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

by Karen M Cox

  “I’m your friend. You can tell me. I won’t tell a soul if you don’t want me to.”

  “You’re a good friend Emma, and I appreciate that.” He stood there a minute, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “You know, I think I owe you an apology too, maybe more than you owe me one.”

  I sat up straighter and frowned in confusion. “Whatever for?”

  “I think perhaps, these last couple of years, I’ve been awfully hard on you, starting with when you returned home after your father’s stroke. It just all sort of came to a head that day at Churchill Downs.”

  I waited, not able to trace his line of thought.

  “Don’t you want to know why?”

  “Only if you want to tell me.”

  He crossed the room and sat in the chair next to the lamp I’d turned on a minute ago. “I didn’t realize it at first, but I think it’s because sometimes, you remind me of someone I knew in California.”

  “Oh. Annoying tag-along co-ed?”

  He chuckled. “You don’t annoy me, honey. Not at all.” His face grew somber, and he took a gulp of whiskey, as if fortifying himself for something unpleasant. “No, the girl’s name was Dorothy. She was from Kansas, if you can believe the irony of that.”

  “Sometimes I think a person’s name is bound to their fate. Like George means farmer—which you are after a fashion, and Knightley reflects your chivalrous nature.” I smiled at him, trying to lighten his mood. The smile he returned made me feel sad instead, so I tried again. “If you tell me her last name was Gale, I’m going to laugh and not believe a word you say.”

  “No, her last name wasn’t Gale. Her father was a doctor, and she grew up in a small town and lived in a beautiful two-story house with a beautiful yard and a white picket fence. She had a beautiful mother and three beautiful sisters.”

  “Did you visit her there?” My curiosity about this mysterious woman was overwhelming. Who was this girl who affected George so much he was smoking cigarettes and drinking liquor when he thought about her? Suddenly, out of nowhere, my heart constricted into a painful knot.

  “No, I never did. I just heard her speak of them all so often that I could picture exactly what they were like.”

  “Was she beautiful too?”

  “She was a pretty girl—I always thought she looked a little like Linda Ronstadt—but more than that, she was a smart girl, a girl with convictions.”

  “And you fell in love with her.” My chest still felt tight; it was an extremely unpleasant feeling and I wiggled around and tried to take deep breaths. George seemed not to notice.

  “I didn’t, but I might have, if we had known each other longer.” He settled back in his chair, cleared his throat and went on. “You have to understand the time and place, Emma Kate, in order to understand the story.”

  “Then tell me. Make me understand.” I stayed perched on the edge of the couch, every nerve on alert. George rarely spoke about his college days.

  “It will seem odd to you. You grew up sheltered and safe, and so did Dorothy. But then you went to a small women’s college in the South, before you came back home at nineteen, and she went far away—where big things were happening that no one had any control over. It was freedom without limits, without cost—or so we thought.

  “I met Dorothy in a political science class my junior year. She was no shrinking violet, that’s for sure. She had strong opinions on many things—interpretation of the First Amendment, the McCarthy hearings, the blacklisting of actors, Vietnam, the women’s lib movement.

  “I’d never met a woman quite like her, beautiful and articulate, passionate and intense. She was so self-assured, so confident, so sure that she knew how things should be, and yet, there was a soft, kind side to her too, an almost child-like fascination with all the world had to offer. I guess infatuated is the right word for how I felt about her. Women like that—their intelligence stirs men’s intellect, their beauty stirs the libido, and their innocence—real or imagined, stirs the protective instinct. It’s a powerful combination.

  “I wouldn’t say we dated, because she didn’t date in the traditional sense. We ‘hung around’ together. We partied together.” George looked away, as if pained to say the next words. “We slept together.”

  “I see.”

  “Like I said, it was 1968 at UC-Berkeley. Casual relationships were the order of the day—free love.”

  “What happened?” I was anxious to get away from this part of the story.

  He laughed, but it wasn’t George’s laugh. It had a harsh, ugly sound to it. “I found out that free love meant that she was free to love other men too. I also found out I’m not good at sharing women, so I gave her an ultimatum—me or her freedom. She didn’t choose me, so we stopped … seeing each other? Is that a good euphemism for it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Anyway, we lost touch after that. The fall of my senior year, I was walking in downtown San Francisco with some friends, and this girl walked up to me, dressed almost in rags, tried to put a flower in my hand, to sell it to me I suppose. She reeked of marijuana smoke and unwashed person.

  “It was her, Emma. I couldn’t believe it. It was Dorothy. I invited her to go with me into the bar, and we talked for over two hours. She told me about quitting school, about living ‘on the road,’ about getting to what was real, what was important, but the sparkle was gone from her eyes. I tried to get her to come with me, but she refused, saying she had the life she wanted with her friends and her new experiences. I gave her my phone number and said if she ever changed her mind and needed a hand, I would help her.

  “A few weeks later, I got a call in the middle of the night from the San Francisco Police Department. Apparently, she’d been picked up for carrying drugs and drug paraphernalia, and she asked me if I would come and bail her out.

  “She stayed at my place that night, crashed on the couch in a drug-induced stupor. When I woke up the next morning, she was gone.

  “A couple of weeks later, she called again. I went, took her to a coffee shop, tried to sober her up, and get her to go back home to Kansas—go anywhere but back to the self-destructive life she was living. She said she’d think about it. Said she probably would if she had the money. So, I gave her some cash. Looking back, I realize I should have bought her the ticket instead, but what can I say? I was younger then, and a lot more naïve.

  “The third time she called, I got angry. I told her she was using me and I wasn’t going to help her if she wouldn’t help herself. She yelled at me for being part of the problem with society, and then she cried and said she was sorry. And then she offered to thank me with her body—if I came and got her out of jail. I hung up.”

  He shuddered. “The next day, your chivalrous Knightley changed his phone number. It’s hard to admit—that I was that angry, bitter…unfeeling.”

  I sat in silence, waiting. Then—

  “Whatever became of her?”

  He looked at me, as if seeing me for the first time since he began his tale. “I have no idea.” He drained his glass. “From the look on your face, I’ll bet you’re offended that you remind me of this girl.”

  “I have to admit, yeah, I am a little offended.”

  “I certainly don’t think you would run off and get all strung out and sleep around for bail money.”

  “Flatterer.”

  His lips quirked up for a second. “It’s the way she was when I first met her that reminds me of you. She had your same wit, your tenacity when you believe you’re right, and she shared your innocent view of the world. What happened to her later was the drugs, not her. But she was so sure she could handle everything that she didn’t even realize when she was into things she couldn’t handle. If I think I see you heading down a path that might be over your head, even in a small way, it makes me a little crazy, because I lo—” He stopped and shook his head, as if to clear it.

  “What are you trying to say?” My voice was gentle, inviting him to tell me everything tha
t was on his mind, just lay it all out there, once and for all.

  “Be careful of Frank Weston, Emma.”

  I sat back, surprised. “Frank? Whatever for?”

  “I know he’s not a hippie pothead at Haight-Ashbury, and he’s an old flame of yours, and he’s Bob Weston’s son, but something about him doesn’t sit right these days. There are many ways a man can lead a woman astray. Will you take care, based solely on your trust in me?”

  “Of course. There is no need to worry, but yes, I promise to take care, alright?” I walked over and plucked his glass off the end table and took it to the sink. His eyes followed me from the kitchen back into the living room. I stood before him, hands on my hips.

  “Good old Frank has raced off to Alabama again anyway.”

  “His grandmother took a turn for the worse?”

  “She’s fine, or so he says. I don’t know what he’s about, running down there at his mother’s and grandmother’s every whim. Why would he do that when he has a father and stepmother right here in Highbury, who would let him be exactly who he is, and not demand that bizarre supplication of him? Nina told me, his grandmother constantly threatens to cut him off, whenever he commits what she considers an infraction.” I paced in front of the couch. “Everybody’s off to somewhere, it seems. Jane Fairfax took off for Manhattan.”

  “Really?”

  “She said she was going to get an apartment, wait tables, and start auditioning again. I called to see if she wanted to go to lunch, or wanted help packing, or help arranging transportation for that monstrosity of a piano in the parlor.”

  “What did she say?”

  “No, no, and no.” I sighed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was avoiding me.” The sarcasm dripped from my voice. “Helen says she’s heartbroken to be leaving. I’m actually a little concerned about Jane’s well-being, but she’s made it quite clear she wants no help or kind gestures from me, so I guess I have to accept her refusal and hope she takes care of herself.”

  “I thought for sure she would have waited until Mike Dixon returned to go back to New York.”

  “Yes, me too. But there’s no figuring out Jane Fairfax.”

  “I guess not.”

  “Now, what time is your flight? Why don’t you let me drive you to the airport instead of trying to call a cab? They’re almost like phantoms in this town, virtually nonexistent. And you’re in no shape to be driving a car after chugging that bourbon. How many did you have before I got here?”

  “Just one or two, Miss Woodhouse, but I’ll take you up on your kind offer. Before I go, though”—he got up and opened a drawer in the sideboard—“sit back down a second. I got you a present.”

  “Oooh, I love presents.”

  “I know.” He handed me a little square velvet box.

  I opened it and looked up at him, surprised and delighted. “It’s a charm for my bracelet.” I ran my finger over the silver trinket. “A key?”

  “Yes. I debated with myself about what to choose. You’ve already added a few, like the graduation cap, a piano, a heart—”

  “Daddy gave Mama the heart. So, why a key?”

  He squirmed a little and cleared his throat. “The thing about you, Emma Kate, is that one symbol doesn’t cover all the things you do or all the things you are. That’s why this fits you so well.” He reached over and touched the bracelet on my wrist. “The artist’s palette charm is for your painting phase. The house represents the household you run. The camera is from your stint as a photographer. And so on. I got you the key because…well, to remind you…”

  “Yes?”

  “You have the key to your own life, to your future. You can open any door you choose, do the things that matter to you, be the person you aspire to be. You have that power—just because you’re Emma Katherine Woodhouse. I don’t want you to ever forget that, so that’s why a key.”

  I was stunned that he knew how much words like that would mean, and happy that he spent time thinking of me. And I was so proud that I could call George Knightley my friend.

  “I just wanted you to always remember.”

  “I will, George. I promise.” This felt like a goodbye. Why was he telling me goodbye?

  “Let me get my bag and load it in your car.” He started to get up and move toward the door.

  “George?”

  “Yes?” He turned back, a world-weary look in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry about your friend.”

  “Thanks, Em.”

  “It was a tragic waste of a life.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “George?”

  “Yes?”

  I stepped close to him, so he could read the truth in my eyes. My hand rested on his arm. “Whatever happened to Dorothy wasn’t your fault. You know that, don’t you?”

  “My head knows that, but there are times when my heart wonders if I could have done…I don’t know, something else for her.”

  “Well, my heart is sure that you are not to blame for any of it, including your outrage when she used you.” My voice shimmered with indignant, protective anger.

  “You’re a good girl, Emma.” He paused. “No, I take that back. You’re a damned fine woman, and I’m glad I know you.”

  My heart filled to the brim with warmth. He stroked my cheek with the back of his fingers and caressed my jawline with his thumb. He brought his face next to mine. I caught the faint scent of tobacco, smothered under the bourbon whiskey. Then, he did the strangest thing…

  With soft, warm lips, accompanied by the gentle brush of his mustache, he kissed my cheek.

  George turned and picked up his bag. “Let’s go, ma jeune et jolie chauffeuse,” he said, and he was out the door.

  Thirty-Seven

  June dragged into July, and my life settled into what I presumed would become my own version of normal life, post-college. Daddy’s health remained stable, so I pondered what to do with myself, now that I had fulfilled my parents’ wishes and finished my education. No job really appealed to me, at least not one I could get with my credentials. I thought about graduate school—a law degree? Counseling? Business? In a fit of boredom, I decided to renovate the guest house beside the pool. Then, I re-landscaped the pool area and ordered new patio furniture.

  Word came from Nina that Frank’s grandmother Churchill had passed away. Nina and Bob became more forgiving of Rosemarie Churchill for constantly badgering Frank during his visits to Highbury. It seemed less and less like Rosemarie was jealous of Frank visiting Bob, and more and more like Mrs. Churchill’s health had been worse than anyone realized. Frank planned to remain with his mother for some unspecified length of time, helping her settle the estate, although I figured the lawyers would carry out the bulk of that task. The old matriarch was gone, and Nina expressed some relief that Frank would no longer be subject to the whims of a woman who was not in her right mind— most likely from her illness, bless her heart—who threatened to cut poor Frank out of her will and then welcomed him back into the fold just as impulsively.

  Nina’s other news was more joyful. She was expecting a baby, and she and Bob were over the moon about it. I was thrilled for them and anticipated the arrival of my little girl cousin—I just knew the baby would be a girl—in February.

  July Fourth was the two-hundredth birthday of the nation, but there seemed to be no real Bicentennial celebrations anywhere. I watched Highbury’s annual fireworks display from my back veranda, my father by my side. He spent the half-hour beforehand grieving that he would be exhausted tomorrow but that he might as well stay up because there would be no escape from the noise.

  “I hope Juanita doesn’t go to Lexington to watch the fireworks, like she talked about. It’s bad enough that Nina and Bob went, and Nina in her condition too. Fireworks are so dangerous.”

  A shower of red, white and blue burst open, arcing over the night sky. “Oooh,” he exclaimed. “Look how pretty!”

  I felt the let-down of a lackluster Bicentennial season. I’d en
joyed the build-up to July Fourth: the Bicentennial minutes on TV, even the history and government School House Rock on Henry and Taylor’s Saturday morning cartoon shows. But the Bicentennial reality, like so many realities these days, was anticlimactic.

  All that boredom came to a crashing halt at 10 a.m. on July sixth with a call from Bob Weston.

  “Emma? Can you come over?”

  “Sure I can. I’ll be right over. What’s up?”

  “Oh, no, don’t drive yourself. I’ll come and get you.”

  Alarm bells went off in my head. “What’s wrong, Bob?” My heart began to pound. “Is it Nina? The baby?” Then, “No, you wouldn’t leave her to come and get me if it were the baby.”

  “No, no. No. Nina and the baby are fine.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I promised I would let her tell you. She wants to break it to you. I promised.”

  Fear threatened to steal the air from my lungs. “Something’s happened to Izzy? Or the children?”

  “Oh, no, honey! Nothing like that, I promise! It’s just…well, it’s unfortunate, is what it is. Just unfortunate. But don’t fret. It’s nothing so tragic. No, not tragic. I guess it could be a good thing. It could.”

  “Bob, you’re still scaring me.” I racked my brain to think what could rattle him so. “Is Frank all right?”

  “Hmm? Oh, yes, he’s fine. Better than fine, but…I just talked to him on the phone. Not half an hour ago.”

  Perplexed, I waited for Bob to arrive, but try as I might, I couldn’t get a sensible word out of him. He ushered me through the house and into the sunroom where Nina sat with a cup of herbal tea. The morning was humid, the sun hot, and the only sound was the rise and fall of cicadas in the woods next to Randalls’.

  “Here she is, Nina. I’ve brought her to you, so you can be at ease now. I’ll just leave you to it then. I’ll be right in the kitchen if you want me.” He leaned down and kissed his wife’s cheek and said in a low voice. “I didn’t say anything. Just as I promised. I’ve left it all to you. Women are better at this sort of thing.”