Jane didn’t know what to say. Of course she did know what the critics had said about Trollope. She had been outraged when the man’s delightful books had been so cruelly treated. She herself had weathered some terrible notices. But nobody remembered those now save for some academics who insisted on recording every tiny thing about a person’s life. What people remembered was that her books were read and that they were enjoyable.
“I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful,” she told Walter. “I do like Gossford’s books. I suppose I’m just afraid I won’t be taken seriously.”
“I take you seriously,” said Walter. “Your friends take you seriously. Do you honestly care what some critic who doesn’t even know you thinks?”
Jane thought for a moment. “Well, yes,” she said. “I’m afraid I do. Oh, I know it’s shallow of me, but I can’t help it. I do care, Walter. This is my first novel. I want people to love it as much as I do.”
“Well, so far no one has said a bad thing about it,” Walter reminded her. “I’m sure someone will—”
“Thank you,” Jane interrupted. “That makes me feel immensely better.”
“But they’ll be wrong,” Walter concluded. “You just have to remember that.”
She knew what he said was true. It was, however, difficult to keep herself from looking to see what was being said about her book. In addition to the reviews Kelly sent her, she had taken to looking herself up on the Internet. As the book was only available as a review copy, there was not a lot she hadn’t seen, but she had found a handful of blogs and such in which she was mentioned. As with the reviews, most of the things written about her were positive, although a couple had been less than flattering.
One in particular continued to bother her. It was a blog called the Constant Reader. The writer was Violet Grey, the Brontë scholar, and she apparently fancied herself an expert on what she referred to as “novels of the heart.” She had recently posted an item about Constance—which she admitted to not yet having read—in which she made snide comments about Jane’s author photo and expressed doubt that “a woman with such a bland face could pen something filled with passion.” In a fit of pique Jane had left an indignant comment (anonymously, of course) on the post, suggesting that Miss Grey confine her remarks to the work at hand. She had not received a reply.
“What do you want to do on the big day?” Walter asked, drawing her back to the moment.
“Big day?” said Jane, trying to remember if she’d forgotten an imminent birthday or holiday.
“The day your book comes out,” Walter explained. “We should do something to celebrate.”
“I haven’t thought about it,” said Jane. “I suppose we could make a display in the window.”
“I don’t mean at the store,” Walter said. “I mean what do you want to do?”
“Let me think about it,” Jane told him. “I may be all booked out by that point.”
“You’d better not be,” said Walter. “This is just the beginning.”
“You sound like Kelly,” Jane said. “He said almost the same thing to me this morning.”
“He’s right. You’re going to be a star. I just know it.”
Something in his voice troubled Jane. “You sound as if that might be a bad thing,” she said.
Walter smiled briefly. “It’s not bad,” he said. “Not for you, anyway. Maybe for me.”
“Why would it be bad for you?” asked Jane.
Walter sighed. “You’ll be a big success,” he said. “I’ll be the small-town contractor who can’t offer you anything.”
Jane waited for him to laugh or tell her he was kidding. When he didn’t, she said, “You really are worried about that, aren’t you?”
“A little,” Walter admitted. “As it is, you don’t want to marry me. Why would you change your mind once you have the attention of people in the literary world? Then you’ll want someone like … like … Kelly or … Brian George,” he concluded.
Jane looked into his eyes. She could see he was serious. Tell him the truth, a voice in her head commanded. Tell him now.
“That’s not it at all,” she said, realizing immediately that it was the wrong thing to say. “What I mean is … marriage … you … me …”
“You don’t have to say anything,” Walter told her. “I know how things are. And I’m happy we’ve had this long together. I’ve always known it wouldn’t be forever.”
Jane reached for his hand. “No,” she said. “You really don’t understand. I do care for you. Very much.”
“But?” said Walter.
Jane knew that if she was going to tell Walter the truth, it would be now. She closed her eyes. “But I’m …,” she began. She could sense Walter’s nervousness as he waited for her to continue. Just say it! the voice in her head cried. Just tell him already!
“I’m celibate,” she blurted out.
She opened her eyes a little and looked at Walter’s face. Celibate? she thought. That’s what you thought of first?
“Celibate,” said Walter.
Jane nodded. “Yes,” she answered. “Celibate.”
“I see,” said Walter. He cleared his throat. “That certainly explains some things. May I ask, is this a religious thing?”
“No,” Jane said. “It’s more of a … spiritual thing. I made the decision about twelve years ago. It just seemed … right. For me. Not for everyone, of course. Then we’d just die out.” She clamped her lips shut, afraid she would say something even more stupid if she kept talking.
“Twelve years,” said Walter. “That’s a long time.”
Jane nodded but said nothing.
“And that’s why you don’t want to get too serious?”
Jane nodded again. “It just wouldn’t be fair to you,” she said.
“Excuse me for saying so,” said Walter, “but shouldn’t that decision be mine? Suppose it doesn’t matter to me anyway. Suppose there’s some reason why I can’t … you know,” he said, making a vague motion with his hand toward his crotch. “Maybe I have physical problems in that area, or just don’t like it, or have hangups about my body.”
“But you don’t, do you?” Jane asked.
Walter shook his head. “Well, no,” he said. “But that’s not the point. The point is that you’ve been keeping this from me because you thought it would upset me. You didn’t give me the chance to tell you whether it would or not.”
“Would it?” said Jane, forgetting that she had invented her celibacy precisely to prevent a similar discussion.
Walter leaned back in his chair. “I don’t really know,” he said. “I’ve gone without it this long. Maybe it doesn’t matter.”
Jane blushed. To her great relief, Walter had never attempted to do more than kiss her. She’d assumed he was too much of a gentleman to suggest more. The truth was she was afraid of what might happen if she coupled with a human. Should her hunger become too strong, Walter would be imperiled. As for herself, she wasn’t certain that a mortal male could fulfill her in the way a vampire could.
“I need to think about it,” he said. He gave a short laugh. “And all this time I thought I was the problem. Not that you have a problem,” he added hastily. “I’m not saying that.”
“I know what you’re saying,” Jane said. “It’s all right. I should have told you sooner. I guess I was just embarrassed.”
“Don’t be,” Walter said. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
Jane felt terrible. She’d lied in order to put off having to tell him the real reason for her reluctance to become serious. Instead he was reassuring her that there was nothing wrong with her. Now how will I ever tell him? she wondered.
“I should go,” Walter said. “It’s late, and I have to get up early to drive to Syracuse to pick up a sink.”
“You’re trying to be polite,” said Jane. “I’ve upset you. I’m sorry.”
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little … perplexed,” Walter replied. “But I’m not angry. We’ll
talk tomorrow.”
Jane patted his hand. “All right,” she said. “And thank you for being so understanding.”
She walked Walter to the door, where he gave her an awkward kiss. Afterward, he laughed. “I feel like a teenager,” he said. “I’m not sure what I can get away with.”
Jane kissed him again, this time for longer. “Good night,” she said.
She shut the door behind her and leaned against it. “What have I done?” she said. “I’ve made things even worse. Now he thinks I’m frigid.”
She went into the kitchen and took a pint of chocolate ice cream from the freezer. Removing the lid, she began spooning it into her mouth. But after half a dozen bites she’d had enough. Instead of feeling better, she was feeling worse. And if chocolate can’t fix it, she thought as she put the container back, you know it’s bad.
She turned out the kitchen light and went upstairs, where she brushed her teeth, changed into a nightgown, and got into bed. She had to push Tom out of the way, as he was sleeping on her pillow. He meowed in protest and relocated to the other side of the bed.
“Don’t you start,” Jane told him.
She leaned back against the pillows and looked at the ceiling, vaguely noting that she ought really to vacuum the cobwebs out of the corners. She wanted to go to sleep, but she knew she would just keep thinking about how she was hurting Walter more every time she lied to him. She’d done so much to keep the truth from him that now she wasn’t even sure whom she was trying to protect—him or herself.
Maybe you just don’t want to be with him, she thought.
“I don’t know!” she said in frustration. “I don’t know what I want!” As always, she wished that Cassie were there to talk to. She had always given sound advice. Even when Jane had not been able to decide what choices her characters should make, Cassie had helped her work through the options. But Cassie wasn’t there now
“I wish I were dead,” Jane complained to Tom. “I mean undead. No. Un-undead. Oh, I don’t know what I mean.”
Gripping the sheets in her hands, she began to cry.
Chapter 20
She stole glances at the other girls’ dresses, comparing them to her own. They all looked so lovely, moving about the room like butterflies riding warm summer breezes. She, however, was a moth, drab and inconspicuous as she sat in the corner, wearing a hole in the velvet of the sofa as revenge for her invisibility.
—Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript
“What do you think?”
Jane looked at the book she was holding in her hands. Her book. She’d just opened the overnight package from Kelly, which had arrived only minutes before. Now she was on the phone, thanking him for sending it.
“It’s beautiful,” said Jane, running her fingers over the glossy cover. The title and her name were in raised lettering. Her fingers traced the letters. “I can’t believe it’s mine.”
“You should be getting a box of fifty copies later this week,” Kelly told her. “But I couldn’t wait for you to see it.”
Jane opened the cover and looked at the title page. She turned the pages slowly, watching the words go by. The smell of the ink and paper floated up like the scent of a rare flower. She closed her eyes and inhaled it.
“Thank you for sending it,” she said.
“It’s my pleasure,” said Kelly. “I also have some news for you.”
“I don’t think it can get any better,” Jane told him. “What is it?”
“Nick sent a copy of the book to Comfort and Joy.”
“Is that a bookstore?” Jane asked.
“Comfort and Joy,” said Kelly. “You don’t know who they are?”
Jane thought for a moment. “The television people?” she said.
“That would be them,” Kelly confirmed.
Jane inhaled sharply. Comfort and Joy were the queens of daytime television. Joy, a perky blonde with conservative views and insufferably cute triplets of whom she spoke incessantly, was the polar opposite of Comfort, a liberal African American woman from Louisiana who doled out homegrown advice in a no-nonsense manner. They had been the winners of one of the endless reality shows that had taken over television in recent years, and their resulting talk show had been meant to last only a season. But to everyone’s surprise, it had quickly become a hit, particularly with women, and it had now been running for five years. Several times a year they devoted an episode to a current book. They would interview the author and discuss the book with audience members. Almost invariably, the books they selected flew off the shelves. Lucy had made a prominent display of Comfort-and-Joy-recommended books, and browsers frequently came to the counter with at least one of the titles in hand.
“They want me?” said Jane.
“Nick is firming up the details,” Kelly said. “I should have let him tell you, but I couldn’t resist. He’s going to kill me for ruining his surprise.”
“I’m going to be on television?” said Jane.
“Not just television, Jane. Comfort and Joy. This is huge. Nick will call you later with the details.”
They talked for a few more minutes before Jane hung up. She sat at her desk in a daze, staring at the novel in front of her. This isn’t happening, she thought. There’s been a mistake. This is someone else’s book. Somehow my name got on the jacket.
“You got a copy!”
Lucy’s voice startled Jane out of her thoughts. Lucy snatched the book from the desk and looked at it. She flipped it over and scanned the blurbs on the back, then opened it to read the author bio. She reminded Jane of a new parent checking the baby to make sure all of its fingers and toes were accounted for.
“Can I put it out front?” Lucy asked.
Jane shook her head. “Not yet,” she said. “It’s an advance copy. The main shipment will be here next week.”
Lucy squealed with excitement. “Your first book!” she said. “This is so cool.” Then she seemed to remember something. “Well, not your first book,” she amended. “Oh, you know what I mean.”
“I do,” said Jane. “And it might as well be. I haven’t published anything in more years than I care to think about. And back then it wasn’t quite as exciting. There were no such things as publicists, or interviews, or television talk shows.”
“Talk shows?” said Lucy. “Are you going to be on a talk show? What is it, some local thing? I hope it’s not that Book Talk with Bonnie segment Channel Five does on Sundays. That woman is moon-bat crazy. Do you know she once asked Amy Tan to explain the difference between lo mein and chow mein?”
“No,” Jane said, “it’s not Channel Five.” She told Lucy about Comfort and Joy. She covered her ears as Lucy shrieked in excitement.
“Wait until Walter—” Lucy began when she’d calmed down a little. “Sorry,” she added a moment later.
Jane waved a hand at her. “It’s all right,” she said. Since her talk with Walter things had cooled between them. Although they still spoke, they hadn’t had what Jane would consider a date, or even a dinner. She didn’t know if he’d given up on her or was still thinking about things, and she hadn’t pressed him for an answer. She of course felt guilty about this, but she told herself he was the one who needed time.
“I’m sure he’ll be excited even though you two aren’t…,” Lucy tried. She frowned. “I’ll shut up now,” she said, and handed the book back to Jane. “I’ll be out front,” she whispered. “Minding my own business.”
As soon as Lucy left, the phone rang again. Jane picked up and heard Nick Trilling’s voice.
“Bastard already told you,” he said.
“Told me what?” said Jane.
“Don’t try to cover for him. I heard him. I was just coming into his office to tell him you’re confirmed for the show. I had to take a few minutes to tear him a new one, otherwise I would have called you right away. I can’t let him get away with that shit. Pardon my French.”
Jane tried not to laugh. Nick’s blustery manner was one of his charms. “I confess,
” she said.
“You’re going to be on next Wednesday,” Nick informed her.
“The book is out Tuesday, so this is perfect. If we can get even one percent of the five million women who watch that show to buy the book, we’ll sell out the first printing. Which reminds me, I’m going to get Kelly to double the run to a hundred thou.”
“A hundred thousand,” Jane said. “A hundred thousand copies?”
“Right,” Nick said. “Oh, and Comfort and Joy are giving each of the audience members a copy. That should be good for word of mouth. I don’t like to tempt fate, but I think you’re looking at the top of the list.”
“The list?” Jane asked, not understanding.
“The Times list,” said Nick. “As in bestsellers.”
“You’re joking,” Jane said.
“You got wood around there?” said Nick. “Knock on it. But from my lips to God’s ears.”
“A hundred thousand copies,” Jane said dazedly.
“One with five zeros,” said Nick. “Which reminds me, I have to go tell Kelly he’s got to up the print run. If he gives me any shit about it, I’ll remind him that my sister’s an editor over at Random House and that I’m not above giving her your number. Does your contract have an option clause?”
“I don’t know,” Jane answered. “I guess it does.”
“Too bad,” said Nick. “That would put the fear of Jesus into him. Anyway, I’ve got to run. My assistant will call you later with your flight and hotel information.”
He hung up before Jane could ask him any questions, such as what she should say on the show and what she should wear. I should probably watch an episode, she thought. She wondered if she should bring a gift.
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