Austentatious

by Alyssa Goodnight

  It was a gorgeous, ethereal twilight photograph of Eilean Donan Castle in the Scottish Highlands. Quickly scanning the description, I learned that it was one of Scotland’s most visited castles, overlooking three lochs, and thus “Loched In.” Blinking rapidly to pull my gaze and thoughts away, I hurriedly Googled “Loch’d In,” without the “e” this time.

  Second time was a charm. First on the list was a link for the band. Taking a deep, flutter-suppressing breath, I clicked over. Immediately a haunting rhythm began pulsing through the darkness, and the Ls, who had been quietly chatting up till now, turned to stare at me. As the page loaded, the music quickened and the volume rose to full-blooded rock. Startled, I searched frantically for the site’s Volume Off button. Not finding one, I scanned the page, searching for what I needed right that minute: definitive proof that I, Nicola James, had participated in an evening of sexy seduction.

  A hotlink for “The Band” looked promising, and clicking over, I was rewarded—there he was. All the guys were cute, but Sean was gorgeous, sending scads of butterflies swirling through me in a vortex of lust. I centered his picture on the screen, and as the music continued to pulse around us, I turned the monitor for inspection by my inquisitive, hard-sell neighbors.

  “Oh my God, is that him?” Laura blurted, for once getting the jump on Leslie.

  I nodded, remembering how I’d felt the first time I saw him. But as they stared, it occurred to me that men—even seriously sexy men—were not exactly their cup of tea. But even they had to appreciate this stunning specimen of manhood, didn’t they? I waited nervously for the sure-to-come assessment, downing another fortifying gulp of cocoa.

  This was sort of a first for us. In all the months I’d known them, I’d never really told them anything. Maybe because until now I’d never had anything to tell. Huh. Well, score one for Fairy Jane, I suppose.

  “Tell me again why you’re still wearing underwear,” Leslie demanded, all squinty-eyed and serious.

  “What is it with you and underwear?”

  “It’s a symbol—of sex and inhibitions, power and sensuality—”

  “Okay.” I held up my hand, desperately hoping to thwart an entire monologue on underwear.

  “Not those plain white cotton Jockeys, Nic. I’m talking about the good stuff—”

  “That’s a topic for another time,” I insisted. “Right now we’re talkin’ tat, and he’s it.”

  “Who is he?” Laura seemed a little in awe. Pretty impressive that the man’s jpeg could get a couple of lesbians hot and heavy. I’d gloat later.

  “He’s lead singer of a rock band called Loch’d In. They’re a showcased act at South by Southwest this year.” I was suddenly feeling very shy, staring deeply into my mug of hot chocolate. “He invited me to come to the festival and see him Thursday night, but I’m thinking I’ll probably skip it.”

  “Sounds like he’s interested,” Laura said, gently probing.

  “He seemed to be—a little—but anything beyond friends is pretty much out of the realm of possibility.”

  “Did he have a run-in with ‘The Plan’ already? Poor guy.”

  “You can nix the air quotes, Les. ‘The Plan’ actually exists. And it’s not just The Plan—it’s everything. He’s everything I’m not.” I reached for a croissant but didn’t take a bite, choosing instead to busy my hands with flaking off tiny, crumbly bits. Within seconds they were littering my edge of the table. “It would never work. I can’t be with a rock star—I don’t have the rock-star mentality. And as you so often remind me, I don’t even karaoke.”

  “You’re definitely not a rock star.” Apparently on that we could all agree. My lips had already folded themselves into a rueful line when Leslie continued, “But why should that stand in your way? Gwyneth Paltrow is a far cry from your average rock-and-roller, but she married Chris Martin and even tours with the band.”

  “Are you seriously comparing my situation to Gwyneth Paltrow’s?” The woman was a college professor, yet every conversation I had with her seemed to make so little sense. I’d always thought it was her, but what if it was me? Not a comforting thought.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m having a little trouble hitting on a perfect celebrity matchup of Scottish rocker and repressed technology engineer.”

  “My point exactly.” My smile was smug but surprisingly not all that comforting. The rest came out more as a mumble. “We have virtually nothing in common.”

  “Opposites attract, or hadn’t you heard?” Leslie was laying heavy on the sarcasm tonight.

  “Believe me, the man needs no help from a cliché. But attraction alone is not enough. Forget the insecurity, the clubs, the crazy schedule—what if he makes it big? And having met him, I have no doubt he will—then I’ll need to contend with world tours and crazy-obsessed fans and ... paparazzi!” All things to consider when determining the suitability of a career—or a boyfriend.

  “Maybe getting just a little ahead of yourself there,” Laura hinted.

  “Just out of curiosity, how’d you manage to hook up”—seeing my glare, Leslie quickly amended—“dance with the one hot Scottish rocker at a reception full of geeky engineers? No offense.”

  “None taken,” I returned, my smile a little catty. “And I have no idea. An odd twist of fate, I guess.” Or magical interference. Tomato, to-mah-to.

  Not wishing to pursue that topic any further, I disentangled myself from the blanket. “I think I’m ready to go to bed. I enjoyed our little tit-tat,” I added, smiling.

  “Sleep well,” Laura said.

  Obsessed with having the final word, Leslie chimed in with one more thinking point. “I know this is contrary to everything you believe in, but think about it, Nic. What’s the worst that could happen if you gave him a chance?”

  “I can’t even begin to imagine,” I answered honestly before hobbling away on my heels.

  I was still pondering the question ten minutes later, tucked beneath the covers with my journal settled on my lap and pencil in hand. Having shoved the heels to the back of my closet and swapped my perfect, fairy-tale dress for an über-comfortable pairing of T-shirt and pajama pants, I felt almost back to normal. With Sean, I doubted anything would ever be normal again. And that was precisely why I couldn’t take a chance on him—on us.

  Flipping the pages of the journal till I reached the next completely blank page, I was poised to say my piece.

  Little change of pace tonight ... I went to the wedding, had my cake, and surprise, surprise—I met someone.

  As you can probably imagine, I have some questions. Pretty much the basics, the five Ws:

  Who is Sean MacInnes?

  Where did you find him? And please tell me he isn’t under some sort of spell.

  What were you thinking? He’s a Rock Star, for God’s sake! This whole time I’d been thinking it was Brett—a much more appropriate, possibly even perfect match. He’s the epitome of “sensible romance,” so Why not him?

  I will admit to being very impressed—swoony even. Sean is charming and sexy and adorable and just plain perfect, except that he’s absolutely, incontrovertibly wrong for me. And I refuse to let a sketchy little arrangement, a big wow factor, and a little fairy dust trump my carefully thought-out Plan—

  Well, hell. I had to switch to pen. My pencil just broke under the pressure. I guess you could say I feel pretty strongly about people messing with my head ... and my life.

  It’s been a long night. I’m going to bed now, knowing it’ll be impossible not to think of him in a wistful, what-if sort of way. Just one more question:

  When will tonight stop feeling so bittersweet?

  I tipped the journal closed and laid it on the bed beside me. I’d pretty much resigned myself to the magical goings-on inside this little book, despite not having a clue how to explain or understand them. But I absolutely refused to bow under the pressure. Sean MacInnes was not a romance I planned to indulge in. I folded my lips into a determined line. Take that, Fairy Jane. As far
as character types went, Sean was the epitome of handsome and charming bad boy Henry Crawford. Not exactly my match made in heaven.

  And yet, with the lights doused, the darkness felt charged and mysterious, and despite my good intentions, I couldn’t resist the flood of tingly memories. I remembered every second, every smile, every smirk and soft glance. In less than two minutes, I was flinging off the covers to keep from singeing the sheets. Eventually, in the private darkness of my own bedroom, I gave in and let my fingers trip gently over the spot he’d kissed, holding on to the memory, letting go of the man. After that, I slid into a dream involving a field of heather and some carelessly tossed skirts—it was impossible to tell whose, because he was most definitely wearing a kilt.

  8

  change of Plan—pencil him in.

  Even a truly excellent dream couldn’t take the edge off Fairy Jane’s latest infuriating instruction: pencil him in?

  Bossy, cheeky, impossible to get along with ... No wonder Jane Austen had never married.

  A little bitterness eased out of me as I realized that last jab wasn’t fair. As far as I knew, this whole situation had absolutely nothing to do with the literary darling. Beck had broached the idea of Jane Austen as the voice behind the journal, and I’d latched onto her, the familiar in an outlandish situation, a writer who’d made a career out of impossible matchmaking and happily-ever-afters. Right now I was hanging my sanity on a Jane Austen obsession, because without a face, a name, a personality, there was nothing—it was all a nebulous mystery. And yet, it was almost as if Mr. Darcy of the Journal was warning me off the unsuitable Wickham, a.k.a. Brett Tilson. As if.

  Goose bumps were popping up like pinpricks along my arms as I hurried down the hall to the living room and unceremoniously shoved the journal into the bookcase, hoping, I suppose, that this simple act would relegate these recent bits of advice to the realm of romantic fiction. Completely separate from me and my well-ordered life.

  I stared at the journal’s black leather spine, conscious of the fact that the little book looked pretty comfortable leaning on P&P, as if the two were gossipy old friends. I crossed my arms over my chest and turned away. This latest directive had left no room for interpretation. It was personal now—on a whole new level—and I was feeling pretty pissy.

  I rubbed at the goose bumps, wishing this staggering feeling of vulnerability would disappear too.

  How was it possible that I’d hooked up with Sean, a whirling dervish of mischief and charm, in a reception full of geeks? It boggled the mind. Unless Fairy Jane had truly conjured him—or meddled in whatever way that fairies do.

  Quite the dizzying one-eighty for a girl who didn’t believe in magic two short days ago. I didn’t want to think about it. Not to mention the possibility that Fairy Jane might have stepped outside the bounds of the journal—I most certainly wasn’t ready to deal with that.

  I still needed to call the number we’d weaseled out of the Shop Nazi’s computer: a Mr. Elijah Nelson. But nine on a Sunday morning felt a little too early to be discussing magical journals with strangers.

  I needed something to keep my hands busy and my mind occupied. Today could very well be the perfect day for the Samoa cupcake recipe I’d stumbled across on a delectable little cupcake blog. Inspired by the much-loved Girl Scout Cookie, it involved a brown sugar butter cupcake spread with chocolate ganache, topped with a toasted coconut macaroon cap, and finished with a drizzle of ganache. I’d put off making it, slightly intimidated by its complexity. But today a challenge was exactly what I needed.

  Tying on my apron, I did a quick check for ingredients and began pulling out the necessary baking paraphernalia and mentally breaking down the recipe into a series of mini tasks. I was sliding a tray of golden brown coconut back out of the oven when the phone rang.

  “Wanna get brunch?” Gabe offered.

  Glancing behind me at my cupcakes in progress and then at the clock, which read quarter to ten, I said, “What time?” Not being in on the Big Secret, Gabe was the ideal companion right now.

  “Noon?”

  “That’ll work. Where’d you have in mind?”

  “How about Moonshine?”

  Perfect. Slightly upscale but down-to-earth.

  “See ya there.”

  I glanced again at the clock the moment I hung up and decided to risk the temper of Mr. Elijah Nelson.

  As the phone rang at the other end, I squared my shoulders and psyched myself up for an awkward conversation. On the fifth ring, I felt my shoulders slump a little in disappointment. On the tenth, I gave up on him having an answering machine and actually pulled the phone away from my ear. With my thumb poised over the End button, I was jolted back to attention as a gravelly old voice rumbled over the line.

  “Hello? Hello?”

  I slapped the phone back against my ear and stuttered to catch up, to be heard over the third, rather cantankerous “Hello?”

  “Hello—hi. I’m here.”

  “Well, where the hell were you?”

  Okay, so he was a little prickly in the morning.... “I was here, I just didn’t have the phone up against my ear.” Start out competent, that’s the ticket.

  “Well, you were hoping to talk to someone, weren’t ya?”

  “Yes. Sir. Yes, I was. Are you Mr. Nelson—Mr. Elijah Nelson?”

  “Who’s askin’?”

  “Um ... my name is Nicola James, Mr. Nelson. I’m up in Austin, and I got your number from the owner of Violet’s Crown Antique Shop—”

  “Violet who?”

  I shook my head, trying to dispel the confusion. “No, sir, Violet’s is an antique shop.” I heard myself getting louder and tried to relax. “The owner recently purchased a lady’s boudoir table from you.”

  I was really hoping this was enough to jog his memory.

  “I got rid of plenty a while back, all at the Trade Days, before I moved down here to New Braunfels, and into Misty Glen. But I can’t say as I remember who bought what. I never tried to pass anything off as a valuable antique. Don’t tell me that Violet charlatan did.”

  “No, sir,” I hurried to assure him. “She didn’t.” Or if she did, I didn’t know about it. “I’m actually calling to ask about a journal she found in one of the drawers—it’s black, with a fancy brass key plate and a little doorknob.”

  Silence.

  “Is this ringing any bells for you?”

  “Don’t you worry, young lady, I can keep up just fine. I watch Jeopardy! every afternoon—I could give those contestants a run for their money.”

  My lips curled into a grin, but I kept silent, sensing he wasn’t finished.

  “Harrumph. So that’s where that book was hiding. Good riddance as far as I’m concerned. And as for you, young lady, what is it they say? Caveat emptor—I think that’s right.”

  My smile suddenly melted away, and I stood straighter, my lower back rigid against the kitchen counter.

  “Caveat emptor? Let the buyer beware? Why do you say that?”

  “All that magic mumbo jumbo. Cat would have done just fine without it.”

  “Who’s Cat?” I felt breathless and urgent.

  “My sister.” The words sounded bitter, sad, and resigned. “Supposed to marry my best friend. Everything, all of it, arranged—until she stumbled across that journal.”

  He stopped there, and with no other choice, I waited. I wanted answers, and I was willing to forgo good manners and bust out the nosy curiosity, but first I needed to get my voice back. Because right now I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t get a single word out. All I could think was that I wasn’t the first. This journal had belonged to someone else, worked its magic on someone else. I was, rather unbelievably, on the right track here—I just needed a little more information. Closing my eyes, I took a deep, shuddering breath and tried to inhale a little patience, a little calm to temper the piston firing of my heart.

  “What happened then?” I finally asked quietly, reverently.

  “Cat called off the we
dding and hared off to parts unknown with big ideas.”

  “What sort of big ideas?” The words caught in my throat, but I forced them out. I needed to hear this story.

  “The war was on, and Cat wanted to be where things were happening. In the thick of it, I suppose. Always was a busybody.”

  “And the journal?” I cringed inwardly, suspecting I knew the answer.

  “When she broke it off with Tyler, she told me it was her journal’s idea. I thought that was bullshit and told her so, so she showed me the page with the words, one little bossy instruction: ‘Don’t marry him.’ ’Course I accused her of writing it herself. So then she slid the key into the lock—”

  “Hold on. There isn’t a key—or a lock. The key plate is just decorative.” Could this possibly be a mistake? Was there another magical journal floating around somewhere between here and Fredericksburg? Beck would be thrilled.

  “It’s all part of the ruse,” he assured me, an edge to his voice. “And once she turned the key, it was impossible not to believe her. Her words reappeared—and everyone else’s right along with them—”

  I heard a rushing pop in my ears, and my eyes telescoped, seeing only the journal, propped innocently beside P&P in the bookshelf. Everyone else’s?

  “And I read them. Didn’t change my mind, but hers was made up. So she left, taking the book with her.”

  Now we were getting somewhere....

  “So how did you ... ?” At this point I didn’t even know which part of this whole thing to try to wrap my head around first.

  “She died. In England. And that magic book of hers got shipped over in a brown box with the rest of her personal effects. Right about now you’re probably wishing that book had been forgotten across the pond somewhere, aren’t ya?”