He probably figured I was used to it, but dammit, it was different when I did it to myself.
This was exactly the sort of thing that could ruin me for Mr. Darcy. There was an element of Frank Churchill in this too, I remembered, Emma, as it was, being fresh in my memory. Frank had been keeping secrets too, playing fast and loose with Highbury’s good opinion of him. Knightley had never been fooled. Knightley, the constant, steady influence, the confidant, the sexy neighbor who was never more than a brisk walk away. Where the hell is my Mr. Knightley!?
I recognized that I was being a trifle two-faced, seeing as my epic search for Mr. Darcy had just fizzled two seconds ago.
My thoughts touched briefly on Ethan and ruthlessly skittered away again. Knightley would never keep such a secret; he had too much respect for Emma. Which was rather depressing when you considered my current predicament.
Perhaps Jake was Mr. Knightley material. . . . And if not, I might just be willing to forgive and forget if it turned out he was a Darcy. I lifted my latte for an imaginary toast and decided it was time to have a little chat with Gypsy Jane.
Reaching under the couch, I set aside my near-empty coffee cup and pulled forth the dust bunny-encrusted volume. I wasn’t in the mood this morning to pore over anyone else’s happily-ever-after, so the key, which I’d been keeping inside the front cover flap, stayed put.
I skimmed back over the first few pages of the journal, now sporting only a spotty collection of words imbued with some sort of hidden meaning.
at times the answer is hidden in plain sight
an unexpected development can change everything
a perfect match demands an open mind
absence may In fact produce a very desirable effect
puzzle it out between you
Reading them all together, it seemed possible that they could be referring to my friendship with Ethan and the secret he’d been keeping from me and—I assumed—everyone else. As clues went they were pretty nebulous, and a couple of them didn’t even really fit in that context. Ethan and I were far from perfectly matched. As best friends. . . or not. And there was nothing romantic going on between us. At all. Perhaps it was all part of the puzzle. This whole thing was going to be a sore subject for a little while, and ambiguous or not, I needed a little advice.
When Courtney insisted that we all needed secrets, I heartily agreed. After all, I had a juicy, exciting one of my own—which I’ve since shared with both of my best friends.
I lifted my pen and stared down at those last two words. Best friends. Were we still best friends? Could things go back to the way they were? If not, I was going to be spending a lot of time with Courtney and her ghosts. . . or Mom and Mr. Carr. . . and potentially the Geek Freak if my laptop went wonky on me. Oh crap. I let my head fall back in self-pity before righting myself, determined to get on with it. Things were just going to have to go back to normal—I had too much invested in Ethan to quit him now. But I could punish him a little. . . .
But now, I think I’m ready to change my vote. There is something so distancing about a secret. It immediately calls trust into question, and that automatically puts both sides on the defensive, inspires grudges, and causes all sorts of little problems. I’m currently stalled out at this stage and associate it with the bitter taste of unsweetened, blackish coffee. Blech. Incidentally. . . I could have used a little heads-up. If I’m interpreting things correctly, you knew about Ethan’s secret. All I needed were three little letters, Gypsy Jane. Three little letters. There are a lot of ways I could play this with Ethan, but I think I’m just going to assume his “secret life” won’t keep him from Sunday-night Scrabble, a stint as an expert journal witness, or an occasional barbecue. And I suppose I do still have a couple of secrets left up my sleeve. Ethan doesn’t have a clue that I’ve taken up matchmaking, and he doesn’t know about Mom and Mr. Carr yet either. Fun times ahead!
After last night, Jake Tielman is no longer a secret. . . now evidently he’s *forbidden*. By the man with the secrets, aka P.S. (that’s PreSmackdown) Darcy. Nice. Well, I want to see him again, despite what Ethan has to say. Despite the possibility that he’s probably a Darcy too, and I’ve switched to Team Knightley. I may be ready to say good-bye to the brooding, tortured hero, but I could stand to see a few more intense, lustfilled stares. . . . Just a couple more, then I can make a clean break.
A new e-mail pinged its way into my in-box, and needing just a moment’s distance from this topic, I grabbed my phone to check it.
Crisp, bright days, rich autumn color, and stacks of flapjacks. . .
Sleep late, lounge for a while, read the paper, and then. . .
Join us for a casually stylish brunch
at a private Austin residence on the cliffs of Lady Bird Lake.
Pancake Bar
celebrating autumn spice and winter fruit. . .
Applewood Bacon
celebrating bacon. . .
French-roast coffee and fresh-squeezed grapefruit mimosas.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
11:00 A.M.—1:00 P.M.
Reserve your spot with $20 by Thursday, November 11, 2010
My smile bloomed as I read the details and imagined the pleasure of showing up with Jake after we’d slept late and “lounged” for a while. I envisioned the novelty of Sunday plans that didn’t involve Scrabble. But I quickly tamped down on the possibilities, forcing myself to deal with my current reality instead. I’d give myself a few days to think about it, weigh the pros and cons, then I’d decide. Spirits slightly buoyed, I turned back to the journal.
There’s an e-mail from Pop-up Culture in my in-box. I simply need to RSVP, and Cat can suit up again. Ethan is not in any position to say a word. Besides, if I refrain from mentioning Jake at Scrabble, our little romance will be my little secret. Ethan will never know. Clueless . . . weren’t we all.
I tipped the journal closed, feeling very mysterious—roguish, but ladylike. I’d whiled the morning away on good coffee and bad, exposed secrets and covert decisions, and now I really needed to get a few things done. But I couldn’t resist a little peek at someone else’s happily-ever-after.
Retrieving the key from the inside cover, I slid it, ever so slowly, into the keyhole and silently watched the magic happen. I watched a different kind of secret come alive and felt thrilled to be a part of it. I flipped past Miss Piano, ready to move on to someone new, and when I found her, I settled in to read.
If she had scoured all of England, the wilds of Scotland, and beyond, Letty could not possibly have produced a more insufferably arrogant dinner companion. If he did not happen to be her brother-in-law I’d want to steep her tea with something that would send her into a fit of the hiccups. But he warrants something stronger. A swollen tongue would be fitting indeed. . . .
I should probably leave that bit out of my diary, but then I’ve little experience when it comes to diaries, and I’m not about to scratch it out now.
To think I’d confided in him my aspiration to one day be elected to the Royal Society! The nerve of the man to tell me I’d be better served in less lofty pursuits! To insist that my penchant for botany and chemistry should be “usefully directed” towards timely discoveries in medicine instead of some “elusive research” was dismissive and short-sighted. The pity his limp had inspired in me was promptly squelched by his snide commentary and asperity of manner. He didn’t want sympathy, that much was clear, but whether he’ll admit it or not, the Great War had made its impression. His eyes, when they weren’t snapping in irritation, were sad and lost in memories.
Enough! I will not make excuses for him. . . no matter how much my heart stuttered when I caught a glimpse of those same eyes crinkling with amusement as he held his newborn niece. I’m traveling to London to begin work at King’s College in less than a fortnight. I haven’t any time to be mooning over a pompous jackanapes, no matter that he is devilishly attractive.
I pulled back, intrigued. This one sounded feisty. I was poised t
o flip the page and read on, the day’s to-do list be damned, when the phone rang. It was Dad. I balked and considered sending him to voice mail but, on the last ring, decided to pick up.
“Hey, Dad,” I said, patently chipper. I unfolded my legs from under me and examined my toenails, promptly deciding I could use a pedicure. “How are you?”
“Hey, Sprinkles.” The nickname, barreling down the phone lines, made me smile and ache just a little. But I knew what was coming and braced myself for the eye roll. “Better than I deserve.” Dad was obsessed with Dave Ramsey, and no amount of nagging had convinced him to relinquish his favorite, irritatingly overused quote. “And you?”
“Great,” I assured him. “School’s the same, but good. Mom’s”—I briefly debated how to phrase this—“dating, but I’m not. Ethan is good, and Austin is weirder than ever.” It was pretty much the same spiel I gave him every time he called. Well, minus Mom dating.
“Who’s your mom dating?” he asked. He sounded genuinely curious and not the slightest bit jealous. I supposed that train had left the station for parts unknown a long time ago, but I couldn’t seem to squelch the wishful thinking.
“A teacher from school. History. You’d like him.” And he would.
“Well, if he’s smart, he’ll hang on to your mom, and I’ll get to meet him before too long.”
“Yeah. Maybe,” I allowed, wishing he’d been smart enough to hang on to Mom himself. “You dating someone better than you deserve?”
When he answered, I could hear the smile in his voice. “No, not dating. But I do go country and western dancing with Chris’s mom most Saturday nights.” Chris was his assistant manager and most experienced zip-line guide.
“How come you and Mom never went dancing?” If Dad thought it was a weird question, he didn’t say. Mom and Dad had been friends for years before they’d gotten married, and they seemed to have everything in common. . . until, suddenly, inexplicably, they didn’t.
I couldn’t help but wonder nervously if that was what was happening to Ethan and me. Minus the part about being together . . . married.
“We were busy doing other things, I suppose. We were always happy, Cate. I hope you know that.”
“I do,” I assured him. And I did. I just wish they could have been happier together for a while longer.
“So when are you coming up here, Sprinkles? It’s beautiful with the leaves changing. You could bring Ethan. . . stay the weekend,” he suggested.
“I thought I’d wait and come up with Gemma the week of Thanksgiving. No school.”
“That’d be fine, but nothin’ says you can’t come twice. It’s only about an hour’s drive up here, you know.”
“I know.” I also knew I should make a better effort. “Let me look at my calendar. Definite maybe, how’s that?”
“I’ll take it!” he said. “Maybe your mother wants to come, with her history professor,” he offered.
“I’ll see,” I promised. “Have a great day, Dad!”
“See you, Sprinkles.”
I clicked off and sat staring into the middle distance, thinking about happily-ever-afters and the alternative, until the morning’s coffee took effect and I had to pee.
And then I slipped back into the journal for just one more passage. . . .
I confess I’m no longer certain that this diary was the well-intentioned gift I’d imagined. I’d wondered at Olivine’s insistence that I refrain from pursuing any scientific journaling in this little book, but rather save it for my own personal thoughts and opinions. She knew I wasn’t the type to indulge myself in a running commentary on daily life, but then quite suddenly, I was. I certainly don’t claim to understand what has happened to my first, vaguely incriminating, diary entry, nor can I explain the odd nature in which a few words remain, and rather coincidentally (when read in order all at once) form a strange bit of advice. Advice, it just so happens, I’ve taken, without intending.
We came upon each other unexpectedly in the rose garden. The rain had been pummeling down for what seemed like days on end, so when the sun fleetingly made an appearance, I slipped out to enjoy it. It seems he had the same idea. And seeing as neither of us cared to relinquish the opportunity for a sliver of sunlight and a walk in the dewy air, we resolved politely to endure each other’s company.
Turns out he is surprisingly sufferable after all. We very deliberately didn’t discuss the war or my studies, keeping our conversation confined to common interests, of which, funnily enough, there are many. We both adore horses and love to ride, so it wasn’t long before we agreed to abandon the garden in favor of the stables. We were late in to dinner, brushing the hay from our bums, having spent the entire afternoon having a cozy little chat. It was quite embarrassing to be teased over doing something else entirely. I felt the flush warm my whole body.
His eyes are a murky, almost turbulent green, as if they’re changing color before your eyes . . . and perhaps they are. And his passionate nature, when not set up in opposition against me, was rather arresting, appealing even. I confess, I almost wish my visit was to be longer than originally intended. I simply need to get refocused. The country air is making me feel giddy and utterly irresponsible.
I would have loved to have pushed on and discovered what Gypsy Jane had in store for these two, but enough was enough! Between the fascinating real stories and the fortune-teller-style advice, this journal had the potential to become a tremendous time suck. Which reminded me, I was currently in limbo. . . .
I carefully closed the journal and twisted out the key, riveted by the shrinkage. And then, just as carefully, I paged forward until I came to the latest word from Gypsy Jane.
There are secrets, and then There’s Clueless
I sat for a moment and considered, trying to hit on an interpretation that wasn’t a jab at my prowess at sleuthing or awareness . . . or something. It was a little ironic, or perhaps apropos, that I’d used the term “clueless.” Here I was, embroiled in a matchmaking scheme, falling for the wrong men, i.e., the Darcys of the world, finagling my mother’s love life—not to mention teaching Emma to my seniors—hell, I was Clueless. I hadn’t realized how very much my life was beginning to mirror the novel . . . or the Hollywood adaptation.
I smirked at the thought of Paul Rudd playing Ethan, but quickly sobered. Ethan was not my Mr. Knightley. I closed the book, full up on Jane for the moment, and decided to go out. I needed groceries unless I wanted to spend the week eating bagels and hummus, and I wanted to pick up a couple of things before the evening’s Scrabble match, assuming there would still be one. I could make dinner, but that might be awkward, while a pizza delivery was likely to snap things back to normal in a hurry. I’d just check in with Ethan.
I wasn’t ready to talk, even over the phone yet, so I texted him:
Still on for tonight?
His reply, when it came back, was as casual as mine:
Yep.
I bit my lip, relieved. Now I had about seven hours to dispense with any hurt feelings, grudges, awkwardness, and all-around cluelessness. I slipped on jeans and a sweater and my favorite scarf and stepped out the door into the crisp autumn sunshine, feeling suddenly giddy and irresponsible.
When Ethan walked around the corner and onto the patio, I was ready for him. I had the Scrabble board all laid out, a couple of microbrews on ice, and Groucho Marx glasses, complete with plastic nose, perched on my face.
Ethan broke into a grin, just as I’d hoped, and immediately plunked down a peace offering of his own: the CIA mug from this morning filled with autumn-toned ranuncula. My heart tripped on an excess of sentimentality, and I was glad for the disguise to hide that fleeting moment of awkwardness.
“We good?” I asked, sliding his pair of glasses over to him. “For undercover work,” I clarified.
“We’re good,” he said, ignoring the glasses and eyeing the beer. “Anything else you want to know?”
“Uh-uh. At least not right now. Or is there a narrow window of opportu
nity, and if I don’t take it now I have to forfeit my chance forever?”
“Why don’t you wait,” he suggested calmly, selecting a single tile from the Scrabble bag.
I did the same, and when we flashed each other our tiles, his “A” was a winner, so he started. Almost immediately he’d lined his tiles up down the middle, spelling “HYBRID” for thirty-eight points.
As I stared with a mixture of awe and irritation, he popped the top on his beer, selected six replacement tiles, and settled back in his chair with a self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips.
I felt a compulsion to knock him off balance a little. “So, are you officially considered a spy?”
His eyes met mine, each behind our respective glasses, his real, mine pretend, and the smirk broadened into a smile. “Couldn’t help yourself, could you?”
“How hush-hush does it really have to be? Because you’re hiding your light under a basket, my friend. Girls would eat that up.” I took a sip of wine, played “YODEL,” and raised an eyebrow, poised to deliver the punch line. “Especially if you have the body of an agent.”
“Is that right?” he said, leaning forward in his chair, settling his arms on the table. “Well, you’re the only girl who knows, and you’ve seen about as much of my body as anyone recently.” And then he lowered his voice and I felt goose bumps running rampant. “Planning to jump me?”
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