Jane of Austin

by Hillary Manton Lodge

  “Hello, Jane,” I said, my voice careful and controlled. Kind too, I hoped.

  Jane started and looked up at me, as if she suddenly noticed I’d entered the room. “Oh. Callum. Hello.” She glanced at Dash and back at me. “Glad you’re back,” she said. “Dash missed you.”

  “Not from what I heard,” I said, smiling while I continued to give Dash the pets and attention he was convinced were overdue. “Thanks for looking after him,” I told her, glancing at Celia and young Margot to include them in my thanks.

  “He’s kind of the best dog ever,” Margot said, and from her expression I suspected she didn’t consider me worthy. And maybe I wasn’t, but I was awfully fond of him, even after such a short time.

  “Dash is a very good dog, and I love dogs. Ours is around here somewhere, probably sneaking a nap on the sofa.” Charlie’s eyebrows knit together. “You know, Ian might be right about the entryway. We should really think about trying to shorten the path from the front door to the patio. Pierce, honey, do you think if we knocked out the wall in the dining room—”

  “No more construction, Charlie.” Charlie’s husband Pierce cut her off before she could continue her mental takedown of the house’s interior.

  “But Beckett here—,” Charlie protested.

  “Survived the walk in one piece,” Pierce said, though his eyes widened as he noticed my prosthesis.

  I stepped forward, offering my hand. “Callum Beckett. I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “No, but I’ve heard a lot about you. Pierce Palmer.” He gave me a solemn nod as we shook hands.

  “Nice place; thanks for having me.”

  “Of course. It’s good for this place to get some use.” He looked around, wrinkling his nose.

  “It’s a very nice home,” Celia said, her voice assuring.

  “You were smart to buy on this side of the lake,” Mariah said, stretching out on the patio chaise. “It’s an excellent investment.”

  “Oh yes,” Charlie answered, nodding, “The neighborhood is very good. Though there are several good spots around the lake. I heard yesterday that that singer—Sofi Grey? She just bought a place across the lake. You can see it from here; it’s that pretty white one over there.”

  Jane, who’d been drinking a cup of water, choked and spluttered.

  “Sofi Grey?” Nina pressed a hand to her chest. “No!”

  All eyes turned to her. Charlie’s jaw dropped; she hadn’t expected her mother’s response. “No?”

  “Sofi Grey is the fiancée of Jane’s no-good ex-sweetheart, Sean.”

  “No! Really?” Charlie’s eyes were the size of dinner plates as she turned to Jane. “What’s he like?”

  Jane’s body went rigid. “I’m not sure I knew him at all.”

  “He is very handsome,” Nina said. “Like a young Robert Redford.”

  “I thought he looked more like Chris Evans,” Margot piped up before Celia shushed her.

  “Ooh, yes,” Nina continued. “Very blond, very handsome, but he left poor Jane and became engaged to Sofi Grey in a matter of weeks! Extremely suspect, if you ask me.”

  Nobody had, but that seemed beside the point.

  “Do you think she’s pregnant?” Charlie asked, eagerly.

  Jane leapt from her deck chair. “I have a headache,” she said, picking up her plate. “I need to lie down.”

  “Oh!” Charlie suddenly realized that discussing an ex-boyfriend’s engagement and potential family in front of Jane might be in poor taste. “I’m so sorry. Truly. And really, I don’t like Sofi’s music; honest I don’t. And now that I know, I don’t even want to look at her house. Pierce?”

  “Yes?” Charlie’s husband didn’t even bother to cover the dread in his voice.

  “We must plant some trees. Nice, tall trees, so we won’t be able to see Sofi’s house at all.”

  “That might ruin the view,” Pierce said. “Which might ruin the point of a lake-view house.”

  “I’m just tired from the festival,” Jane said, this time resting her hand on Charlie’s arm. “I’ll be better after I lie down.”

  “Oh yes, of course. Do you remember where your room is?” Charlie asked. “I really should have signs made. Like a hospital.”

  “Or those colored track lights,” Pierce suggested, his tone sarcastic.

  Charlie’s face lit. “Ooh, yes, those would be better!”

  At that moment, a thin, static-y squawk emitted from somewhere near the drink bucket.

  “Ooh!” Nina clapped her hands. “Bowie’s awake!”

  Both Charlie and Pierce crouched down to put their faces near the baby monitor, which I realized had been positioned next to the beverages.

  “Is he awake?” Charlie asked breathlessly.

  Pierce’s eyebrows knit together. “Might have been a fart.”

  “Pierce! We say ‘toot’ here.”

  “I don’t know if you noticed, but that’s a boy in there. Girls may toot, but boys fart.”

  “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation—”

  Bowie must not have believed it either, because his next cry was unmistakably just that.

  “Definitely awake!” Nina stood up. “I can go get him.”

  “Let’s go together,” Charlie said, clasping her mother’s hand as if they were going to go off on an adventure. “And we’ll make sure Jane gets to her room.” She turned to me. “Be sure you make a taco; they’re delicious.”

  I caught Jane shooting her sister an “Is this real?” look, but Celia wasn’t looking at her—she was looking out onto the lake.

  Whatever had happened while I’d been gone, the sisters seemed more disconnected than ever.

  Shrimp Tacos with Cilantro Crema

  For the shrimp

  1 ½ pounds shrimp

  2 ½ tablespoons dried oregano

  2 teaspoons dried thyme

  1 teaspoon dried lemon peel

  1 teaspoon salt

  2 teaspoons fresh ground black pepper

  5 tablespoons olive oil

  2 whole chipotle chilies in adobo, chopped fine

  4 teaspoons adobo sauce

  Cilantro crema

  1 ½ cups lightly packed fresh cilantro leaves

  4–5 tablespoons freshly squeezed lime juice

  ¾ cup sour cream

  ½ cup mayonnaise

  For the tacos

  6-inch corn or flour tortillas

  2 cups cabbage, shredded or chopped

  In a medium-sized bowl, mix together the oregano, thyme, lemon peel, salt, and pepper. Set aside.

  Place the shrimp in a colander; rinse and clean, deveining and removing the tails. Pat them dry with paper towels. Toss shrimp thoroughly with the spices. Keep refrigerated until ready to cook—up to a day.

  Mix the crema dipping sauce by whisking all ingredients together. If it’s too tart, add more mayonnaise.

  Heat oil, chipotle peppers, and adobe sauce in a skillet over medium-high heat. Use tongs to place shrimp, about 10 at a time, into the pan, allowing enough room for each to rest on its side. Cook for approximately 1 ½–2 minutes per side, or until the shrimp becomes opaque and lightly pink. Continue to cook in batches until all of the shrimp are cooked through.

  To assemble the tacos, layer the shrimp over the shredded cabbage, and drizzle the crema on top.

  Serves 6.

  27

  Tea should be taken in solitude.

  —C. S. LEWIS

  Jane

  As soon as the door clicked shut, I took a deep, rattling breath. I shouldn’t have come. I should have insisted on being dropped off at the casita or taken a cab or walked the eleven miles back from the hotel.

  First, I didn’t feel well. It only made sense that after being surrounded by swarms of humanity, I would catch a bug.

  Second, it might not even have been a bug. With the hours I’d been putting in and the heartache over Sean, my body might simply have decided to mutiny.

  I pulled painkillers f
rom my purse first and made sure to down an entire glass of water. It hadn’t been a lie. I really did have a headache.

  With a sigh, I lay down on the bed and pulled the coverlet up to my chin. I wished I had Dash next to me. I missed his doggy smell, the snuffly sound of his breathing. It was right for Callum to have him back, and yet I wondered idly if it would be possible to steal him. Maybe Callum wouldn’t notice the loss of his hundred-and-twenty-five-pound dog.

  For an hour I dozed off and on. I’d dream about Sean and the concert—and then I’d wake up. Over and over again.

  My headache didn’t lessen; instead, it seemed to be laughing at the painkillers I’d taken.

  I opened my eyes and rolled back over. The sky had darkened; I couldn’t hear the party outside, but I knew they were out there. Lurking. Socializing. I was hungry but didn’t want to make the small talk that going out for a snack might require.

  How hard would it be to order a pizza and have it delivered to the back door? This house had to have a servant’s entrance, right? Those were the questions in my head when my phone dinged. I reached for it, blinding myself with the brightness of the screen.

  It was an e-mail. I sat up and turned on the light beside the bed so I could read the screen without squinting.

  The e-mail was from Sean.

  We hadn’t ever e-mailed. Weeks together, we’d sent things over instant message or text, more often skipping both because we were together in the same room.

  He’d used the contact form on our ordering website, the one I’d made for our online tea business. Never mind I hadn’t blocked his number on my phone; he’d sent me an e-mail.

  Through a contact form.

  The thought alone chilled me, and my anxiety only rose as I read.

  Dear Jane,

  Thank you for coming to see the band at South by Southwest. Your support means a lot.

  I got the feeling after the concert that we’d gotten wires crossed about a few things, and I’m writing to clear them up.

  Your friendship meant a lot to me while I was staying in Austin, but I didn’t plan on settling there. I hope I didn’t lead you to believe differently, and if that’s the case, I’m sorry.

  We had a good time together, and I enjoyed hanging out.

  Since meeting Sofi, though, my life has changed. Not just the engagement—haha—but I never knew I could fall for someone the way I did for her. I hope you find someone like that.

  Maybe it’s just my imagination, but I just didn’t want to leave you with the impression that our friendship was more than friendship, you know?

  Just wanted to make sure we’re still cool.

  Have a good life, Jane Woodward. Take care.

  —Sean Willis

  I read it twice, three times, in disbelief. The fourth time I read it, I realized that his e-mail address read Sean.Sofi@gmail.com.

  A knock sounded at my door. “Jane?”

  Celia.

  I rose and opened the door.

  “I just wanted to check on you,” she said, but her words stopped and her eyes widened.

  “What happened?

  In answer, I shoved the phone into her hand.

  Celia looked at me, looked at the phone, and then looked back at me. “Sean sent you an e-mail?”

  “He did.”

  She squinted at the phone. “He e-mailed you from Sean.Sofi@gmail.com?”

  “Yup.”

  “Sorry. I’ll stop…wait.” She looked up again. “He thanked you for your support?”

  “Keep going.”

  “He wants to make sure your wires aren’t crossed?”

  “Celia—”

  “I’ll keep reading—he never knew he could fall for someone the way he did her? He doesn’t want to leave you with the impression that there’s more between you than there was? He hopes you’re cool? What is he, sixteen? And he wishes you a good life? What is going on?”

  “He doesn’t love me.”

  Celia arched a brow. “Yeah, and the pope is Protestant.”

  My eyes flew open at the acidity in Celia’s voice. Was anger the first sign of some sort of shellfish allergy? I’d never heard her speak ill of anyone.

  “Of course he loved you,” Celia continued, shaking her head. “I saw the way he looked at you; we all did. Honestly, Jane”—she bit her lip—“I was waiting for you to tell me that you guys were engaged.”

  “We talked about it. Around it. He never—he never exactly proposed.” I pressed my hand to my forehead. “He told me they were going on tour, and he asked me to go with him.”

  “He asked before he left? What did you say?”

  “I didn’t. He changed the subject.” Well, we were kissing, but close enough. I squinted. “I just— Clearly, he’s moved on. He’s engaged to Sofi, whatever. It’s just confusing. The day before we broke up, the day of the barbecue at Callum’s? He…he told me that he loved me.”

  “Because he did.”

  “He told me that he loved me, that I made every day better.” I wrinkled my nose. “And then he came over the day after to tell me he was leaving for Nashville.”

  Celia folded her arms. “Well, I still think he loved you. He might be a sociopath, but he loved you.”

  “That…doesn’t exactly make me feel better.”

  She sighed, and her voice softened back to its usual Celia register. “I feel like…like maybe he’s manipulating you. That e-mail—it’s all lies. He never knew love until he met Sofi?” The edge returned. “Look, Jane. He’s lying, and making it seem like this is all in your head. That’s gas-lighting; that is not okay. He feels bad about breaking up with you, but rather than apologize, he’s trying to twist reality into something that it’s not.”

  “Maybe he was lying,” I said, suddenly feeling the need to shower, to wash the entire relationship off. “Maybe all of it was a lie.”

  “I…I have a hard time believing that. He’d have to be a really good actor.” Celia pointed to the phone. “That e-mail was pathetic. I don’t think the sort of person who could write that e-mail would be capable of convincing all of us how he felt about you. It makes more sense that he loved you and he’s trying to cover it up.” She glanced at the phone again. “Badly. Never mind the e-mail address.”

  “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “No.”

  It made about as much sense as Celia and Teddy breaking up, to be honest. Two people who clearly loved each other suddenly parting ways as if it hadn’t meant anything at all.

  “I don’t know what to think anymore,” I said. “I’m going for a walk.”

  28

  He wanted to live where there was space and clean air and a bloke could get a good start in life without people looking down their noses at him, and Texas was the place, so he’d heard.

  —LEILA MEACHAM

  Callum

  I didn’t know how many guest rooms Charlie had at her little “cabin,” but I had a room to myself—myself and Dash. It was plenty comfortable, but I couldn’t relax. The air crackled the way it did when there was a thunder-and-lightning storm coming, so when the skies lit and the clouds rumbled, I wasn’t surprised.

  If the weather had been better, I would have tried for a swim. But with the storm outside, I decided to sit in the oversized armchair and catch up on paperwork for Smoky Top.

  With Roy’s help, I’d begun to feel like I had my feet under me. I understood the broader, if not finer points of smoking brisket. I’d spoken to two of the ranchers who supplied our beef and, with oversight, our ordering costs had come down.

  I knew there would be personnel changes coming up next, but for the time being, things were looking up. Not that Dash thought so—he was sprawled on the bed, casting me baleful glances. It was after midnight, and Dash wasn’t impressed with my insomnia.

  The first time the knock sounded, most of it blended into a roll of thunder.

  The second time it didn’t, and Dash lifted his head as I rose to open the door.

  What I’
d expected was Ian coming to make sure I had towels or a book or a water dish for Dash (in truth, he’d been happily helping himself to the toilet water in the en suite bath, and after ensuring that there wasn’t any bleach treatment in the tank, I’d allowed him to enjoy the presence of a ready water supply apt for his size). Instead, Celia stood on the other side of the threshold.

  “Hi,” she said, her face strained and anxious. “Did I wake you?”

  “No, I’ve been working. What’s wrong?”

  “Jane,” she said, and at the sound of the name, I ushered her into my room and closed the door behind her.

  “What happened?”

  “Sean. He sent her an e-mail…it was bad.”

  “The e-mail was bad, or her response was bad?”

  “Both? I mean…” Celia searched for words. “She read it calmly and went for a walk.”

  “Oh.”

  Dash sneezed, and I winced at the amount of Dash-drool now sprayed upon Charlie’s guest bedspread.

  I looked back at Celia. “Okay. So, Jane went for a walk. Did something happen when she got back?”

  “She hasn’t come back,” Celia said in a soft voice. “I’m worried.”

  My eyes widened. “She’s out in the storm? When did she leave?”

  “About ten.”

  “Did she take her phone?”

  Celia shook her head. “She left it behind. The e-mail came in on her phone. I think she didn’t want to take the e-mail with her. That was around nine thirty.”

  Jane, out for two and a half hours in the middle of a Texas storm. My body went cold, but I managed a nod. “Okay. I’ll wake up Ian, maybe Pierce, and the four of us, if you’re willing—”

  “Yes,” she said, simply.

  “We’ll go look. Take your phone; we’ll take flashlights.”

  “Okay.”

  “We’ll find her.”

  Celia nodded.

  I could read the worry in her eyes—anyone could have. I knew there was nothing I could say, and I wasn’t going to try.