Christmas With Miss Austen

by Laura Briggs

  At home, her gloom lifted slightly as she gazed at her Christmas tree, decked with snowflakes, colored beads, and handmade ornaments from grandmothers and great aunts. The angel tree topper smiled down on her, reminding her of all the times she begged to have the job of crowning the tree as a little girl.

  Her older brother was always waving the beautiful ornament just out of her reach until their mother intervened with a smile and a step ladder.

  She tossed her jacket on the sofa, along with the heavy backpack. Leftover Chinese takeout waited in the fridge, but thanks to an afternoon cookie snack, she wasn’t feeling the pangs of hunger. Instead, she paused to study her latest work in progress. Done in shades of gray and white, it showed moonlight streaming through a stained glass window, as a scared young woman ventured down the lonely hall. The dull colors cast a gothic feel in a scene meant to depict the young heroine’s runaway imagination in Northanger Abbey.

  Inspired in part by her own late-night encounters with a lonely house, Julia couldn’t help but smile at the memory of the creaky stairs and chiming clock in Steventon House. A memory that faded to despair with the recollection of the book that vanished from her cloak that night.

  Mixing fresh colors in the palette, Julia worked her brush deftly across the canvas to create the dream sequence. Humming a Christmas carol under her breath, she swept shadows into existence, distorting shapes of menacing, fog-like figures. Careful strokes filled in the hero and heroine’s expressions in faces skewed at odd angles. Finally, she glanced up to see that two hours had passed since she started.

  Did she imagine it, or had the painting’s hero taken on some of Eliot Weston’s features? There were boyish good-looks and a spark of humor in the hero’s sea-gray gaze.

  “Don’t even think it, Julia,” she murmured. The look on his face when he checked out her quirky clothing ensemble was enough to signal his disapproval. And as for her art…well, who could say what he might think of avant-garde meets Austen in the form of oil paintings? But she could guess, after seeing the classical art in his office—and that was more than enough to rein her girlish emotions back in place.

  ****

  “You just gave up? But she was right in front of you!”

  Bella’s voice held an accusing edge as she unfurled a roll of metallic blue wrapping paper. Her disapproval was directed at her brother seated on the sofa, surrounded by gift boxes of all shapes and sizes. Most of them were presents for relatives likely to attend, or at least put in a cameo appearance for the Weston’s annual New Year’s Eve bash.

  “I don’t know what else I could have done,” Eliot reasoned, his fingers busy untangling a role of silver ribbon. “Short of breaking into the gallery owner’s office to read his computer files, there weren’t a lot of options. Face it Bella—it’s just a weird coincidence.” His own voice betrayed a lack of confidence in the statement.

  “Too weird,” she said. “This has to be connected with your mystery girl, somehow.” She tore a strip of tape from the roll and shot him a questioning look. “When did you say the gallery owner is coming back?”

  “Next Wednesday. You can come with me, if you want,” he offered, thinking it might be nice to have company on such a bizarre mission. “We’ll make a day of it. I’ll even buy you one of those cinnamon pretzels you like.”

  “Or you could take your new girlfriend. The one I heard you making plans with over the phone for this Saturday.”

  Eliot lost his grip on the spool of ribbon, which cascaded across the floor in a silver stream. “Trust me, it’s not a date,” he said, covering his fumble with a nonchalant smile. “I’m helping her locate a book—a rare one. That’s all.”

  She studied him with narrowed eyes as she glanced up from her package, a gaze he tried to dispel by humming a Christmas tune under his breath as he rewound the unraveled ribbon.

  With a shrug, she turned her attention to the wrapping paper again, missing his eye-roll of relief.

  It was safest not to mention what rare book he was searching for, knowing Bella would have a field day with the almost surreal connection. Not that it didn’t threaten to ignite his own imaginative powers.

  It was just a coincidence—surely, it was just a coincidence.

  “I think helping a girl find a book is a good start for a relationship,” Bella hinted, her eyebrows arching in a knowing manner that irritated him. “If she likes old, crumbling books, that already makes one thing you have in common.”

  “I didn’t say the book was for her, did I?” he answered, trying to be mysterious. “So better not order the wedding invitations, just yet.” Looking for a subject change, he combed through the stack of packages.

  “Are any of these for me?” he asked, shaking the biggest one, a camping stove for their Uncle Philip, an outdoor enthusiast.

  “Nope.” A satisfied smile crept across Bella’s face. “Your gift this year is fool-proof. Meaning it’s something you can’t slit the paper on and rummage through, like usual.”

  “You can’t prove that. I’m just exceptionally good at guessing a box’s content from its weight and sound.” He rattled a small, oval shaped container, pretending to concentrate. “For instance, I’m pretty sure this is a jar of deluxe, vanilla-scented hand cream.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Good guess. Of course it helps that you picked that one up for Mom as a favor.” Plucking the box from his hands, she placed it on the sheet of gift wrap.

  “Well, I look forward to being surprised this time,” he said, wondering secretly what she could have gotten him that didn’t come in a box. He was pretty sure her allowance consisted of a few dollars here and there based on household chores.

  “It’s head and shoulders above whatever you’re getting me,” she answered. “Which you still haven’t picked out.” A safe guess, since he often put off shopping ‘til the eleventh hour, as evidenced by last year’s all-in-one makeup kit.

  “I’m thinking about one of those candied fruitcakes they sell at the mall. You like those right?” he asked, grinning as she bounced a wad of wrapping paper off his arm.

  ****

  Saturday morning found Eliot perched on the hood of his car in the parking lot outside Pemberley Park. Book enthusiasts strolled past on their way to the festival, most armed with maps and schedules, as well as a thermos or picnic lunch. These all-day affairs were the literary lover’s version of a sports event.

  Would Julia join in the spirit of thing—or as he suspected—have a laugh over the almost rabid enthusiasm? He pondered the subject as Bella’s teasing words floated through his mind. Despite his quick denial, he had to admit there was something about Julia that intrigued him. Something that seemed almost familiar…but then, he couldn’t have met her before, could he?

  She mentioned taking a pottery class once, but didn’t say where. Maybe he had encountered her on campus before, in one of the art buildings. Or one time when he was parked outside the Starry Night Bistro—didn’t she say she waited tables there?

  A car door slammed somewhere across the parking lot. He glanced over to see Julia coming towards him, dressed in a denim jacket and a flannel skirt layered over a pair of ripped jeans. A fringed scarf and bangle bracelets completed the quirky ensemble, her strawberry-red hair swept into a messy but flattering loose style.

  No—he would remember seeing this girl before.

  “Morning.” She flashed a bright smile as she brushed strands of windswept hair from her face. “Ready for the hunt to begin?”

  “Absolutely,” he said, sliding off the car. “The question is are you ready? Because book fairs can be a little daunting for the amateur,” he said, with a challenging glance designed to aggravate that natural pluck he’d witnessed in their first meeting.

  “Is that so?” A playful gleam appeared in her hazel eyes. “Maybe I’ll surprise you. I’m already a natural shopper, and I can speed read.”

  Once inside the gates, though, her cocky expression melted into a look of astonishment. She turned slo
wly in a circle, her gaze taking in the hundreds of seller’s booths, their giant, multi-colored banners flapping in the winter breeze. “It’s like every bookstore in the state crammed into one small acre. Where do we start?”

  He grinned, enjoying her wide-eyed wonder. “Relax. Every booth has a sign listing the types of merchandise for sale. Genres, first editions, manuscripts, collectables, everything. So it’s not quite like searching for a needle in a haystack.”

  “Got it.” She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets and scanned the horizon. “Can we check out that one called Book Curious? I’ve got a feeling it has the kind of stuff we’re looking for. “

  “Lead the way,” he said.

  As it turned out, her instincts weren’t bad, as the sign for Book Curious boasted a collection of rare gothic and romance novels from the seventeen- and eighteen-hundreds. Its folding tables were loaded to the brim with faded hardbacks and cracked leather volumes. There were elaborate covers with block illustrations and gilt lettering from the early 1900’s that seemed to say ‘pick me up and read me.’

  “This is beautiful,” Julia said, running her fingers across a crescent moon motif for a classic poetry book. “I had no idea book covers could be such a work of art. These designs would be perfect on canvas.”

  He glanced at her with raised brows. “Do you know a lot about art?” he asked.

  It made sense.

  She had mentioned before she was a painter. The bohemian clothing style, junk jewelry, the bold hair color—all hallmarks of the artist community.

  A flush spread across her cheeks, her gaze trained on a stack of peeling leather-bound volumes. “You mean, was I trained in a sophisticated art school? No. Just a hobby that started in high school. Waiting tables is what pays the rent, though.” Her fingers reached for a battered copy of The Mysteries of Udolpho.

  “Look—it’s the book Catherine reads in Northanger Abbey.” She flipped through it, glancing over the pages.

  “Better not read it,” he teased. “Remember how it affected Austen’s heroine.”

  “I guess you’re right. One imaginative book’s already gotten me into enough trouble.” Returning the gothic novel to the stack, she moved to examine another series of hardbacks.

  What did she mean by ‘trouble’? He studied her with a mixture of curiosity and concern, realizing she’d never explained the importance behind their search. The reason she had to find this book.

  “Julia…” He tapped his fingers against the table. “Can I ask why you’re doing this? That is, couldn’t you settle for a different version of Northanger Abbey? There are plenty of other collectable editions out there just as nice.”

  “It’s to complete my friend’s set. One that used to be pristine, but then got ruined by an accident.”

  “But why isn’t your friend doing the research?” he asked, unable to shake the feeling there was more to this story than she let on.

  “She’s on Christmas vacation.” Her hazel eyes met his gaze with a suddenness that startled him. “And anyway, I kind of owe it to her. I made a mistake, a careless one. I’m hoping this will make up for it.”

  Something in her eyes pleaded with him not to push it any further. And why should he? All that mattered was she needed his help, and he intended to give it without conditions.

  ****

  What’s wrong with you, anyway?

  Julia couldn’t help but ask herself that question, even as she brushed off Eliot’s inquiries over the book. Somehow, she couldn’t see herself explaining the whole embarrassing incident without losing his respect. Her cheeks warmed as she pictured his likely reaction. A punk artist loses a small fortune in first editions—all while mocking Jane Austen on canvas with weird paintings. An image best blotted out as quickly as possible.

  “This probably isn’t your ideal weekend.” Eliot offered her an apologetic smile across the table. “Most people I know wouldn’t spend their spare time combing through stacks of old, musty books.”

  “It’s not something I’d do all the time,” she admitted. “But I can see why you’re fascinated with them. There’s such a rich history in the bindings and covers. Almost like looking through a museum of literature.”

  “Careful. It only took one book festival to hook me back in junior high. My parents hoped it was only a fad—like techno music or parachute pants,” he joked. “But I stuck with it.”

  “My parents felt the same way about this,” she said, holding up a strand of her strawberry-colored hair. “They worried I was turning into some kind of rebel. When, in fact, being different probably kept me from falling in with the wrong crowd. Artwork was something to hold onto when people pressured me to make mistakes. I always thought of it as an extension of my faith. Maybe God was protecting me with paints,” she joked. “And with strawberry-colored hair.”

  He studied her with an approving look. “It suits you.”

  The admiration seemed genuine, sparking a sense of flattered surprise inside her. “Yeah, well, it goes with the rest of the ‘offbeat look’,” she quipped, hiding her blush behind a copy of Jane Eyre.

  “Mind if I pry into your personal life?” he asked, his tone half-teasing, half-serious.

  “Depends on what it is,” she said, gazing above the cover with a cautious smile. Don’t ask about the book again, please, please don’t.

  “It’s about your artwork,” he said, choosing her second least-favorite topic. “I was wondering what it’s like.”

  “Oh.” She bit her lip, not sure where to begin. “It’s…it’s kind of a funky, modern look called cubist. It kind of resembles a picture that’s been cut up and glued back together at funny angles. Except most of my family thinks it ought to be cut up again and glued together correctly,” she said, managing a laugh. Only her gallery and her fellow artists took her paintings seriously.

  “Wait a second.” A flicker of realization invaded his green gaze. “Your paintings—are they for sale at the art gallery downtown? Sort of Picasso style with Regency themes?”

  Oh, no. She braced herself for the usual snarky jokes. “It’s not exactly a hot-selling item. To date I’ve sold a grand total of three.”

  “I’m not usually a big fan of that look,” he said, sorting a stack of water-stained hardbacks. “But your work is different, striking even. I like it.”

  “You don’t have to say that.” She fiddled with the fabric on her skirt, wishing the subject would change. “I saw the prints in your office—very classical, elegant stuff.”

  “Which doesn’t mean a Picasso-meets-regency creation couldn’t hang there, too.” The teasing edge in his voice pulled a reluctant smile from her mouth. How did he manage to do that, even when he was forcing her to discuss something she’d rather avoid?

  “Does this mean you’re an Austen fan, as well?” she asked, turning the tables on him. “Most people think her works should be kept far away from modern art. So if you’re a fan, go ahead and scold me, now.” Despite her attempts to sound playful, a steely edge invaded her voice, braced for the opinions of another anti-modern art tirade.

  He shrugged. “I read most of her works back in college because the classes required it. But lately I’ve taken a new interest in them. I even…” He trailed off, a hesitant look on his face.

  “What?” she prompted. Since he dragged up the subject of her artwork, she wasn’t about to let him off the hook when it came to personal revelations. Fair was fair.

  “Nothing,” he answered. “It’s just that I had a sort of experience—a dream, I guess.” He paused, an awkward expression on his face. “Anyway, it was like I had a Jane Austen encounter. Like I saw her for a moment.”

  What does that mean? She stared at him, trying to figure out the meaning behind the words. He must be kidding, a good-natured tease that would turn into some literary symbolism version of a ghost story. And yet, there was an undeniable discomfort in his face as the silence dragged between them.

  He cleared his throat and offered a sheepish g
rin. “Probably just a side effect of too much reading, too late at night. Anyway, I’ve developed a new appreciation for the literature. Not as much as Bella, of course.”

  Bella? She switched from his confusing statements to a new picture. A girlfriend, perhaps? The image of a sophisticated beauty in chic evening-wear entered her mind, the woman cradling an oversized Shakespeare volume. The type who enjoyed organizing book clubs and poetry readings, while spending her weekends on a yacht somewhere, perfecting her tan.

  “My kid sister is what you might call an Austen groupie,” he said. “Books, movie posters, T-shirts—the whole shebang. She’d like your paintings,” he added, his gaze catching hers with a warmth that made her smile.

  The image of the gorgeous socialite bookworm vanished with these words. “Thanks,” Julia murmured. “You know, I could do something on commission for her if she wanted. I could even paint her in Regency dress. No cubist angles, just an old-fashioned human face,” she added.

  “I think she’d jump at the chance.”

  He opened his mouth to say more—but they both spotted it at the same time. A clothbound novel with a familiar crushed morocco design. They got there at the same time, fingers brushing in a moment that sent her heart to her toes.

  “Sorry” she said, drawing her hand back, skin still tingling from his touch and its unexpected spark. Did he feel it, too? A glance at his face revealed an expression impossible to read, as he flipped open the book and scanned its title page.

  “False alarm,” he said, replacing it on the table. “Unless you’re interested in an antique copy of Gone With the Wind, that is.”

  She laughed, her tone shakier than she would have liked. “Not today, thanks.”

  And so the moment passed, along with its hint of romantic potential.

  ****

  By three o’clock, they had exhausted all the likely vendors with no success. And though he hated to admit it, Eliot was half-glad. Because not finding the book meant spending more time with its would-be owner, whose hidden charms kept him guessing each moment they were together.