Jane and Austen

by Stephanie Fowers

  My face burned with embarrassment and regret. I crossed my arms and tried to tune out the TV that Ann-Marie had turned on in the center of the room. Sweet music wafted from it. It was showing a sappy love story meant to swallow us up in an unbelievable tale where every dream came true.

  And so the vicious cycle began again. For every romantic girl like me there was an unromantic guy … who clearly wasn’t interested. I didn’t know how I’d missed the signs this time around. I had dedicated all my free time to him—if we weren’t together, I was thinking about him. And for what? While I wove dreams of our future together—dancing in the kitchen, children playing at our feet, growing old together—he was in the now.

  His thoughts: We are sitting on the couch together watching a movie. I think that kissing scene is coming up. Maybe I should make some more popcorn.

  My thoughts: We are sitting on the couch together because he doesn’t want to be anywhere else but with me and he’s desperately thinking of a way to keep us together.

  There was certainly a disconnect. So who was in the wrong? Him or me? Before I could do any more uncomfortable soul searching, Taylor marched into the room. She was my supervisor and the brainchild behind North Abbey’s fabulous weekend getaways, business parties, and week-long weddings. Money meant nothing to her and why should it? Taylor was born with a silver spoon in her mouth, a socialite from a prestigious family that lived somewhere in the east.

  Taylor organized events for the sheer pleasure of hearing laughter and glasses tinkling as they crashed together in toasts. She was famous worldwide as one of the most prestigious event coordinators in the country, and landing a summer internship under her made me the most hated graduate of public relations from California State. Everyone was jealous; though, to be honest, I was a little intimidated by her. She was my mentor and idol, so it came as a surprise when Taylor and I had become such good friends over the summer.

  “Jane!” she squawked, as if I were lost somewhere in the dimness of the room. She wore a no-nonsense pinstriped grey-and-black skirt with a button-up blouse. Her black hair was short and chic, her green eyes sharp. “Jane. Jane!” She halted under the glowing light of the front chandelier, and I noticed that her usual mask of professionalism had been stripped from her face. “There you are!” She ran to the desk, faster than I had ever seen her move. “He wants to meet me!” It came out a squeal.

  She hopped up and down, wrinkling her fine Armani skirt in the process. I had never seen Taylor this way. On a normal girl, this behavior would be giddy, but on Taylor I knew it meant a national emergency. Immediately I drew myself up. “Who wants to meet you?”

  Taylor shoved her phone at me, giving me a thumbnail view of a cute, blond guy—he was no Austen, of course. I scanned his bio.

  This one looked like he was into bodybuilding and suits—kind of a weird combination. But as I read through his dating bio, I saw that he was British, and that made him triply attractive. Chuck Bigley, I read.

  “We’ve been writing back and forth for a while now,” Taylor said. “Then we chatted on the phone. And I’ve been Skyping him ever since. He’s everything I want!” She skipped up in excitement.

  “Wait,” I said. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

  She pursed her lips, adjusting the guarded look back to her face. “Nothing is ever sure with online dating. I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

  My hopes up—what about hers? Taylor clicked her long fingernails against the counter in an unsteady rhythm. “Bigley has passed every test—the family test, the social test, the career test, the IQ test.”

  I didn’t even want to ask how she managed those. She gloried in online dating and being able to put her men through a rigorous interview process to avoid getting hurt. But if I read Taylor right—she was positively glowing, which put her heart more at risk than ever before.

  “I’m so happy for you!” I came around the counter and squeezed her in a hug. For once, she accepted the affection. I was, after all, the one who had set up her dating profile on Em’s Matchmakers. It had been under her orders and I’d done it during work hours, but our little Miss Taylor looked amazing on it.

  She pulled away from my hug, only able to take so much, and met my eyes squarely. “I’m meeting him in Britain … in a week!”

  I was jealous and excited and envious all at once. Maybe online dating was the way to go—no games, no lies, zero miscommunication.

  Taylor’s eyes rested on the worn key card on the table. “Wait. Did Austen leave already?”

  I nodded, feeling the flush creep to my cheeks now that I was the one with my heart out in the open. Taylor had been trying to get me to admit my feelings to Austen for a while now. “We didn’t exactly have a meaningful conversation,” I said. “I don’t really think that … uh … he’s interested.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Jane, it’s Austen. There’s not a romantic bone in his body. If he were interested—he wouldn’t even know.”

  Ann-Marie managed to tear herself away from the blaring TV to laugh uproariously. “Hey, I never realized it before, but Jane? Austen? You know your names make Jane Austen together, right? That’s hilarious!”

  I jerked at the realization. Hilarious or pathetic?

  My eyes were drawn to Ann-Marie’s show—like an alcoholic turning back to drink. It was an episode of Petticoats and Pretty People—borrowing heavily from one of Jane Austen’s better-known works, Pride and Prejudice. I groaned—not because I hated these movies, but because I loved them. I had watched every Jane Austen remake out there. It hit me hard that my doomed love interest and I were both named after her.

  Taylor rolled her eyes. “Look away, Jane. Remember the last time you got caught up in Petticoats? You didn’t come to work on time for a week. You’ll never find a man like the ones in those movies anyway—not even the actors who play them are like that.”

  Besides her own Mr. Chuck Bigley, of course.

  I made a noncommittal sound. Sure, the men in those shows seemed to read more into things than most men, but they weren’t perfect either—they were just the right touch of mystery, challenge, and likeability. Then again, they were inspired by works written by a girl. Not that Jane Austen was delusional or a liar or doomed to never get what she wanted, but I realized that besides sharing a first name, Jane and I had a lot of things in common: our ideals.

  Yes, there was a lack of romance in this world—but even if it was scarce, it was real. Ms. Austen and I were determined to find it. Love existed. We had to have that hope that it did. If not? Then what was life about anyway?

  “I’ve got it!” Taylor turned to me with a smile. “You should go for my friend Redd. He’s perfect for you. He’ll be on leave for at least another month. That should be plenty of time to let the sparks fly.”

  I grimaced. Redd again? First Austen teased me about taking up surfing lessons with him, and now Taylor thought we’d make a good match. Redd was Taylor’s best friend from high school. He was stationed in the naval base in San Diego, and we saw him practically every night. Even Austen had noticed that Redd was a little off, and I agreed. Just because my heart had been broken didn’t mean I’d try to force love where it wasn’t.

  I never had before.

  Everyone accused me of being picky because of that, and maybe they were right. I wasn’t much of a dater, but that was because I didn’t want to waste my time on the wrong man. It wasn’t that I didn’t love men or understand them. With five older brothers, I knew how they worked. In fact, I wanted that same good relationship with a boyfriend that I had with my own family—the easy laughs and smiles, the quick banter and endless fun. I had that with Austen, and even if our relationship hadn’t worked out, I wouldn’t give up on finding someone that I could share that connection with. Sure, it made for lonely evenings, but I had waited twenty-four years to find someone, and I’d happily wait twenty-four years longer. I wasn’t desperate. I was a romantic, an emotional adventurer; I’d have my dreams, just not with m
y Austen.

  My Austen. Ugh. How long would it be before I stopped thinking of him that way?

  My phone vibrated in my pocket and I brought my eyes to the ceiling, knowing exactly who it was. I read the words on my cell phone screen.

  AUSTEN: WHAT WAS THAT ABOUT?

  ME: DON’T TEXT ON A PLANE, AUSTEN. YOU’LL CRASH IT.

  Chapter 2

  [Eight Months Later]

  “An engaged woman is always more agreeable than a disengaged. She is satisfied with herself. Her cares are over, and she feels that she may exert all her powers of pleasing without suspicion. All is safe with a lady engaged; no harm can be done.”

  —Jane Austen, Mansfield Park

  Leaning against the checkout counter, the man gave me an abrupt nod, though his piercing blue eyes lingered too long on me. He was strangely attractive, and there was something about his manner. Familiar yet distant. He gave me back the keycard to his room, stopping briefly to shove the sleeves of his jacket to his elbows. In a moment, I knew why he was so fascinating: he acted like the stereotypical hero in a Jane Austen movie with his stuffy air and prim manners.

  After taking one look at him, I could see a whole backstory of forbidden love and tragic past. I imagined that instead of pushing up his sleeves, he snapped on pristine white kid gloves to attend the theater. His eyes roamed imperiously over me as if I were a maidservant standing outside the cloak room. In a way, I guess I was. I slipped his keycard into an envelope, smiling at where my thoughts led me.

  He leaned over the counter and, in a whisper, said, “Why are you smiling? Life’s not that good.”

  I blinked a few times before it registered. Those words didn’t belong to a gentleman. It would be much better if he had said, “Your smile warms me more than a kiss.”

  To which, I would cast my eyes downward. “Oh la, sir,” my imaginary self would say, whipping her silken fan around. “Remember the differences of our social standing. ‘Tisn’t proper for you to speak to me in such a familiar manner.”

  “No, it would not be proper for me to steal that kiss.”

  My eyes would snap up to his.

  He’d lean closer, his mouth irresistibly near. “But,” he’d amend as only a true gentleman should, “I will have to satisfy myself with the memory of your smile.”

  I couldn’t help it. My lips curved up at the pretty little scene. The customer stepped back, and I realized belatedly that our conversation had only taken place in the furthest stage of my mind. And now I stood there grinning at him like an idiot.

  The guy’s black greatcoat with at least three capes melted back to his everyday work jacket as he became the tired businessman on the last leg of his trip. Blushing, I wished him a good day, and he gathered his bags while I gave myself a mental shake. These daydreams were getting worse. What used to be an innocent pastime to find romance in everything had become a mission to find the ideal man. The problem was that no man was as charming or as romantic as my imagination led me to believe.

  Taylor’s big grey cat meowed plaintively up at me. Mister was hungry again. I left to fetch him some cat food, absentmindedly patting down his wild mane of grey fur. Ever since I had accepted the position as assistant event coordinator, Taylor had left North Abbey so often that part-ownership of her cat fell to me. It had been eight months since Taylor first left to meet the man of her dreams in London. After an intense courtship, Em’s Matchmaker had claimed Taylor as their latest online-dating success story when she announced her engagement to a Mr. Chuck Bigley. My friend was riding off in the sunset with the man of her dreams and claiming her British citizenship there. London would be her new permanent residence.

  That meant if I wanted Taylor’s job as the event coordinator of North Abbey, it was mine. I just wasn’t sure if I’d survive Taylor’s wedding to accept the honor. She took Bridezilla to a new level. The big day was less than a week away, and as her replacement-in-training, all the planning of it fell to me.

  “He did it! He did it.” Taylor burst into the room. Gone was the bristling woman afraid to act irrationally. Love made her crazy, and after her trip to Britain, she’d only become worse.

  “Who?” I asked. “Did what?”

  She shoved another updated guest list at me. “It’s a PR’s dream. Consider it my parting gift to North Abbey.” I grabbed the list she danced around my face while she screamed out in excitement. “Chuck convinced his best friend to take time out of his music tour and come to my wedding! Will Dancey is coming! Can you believe it?”

  I could and it made me want to throw up. I didn’t want to take care of a rock star along with Taylor’s wedding. The rooms in the main building were already full. All nine bungalows built on the outskirts of the resort were taken by the wedding party besides the one closed for renovations.

  “But—but, Taylor,” I said. “Where will he stay?”

  She smiled brightly. “Don’t worry. I’ll move out to the Wood House.”

  That was the lodge in the back and hardly fit for a bride. It was falling apart and partially hidden in the grove behind the bungalows. It would’ve been torn down by now except for sheer sentimental value.

  I shook my head. “No, no, Taylor, you have to keep the Bennet room. It’s where you belong. Your family would freak out if they knew you were in the Wood House.”

  Taylor thought a moment, then snapped her fingers. “I know. We’ll give him the Eliot Room.”

  That room was named after T. S. Eliot when he had come to visit the mysterious Emily Hale. And it also happened to be taken. “Your parents are getting that room,” I said.

  “What?” her voice turned shrill. “But they’ll want the Randall House. They always get that bungalow—it’s big so they won’t have to see each other that much while they’re here. They’re very particular.”

  “It’s in the middle of renovations.” I ran my hands through the tangled curls in my hair, trying to think as I tried to tame the massive mane. “We’ll have to do some major rearranging as it is to fit in Dancey.”

  “Yes, yes, and we’ll also have to up security now for him, too.” Taylor tapped her fingers across the counter. “We have to keep the paparazzi out … within reason. We could allow the papers a few stolen snapshots maybe … with North Abbey as Dancey’s backdrop to his first visit to the United States. He’ll be flying the red eye tonight and he’ll be here in the morning! Jane, his stay must be as comfortable as we can make it. Maybe we should find him a personal assistant during his stay here. That could be you!”

  “But …”

  “Taylor,” a deeper voice interrupted her scheming—it had a lilting British accent and was utterly charming. I turned to Chuck Bigley—he had slipped in without either of us noticing. Taylor’s fiancé wore one of his fitted grey suits, his blond hair slicked back. Everything about him screamed British. “I believe that honor falls to DeBurgy,” he said, “Dancey’s actual personal assistant.”

  Taylor grimaced. “He’s more of a publicity manager. Anyway, I don’t like DeBurgy. He has no idea how to treat people. Dancey should just leave him home. Besides, there’s no room for him here. Jane can take care of your best friend.”

  Chuck Bigley’s arms found the waist of his future wife, and he squeezed her, looking deeply into her eyes. I’m pretty sure Taylor melted at his tenderness—I did. “Jane’s hands might already be full planning our wedding,” he said.

  “But Jane is well trained.” Taylor flashed a rare smile at me. “I made sure of that. What price did Highbury Bakery quote for the new modifications on the wedding cake, Jane?”

  I flipped through my notes. “At least a few thousand more,” I answered, “but I managed to get them to agree to an even thousand.”

  She didn’t flinch. “You see—she’s fully capable. Oh, we’ll need to change the time for the rehearsal to Wednesday. Dancey’s going to L.A. Thursday night on business; it was how he convinced his agent to let him take the time off.” She patted Bigley’s arm. “Anything to get Chuck’s bes
t man standing next to him.”

  Bigley laughed.

  Thursday was out. That meant I had to book the church on Delaford Street for Wednesday, change the wedding rehearsal dinner to that night, and juggle around the bridal shower so I could get the best man to the bachelor party, too. It was lucky we owned most of the venues where these would take place and the guests attending were planning on staying for the whole week. The notebook where I kept all of Taylor’s wedding revisions was beginning to resemble a complicated chemistry calculation. She meant to outdo every party that she had ever planned. I felt like I was coordinating for the royal wedding.

  The lovebirds started babbling to each other in the strange love talk that I associated with newlyweds. I cleared my throat to interrupt them. “Kingham Florists are out of calla lilies, Taylor. We cleaned them out. Harriet’s too. I had to order the rest from Carlsbad. Yates said they’ll ship them overnight as soon as they get them in—that means we’ll barely get them in time if we change the rehearsal dinner to Wednesday, and it’ll cost us extra.”

  Taylor took a break from making googly eyes at Bigley and twisted around to give her permission. “Put the lilies in a cooler once we have them. I want them dripping from the ceilings of Pemburkley Hall, not wilting.”

  “There will be no wilting,” I said, making a check in my notebook.

  Bigley touched her arm. “Are there any poppies in your flower assortment?”

  Taylor’s almond-shaped eyes slanted at him. “What? No!”

  “But they’re your favorite flower,” he said with a laugh. “I want you to have everything you want for your wedding.”

  Taylor wrinkled her pert, little nose. “I had too much of poppies in Britain. No, I never want to see another one again. I want this wedding to go without a hitch, Jane. Which of my guests will be arriving today?”