Jane of Austin

by Hillary Manton Lodge

  Clint nodded at my leg. “It’s hard to defend your country and your family at the same time. You did what you could.”

  Maybe. I’d also been hiding from the life I’d left behind in Austin. Rather than say so, I took another drink.

  “I also found the guy who left her here,” Clint said. “If you’re interested.”

  I set my bottle down, harder than intended. “Sean Willis?”

  “Sean Willis,” Clint repeated with a string of insults, not a single one unwarranted.

  “Unless he lied to a friend of mine, he’s in Nashville.”

  “You know him?”

  My jaw tightened. “Yep.”

  Clint gave a low growl.

  “I’ll make sure he pays child support,” I said.

  “Just as long as he pays,” Clint answered, and I knew he wasn’t limiting payment to that monetary support for his unborn offspring.

  I thought back to the day I’d gotten the call. Everyone had been there. Nina being Nina—I thought back to her words as I left. And if it’s to do with her, then I wish you well. Let me know if there’s any way I can be of assistance.

  Had Lila’s name come up after I’d left the room? Discreet wasn’t a word I’d ever apply to Nina.

  Did Sean hear Lila’s name and run? I considered the possibility. Was he that much of a coward? Even as I asked the question, I knew the answer. After leaving Lila behind, running away and leaving Jane was far from out of the question.

  I’d seen them together, seen them too many times. I’d seen how he’d looked at Jane, as if she’d hung the moon. I’d seen her in moonlight myself, and I wasn’t about to rule out the possibility.

  Well, Sean had run away to Nashville to escape his sins, leaving Jane behind. He’d already begun to pay.

  The next several days were spent hacking through the paperwork and bureaucracy necessary to arrange Lila’s travel documents. There were calls and e-mails and ultimately contact with our shared congressional office. Clint stayed as well, saying he was due for a vacation.

  Despite calling it a vacation, he made nearly as many calls as I did, calling in favors to get Lila’s case expedited as quickly as possible. After two weeks, the color had come back to Lila’s cheeks. Her shoulders relaxed, and her familiar old smile crept back.

  Clint and I made sure she ate; he watched her like a hawk, and I didn’t begrudge him his feelings. He didn’t say much, but his actions had declared his intentions to be deeply honorable.

  “He bought me vitamins,” Lila confessed to me one day. “Lectured me on the importance of folic acid.”

  “He’s a good guy.”

  “So are you. I forgot y’all existed,” she admitted wryly. “I shouldn’t have, but I did.”

  “There are a few of us.”

  We sat at the edge of the hotel pool, an activity she’d confessed was a recent favorite. “When I worked at the last hotel, I wanted to swim so badly and couldn’t.”

  “There’s a pool at my place,” I told her. “And you can swim there every day, if you want.” I kicked my one leg in the water, feeling the swoosh of the water between my toes. “I want you to know that you’ll always have a place with me, at the Hyde Park house.”

  Lila began to shake her head. “Cal, I couldn’t…”

  I cut her off. “You could and should. I’m also going to have papers drawn up to give you part ownership of Smoky Top.”

  “No,” she protested, but I held up a hand.

  “It’s what Cameron should have done. The way he treated you—it shouldn’t have happened, is what I’m saying. I just want to make it right.”

  Lila lifted a foot, sending a spray of water skittering across the pool surface. “I shouldn’t have married him. Maybe I got what I deserved.”

  “Nobody deserved that. There are four bedrooms at the Hyde Park place, far too much room for me and Dash.”

  She smiled. “I love that you have a dog now.”

  “He’ll love you. You can stay as long as you like.”

  “I’ll pay you rent, once I have a job.”

  “If you want,” I told her, deciding in that moment to set it aside in a fund for the baby.

  She leaned back on her arms and looked at me sideways. “How come you’re not married?”

  Heaven help me, I thought of Jane. I sent up a prayer for her; who knew how she was faring in the wake of Sean’s mess. If I hadn’t been in the middle of a conversation with Lila, I would have sent Ian a text asking after her.

  “There is someone,” she said, squinting at my face. “I’ll be. Cal Beckett, in love at last.”

  I felt my face flush, entirely without my permission. Lila saw it and hooted.

  “Cal’s in love,” she repeated, shaking her head. “What’s she like?”

  “First off, it’s complicated,” I told her, only to be met by a magnificent set of rolled eyes. “Secondly, she’s been in a relationship until recently, and I don’t think she even looks at me that way.”

  “Why not? Look at you!” More rolling of the eyes.

  “And third…I don’t know,” I said, hedging.

  “Tell me about her.”

  A smile tilted my lips. “At first, she reminded me of you.”

  “Shut up.”

  “She’s about your height, curly hair like yours.”

  “You have a type.”

  I shrugged. “You’re…a little more easygoing.”

  “I’ve never been called easygoing in my life. How neurotic can she be?”

  “Single-minded, I think is more accurate. She cares about things, little things, more than anyone else might, but when she explains it she makes you care too, or at least see why she does. She won’t like someone—or something—because she’s supposed to, but when she does it’s with her whole self.”

  “You’re in love with her.”

  I shrugged.

  “So what’s the holdup? Why haven’t you swept her off her feet yet? And don’t say your leg; that’s stupid.”

  I shot her a wry glance. “Not entirely stupid.”

  “Completely stupid.”

  “Lila…”

  “I’m not saying what you’ve been through is easy, Cal. I’m sure there have been repercussions that I can’t even imagine. But if she doesn’t fall for you because of your leg? That’s her fault and not yours.”

  “She was seeing a guy,” I told her, choosing my words carefully. “A guy she thought the world of, and they were dating until recently.”

  “They’ve broken up though?”

  “They have.”

  She shook her head. “If I were less selfish, I would send you back to the States to go get her.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “And I’m not letting you. Like I said—if I were less selfish. I’m not. I’m not letting you out of my sight until I’m back stateside. And when I get back? I’m going to kiss the tarmac, like the pope.”

  “The pope kissed the tarmac?”

  “Every country. It’s a thing.”

  “Really? Why?”

  Lila heaved a sigh. “I’m not Catholic, how would I know?”

  “This conversation has taken a very strange turn.”

  “Whatever. What’s her name?”

  I hesitated, but saw there was no help for it. Not if she was moving back to Austin, into my house. “Jane. Jane Woodward.”

  “She sounds very sensible. Are you sure she has a sense of humor?”

  The sound of Jane’s laugh came to mind, and I smiled at the memory. “I am.”

  “Well, I hope we get back soon. You’ve wasted too much time on me.”

  “Never,” I told her. “Never a waste.”

  She tipped her head. “Who’s watching that dog of yours?”

  “The Woodward sisters,” I admitted, feeling my face flush all over again.

  “You’ve got it bad.”

  I sighed in defeat; there was no arguing, because she wasn’t wrong.

  23


  Don’t trade our love for tea and sympathy.

  —JARS OF CLAY

  Jane

  News of my breakup with Sean spread exactly as quickly as I might have guessed, knowing our relations as I did.

  Celia found me that afternoon, still on the kitchen floor in a sad puddle of my own tears, clutching at a stoic yet confused Dash. She asked what was wrong, and I felt my mouth dry out. The words could barely pass from my lips. Sean was leaving for Nashville; we’d broken up.

  She frowned, her brows furrowed in confusion, and I realized she was making a lot of the expressions I’d made at her when she and Teddy had broken up—except that she hadn’t been a puddled mess on the floor.

  I cried for two weeks.

  Truly, I felt as though my brain had ceased its ability to function. I filled Internet orders…and cried. Watched Celia leave to look at properties…and cried. I baked…and cried.

  In the morning I would reach for my phone to check for a text from him and…nothing.

  No texts.

  No texts, notes, e-mails, phone calls. We went from seeing each other nearly every day to nothing.

  Nothing at all.

  I wondered about him. Was he settled into his new place in Nashville? Did he miss me anywhere as much as I missed him?

  Without Sean, I missed San Francisco more than ever. I missed the sense of being home. When orders came in from our regulars, I found myself tucking small notes into the packaging, notes about hoping all was well in the Bay.

  I dreamed about our old shop. Simple dreams, nothing notable other than the location. Austin felt even more alien than before.

  Celia hovered close, bringing me foil-covered dinner plates from the big house. The three of us watched Paul Feig comedies and laughed, and I’d tuck the spare laughter into my heart to hold me until I could sleep.

  Margot traded bunks with me so that I could sleep with Dash next to my bed. If I woke in the night, the sound of his sleepy snuffles soothed my anxiety until I could fall back asleep. If I reached for a paw during the night—or, one time, his nose—he didn’t mind.

  After two weeks, I agreed to go to dinner at the big house with Celia and Margot. I’d had hopes, beforehand, that perhaps Lyndsay wouldn’t be there and the breakup might go unremarked upon.

  My hopes were in vain.

  “I never liked him,” Lyndsay said when she saw me. “He seemed unreliable. You’re much better without him.”

  “I don’t know what that boy is thinking,” Nina said after giving me a bracingly tight hug. “Anyone could tell he was in love with you. Does he have commitment issues, do you think? Was he unloved as a child?”

  “I don’t know,” I told her honestly.

  “Those musicians, they don’t always know what they want. Believe you me, I spent my fair share of time with musicians in my day.”

  “Your husband?” Margot asked. “Was he a musician?”

  “Producer. Less exciting, more stable.”

  “Google Michael Hennings,” Ian said with a nod. “The man has a Wikipedia page. Nina too.”

  “There’s no need to send people to Google,” Mariah admonished her husband.

  “No need to be ashamed of it, either,” Nina told her daughter, and I knew then I was listening to a very old family argument. “The music money did very well for us; it paid for Wellesley like you wanted.”

  “I spoke to Charlie earlier today,” Mariah offered, smoothly redirecting the conversation. “Charlie is my sister, you know,” she informed the rest of us before continuing. “She and Pierce have finished building their lake house, and she floated the idea of having us all over. And she invited everyone,” Mariah added, nodding to me and Celia, as well as Lyndsay. “Charlie loves a full house.”

  “Really?” Lyndsay asked, eyes wide. “A lake house? That’s so kind!”

  “Charlie is a born hostess.” Nina beamed in pride. “Voted ‘most sociable’ at her sorority all five years running.”

  “Perhaps,” Mariah added, “if she’d been less sociable, she might have graduated in four years. But Charlie hates to be rushed at anything.”

  “Leave your sister alone,” Nina admonished. “Mark my words, each one of her sorority sisters has gone off into the world, every one of them a contact for the future. At any rate, she and I spoke as well. She’s putting the finishing touches on the lake house and suggested we come out for a visit at the end of the music festival.” She shook her head. “I get so confused these days, with the music and the technology and the film. But Michael’s company sends me tickets by the fistful every year, of course, and I thought to myself, what a fun thing that would be for our young guests!”

  “Really?” Margot gaped in surprise. “That would be amazing!”

  “You have school part of that time,” I reminded her, fully expecting an eye roll. She did not disappoint.

  “I spoke to a friend of mine,” Nina continued. “One of the women at the label that Mike used to work with. She was telling me about an artist they’re promoting during the festival, and I told her about my young friends opening a tea shop, and we agreed that it could be a good fit. I vouched for your scones, heaven knows how many of them I’ve eaten!” She waggled a finger at us. “Vicki is too busy to come sample, so she’s trusting me on this one, and I trust you won’t let me down.”

  It was Celia’s turn to gasp. “Oh, Nina!”

  “Don’t thank me! The success of your shop will be thanks enough. I love seeing strong women succeed and so does Vicki. But”—she raised a playful eyebrow—“should you also attract the eye of a good man while we’re there, I can’t promise not to be thrilled.”

  The promise of a catering gig at South by Southwest did indeed lift my spirits. But more than that? I knew Sean’s band would be playing there. I knew—knew—that he had to be miserable. He had to be missing me. I remembered the way he didn’t meet my eyes. Nina’s statement had gotten me thinking. Was it really as simple as a difficulty with commitment? That day by the river, he’d told me, told me that he would always love me.

  That kind of sentiment didn’t evaporate in twenty-four hours, did it?

  So maybe…just maybe, I could try to see him while he was in town. Try to find out if there was anything left in that sentiment, anything left worth clinging to. If there wasn’t, that was an entirely different bridge to cross. But if there was? It would be worth it. He was worth it.

  With the catering gig and the promise of seeing Sean, I set to work.

  First, we sent a thank-you box to Vicki with a selection of my favorite tea blends and scones, cream scones I knew would be just as delicious the second or even third day, if wrapped well. I packaged it up with printed tissue paper and overnighted it to Vicki’s office in Nashville.

  Vicki had, in turn, sent us a copy of the musician’s album.

  Celia and I listened together. Ruby Lou Shaw was an up-and-comer, and from the opening bars, I knew why Vicki was excited about her. The sound was light and catchy, with a variety of skillful instrumentation. There were ukuleles that would have sounded cliché if they hadn’t been paired with lyrics so contrastingly cynical. There was a mandolin, two nice piano tracks, and a violin. The album included videos of Ruby performing, and we watched, rapt, as Ruby easily shifted from one instrument to another even while singing a complicated run of lyrics.

  We’d had a conference call with Vicki and Nina that morning, and the biggest decision to come out of that was the plan to focus on iced teas.

  Iced teas were different from my normal standard, that was for sure. Because, while it wasn’t hard to have a large variety of tea leaves on hand to brew for a customer, the very temperature of iced tea prevented spontaneity. There were some teas that could be brewed strong and then iced, but others would turn bitter if oversteeped.

  The solution was simple, just different for us. We’d prepare a selection of iced teas that we could serve quickly out of oversized carafes.

  “What if,” I said, “we offered, say, four
teas for people to choose from? I can make four different blends.”

  “That sounds good,” Celia agreed.

  I widened my eyes. “And we can name them after the songs.”

  “Vicki will love that!”

  I reveled in her approval. Since I’d broken up with Sean, things between Celia and me seemed…not back to normal, but easier.

  “How about something black with lots of vanilla in it, a green tea with citrus…”

  “That’s always nice.”

  “And then a chamomile and hibiscus blend—just a touch of the hibiscus—and a peppermint.”

  “What about sweetening?”

  “I’ll just prepare a simple syrup, make it optional.”

  We matched tracks up to the teas, and then set to work planning pastries.

  “Let’s do miniature pastries,” Celia suggested. “Something easier to eat in a bite or two.”

  “You’re right.” At the tea shop, we’d always kept a section of the pastry case reserved for miniature versions of some of our larger offerings. They were perfect for people who only wanted a small bite of something decadent.

  I looked over the notes I’d taken while we’d listened. “In the third track, she mentions caramel popcorn. What about a salted caramel tartlet with a caramel popcorn garnish?”

  “I like that, write it down. She mentions strawberry as a color in that other song—a strawberry tartlet?”

  “Easy peasy.” I wrote it down too. “I think two tartlets is a good amount. Let’s do a lemon bar, those are always good. And maybe goat cheese and pistachios on puff pastry, for something savory.”

  “Perfect.”

  I smiled; for a moment we felt like us, and even if it was just a moment, I determined to hold it close.

  Mini Strawberry Tartlets

  For the crusts

  1 ½ cups all-purpose flour

  ½ cup confectioner’s sugar

  ¼ teaspoon fine sea salt

  9 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into small pieces, plus more for the tartlet pans

  1 large egg, beaten

  For the filling