“And the hits just keep on comin’.” Leslie laughed, not the slightest bit put out that she happened to be the evening’s punching bag. “Bring ’em on!” She lifted her glass of Merlot and toasted us all. Swallowing down a gulp, she trained her eyes on me, waiting.
“He went back to Scotland,” Beck inserted, punctuating her statement with a sip of water.
All eyes swiveled toward me. Whether they were looking for confirmation, a reaction, or a breakdown, I couldn’t say, but I kept my expression carefully neutral.
“Well, that sucks,” Laura grumped.
“You know you could go cavewoman on his ass. Haul him right back here ...” Leslie had dropped her voice and was rearranging her silverware.
“Tempting as that sounds, I don’t think I’m that girl.”
We were all quiet for a moment before Leslie raised her glass. “On to the next one, then! May he be fully compatible—with no bugs. Little computer humor for you.”
I clinked my glass against theirs but felt oddly disloyal. Sean was still too fresh in my mind. But luckily, he was no longer a topic of conversation. Chatter turned to weekend plans—Beck and Gabe were going on a roadtrip in search of finger-lickin’-good Hill Country barbeque, and Laura and Leslie were attending their costume party as Austin Powers and Dr. Evil. I was doing nothing of note.
Dinner proceeded without incident, and for me, without meat. With Laura on my left, pressuring me to eschew (i.e., not chew) beef, chicken, pork, and shrimp in favor of tofu, I struck a compromise and ordered the spicy green beans. It wasn’t until the waiter brought the little silver tray of fortune cookies that the trouble started.
Desperately wanting something other than a green bean, I reached for the first cookie.
I dispensed with the crinkly wrapper and cracked open the smooth, crispy cookie, separating the halves, freeing the fortune. I tugged it out, suddenly craving a random, ambiguous bit of wisdom completely unrelated to Fairy Jane’s little orchestrated fairy tale. No such luck. She’d had her fingers in the cookie jar too.
An optimist sees the opportunity in every difficulty.
My thoughts flashed with heart-wrenching images of Sean in the moments before I let him go.
Without thinking, without even considering, I dropped my cookie and its shitty fortune onto the green beans and reached for a second cookie. Wrenching that one open even faster, a woman on a mission, my eyes scanned the string of red words.
The heart is wiser than the intellect.
Fairy Jane had struck again.
“Shit!” I tossed that one down too and grabbed a third, scrabbling with the cellophane wrapper.
“Nic?” Beck sounded concerned, but right now, I couldn’t be bothered.
As I was cracking open my third cookie, I noticed Leslie’s arm snaking past the soy sauce and snaring the last one on the tray, her wrist skimming dangerously over the candle flame. I noticed, but didn’t particularly care. Right this second, it was all about the fortune I had in my hand.
Of all forms of caution, caution in love is the most fatal.
Oooh! She was just toying with me now!
I let both fortune and cookie fall from my fingers and eyed Leslie and that last cookie, suddenly obsessed with finding one fortune that didn’t make my stomach roll with nausea. One optimistic fortune that didn’t make me cringe with regret. One whimsical, unrelated fortune that could keep me from spewing curses on the interfering, intangible head of my resident fairy godmother!
They couldn’t all be like this. There had to be at least one cookie on this table that was meant for me—one cookie to confirm that I hadn’t made a truly terrible mistake. There simply had to be.
“Give me the cookie, Leslie.”
I knew I wasn’t being polite, or even sane, for that matter. But I’d put up with a lot from Leslie, and dammit, it was my turn.
“Give me a reason,” she said with a maniacal smile, clutching the cookie like it was a grenade, and she was about to lose it. Her mind, I mean.
I took a deep breath and then another. In this semirelaxed state of pseudo calm, I figured it couldn’t hurt to come clean. “I just want to read the fortune.”
“What’s wrong with all the other ones?” she asked, gesturing to the cookie carcasses strewn across my plate.
“They’re not mine,” I told her, feeling like an idiot but unwilling to back down. The woman was holding my fortune hostage, and she was pissing me off.
Laura’s eyes were flicking between my face and the discarded little fortunes, and I could tell she was itching to ask why not. Beck was agog and very likely wondering if Fairy Jane had gotten to the cookies before I did.
“Why is that?” The epitome of polite, Leslie was either trying to talk me down off my personal ledge or else she was just desperate for a cookie. I’d say it was fifty-fifty.
“They just aren’t,” I said. “Just give me the cookie. I’ll open it and hand you back the pieces.”
“Why don’t I open the cookie and hand you the fortune?” Rarely one for a compromise, Leslie was clearly digging deep.
“Because it doesn’t work like that. You can’t just hand over a fortune—they’re not transferable.” It occurred to me that I was digging myself a hole.
Leslie stared pointedly at the crumbled pile in front of me.
“Well, then what are you going to do with those?”
Dropping my gaze from its lock with hers, I eyed the votive candle positioned between us, in the center of the table. I’d never been the sort of person who burned things, and even in my current wacko mind-set, I was pretty sure I didn’t want to be that person, but desperate times ...
Luckily, Leslie offered to make a deal.
“Tell you what,” she said, holding the still-wrapped cookie between thumb and forefinger, positioning it temptingly at eye level. “I’ll trade you the fortune in this cookie for the other three.” Pointing to the mess on my plate, she added, “I get to keep the cookie.” Her gaze shifted to mine. “Deal?”
I spared a moment to glance around the table, cringing inwardly, before eventually turning back to my plate. The reject fortunes were arrayed on top, barely stained with spicy sauce.
“Fine,” I agreed, gathering the slips. I extended both hands, being careful of the candle. The fortunes were in my left hand, closed inside my fist, and my right hand was open, waiting for Leslie to drop the cookie into my palm.
She let her hands hover over mine, her fingers primed to grab the fortunes at precisely the same moment she relinquished the cookie. The exchange went without a hitch, the cookie dropping cleanly into my palm and the fortunes quickly, greedily gathered into hers.
I felt calmer the instant I had the cookie in my hot little hand. But still riding a desperate streak, I figured it couldn’t hurt to harness the power of positive thinking. Closing my eyes, I inhaled a deep, cleansing breath and imagined the fortune I’d like to see:
Congratulations, your instincts are dead-on.
Admittedly, that would have been the ideal fortune in this situation, but having selfishly seized and strip-searched every last cookie on the table, I was finally getting the fact that these were just random fortunes. It was sheer coincidence that we’d ended up with these particular four—it meant nothing. Except that Fairy Jane had turned me into a superstitious wacko.
And yet ... at this very moment, wacko or not, it meant everything.
With considerably more intense concentration than a cellophane-wrapped cookie should merit, I ripped into it, while at the edges of my peripheral vision, Laura, Beck, and Leslie perused my rejects. But as I cracked open that last cookie, all eyes were on me, waiting to see how I might react. With my pulse pounding insistently in my ears, I pulled the fortune from its cookie confines and smoothed it open between my thumbs and forefingers.
My eyes scanned the words, tumbling them out of order, and leaving me with a nonsensical jumble. It was possible too that my synapses were sluggish and out of sorts and were refusing tra
nslation. Blinking rapidly, I tried again.
Love is the triumph of imagination over intelligence.
H. L. Menken
Everything fell away but that misshapen parallelogram of paper—the fourth in a series—that read like a message from above ... or beyond. Was it possible I was reading too much into these trite little sayings? That I was letting my obsession with Sean and his abrupt departure, not to mention Fairy Jane’s involvement, twist words and meanings in my mind? Was there a chance I was seeing hidden meaning where there was none? Or had Fairy Jane’s magic wand truly extended into innocent little cookies?
I would have killed for the ever-popular, always ridiculous You love Chinese food fortune right about now.
I could feel the regret starting to close in, its clammy hold grasping at everything. It came over me with the stunning power of a tidal wave, and its undertow was brutal. I regretted ever trusting in a magical journal, letting my guard down with Sean and then yanking it back up at the worst possible moment. And I regretted tearing into all four fortune cookies and the fact that I was now going to be subjected to a sympathetic but rousing pep talk when all I wanted was to slink away on my own, curl into a ball, and decide what to do.
Because clearly, I had to do something.
“It’s only a fortune, Nic.” Laura’s voice was quiet, soothing.
“Well, four,” Leslie clarified. “Pretty big coincidence, if you ask me.” Judging by the quirk of her lips, Leslie was both impressed and befuddled by the whole situation.
Wrinkling her nose a little in consideration, Beck suggested, “Maybe today holds some sort of astrological significance for you.”
“Like sexy planet rising over shy and quiet little moon?” Leslie cackled at her own joke, earning herself a collection of dirty looks from the rest of us. “What? I think writing horoscopes could be a blast.”
“I’ve known him less than a week.” The words came tumbling out, and I was too overwhelmed to stop them. “I wasn’t looking for anyone and certainly not him, but he charmed his way in. He made me imagine how it could all, just possibly, work out, and I just followed trustingly along.” My shoulders slumped in remembered defeat. “But then it became an international incident. If I were to go for it now, I’d have to contend with airlines, passports, customs, time zones, exorbitant cell phone charges, driving on the wrong side of the road, incessant drizzle ...”
“Pick me up a couple Toblerones and a bottle of Scotch whisky at duty-free.” I shifted my gaze to Leslie, marginally derailed. “When you get it all worked out,” she clarified.
“I like to stop at the duty-free shop.” The little Seinfeld ditty was Beck’s contribution to the muddle.
I decided to put a stop to it just as Laura chimed in. “Okay, enough!” A little karate-chop motion, and the table fell silent. “I never said I was going to Scotland. I was expounding on the fateful twists my life has taken in the last week, pondering what to do, and all you three can contribute is commentary on duty-free!”
“It’s only a matter of time, sweetie. I’m just trying to get my order in early,” Leslie said, sitting back to sip her wine.
“What makes you so sure—and smug?” I demanded.
“You’re in love with him, and you let him go. Now you’ve got four fortune cookies busting your ass, and you’re waffling.” Damn, was she smug. “Sean is your sexy coincidence, Nic. You know Lizzy would agree with me.” Raising her eyebrows in that “you know I’m right” way she had, Leslie waited as I mulled this over.
“Lizzy who?” Beck had switched from pity-partygoer to avid curiosity seeker in the space of a second.
“Elizabeth Bennet,” I clarified, grudgingly admitting to myself that for once, Leslie was spot-on: Sean was my sexy coincidence. He was my Mr. Darcy. Fairy Jane had been hyping him all along.
Beck pondered this a moment and then said, “I think this would blow Lizzy’s mind.” She leaned in, nudging her plate with her hands, and added, “You know, you’re like a character from one of Austen’s novels now.”
“No, I’m not.” I shook my head, bobbleheading again.
“Oh yes, you are, and it’s your turn for a happily-ever-after and a Darcy of your very own. You have to go!” Beck insisted.
“And stop at duty-free,” Leslie reminded me.
“Who would have imagined you’d end up with a Brit?” Laura added.
“But what about all that other stuff?” I asked desperately.
“Trivial in the face of true love,” Leslie answered. “Didn’t The Princess Bride teach you anything? Sheesh.”
Is this true love? I’m not sure. But there’s only one way to find out.
“But what if he doesn’t want me back?”
“Seduce him.” It was Leslie who answered, but the other two nodded in sage agreement.
“But what if I start to resent him and—”
“Don’t do that,” Laura interjected in a voice she might use to talk to a three-year-old.
“But what if I’m not ready?” This was really the crux of it all.
“I have an idea,” announced Leslie, a huge grin settling over her face as her eyes twinkled with mischief. All eyes swiveled in her direction, braced against the very worst. “Do a test run—try something you wouldn’t have before Sean but that isn’t too terribly out of range for you now, in your ... chrysalis of Weird.” It was evident she felt as awkward saying that last bit as we did hearing it.
As an idea, it wasn’t half-bad. As an idea from Leslie, it was outstanding: nary a crude, unmentionable, or objectionable aspect in sight. Within seconds suggestions were flying around the table: a tattoo. A piercing. Body shots. Cliff-diving. Hippie Hollow. It was at that point that I felt compelled to intercede.
“I’m shooting for a mini-adventure, Leslie. I think a visit to the city’s token nude beach is more than I care to take on right now. And I’m afraid that’s all the time we have,” I announced in the mellow slide of my game-show-hostess voice. Not counting my little bribe to foot the bill for dessert at Amy’s Ice Cream, that was all it took to turn the conversation.
I had much to consider.
19
In which Cinderella storms the castle
Believe it or not, I’d settled on getting my navel pierced. Right up until I’d Googled it. Turns out the healing process runs from four months to a year! Considering the possibility of infections and a selection of less-than-desirable diseases, the adventure du jour promptly fizzled flat. With no particular fondness for any of the other outlandish suggestions, I skittishly considered the option of going for the whole enchilada, chips all in. Within seconds I was typing “Loched In” back into the search window.
I’d memorized the band’s URL, but with all this talk of Scotland, I was in the mood to see that photograph I’d stumbled over days ago—the ethereal castle poised on the edge of silent lochs, hovering serenely between the depths of sky above and water below. Lingering over it again had my thoughts turning to fairy magic, making me wonder whether it was foolish to fight it. And even downright dangerous to bury it in the laundry bin.
The spell was soon broken, though, and shaking free of those wispy thoughts, I typed in the band’s URL, prepared this time for the musical onslaught. As the site cycled through snatches of various songs, I pored over every detail, every picture, every word, rather startled with myself for not having indulged in this little vicarious thrill while Sean was still on my home turf. Then again, he’d kept me pretty busy.
I tried not to let my mind linger overly long on certain, particularly fond memories, but it was a definite tussle to stay on track. Navigating back to the band’s bio page, I reread Sean’s blurb. He hailed from the picturesque village of Dornie and began singing in the local pub as just a lad; he played guitar, piano, and if sweet-talked, the bagpipes as well. He was also a firm believer in the famed monster of Loch Ness and hoped the band’s music shared a little of the magic of Scotland with the rest of the world.
Suddenly I wasn�
�t just lusting over the man but the country as well.
What if I went?
Out loud (and straight from Leslie’s mouth) the idea seemed absurd. But I wasn’t the same girl anymore—I’d outgrown a lot of things, I’d changed. And with the haunting music of Loch’d In niggling at my subconscious, a little international adventure seemed like an exhilarating possibility.
Pulling up Google Maps, I typed in Dornie, Scotland, and searched around a bit, zooming in and out, checking for airports, calculating distances. The village was on the edge of three lochs: Loch Alsh, Loch Duich, and Loch Long.
Something was skirting the edges of my memory. I pulled up the castle again and read the artist’s description. Eilean Donan Castle sat at the join of three lochs—the very same three! My fingers skimmed over the keys as I Googled the castle, and as I read, they begin to shake ever so slightly. That glorious, steeped-in-history, edged-in-mystery “Loched In” castle was just outside the village of Dornie, home of the band “Loch’d In.” I couldn’t decide whether it was coincidence or fate. Or possibly even magic.
My mind started zinging with what-ifs.
I’d visited Scotland once, about two years ago, for work, and it had been wet, green, and chock full of rowdy, rosy-cheeked, laugh-a-minute, deliciously accented people. I’d lived in a hotel for seven days, sick for six of them, ordering room service and longing for ice cubes. On that last day, I’d trudged out, taken the train to Edinburgh, and indulged in a gorgeous adventure via window seat. As lilting conversation buzzed around me and the hedgerows whizzed past, my thoughts had run to the filmed-on-location BBC adaptations of Miss Austen’s masterpieces. Staring out into the drizzly gray, I’d daydreamt of country dances, frilly bonnets, and curly haired gentlemen.
Those remembered mental images had me newly wondering whether Fairy Jane’s competency was sufficient to direct my own whirlwind romance nearly two hundred years beyond her expertise. In her defense, Jane had ensured, in each of her novels, that things had all come out right in the end, romantically speaking. Not to mention the fact that she’d somehow found a way to provide happily-ever-afters for those intrepid journalers in the years in between. With Sean in Scotland and me in Austin—and a vacuum between us—this was hard comfort. But given a couple minutes, I just might get around to fixing that.
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