Jane and Austen

by Stephanie Fowers

  “A rake?” he mouthed.

  “A scoundrel,” I translated. “And maybe after a few months of this, I’d allow you to be my official suitor.”

  “Or I could ask you out right away and not waste the time.”

  “Who does that?” I asked. “But sure, let’s say you had the guts, it still doesn’t work. Nowadays, you have to pass the stalker and jerk test I set up for you before I give you a first date.”

  “And if I pass?”

  “Like I said; you take me out to dinner and we grill each other all night.”

  He leaned back in his seat, getting comfortable. “I can do better than that for a first date. Let’s at least pretend I have an imagination. I’ll take you out dancing or ice-skating or—stay with me here—to a movie. Two hours of being stuck together, we could even put the arm rest up for maximum closeness.”

  I liked that idea. Too bad he wasn’t really thinking about me in this scenario. I also had to remind myself that Austen could get away with anything where I was concerned—especially now—but just some other normal guy that I didn’t know? No, he’d have to court me for real or I would never let him touch me. “Yeah,” I said, “but what if I’m tired or I hurt myself ice-skating or I have to get over the fact that you remind me of my ex? Or maybe I’m passing the time until the guy I really like asks me out?”

  “You’d give me three dates at least.”

  “Great, so only three dates to give us the connection we girls crave, while we’re both on the defensive. I mean, oh no, this could mean marriage! We’re not friends yet, so we’ll pick everything the other one does apart. We’d definitely have to give the performance of our lives to get anything going between us.”

  “Easy.” He leaned closer to me. “It’s called hormones.”

  “Okay,” I said slowly, “but what if we actually wanted a lasting relationship? I’m talking something real here, Austen! Romance that would mean marriage and not a divorce? Believe me, fear always gets past the hormones. I know.” I was pretty sure it had with us—well, if there had ever been anything with us to begin with. I wasn’t so sure anymore.

  “You think your way is better?”

  “Yes! Courtship back in the day was fraught with romantic suspense. It gave you a chance to really get to know the other person before it got all confused with the physical. You’d ask to escort me to a play or on a drive in the park. If there were kisses, they were stolen. One or two before you asked my guardian for my hand in marriage. No more than that.”

  “Boring.”

  “Oh yeah?” I straightened. This was exactly what I was saying. “What does a kiss mean to you then?”

  He was silent, thinking before he answered, “Well, it doesn’t mean that I want to ask your guardian for your hand in marriage. Guys are just physical by nature. Girls need to stop confusing physical attention with a serious relationship …”

  “Wait, excuse me? So, kissing and holding hands and whatever else you choose to do mean nothing to you?”

  “It means something, just not everything you girls make it out to be.” He looked flustered and grabbed my hand. “You feel that?” How could I not? I was very aware of his warmth on my skin. “Touching is just another way to get to know someone,” he said

  “And the commitment?” I asked. “Doesn’t physical touch mean commitment to you?” He looked blank. Just as I thought; none of the excuses he’d found to touch me or the time we’d spent together meant as much to him as they did to me. “Wow,” I said. “I knew that males and females were different—with the physical and the emotional thing. I get it, but you’re so confusing. I blame you now. You’re the courtship killer, Austen.”

  “Oh no, you can’t pin that one on me. You’re just making it a bigger deal than it needs to be. Romance isn’t as hard as you want to make it.”

  “And you won’t give true romance a chance,” I countered.

  “And you do? You wouldn’t know what it was if it stared you in the face.”

  “Oh!” My whole body tingled at the accusation. He just called me out. It was so chick flick of him. Did he even know that? “What are you saying, Austen?”

  “I’m saying that you only think you want a Jane Austen romance, but if you really had it, I know you—you’d hate it.”

  “Are you cursing me?” I asked—I was only half serious when I asked it, but still, I enjoyed the startled look on his face the moment the accusation left my lips.

  He shrugged then gave a little laugh. “Take it as you will.”

  “Okay, fine,” I said. “Then I’m cursing you back. I say if you really had a Jane Austen romance, then you would secretly love it.”

  “That sounds like a challenge.”

  “It is. We’ve both issued one, so now we’ve got to shake on it.”

  Austen’s eyes crinkled up on the sides and he grinned broadly. “Any excuse to hold my hand.”

  I rolled my eyes and we shook. His hand left mine, and, just as I had thought it would, his touch left my skin all tingly. “You know we were meant to have this conversation since the day we met,” he said. “Jane and Austen.” He laughed, and I was sure it was at the irony until he said, “Now that would look good on a napkin.”

  The wind outside carried the sound of violins as I gaped at him. I was dimly aware that the violinists were playing a beautiful song under the late afternoon sun—a remake of a U2 hit. I wasn’t aware that the musicians had been playing it before. I tried not to get caught up in it, telling myself that Austen meant nothing by what he said, when Junie came to our table and plopped my tuna sandwich in front of me. She took a little more time with Austen’s oyster stew, arranging it artfully so that it looked like a true masterpiece.

  Austen met my eyes. I wondered if he knew how much I wasn’t enjoying this display of favoritism. “Thanks,” he told Junie. She smiled and refilled our cups, then reached out and tousled his hair before she left us.

  “Was that a Jane Austen romance?” he asked me under his breath.

  I laughed and looked away. “No, not unless you’re planning some sort of clandestine meeting after dinner.” He didn’t answer, and I panicked. “You aren’t, are you?” After a moment he shook his head no. “You’re not secretly dating?” I pressed.

  He came closer to me, leaning over the table so that we were almost nose to nose. “How secret?”

  “As in, you’re both aware of it,” I whispered back.

  He shook his head and turned to his stew. He rested one hand on his cheek and watched me as if thinking. I finished up the first half of my sandwich. The violin music wafted into the little shack with the soft breeze. We were all alone at the sea of tables in the Churchell, which never happened. The scene couldn’t be more idyllic for a Jane Austen romance. I didn’t have the nerve to tell Austen that if we were in love this would be what it felt like.

  “So,” Austen broke the silence. “What’s at stake? Usually there’s something at stake when someone issues a challenge.”

  He was mixing Jane Austen up with chick flicks, but I decided to play along anyway. “I’ll give you a candy bar.” One of his eyebrows went up, and I shrugged. “I don’t know—our hearts?”

  “Sounds good.”

  The violins were silent a moment before starting up another song—this one had a Celtic feel. It was mysterious, alluring. It definitely set off my imagination. Even though I couldn’t visualize Austen in the role of genteel suitor anymore, I could see that the shack tingled with romance. The flickering candle between us, the tavern wench.

  “Can’t those violins give it a rest?” Austen asked. “They’ve been at it the whole time we’ve been here.”

  Of course, he hated the same music that had mesmerized me. I smiled at the irony. “They’re just practicing for tomorrow’s brunch.” I worked on the last half of my sandwich.

  “Wow, I can’t even think with that noise.” He stood and reached over my head and closed the window shutters. “That’s better, so where were we?”

/>   “We were just about to ask for our checks.” I blew out the candle between us. Between that and the violins, something had seriously played with my head.

  Chapter 7

  “But when a young lady is to be a heroine … . Something must and will happen to throw a hero in her way.”

  —Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

  The sky looked incredibly white the next morning, the leaves vibrantly green on the trees. No sign of thunderstorms like the news had so darkly predicted. Besides the stress of working on last-minute preparations for the brunch, it was a tremendous start to Taylor’s wedding festivities. The party was well underway. The guests talked and laughed under the shade of the trees. Junie Be Fair-of-face, as Austen so liked to call her, was a hit. Her food was a culinary masterpiece—a savory selection of meats, finger food smothered in cheese or cream, and drinks with sugar iced on the rims of the glasses. Everyone complimented Junie on her beautiful assortment.

  I glanced down at the white and red napkins on the table. Chuck and Taylor. Just like Austen had cruelly pointed out, the names looked terrible together. I gulped down a glass of pink lemonade to ease my suddenly dry mouth. It wasn’t a sign. It didn’t mean anything.

  “Oh, there you are!”

  I looked up to see Taylor’s maid of honor coming at me like a model taking the runway with a vengeance. Her little puppy stared at me with beady, black eyes. “Are you sure there are enough chairs set up for this group?” Bertie asked.

  “Yes, there should be.”

  “I just don’t want to disappoint the bride. She is so nervous. I’ve never seen her this way.”

  I’d noticed too.

  “She’d like more liver pâté on the table,” Bertie added.

  I nodded. “I’m on it.”

  “Taylor also said that she wants some strawberries. Do you have any chocolate to dip them in?”

  My eyes slanted at her. Bertie wasn’t using Taylor’s name to get everything she wanted, was she? “I’m sure we have some chocolate,” I said.

  “And she’s worried that flies will get into the food.” Bertie waved over the food, warding off imaginary bugs. “There needs to be a better cover over this all. Taylor was worried about that.” Bertie took a bite of a wafer dipped into the artichoke spinach dip. She savored it. “Mmm, definitely we need more of these.”

  Her eyes immediately grew big, and she swallowed it quickly before throwing her plate of goodies into a nearby trash bin. I figured out why as soon as a man approached the refreshment table. He was one of those pretty boys with blond hair and a mischievous grin to match. He wore board shorts and a tight white shirt that showed that he was also into the gym.

  Bertie’s attention was focused entirely on him. “Harry, it’s been so long!” She batted her long lashes at him, transforming from queen bee to flirty girl in seconds. Bertie ran her hand carrying her wedding ring down the length of his muscular arm, and he turned on her with a laugh. “I am so glad to see you,” she cried. “Actually I’m thrilled to see you—there was nothing else worth looking at before you came to the party.”

  His smile only got bigger and bigger as she proceeded to flirt outrageously with him, which forced me to do double-takes on her wedding ring. Each time, I was surprised to see that it was still there.

  “Bertie!” a familiar voice hailed her. It was Mary. The bridesmaid was gorgeous with her ponytail down and her hair washed, but she still had a pale, drawn look about her. She came at us with an uneven walk.

  Bertie took an involuntary step backward. “There you are,” Mary called out. “Bertie. Bertie! Taylor is looking everywhere for you. She wants you to meet her mother. Mrs. Weston just got here. I can’t get over how much she looks like Taylor—she hasn’t changed at all. I thought she’d be all old and ugly now, but she’s gorgeous!”

  “Oh!” Bertie smoothed her hair and shocked me by handing me her teacup-sized puppy. “Just take her for a walk,” she said. “My baby doesn’t like sand in her fur, so don’t go to the beach. And keep that dreadful cat away from her.”

  Before I could argue or ask for the rat-bear’s name this time around, Bertie was off, her high heels clicking furiously against the pavement like a herd of zombies was after her. Mary reached for her tissues in her purse as soon as she spied the puppy. Her eyes flicked up to mine. “Hey, are you the event coordinator, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then can you tell me why Taylor invited the Hayters?” She made a face that pinched her sour expression into something more unfortunate than before and sighed heavily, her hot breath hitting my face in an explosion of seafood aromas. “Well, there’s no avoiding it now,” she muttered. “There are so many people here, I guess. I can only hope the Hayters won’t find me in all these bodies. I don’t want to be seen talking to them.”

  I wasn’t sure why Mary thought I was better company than some of Taylor’s guests. She caught my shoulders in her claw-like grip and steered me around so that she could use my back to hide from the infamous Hayters while still getting at the refreshments. All the while she kept up a running narrative. “Henrietta was our roommate back in the day at Yale. And now look at her. She married a plumber.”

  “Mary.” I held up Bertie’s puppy. “You’re getting dog hair in your hors d’oeuvres.”

  She gasped and let me go. I turned and, too late, met the eyes of the handsome stranger Bertie had been flirting with earlier. His blue eyes melted into mine. Before he could try to talk to me too, I gave him my cheesiest smile and disappeared into the crowd, intending to have some words with Taylor.

  I was not a dog walker. And I did not help guests hide from other guests. Taylor had better tell her friends to back off. Not only that, but if I didn’t convince Taylor to let Dancey stay at the Kellynch, I’d have to give up my room and sleep under Ann-Marie’s piano tonight.

  “Jane!” Taylor found me instead. She tugged on my arm. My complaints died on my lips as soon as I saw her face. She looked white with terror. Her mascara dripped down her eyes. “Freddy isn’t at his post anymore. My friends are parking their own cars!” She dropped a huge pile of keys into my hand. “The cars are just everywhere. They’re going to get towed soon if we don’t do something. I called for a valet service, but they haven’t gotten here. If Dancey drives here from the airport and has to park himself …” she let her horrified thought drop dramatically.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m on it,” I said. “And Taylor?”

  “Yes?”

  Now was the time to tell her that Dancey could not have my room, but looking at her stricken face, I hesitated. Instead, I made a rubbing motion under my eyes, and she immediately took the hint and rubbed her face free of mascara. I turned and headed for the parking lot of the resort, puppy tucked under my armpit.

  “Austen!” I rushed through the front lobby to the checkout counter. Austen was back at his laptop. Ann-Marie or Junie had just been visiting; the evidence was the pretty little array of food that sat like offerings all around him. I handed him the puppy.

  “Oh no, no,” he said.

  “I have to. The valet service didn’t show up and I’m in charge of parking cars.”

  “You? Really?” He was startled enough that I managed to get the puppy into his hands. “You can’t even parallel park.”

  “Yes, I can!” I backed out of the lobby before he could try to return the little rat-bear.

  He held up the cute little thing. “I’ll find it a good home,” he threatened.

  “You do that!” I closed the door between us and headed for the car drop-off zone. “Any home would be a better home than the one she has now,” I said under my breath—and almost ran into the valet that the service had sent. He reached out to steady me. My eyes ran over him. He was tall, had mesmerizing blue eyes, tousled black hair—I could only compare him to a beautiful, model version of Austen. He wore the signature black of a valet but looked better in dress code than any of them ever did. His eyebrow arched at me, and I laughed nervously. Since I had
my feet firmly beneath me now, I pulled away from his helpful hands, noticing the dark scowl on his face. He really had the starchy valet act down.

  I cleared my throat. “They only sent one of you?” I asked—it came out a little shaky.

  He looked startled at the question. “Usually that’s enough, so I’ve been told.”

  The moment he talked, he had my interest. His voice sounded like Bigley’s, but not quite. “Hey, where are you from?” I asked.

  “I grew up in Massachusetts, moved when I was eight.” He stopped to stare at me suspiciously. “You want the short bio or the long one?”

  I shook my head. I had heard that easterners were more stand-offish. Still, it was really attractive—his mannerisms brought a lot of Jane Austen movies to mind. I didn’t have time to think too much about it. “That’s super neat.” Suddenly I was aware of how west coast I sounded. I decided that now wasn’t the time to impress anybody. “Okay, well, come with me.”

  He hesitated a moment and followed after me. This guy had to be new. It was like he wasn’t used to orders. I just hoped that he could still park cars. I reached the parking lot and groaned when I saw the mess. It was just as Taylor had described. It looked like one expensive traffic jam—BMW’s, Porsches, Mercedes. The guests had parked everywhere they weren’t supposed to. Parking enforcement would make bank if they found this.

  “Okay, we have to work fast.” I turned to my reluctant valet. “If the police get here, we’re dead!”

  “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

  I laughed. “You have no idea. Taylor is freaking out.” At the mention of her name, his face cleared of expression. Of course, he didn’t know who Taylor was. But he was getting paid, so I really didn’t know why I felt compelled to explain anything.

  “And who are you?” he asked in that stuffy way of his.

  “Jane.” I divided the car keys and gave him half. “Taylor’s in charge. She told me to find you so we could take care of this.”

  He accepted the keys but acted like it was beneath him. I tried not to let it bother me. “No worries,” I said. “I’ll help you. I’m really sorry; this is going to be a nightmare.”