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

by Mary Jane Hathaway

“Why not seize the pleasure at once? -- How often is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparation!”- Frank Churchill

  Chapter Six

  Caroline was struck by the realization that this was the very best thing that had happened to her in months. A party on a perfect summer evening combined with a brand new and very interesting man had the effect of coating her entire life with the stardust of satisfaction. Of course, all was rosy before you really got to know a person, but so far, Franklin Keene was about as perfect as a man could get. She tried not to stare, but he was breathtaking in his effortless elegance. Obviously cultured, Southern, and handsome, all he needed to do was to say he spent his days doing something impressive, like researching cancer cures.

  “Well?” Frank was smiling down at her, deep brown eyes intense.

  She blinked, scrambling to recall his last few words. He’d been telling some story about meeting her grandfather and she’d lost the thread of the conversation. She opened her mouth to apologize but Brooks cut in.

  “She’s a freelance journalist working on the Great American Novel,” Brooks said.

  She turned to frown at him but Frank was already speaking. “Fascinating! I’ve been dealing with quite a few freelance writers lately. You might know some of them. Scott Drexler? Terry Lewis?”

  “No, I’m afraid I’ve been very bad about keeping up my professional contacts lately.” Her face felt hot but she kept the smile fixed to her face, hoping he wouldn’t interpret her words to mean living-in-my-mom’s-house-and-eating-ice-cream-out-of-the-carton, which was the truth of it.

  “I understand. It’s become such a trial for writers, with all the marketing. That’s why I have an entire team devoted to keeping them happy, although the days of Thoreau’s cabin in the woods are over. Tell me you at least go on Twitter once in a while.”

  She blinked, wondering why on earth a writer would need to be on Twitter. Honestly, with only a hundred and sixty characters, there wasn’t a lot they could impart. “I leave Tweeting to the Haiku masters.”

  Frank laughed, a lovely warm sound that made a shiver zigzag from the top of her head to her toes. “There, that would have been perfect. More of that and you’ll have a platform in no time. To make your marketing effective, I advise aiming for at least five thousand followers.”

  Brooks made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a groan covered by a cough. Well, he could dismiss the idea all he wanted, but maybe Frank had a point. If she really wanted to get back into freelance work, she needed to build her connections. “Do you work in public relations, then?”

  “Me?” He looked shocked, brown eyes wide under that unruly wave of hair. “No. I work in publishing. Cutting edge. We buy foreign rights and get them ready for American distribution. Strictly digital, no paper copies. ”

  “So, you hire translators?” Caroline felt her cheeks growing hot. She couldn’t quite grasp what Frank did, exactly. A journalism degree covered a hundred different separate categories and she desperately searched her memory for anything related to foreign rights.

  He cocked his head and smiled, as if she’d said something charming. “Not quite that. Our publishing house is pretty specific and only acquires rights to manga books.”

  “Those comics that start at the back page?” Caroline remembered Debbie Mae reading those when they were in high school. There was a whole series about a girl who found out on her sixteenth birthday her real father was a bird and she could fly. The absurdly large eyes and very shorts skirts made her wonder if it was secretly targeted toward teen boys. She’d never bothered to open it, since reading a comic version of any book seemed a travesty of literature.

  “Right. We hire young, fresh writing voices to help spruce up the dialogue. We have in-house translators but they’re not writers.” He leaned forward a bit and deep brown eyes locked on hers. “You’d be perfect for our team.”

  It had been a long time since she’s been part of anyone’s team. Caroline felt herself warm to the idea, even as it took shape in her mind: a group of young, hip professionals gathered around a conference table throwing ideas at each other with rapid-fire genius, and herself there in the middle of it all.

  “You’ve never read anything she’s written.” Brooks spoke into the moment, his voice dry.

  “I can remedy that.” She smiled tightly, refusing to look at Brooks. “Let me know when and how. I’d like to know more about your company.”

  Frank pulled out a card and handed it over. “I can tell you right now, this is going to be epic.” He said the word without any hint of embarrassment.

  “Caroline and Brooks”, a voice exclaimed right behind Caroline’s left shoulder. She turned, almost bumping into Mrs. Reynolds. She was holding a large champagne glass and clutching the elbow of a strikingly beautiful woman. “I want to introduce my granddaughter, Lauren Fairfield. She’s working on a book about Thorny Hollow.”

  “Oh, Nana, I wish it was just Thorny Hollow.” She smiled ruefully, one bare shoulder lifting, the delicate strap of her cream-colored summer dress slipping an inch or two. Her skin wasn’t tanned by the sun, but she had a natural color that paired perfectly with the fabric. “But my editors know I have family here and agreed to let me spend a bit more time on this lovely area.”

  Caroline forced her face into a pleasant expression and worked at hiding her surprise. Of course, Lauren wasn’t just brilliant, well-connected, and preparing a coffee table book on their home town history. She was beautiful. Not an ordinary beautiful, no, but enormous gray eyes rimmed with dark lashes, set over sculpted cheekbones. A rippling sheet of dark, glossy hair hung in waves on either side of her face. Not just beauty, really, but elegance and sophistication. She smiled and Caroline wanted to roll her eyes at the sight. Lauren’s matching dimples framed an impossibly sweet smile and white, straight teeth. It was the icing on her jealousy cake.

  “Are you related to the Elliots of Badewood?” Lauren’s voice was soft, even a bit musical.

  Brooks seemed pleased that she had recognized his estate by the mere mention of his name. “It’s my family home.”

  “It would be wonderful to visit Badewood. I’m particularly interested in the outbuildings.”

  “We’d be happy to have you.” His slow smile was genuine and Caroline wondered how he could be so happy with the idea of a photographer tramping around the place. Maybe it would be a different matter if Lauren was an ugly toad. If she thought she could get away with it, she’d use his attention as a point in her favor, but Caroline had to admit that Lauren was everything Mrs. Reynolds had said she would be. And more. She couldn’t blame Brooks for giving her more than a passing glance.

  The two rambled on a bit about Badewood and the local historic buildings, but Caroline had the distinct impression that Lauren was practically reading from a script. Maybe she was nervous, or intimidated.

  “Miss Fairfield, I’ve heard that your publisher is close to being swallowed up by a larger imprint. Is that true?” Frank’s question seemed straightforward, if a bit awkward, but Lauren’s reaction was swift. Her cheeks deepened in a blush and she blinked several times, as if struggling to find words.

  “Mr. Keene, I’m sure that I know very little about the financial state of the company.” Her words were stiff, clipped. She turned to Mrs. Reynolds. “Nana, let’s get closer to the atrium before the tour starts. We don’t want to be left behind.”

  They murmured their goodbyes and waited in silence while Lauren moved away, her dark hair swinging in a silky curtain around her shoulders.

  “She seems a little defensive,” Caroline mused. Surprising that Frank could elicit a response with one sentence.

  “Everyone in traditional publishing is. With the digital market, we’re on the cutting edge. Anytime we have to partner at all with them, it’s like using the Pony Express. Absolute waste of time and energy.” His lip curled as he spoke, his eyes followed Lauren across the room. “I’m glad I don’t have to work with that sort of backward attitude.”<
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  “Perhaps a partnership would be the wisest course.” Brooks spoke in that calm, slow way he had when he completely disagreed with someone but was too polite to say.

  Frank considered his words for a moment and shrugged. “I’d better go apologize, then. I’d hate to burn any bridges. You can never tell when you’ll need to ally yourself with a bloated, tyrannical publishing company.”

  Reaching out, Frank touched her elbow. “Call me and we can go to lunch. I’m based in Spartainville for the next few months.”

  She nodded, feeling a rising sense of purpose for the first time in a long while. “I will.”

  He was gone a moment later, back into the swirling group of guests making their way toward the Atrium. She watched him go, his dark hair and tailored clothes standing out, even though the room was filled with elegantly attired guests. He turned just before he rejoined his friends, catching her eye. A wide smile crossed his face and Caroline felt her cheeks go hot.

  “Don’t tell me you’re actually going to call him.”

  Whirling, she frowned up at Brooks. “Why the sudden negativity? You wanted me to get back into the loop. Well, a small press could be just the thing.”

  “Right. Because working on a manga comic would be totally epic.”

  She raised her chin. “You’re being petty and it doesn’t become you.”

  “I don’t care if it becomes me. I think brains are more important than looks, remember?”

  Her mouth dropped open in shock. “You’re implying that I gave Frank attention because he’s handsome?”

  “You can’t deny that he’s preoccupied with his own appearance.”

  Manning hurried to their group, breathless. “I think we’ve got about two minutes before the tour. Debbie Mae is stuck over with Mrs. Kropp and she says if you two leave without seeing her, she’ll hunt you down.” He called over his shoulder, already on his way past them. “Don’t think she doesn’t mean it, because she does.”

  Caroline snorted. “Mrs. Kropp is a black hole of Southern sweetness. Once you’ve wandered into her orbit, she’ll keep you trapped there forever.”

  They were slowly making their way through to the Atrium, as fellow guests murmured around them, holding glasses and small bone china plates piled with half-eaten canapés. “I’ve never seen a shinier suit outside of Nashville. He looks like one of those people that scout for models in the local mall on Saturday afternoons.”

  “That’s harsh. I expected more from you.” Her jaw went tight. “About the slang, he’s probably surrounded by college kids and is more flexible in his word choices. You know, the days of those author and editor teams like James Thurber and Harold Ross are gone. An author can have dozens of editors over the years and they’re all going to be about age twenty five. You can afford to stagnate in academia as a revered professor, but the rest of us are fighting the inevitable slide into obsolescence. ”

  “Stagnate?” The calm in his face warned her she was pushing his buttons, but Caroline didn’t care.

  “I’m sure when you were younger and working toward tenure, you had to be up on all the current news. But now you’re comfortable and secure. You’re looking down your nose at him because he’s trying to stay relevant.”

  Brooks stood still, eyes narrowed. Caroline knew she was being a little unfair, but Brooks was out of line. Frank seemed no worse and no better than most of the people in the room.

  “I guess time will tell whether I’m just a dull and lifeless academic, too comfortable to rouse myself from the reveries of my youth.” He paused. “But I can tell you that if I’m right, and Frank is part snake oil salesman, part publishing hack, then you’d best be staying far away.”

  They stood there, gazes locked in anger for the second time that evening. Caroline wouldn’t back down. He had an annoying habit of bossing her around and she was perfectly capable of making decisions for herself. Just when she felt her resolve begin to wither, his eyes flickered past her and his expression shifted to a neutral smile.

  “Dr. Stroud, how nice to see you here. This is Caroline Ashley.” Brooks put a hand on the small of her back, while reaching past her to extend his other hand to an elderly man with the brightest blue eyes Caroline had ever seen. A white three piece linen suit was perfect for the early spring heat, but with the man’s gray hair grown long to his collar, he looked a bit like Mark Twain.

  “I think Caroline and I have met once before. At a party quite like this one, I believe.” He turned to her and leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially. “Your friend Shelby Roswell and I discussed the many methods in which a Civil War soldier could lose a limb. When you made a graceful exit, I realized how inexcusably rude I’d been. I’m glad to have the opportunity to offer my apologies for my shocking behavior.”

  Caroline gasped, laughing. “I remember you! When you mentioned necrotic tissue, I was forced to retreat to the pink lemonade table.”

  “I hope all is forgiven. I hear Miss Roswell has moved to Jackson?”

  “She took a position at Millsaps right after she got married.” The wedding was one of the most romantic she’d ever attended and it still gave her a flush of happiness when she looked at the photos.

  “Ransom is a lucky man.” Dr. Stroud paused. “But I have to admit I wasn’t quite sure whether they were friend or foe the times I saw them together.”

  Nodding, Caroline couldn’t hold back another laugh. “Well, from what I heard, they were enemies who decided it was better to end their little war and become something much better.”

  “They make a very formidable team, those two historians.” He rubbed his chin, the rasp of his whiskers clear to Caroline’s ears. “I miss him at our field maneuvers, although I hear he’s coming in September for the one hundred fiftieth celebration at the Chickamauga National Military Park. If I have to drive to Georgia to see him, I guess that’s what I’ll do.”

  “It’s a big year for reenactments. I wish I had more time, but between teaching at Midlands and spending weekends down here…” Brooks’ voice trailed off and he shrugged.

  “No excuses. We’re a dwindling band of old timers with long memories. Brooks, you must come to Iuka next month.” He leveled a sharp gaze under heavy brows. “It’s not accurate if every able bodied man walks off the field after the skirmish, is it? I’m not asking for a dramatic rendition of their pain and suffering, either. Since the surgical tent is right on the battlefield, I uncork the chloroform and the soldier just pretends to fade away into sleep. I suppose, if they wanted more excitement, they could be one of those few men who struggled during the first stage of anesthesia.”

  “What would you do? Thump them on the noggin?” Brooks looked like he was relishing the idea of play-acting a medical reaction.

  “Chloroform didn’t cause as many complications but it took longer than ether. So, I suppose we could bring out the ether vial, instead.” Dr. Stroud rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But no one would be fooled, as ether smells terrible and usually caused coughing and vomiting.”

  “Let’s skip the ether,” Brooks said, grimacing.

  “Is there any attendee who might expect the real thing?” Caroline couldn’t refrain from asking the question. It was a reenactment. Surely no one expected real ether in the fake surgery tent.

  “Absolutely. We like to make it as realistic as possible. That’s the fun.” He beamed, those bright blue eyes lit from within. “I do wish the men would be more eager to adequately represent a few of the forty five thousand amputee veterans the war produced. Apparently, it’s not as heroic as losing one’s life on the field. During the last battle, I had to persuade quite a few men that there was no dishonor in losing a limb in my care.”

  “You can count on me and my limbs.” Brooks held out both arms, as if offering himself at that very moment. His large hands curled into fists, thick veins stark against his tan skin. Caroline fought the sensation of rising nausea at the thought of anyone pretending to remove his well-muscled arms. Brooks was a man who
spent his days teaching, but he was athletic and fit. Of course, it was all just make-believe but it still filled her with horror.

  “I knew I could.” Dr. Stroud inclined his head. “Miss Ashley, I hope to see you there. We’ll keep you far from the gruesome realities of the war between the states, perhaps in dinner preparations. We can’t allow you to Farb your way through, but we can try our best to find something to suit your talents.”

  She could only smile, hoping against hope she wouldn’t ever have to spend the weekend in the baking hot sun, dressed in multilayered petticoats and a bonnet. Or worse, restraining perfectly healthy men as they play-acted an amputation. She knew these men, heard the stories. These were not bored professionals on a weekend jaunt. They were serious historians, sometimes spending tens of thousands a year and sewing their own clothes.

  As Dr. Stroud walked away, she leaned close and whispered, “Farb?”

  “Farbs do everything the easy way and just pretend they’re in the war.”

  She shot him a look.

  He shrugged. “Right, we’re all pretending, but some pretending is of a higher quality than others.”

  She stowed the term in the back of her mind, hoping she’d never have to use it. She’d like to keep the pretending at a minimum, no matter the quality. Brooks had griped about getting the ‘anchor’ position last time and she’d made the mistake of asking. In the early spring, a man would risk frostbite to sleep alone with the threadbare Confederate-issue blanket. Brooks had explained that on the coldest nights they spooned together for warmth and the end of the row only got warm on one side, half the time. When the commander yelled for the men to flip, the anchor could thaw out his frozen side on his bunkmate… until the next call to turn. Caroline had almost rolled her eyes out of her head at the description but Brooks was a die-hard member. No amount of mockery would change his mind.

  She glanced at him, feeling her mouth tilt up at the man she knew better than any other man in the world. A universe of contradictions, a wealth of knowledge, and the gentleness of a friend. There was no one who could replace him, no one who could ever come close.