2 Emma, Mr. Knightley, and Chili-Slaw Dogs

by Mary Jane Hathaway

  “Finley, that makes us not at all related.”

  She cocked her head, lips twitching. “All right, but we look it. Your cream linen suit,” she waved a hand, “with that mint green patterned tie next to my dress? It’s just like we planned it.”

  “If anything we look like one of those couples that buy everything in his-and-hers pairs.” He didn’t even know why he was arguing. He could tell she wasn’t serious.

  “Ha! No one would ever think we’re a couple.” She pulled the door closed. “I’m too young for you. I would never survive the rigors of being an academic’s wife. All those little parties, all that ivory-tower political maneuvering aren’t my style. I’m too blunt. Anyway, if you ever got married- which you won’t- the woman would be…” Her voice trailed off and she paused at the top step as if she’d forgotten something.

  “Would be what? Ninety? Toothless? A mail order bride?”

  She laughed, but it sounded slightly forced. “I was going to say she would be successful, worldly, know everything there was to know about ambition. She’d help you climb the ladder one impressive social coup at a time.”

  She hesitated just a fraction of a second. “At the very least, she’d be someone with a job.” Her words were light, but the tone betrayed her. A hint of sadness followed the last word.

  He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and they walked down the wide front steps of the Ashley house. “Wrong. The personal ad clearly states I’m looking for an unemployed, undervalued, and completely unschooled woman to be my future bride. That way, she’ll see my meager salary as a college professor as quite impressive.”

  She snorted. “You might have to add a few items to that list in order to reach ‘quite impressive.’ ”

  Opening the car door, he shook his head. “Even if I was in the market for a wife- a phrase I really hate, by the way- you’re right about us. You know too much. See, there’s no mystery, no romance, no excitement. I’m just Brooks to you. I think a mail order bride is my only hope.”

  He could hear her giggling as he crossed in front of the car. Sliding into the driver’s seat, the small cockpit of the car smelled wonderful, like some favorite candy from his childhood that he couldn’t quite place.

  The bright sunlight glanced off the inside of the console. He slipped on his sunglasses and backed out of the circular drive. The long, narrow road to the main street was filled with dips and bumps. He should find someone to fill it in for them before the rainy season starts. A good, hard downpour and that Mississippi clay washed toward the lowest point, which was the pasture to the north, leaving the driveway rutted and uneven.

  Again, the light waft of something he half-remembered. “Have you been baking again?”

  “Me? Never unless I have to. But Mama loved that cake from Bravard’s and now she wants me to make it all the time.”

  He grinned, wondering how she was going to hide all those cake boxes. “You’ll have to explain some day.”

  She blew out a breath. “I know. But it’s nice to have her approval for just a little bit.”

  He shot her a glance, startled. What kind of mother wouldn’t approve of Caroline? She’d succeeded in everything she’d ever tried. The sadness in her statement was just one more point for Caroline getting out of the house on a regular basis, and not just for a run.

  “Have you talked to Manning lately?”

  “Not much. He calls, but doesn’t really seem like he wants to talk. Just sort of…” Brooks thought for a moment. “Checking in.”

  She nodded, as if it made sense. It didn’t make much sense to him, but there it was. He missed his brother, missed their long talks while fishing and the Saturday afternoons spent watching baseball. Now that the season had started, he noticed his absence even more. Shouting at the TV as the Braves struggled through a tough game wasn’t as fun without Manning.

  “I bet Lauren Fairfield will be there.” Her tone was unenthusiastic.

  “Mrs. Reynolds’ granddaughter?”

  “That’s the one. She’s writing a book on Southern mansions. Got a big, fancy book deal for one of those glossy coffee table photography books that weighs thirty pounds.”

  He glanced at her, surprised to see the slight frown between her brows. “Jealous?”

  “How can I not be? I’ve been hearing about her my whole life. Lauren this, Lauren that.” She flapped a hand. “Lauren graduated from Yale summa cum laude and Lauren was offered six jobs right out of college and Lauren learned Spanish by hiking in the Andes.” She hauled in a breath.

  “I’ve never met her, but I wouldn’t cross her off before you even set eyes on the girl.” Caroline was generally an open, friendly person, but she did get a little jealous now and then.

  She let out a harrumph and crossed her arms.

  Brooks kept his eyes on the road. Something was bothering her, and if he waited long enough, it would all come rushing out. Usually sooner than later.

  She adjusted her skirt a little, letting the silk fall against her tanned knees. “Mrs. Gray mentioned you had been invited to Marian’s for dinner.”

  “Mmmm.” So he had. Several times.

  “And?” She was looking straight at him now, those green eyes narrowed.

  “And what?” He slowed the car and let it idle, pausing at the entrance to the main road. There wasn’t any traffic to speak of on a Saturday afternoon, just a few slow-moving vehicles in the distance. The heat waves shimmering on the blacktop made the cars seem as if they were moving underwater.

  “Why didn’t you go?”

  He felt his brows go up and searched for words. He didn’t want to be unkind. There was nothing more irritating than a woman who was desperate to marry just because it was on her schedule of tasks to accomplish. He didn’t want to be someone’s ‘to do’ list.

  “I was busy.” And he’d continue to be busy until he was too old to be considered a candidate for Marian’s desperate bachelor-go-round.

  He moved to shift but her touch on his arm halted him mid-motion. “Doing what?”

  “Why all the questions, Finley? My dad wanted me to help him fix the storm windows, remember?” He shook his head, feeling as if the logic was falling out of the conversation.

  “Can you take off your sunglasses?” Her voice was soft and her hand hadn’t left his arm. “I can’t see your eyes. It’s hard to talk to you when I can’t see your eyes.”

  Brooks glanced in the rearview mirror and frowned. They’d talked a thousand times before- with sunglasses, in deep shade on a hot day, in the rain, while running the last of five painful miles at sunrise. She’d never needed to see his eyes before. He slipped them off and half-turned his body toward her. “Better?”

  “Much.” Her lips tugged up a bit although her eyes were still somber. “We’re friends, right?”

  If he knew where the conversation was headed, he’d feel better about answering, but as it was, he only had one answer. “Always.”

  “If you wanted to go to dinner at Marian’s, you’d tell me? If you skipped it because you had a date, you’d tell me? Or if you were plain sick of my annoying self and wanted to hang out on the couch watching football, you’d tell me?” She actually looked nervous, as if she wasn’t quite sure what he’d answer.

  He let out a long breath and ran a hand over his face. “So, Mrs. Gray said, that Marian said, that I’d refused to have dinner with her because I had a date.” He wanted to roll his eyes but tried to approach the problem calmly. Small-town gossips had nothing better to do than stir up trouble.

  “Something like that.” Bright spots of pink bloomed over her cheekbones. It was ridiculous, but here they were, dissecting the latest round of hearsay.

  “And why do you care?”

  “Excuse me?” Her voice went two octaves higher than normal and her hand dropped from his arm.

  “Really. Why do you care what Mrs. Gray thinks? You’ve never cared about what other people thought before.”

  “Well, it was just…” Her vo
ice trailed off. “She made it sound like you were lying to spare my feelings. And I don’t want you to ever lie for me.” She leaned forward, bright blond hair shining in the sunlight, her face tight with emotion. “If it’s something I need to hear, don’t be afraid, especially if you think I can’t handle it. If no else will say it, please be the brave one.”

  He stared into her eyes, noting the flecks of gold in the deep green, her features as familiar as his own. “I’ve never lied to you.”

  Caroline relaxed against the seat, inhaling deeply. “Good.”

  “So, when do you want to hear it?”

  Her head popped up from the seat back. “What?”

  “All the things you need to hear.” He flashed a grin and put his shades back on before pulling onto the main road. He had a whole list of subjects, starting with the absurd amount of time she spent locked in that old house.

  “About Marian?”

  He choked back a laugh. “You’re obsessed with her. Afraid she’s going to snap up all the most eligible bachelors?”

  “She can have them all.” Rubbing her temple, she smiled crookedly. “Bless her heart. She’s three gallons of crazy in a two gallon bucket and no one has time for the mess. I don’t know why Mrs. Gray threw me with that comment at the bridge party. Silly, isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely. But anytime you want me to use my oldest-friend super powers, let me know. I have a lot of advice for you.”

  “I’m afraid to hear it.” She stared out at the houses, each carefully rimmed with white wooden fences or ironwork posts. “I can guess what you’ll say, anyway.”

  “That saves me the effort, then.”

  “You want me to tell my mother I’m not her party planner.”

  “Or her chef. Or her companion. Or her watchdog.” He checked the rearview mirror before sliding into the far lane.

  “I know. And I’m sure it will get better with time.” But she didn’t sound convinced. He glanced at her, afraid to speak what they both knew: Caroline’s mother was becoming completely dependent on her daughter. No amount of waiting was going to help the situation. Three years had gone by and she had gotten more possessive, not less.

  “You’re right.” She straightened up, forcing her lips into a bright smile. “I’ve been thinking of starting something new.”

  “Another book?”

  “Well, I never finished the last one.” She shrugged. “Fiction isn’t my forte. I’ve been thinking of an essay for The Atlantic on the rise of disaster memoirs.”

  “I-lived-through-the-greatest-plane-crash-in-history type?”

  “Right. There was that book about the girl lost on Mount Hood and she had to bury her dead fiancé in a snow bank with his shoes as markers. The advance was half a million, which is a lot of money when we already know how it all ends. It’s definitely a trend in memoirs right now.” She beamed at him and he forced his gaze back to the road. He’d forgotten how happy she looked when she got an idea for a story.

  “I could be wrong, but I think The Economist just had a story like that a few months ago.”

  “Oh.” She visible slumped. “I feel so out of the loop.”

  “You can keep up with all of this stuff on line. Even my grandmother keeps up with what’s happening in the world.” He kept his tone gentle, but if she wanted to get a piece printed in a national magazine, she had to know what’s been done already.

  “Right, but that’s Blanche. She said she was starting a senior internet dating site, too.” Caroline’s lips tilted up.

  “You know what I mean.”

  Her smile faded. “I know. I just get so caught up in…”

  “Bridge parties.” He turned off the main road and slowed, shifting down as they entered the long, tree-lined drive leading to the Werlin mansion. The late evening sun illuminated every leaf and tussock of grass with a golden glow.

  “Right. And it’s my own fault.” Her voice was so defeated that he let the car slow to a complete stop and shifted to neutral.

  “Listen. It was one idea, a good one. And somebody already got there before you. How many times has that happened?”

  Her lips tilted up just a fraction. “About a million.”

  “Exactly. I think you’re out of practice. You’ve gotten soft. You get a good idea, it’s shot down, you want to slink back under the porch and lick your wounds.”

  She snorted. “My, don’t hold back or anything.”

  “You want me to be honest? Well, here’s the truth. You used to be a lot tougher, because you had to be.” He remembered the year she worked at The Post. She was darn near frightening. If she thought she had a story, she chased it down without giving up. The girl next to him was as beautiful, as smart, and as generous, but she’d lost her confidence.

  She was quiet for a few moments. He hoped he hadn’t said too much. People always asked for the truth, but not many truly wanted to hear it. His chest constricted a bit, wondering if he’d hurt her. That wasn’t what he’d intended at all.

  “You’re right. And it was just one idea.” She turned to him, new resolve in her gaze. “I’m crawling back out from under the porch, okay?”

  “Perfect.” He shifted into gear and let the car move smoothly forward.

  “I haven’t been here since that New Year’s Eve party.” She cocked her head. “What ever happened to your date, that reporter from Natchez?”

  “Sandy? Oh, I see her around.” He tried to make it sound like they had some sort of friendship, but truthfully, he actively avoided the woman.

  “She asked me if you’d inherit Badewood or if your brother would get it.”

  He threw her a look and was glad the tree-lined drive was a straight shot.

  She shrugged, as if she knew what he was silently asking. “I figured you’d use your own best judgment. I don’t blame her. A girl can be distracted by the idea of having a third floor ballroom all to herself.”

  He supposed so, but it had still taken him by surprise. “Somehow between my invitation and the day of the Werlin’s party, she’d done a little investigative work. Whenever she looked at me, I could see that Ionic portico reflected in her eyes.”

  Caroline raised a hand to her mouth, unsuccessfully trying to stifle her giggles. “Poor you.”

  “Yes, poor me.” He made the saddest face he could manage but couldn’t hold it for long. He’d been disappointed, true. Sandy kept asking him where he’d bought his car, his watch, even his suit, like she was prepping for a turn on ‘The Price Is Right’. Offensive then, amusing now.

  “Looks the same.” He motioned to Werlin’s home, happy to see the bright new paint but nothing else of note on the Greek revival style mansion. Adding wings or changing the face of such an historic house was an offense punishable by social shaming.

  “Remember the old Muro place?” Caroline seemed to read his mind. “That businessman from Florida that tore out all the bright red brickwork?”

  “And then covered the timber framing in pink stucco.” The man claimed he’d been blacklisted because he was from out of town, as if Miami was Memphis. No, it was the crime he’d committed on that beautiful old house.

  She slid out of the car and they stood together in the grass, taking in the bright spring evening. The frogs from Yellow Creek were in full song; peepers and bullfrogs giving their best in the hope of attracting a mate. Deep green Kentucky blue grass covered the expansive front lawn and Brooks could see the swell of manicured acres rising in the distance, dotted here and there with giant oak. He would never leave his teaching position at Midlands College, but moments like this made an emotion rise in his chest that was akin to the deepest longing. This was his town, his people, his heritage.

  He turned to Caroline, taking her hand and tucking it in his elbow. “Too bad we’re inside. It would have been a wonderful night for a garden party.”

  She stood still, as if she hadn’t heard him. “I know I should want to travel the world, to have a demi-tasse of espresso at the Eiffel Tower or lay on the w
hite sands of Bora Bora. Maybe even move to Rome and get an Italian boyfriend who drives a Fiat.” Glancing at him, she smiled. “But I don’t know if anything will come close to Thorny Hollow.”

  He wanted to agree, say that was just what he’d been thinking, but somehow the words stuck in his throat. It was true this place was close to heaven on earth, but he wanted more for her. A lifetime of garden parties, no matter how perfect, were not what she was born to do.

  He struggled to put this into words but every phrase that occurred to him seemed like he was lecturing her on how to live her life. “Then let’s not waste a minute of it.”

  A bit of reality might help. The particularly grating relationships of a small town might be a better tool of persuasion than any nagging he could do. There was probably nothing like a long-held feud or a dose of small-minded bigotry to convince her to expand her horizons.

  “Men of sense, whatever you may choose, do not want silly wives.” –Mr. Knightley

  Chapter Five

  Caroline inhaled the freshly mown grass smell and felt a sense of well-being spread through her, from the top of her head to her sandaled toes. This very moment, life was as perfect as it could possibly be. The setting sun lit up the Werlin house like a spotlight. Every detail of the historic old home seemed to shimmer. The combed gravel circular driveway was shadowed by enormous cedar trees.

  “Looks like Manning and Debbie Mae are here.” She pointed to the sleek silver coupe at the far end of the circular driveway. “This past weekend was the first time I’d seen her in forever. She kept saying we would get together for coffee, but it never happened.”

  “Same here. Manning says his case load has been crazy this year but things change when you get married.”

  Caroline brushed her hair back and lifted her chin. Obviously, that wasn’t the whole story but she couldn’t share their losses without asking Debbie Mae for permission.

  He went on. “There couldn’t have been a sudden spate of property development disputes in our little county not could Debbie’s fourth graders need twice as much lesson planning as last year.”