I Could Write a Book: A Modern Variation of Jane Austen's Emma

by Karen M Cox

  “Can I get you a drink, Miss Woodhouse?” George held out his elbow and she took it. “What will you have?”

  “It’s a wedding, so I’m going to have champagne, of course.”

  He held up two fingers to the bartender. “It was a lovely ceremony.”

  “Oh, it really was, wasn’t it? Nina looked exquisite. And the wedding was unpretentious, yet elegant, just like she is.”

  Handing her a champagne flute, he replied, “I thought for a minute you might cry during the vows.”

  “Cry?” she protested. “Certainly not! I’m happy for them…”

  “But you will miss her?”

  “I admit, I will.”

  “She’s not far away.”

  “Yes, but her life will be different now.”

  He wasn’t quite sure what to say. “You must be happy that she’ll be well taken care of.”

  Emma smiled and shook her head. “She’s not some poor nineteenth century governess, you know. She has a career and her own money.”

  “That’s not what I meant, as you well know. What I meant is that Weston’s a good man.”

  “That he is,” Emma agreed. “You know”—she took a sip of champagne and leaned over to speak low in his ear—“I’m the reason they got together.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.”

  “It’s true! I introduced them.”

  “Perhaps you were the reason they met, but that’s where your influence ended. They’re adults. Capable of managing their own lives.”

  “Yes, but I did little things to throw them together, like invite him over for dinner and to the neighborhood parties—and just look at the happy result. I’m a born matchmaker. I could write a book.”

  “Whatever you say,” he returned, his voice bored, his gaze wandering around the tent.

  She scowled at him, but it was a friendly scowl. Then her countenance brightened as Isabel crossed her line of vision, carrying the baby.

  “I saw you holding Taylor during the ceremony.” Her voice was rich with amusement.

  “Did you now?”

  “It was a priceless picture. I only wish the photographer had gotten it, so the whole world could enjoy the domestic side of George Knightley that I saw today.”

  He smirked at her teasing. “Yes, well, Jack needed some assistance, so I filled the bill. I wonder why they didn’t leave the babies with Rita during the ceremony?”

  “Nina wanted them at the wedding. Anyway, I’m confident your help was appreciated.”

  “Glad to be of service.”

  He bowed his head in a formal gesture, which made her laugh.

  “And you did so well with her too. You’re a natural! Who knew?”

  “Your praise is overwhelming.”

  “On second thought, it shouldn’t surprise me that the decisive, commanding George Knightley can manage an infant. He sure can manage everyone else.”

  “Emma, are you trying to flatter me?”

  “Not in the least.”

  They stood, side by side, observing as the crowd gathered in clumps of chattering finery.

  Emma chuckled. “Look at Tim Elton, working the room. That man needs to settle down and find himself a woman.”

  “I noticed he singled you out first.”

  “Ha-ha. Aren’t you a funny guy?” Emma shook her head. “No, I’m not the girl for Tim. Although, I bet I could find him one, since I’m quite the matchmaker now.”

  “Trust me, Tim knows his own mind on the subject—or rather, his father’s mind,” he continued under his breath.

  “Tim Elton is very handsome, but if he continues following those political aspirations of his, he will need more than good looks to get ahead. He needs to have the right kind of woman by his side—someone as pretty as he is, but sweet-tempered, wholesome, the proverbial girl-next-door. That’s where my judgment is superior to his. Men never know how to pick a woman that’s good for them.”

  George rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Poor Tim Elton. Emma’s on a mission to find him a wife.”

  Before she could fire back, Nina and Bob Weston stood up at their table, thanking their guests for sharing their joy. The best man rose to make his toast, which went on too long and was mighty dull.

  Out of the corner of his eye, George saw the hand holding Emma’s champagne glass descend slowly to her waist, a bittersweet expression on her face.

  “They’re so happy, and it’s wonderful.”

  “Yes.”

  “But the selfish part of me can’t help thinking…”

  Patiently, he waited.

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I have a sneaking suspicion my life will never be the same.”

  George shifted his champagne to his other hand and put his arm around her shoulders in a gesture of comfort, and as the best man finished his toast, they joined the other guests in raising their glasses to the new Mr. and Mrs. Weston.

  Nine

  June 6, 1975

  I fumbled with my boxes as I tried to open the door to the Knightley and Woodhouse offices on Surrey Street.

  “Oh drat,” I mumbled.

  “Here, miss, let me help you.” The voice at the door was sweet, a lilting twang to the vowels, but unfamiliar, which made my head snap up in surprise. I knew everyone in the law office because I brought the whole staff doughnuts on the first Friday of every month. A young woman, about my age, with reddish-brown hair and milky white skin was hurrying toward the door, almost turning her ankle on those Candie’s high heels of hers.

  “Thank you!” I breathed a sigh of relief as the young woman took the top two boxes.

  “These smell delicious.”

  “Spaulding Bakery makes the best crullers in town.”

  “So all the paralegals tell me. They said doughnuts were arriving this morning. Where do you want to put them?”

  “I’ll take them to the conference room. I know my way, and I’m sure Mr. Knightley would give me a piece of his mind for asking a client to carry pastry boxes!”

  The young woman giggled. “Oh, I’m not a client. I’m the new front office secretary,” she announced in a voice full of pride and enthusiasm.

  “Oh! My apologies. I didn’t know George had hired anyone new. Let me put these in the kitchen, and I’ll come introduce myself properly.”

  As I returned to the front office, I paused at the door to peruse the new Knightley and Woodhouse employee—just so I could tell Daddy about her later. He always wanted to keep up with the goings on at K&W Law.

  She was nearly my height, and she had that pert, hourglass figure that would have been so coveted about twenty years ago but was out of fashion since the arrival of models like Twiggy and Cheryl Tiegs. Granted, the girl’s figure was somewhat hidden under a badly-fitting polyester suit, but she deserved some points for at least trying to dress professionally. Her hair was gathered at the nape of her neck, little strands escaping the band she had tied around it. She blew one of the strands up and out of her face as she stood at the Xerox machine. Walking toward her, I held out my hand.

  “I’m Emma Woodhouse.”

  She gasped. “You’re Emma? I mean Miss Woodhouse? John Woodhouse’s daughter?”

  “Guilty as charged. And please call me Emma.”

  She pumped my hand up and down a little too enthusiastically. “Everyone around here speaks so highly of you and your father. I’m Mary Jo Smith.”

  “I’m please to meet you, Mary Jo. Have you been working here long?”

  “Just about”—she paused, looking up and counting—“three weeks…this Friday.”

  “And are you from here in town?”

  “Me? Oh no. I’m not from here at all. I just moved here from West Virginia. I finished my secretarial program at the community college last spring, but there’s no jobs around there. So, my mother said to move away, and I came here because this is horse country and I love horses. I was so lucky I found a job right away. This is such a cool position. I just love it here.” Her animated expression
was contagious. I could see the wisdom of having someone so cheerful at the front desk. Kudos to George Knightley.

  “That’s wonderful. I’m sure they’re glad to have you.”

  What a sweet and pretty girl she is! Much better than that last grumpy battle-ax they took on. And she’s just moved here all on her own, poor little thing. Just like Mary Richards on the Mary Tyler Moore Show.

  The phone on the front desk rang. Rang again. Rang a third time. I raised my eyebrows at Mary Jo, who suddenly jumped when she realized she should answer.

  “Oh! That’s my phone!”

  “Yes…”

  “Excuse me.”

  I tried not to smile as she hurried over to the desk.

  “Knightley and Woodhouse Law Offices, how may I direct your call?”

  I gestured to her that I was going back into the staff room and mouthed, “I’ll be right back.” Mary Jo nodded. Once in the kitchenette, I went about making the coffee and noted that they were almost out. Perhaps I should pick some up this afternoon before I head home. Footsteps sounded behind me, and I saw George in the doorway, looking at a fistful of papers in one hand and carrying an empty coffee mug in the other.

  He looked up a mere second before he bumped into me. “Emma!” He smiled. “What a nice surprise.”

  “Surprise? It’s the first Friday.”

  “What? Oh, right, first Friday. Spaulding doughnut day.” He put down his papers and mug and rubbed his hands together. “Okay, let me at ’em. I’ll get first pick this time.”

  “They’re on the table.”

  “You don’t have to do this, Emma, but we’re all glad you do.” He pulled a cruller from the box and sank his teeth into it. His eyes closed. “Mmm. Still warm. Good thing you only bring these once a month. I’d be round as a beach ball otherwise.”

  I had an extremely difficult time imagining trim and fit George round as a beach ball.

  Mary Jo’s voice sounded from behind him. “Did you need any help with the…? Oh, good morning again, Mr. Knightley.”

  “Morning, Mary Jo. Have you met Emma? Her father was the head honcho here before he retired a couple of years ago.”

  “Yes, we met when she brought in the doughnuts earlier, sir.”

  “Do help yourself.” I indicated the open box. “Coffee will be ready in a minute.”

  “Aren’t you going to have one, Emma?” Mary Jo asked as she chose one from the box.

  “Oh no. Emma doesn’t eat junk food like doughnuts.” George took a bite and looked at Emma with a teasing smile.

  “I do occasionally eat junk food. But I’ve already had my breakfast this morning, which was homemade granola, skim milk, and fruit, and it’s a bad habit to snack in between meals.”

  “Did you and Maude run this morning?” George asked.

  “Of course.” I turned to Mary Jo. “Maude is my golden retriever.”

  “You must be one of those health nuts.” Mary Jo looked at me with interest, as if she’d just met someone from a foreign country. A lot of people used the term “health nut” in a derogatory way, but somehow when Mary Jo said it, it didn’t sound quite so insulting.

  “I’m not a health nut. Mr. Knightley exaggerates. You will learn that he often does that to tease me. I do, however, try to stay healthy. I have to make sure Daddy eats well, and Dr. Perry says with my family history I need to be doubly careful about nutrition and exercise. It’s a good thing I never took up smoking.” I gave George a sharp look.

  “I rarely ever smoke any more, Emma, at your insistence.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it. It is not good for you at all. Dr. Perry says—”

  “You’re absolutely right. It’s not good for me. It hinders my tennis game.”

  Mary Jo snickered.

  “Doughnuts, on the other hand, do not.” He took another one and winked at her as he strode out the door, fresh coffee in hand, and papers under his arm.

  “It’s such a nice change, working for a gentleman like Mr. Knightley.”

  Goodness, what an odd thing to say! “What kind of place did you work before?”

  “I was a cashier at the Piggly Wiggly grocery in Beckley. That’s in West Virginia. The assistant manager kept trying to hit on me. That was one reason I left and went to secretarial school.”

  “Well, I can assure you no one in a position of authority will ever try to hit on you at K&W Law. Mr. Knightley will make sure of that. He is a gentleman through and through. I’ve known him all my life. He believes in women’s liberation, and he supports the ratification of the Equal Rights Amendment.” Mary Jo’s expression was blank, so I changed the subject.

  “Are you coming to the office breakfast tomorrow morning? They do that once or twice a year, and it’s marvelous.”

  “Oh yes. I wouldn’t miss it!”

  “Do you know your way to Spindletop Hall?”

  She shook her head. “Where?”

  “The university alumni club? Oh, never mind. Why don’t you let me swing by and pick you up on my way out there? I’m attending in my father’s place. The office staff is kind enough to include him, but he’s rarely up to those kinds of parties anymore.”

  “I wouldn’t want to impose—”

  “Nonsense. It’s not an imposition whatsoever. You’re new in town, and I’d be happy to show you how to get there.”

  “Well, if you insist—”

  “I do insist. We’ll have a wonderful time.”

  “Far out!”

  I bit my lip to keep from laughing at Mary Jo’s outdated slang.

  After the office breakfast party, Mary Jo and I rapidly became fast friends. I only had a few pals from college, the result of changing schools in the middle of my sophomore year and of living at home instead of in a dorm or sorority house like most of the other girls. I decided not to join a sorority when I came back home, because really, what was the point? There were plenty of tasks to occupy me already, such as running the household and supervising my father’s care. Until I met Mary Jo, I hadn’t realized how lonely I was for girlfriends. Most of my high school chums had moved away; some of them, like Carol Ann, were even married already. My two constant companions, Nina and Izzy, were both married now too.

  So, from my perspective, Mary Jo was a barrel of laughs and a much-needed breath of fresh air. She said the funniest things, made even funnier because she didn’t realize the humor in them. And she was sweet, a genuinely kind person who thought ill of no one, and sporting that right off the farm, wide-eyed, innocent girl-next-door look. I envied her hair; it was the prettiest shade of light brown with just a touch of red. Mary Jo said that came from her Irish background on her mother’s side. Her father had left the family when she was a baby, and she didn’t remember him at all. I thought perhaps that was one reason Mary Jo treated Daddy so well. With some encouragement and attention, I believed Mary Jo could become an elegant and beautiful woman, so I appointed myself to the position of guiding influence. After all, what was the point of having education and knowledge if I didn’t share it for the betterment of my friends? Especially with a girl who so desperately needed my help to realize her true potential. Nina and Izzy had been my guides to womanhood, and now it was my turn to be a mentor to someone else.

  One day in late July, I stopped by K&W Law right before noon to take Mary Jo to lunch, and when I entered the front office, Mary Jo was seated at her desk, as usual. Perched on the front corner of said desk, regaling her with some apparently fascinating tale, was one of George’s paralegals. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember the man’s name. They were all “George’s paralegals” in my book. This fellow was rather handsome: a debonair grin, curly black hair cut close to his head, and velvet brown eyes that were just a shade darker than his skin. His voice was pleasantly deep, and his speech was slow like rich, thick molasses dripping from a spoon. He was, in a word, smooth.

  Mary Jo’s dazzling smile, bordering on overt flirtation, was a bit worrisome.

  “Mary Jo, surely, we can d
o better for you than one of the law firm’s paralegals,” I muttered under my breath.

  Mary Jo spotted me then and beckoned me over. “Hi, Emma! Is it lunch time already? This morning’s just flown by.”

  The young man stood up hurriedly, probably concerned that he was caught shirking his responsibilities, but he smiled at me anyway. He was so tall, I had to look up to meet his gaze.

  “Hello, Miss Woodhouse.” He inclined his head respectfully.

  “Mr. …?” I looked at Mary Jo in expectation, hoping she would get the hint that she should be making introductions, but she only sat there, looking at Mr. Paralegal and lost in her blue-eyed enchantment.

  He held out his hand. “Oh, sorry, I’m Robert Martin. I knew who you were, of course, but I’m not surprised you didn’t know me. I work a lot in the Louisville office these days.”

  I shook his hand with a quick, firm grasp. “Yes, I recall now. I’ve heard my father and Mr. Knightley speak of you.”

  He looked very pleased to be remembered. “I was just discussing books with Mary Jo here.”

  “I told him I usually read romance novels, but he said I should try Agatha Christie mysteries. Have you read those books, Emma? What do you think?”

  “Well, sure—”

  “And I just finished The Killer Angels,” Robert said. “It was very good, but Mary Jo wasn’t sure she’d enjoy a book about war. And that makes sense, given that she’s such a peace-loving person.” He looked at her with avid interest, and forty-seven alarm bells sounded in my head.

  “Are you about ready to go to lunch, Mary Jo?”

  She startled. “Oh! Yes, I’m ready.”

  “Not to rush you, but I need to get back for yoga class at two.”

  “Of course. Sorry to keep you waiting.” She opened her bottom desk drawer and drew out her purse. She looked up at Robert, her eyes all dewy and her voice soft. “It was good to talk to you. I’ll see you this afternoon.”

  He pointed at her while he blinded her with a brilliant smile. “At coffee break, right?”