards in front of them. Just as she considered ducking into the cow pasture, the reverse lights popped on, and the truck began to roll backwards. The smell now hit them full force, and she caught a glimpse of the hose hanging from one side, trying not to imagine where it had last been used.

  “Hey, there, ma’am!”

  Grier lifted her gaze to the lowered window on the truck’s passenger side. A young man in his late twenties grinned out at her, his bill cap boasting the same company logo as the front of the truck. “You need some help there, ma’am?”

  Sebbie began to bark, as though he’d suddenly realized it was his duty. Grier rubbed his back, saying, “Ah, no, actually, we’re fine.” She waved her cell phone as if that explained why she was walking this road in her unfortunate choice of footwear.

  The driver leaned forward. If the guy on the passenger side was the son in Horace and Son, this could only be Horace.

  “That yer BMW back yonder?” he asked. A front middle tooth had gone missing, accounting for the audible whistle between each word.

  “Yes, I seem to have a little oil problem.”

  “Funny how these fancy cars won’t cooperate without it,” he said, chuckling. “Y’all hop on in here, and we’ll give you a ride up to the Exxon.”

  “Oh, thank you so much,” she said quickly, “but it’s such a nice day, we’re fine to walk.”

  Son looked at her as if the top of her head had just sprung a worrisome leak. “Shoot now, it’s gotta be five miles or more.”

  Sebbie barked again and started to pull her toward the truck, obviously in agreement with Son.

  “Nothing like a good walk on a spring day,” she said, painting the words with a big smile.

  This time, Horace delivered the look. “If you say so, ma’am.”

  “Thank you for stopping, though.”

  Both men nodded, and then the truck ground off one gear to the next until it turned to a blip in the distance.

  The smell, however, lingered.

  Grier glanced down at Sebbie, unable to resist scolding him. “You were just going to hop right in there with them?”

  He cocked his head to one side and started walking, forcing her to follow.

  She teetered after him. “What made you decide you could live with the smell?”

  Sebbie barked once and glanced back at her shoes.

  “Yeah, well, I can hardly roll back into Timbell Creek reeking of someone’s septic tank, can I?”

  Sebbie pranced on, head high.

  Her blister now raged in protest, and she wished for the first aid kit in the glove compartment of her car. They walked another half mile or so in silence, the sun raising more red splotches on her skin.

  Sebbie started to pant, and sweat stains bloomed in the armholes of Grier’s sleeveless dress. Lovely.

  She had started to seriously regret her rejection of Horace and Son when another vehicle rounded the curve behind them. She glanced at her swelling feet - her pedicured red toes were starting to look like cherry tomatoes. This time, she wouldn’t be so picky.

  A red Chevrolet truck roared toward them, the body of which had been jacked a good foot higher than its original intended position above the tires. The chrome bumpers and side runner gleamed as if maintained by someone who cleaned royal silver for a living.

  The horn on this one played “I Wish I Was in Dixie.” Sebbie’s bark now hit a few notes of uncertainty before evolving into a low rrrrrrrr. The truck stopped, and the driver leaned over, rolling down the passenger side window. “You need some—”

  The question ended there, and they recognized each other at the same moment. The sound of his voice flung her back nineteen years to a place she had never imagined again finding herself. First thought? He still looked like Bradley Cooper.

  Whoever said life always turned out fair never spent nearly two decades wishing in vain for an old boyfriend to develop a paunch and chin warts.

  “Darryl Lee?”

  “Is that really you, Grier?” he asked, disbelieving.

  “I—yes,” she said, hearing the shock in her own voice.

  He lowered his dark sunglasses and gave her a long look, following it up with a whistle. “Good gracious, girl, who woulda guessed you’d turn out this fine?”

  Should she be flattered or offended? Considering their past, she latched onto the latter.

  “Now that’s a compliment,” he assured her, as if he’d read her decision.

  “Thanks,” she said, failing to disguise her sarcasm.

  “That your car I passed a couple miles back, or are you on some kind of marathon walking tour?” His chuckle had Southern-boy charm.

  “That was my car,” she said, forcing the words out through a fixed smile.

  “You need some help?”

  She kept the smile pasted in place, trying hard not to compare his offer to jumping into a pit of vipers. She’d have sacrificed manicures for a
year to have another option, but her feet throbbed, and the possibility of being forced to wear bedroom slippers in front of the cameras tomorrow morning prodded the answer from her. “A ride to the next gas station would be great.”

  He opened the door and patted the seat. “Sure thing, baby.”

  “So not your baby,” she said, climbing in with Sebbie under her arm.

  Darryl Lee grinned an infuriating grin.

  The seats had been slicked in silicone spray, and she slid backwards with a mortifying lack of grace. Sebbie grappled for footing, too, before giving up altogether and plopping down, legs spread-eagled.

  She remembered then that the seats in the Chevelle Darryl Lee had driven in high school had a similar sliding board effect. Some unsettling memories of making out in the back seat of that car floated up to the soundtrack of the two of them giggling wildly and slipping around like two fools greased with shortening.

  A speaker hung in either corner of the truck’s interior, and the low twang of bluegrass filled the awkward silence.

  “Thanks for the ride,” she said. “If you don’t mind, I’ve got somewhere to be.”

  His gaze lingered at the neckline of her dress before he slapped a hand on the steering wheel. “No problem,” he said, gunning the truck back onto the road, gravel spitting out behind them.

  Darryl Lee reached over and patted Sebbie’s head, only to receive a low rumble of complaint in return. “He looks like something the cat spit out.”

  She sliced him a glare.

  “Nice leash though. Is that Louis Vuitton?”

  "Like you would know Louis Vuitton from Wal-Mart."

  Darryl Lee laughed. "Girl, I've had a little polish since you knew me."

  Grier pulled Sebbie into her lap just as Darryl Lee gave his fingers a sniff and then drew back with an astonished, “Whew. What is that smell? You two get into something out there?”