“You told me that was a bad idea,” Jane reminded her. “You told me not to even see the film.”
“I told you not to try to write the script,” said Satvari. “But this isn’t writing it. It’s more like rewriting it. Just a little. You know, some dialogue here and there.”
Jane sighed. “Can I think about it?” she asked.
“Of course,” Satvari answered. “But don’t think too long. If you say no, they’re going to ask Penelope Wentz to do it.”
“Penelope!” Jane exclaimed.
“Sorry, Tavish Osborn,” said Satvari. “And yes, they’re going to ask her. I mean him. She’s a him, right? I can’t keep it all straight.”
“I’ll do it,” Jane said.
“Really?” asked Satvari. “You’re sure?”
“Absolutely sure,” Jane assured her.
“Great,” said Satvari. “I’ll work out the details and call you tomorrow.” She hung up without a goodbye.
“Penelope Wentz,” Jane remarked to Tom, who was sitting in a spot of sun, washing his face. “Honestly. As if Byron could ever do justice to my novel.”
“What about me?” Byron materialized in the room, startling Jane.
“Nothing,” said Jane. “It’s not important.”
The doorbell rang, and for a moment Jane almost picked up the phone, thinking someone was calling. Realizing what it was, she was overcome by a desire to go hide in the closet. She had visions of Beverly Shrop standing on her front steps, grinning like the Cheshire cat while her minions crowded behind her.
“I heard you say my name,” said Byron. “You might as well tell me.”
Again the air was filled with an electric trill. Jane, still ignoring Byron, was beginning to retreat to the bedroom when she saw that the little light on her phone was blinking. Now someone is calling, she realized.
Grateful for the distraction, she picked up without looking at the caller ID. “Hello?”
“It’s me.” Walter’s voice had a strange tone to it.
“Are you all right?” Jane asked. “You sound peculiar.”
“I’m hiding behind a hedge,” said Walter. “There’s a gaggle of Shropheads outside your house.”
“I was hoping they’d be gone by now,” Jane said. “Best to keep yourself hidden. Beverly knows who you are. If she sees you, you’re done for.”
“Is that Walter?” Byron called out. “Tell him I say hello.”
“Is that Brian?” asked Walter. “What’s he doing there?”
Jane heard a slight edge in Walter’s voice. Although he and Byron were cordial to each other, Jane knew Walter was still a little suspicious of the man he knew Jane had once been involved with.
“He just stopped over to borrow a book,” Jane said.
“Oh,” said Walter. “Well, I wanted to do this in person, but I guess this will have to do,” he continued.
“Do what in person?”
“I have something to tell you,” said Walter. He took a deep breath. “My mother is coming.”
“Your mother?” Jane said, feeling immensely better. “Is that all?”
“You don’t understand,” said Walter.
Jane interrupted him. “Walter, from everything you’ve told me, your mother sounds like a lovely woman. She even sent me that thank-you note after she read my book.”
“Yes,” Walter said. “I know. But there’s something I sort of haven’t told you about her. About me too, I suppose.”
Well, that makes us even, Jane thought. She had yet to tell Walter that she was a vampire, a situation that was becoming more and more difficult to excuse as they grew closer.
“I’m sure whatever it is—” she began.
“I’m Jewish,” said Walter. “Well, technically I am.”
Jane paused. “Fletcher isn’t a very Jewish name,” she commented. “Not that it matters to me.”
“My mother’s maiden name is Ellenberg,” said Walter. “Miriam Ellenberg. She’s Jewish, so by default so am I. Not that I practice or even really think about it much. But she does.”
Suddenly there was a lot of static coming through the phone. Jane pressed the receiver to her ear, trying to hear. A moment later Walter’s voice returned.
“Sorry. I had to get between the bushes,” he whispered. “They’re on the move. I think they’re heading to Brian’s house. I mean Tavish’s house. What are we supposed to call him again?”
“Tavish is fine,” said Jane. Another secret she was keeping from Walter was Byron’s true identity. As far as Walter knew, his real name was Brian George.
“Did you tell him I say hello?” Byron asked. He was crouched on the floor, tossing a ball for Jasper. Jane ignored him.
“Anyway, I think that’s where they’re going,” said Walter. “As soon as they’re gone I’ll run to your back door.”
“I’ll unlock it,” Jane told him, and hung up.
A brief glance out the front window confirmed that Beverly had moved the tour away from Jane’s house. Jane saw the back of the bus as it turned the corner. A moment later she heard knocking on the kitchen door and hurried to open it.
“She’s relentless,” Walter said as he stumbled into the house, collapsing into one of the chairs around the table. “I swear she has spies all over town.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” said Jane.
“She’s really not that bad,” Byron remarked, entering the room. “And it would do wonders for your career if—”
“Shouldn’t you be getting home?” said Jane.
Byron sighed. “I suppose so,” he said. “Oh, but I still need to borrow that book.”
“What boo—” Jane began to say before a look from Byron reminded her of her earlier lie to Walter. “Yes, of course. Just a moment.”
She went into the living room and pulled a book at random from the bookcase. Back in the kitchen she handed it to Byron.
“Frankenstein,” Byron said. “How delightful.” He turned to Walter. “Have you read it? It’s one of my favorites. And there’s a perfectly delightful story behind its authorship. You see—”
“There’s no need to return it,” Jane said as she pushed Byron toward the door. “I’ve never much cared for it.”
Byron paused at the door. “You did very well,” he whispered. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” said Jane. “Now get out.”
She shut the door behind Byron, went to the refrigerator, removed a pitcher of iced tea, and poured a glass for Walter. “Now let’s get back to the drama over your Jewishness,” she said as she handed him the drink.
Walter took a long drink, then set the glass down. “It’s not me,” he reminded her. “It’s my mother.”
“You said that,” said Jane. “But I still don’t understand the issue.”
Walter drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “I’ll put it as simply as I can,” he said. “My mother wants me to marry a nice Jewish girl.”
“Oh,” Jane said. “Now I see. May I ask, was Evelyn Jewish?” They seldom spoke about Walter’s deceased wife, but Jane thought the question pertinent to the discussion.
Walter nodded. “She was,” he said. “Again, like me she didn’t really do anything about it. But the fact that she was Jewish was enough for my mother.”
“Let me make sure I understand completely,” said Jane. “Your mother is coming to visit and you’re concerned that she will be upset because I’m not Jewish.”
“Yes,” said Walter. “That’s it.”
“Hasn’t the question come up before now?”
“It might have,” Walter said vaguely.
“And what might you have told her?” Jane asked.
Walter, looking uncomfortable, drained his glass before answering. “I might have told her that you were thinking of converting.”
“Converting!” Jane said. “Becoming Jewish? Me?” She paused for a moment. “Can you do that?” she asked.
“You can,” said Walter. “You have to take a class or something.�
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“A class,” Jane said. “On being Jewish. How novel.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything before now,” said Walter. “Honestly, I thought I would tell her you were converting and then it wouldn’t come up again until we got mar—” He stopped and looked away. “Until later,” he concluded.
Jane too looked away. The subject of marriage was another one they didn’t discuss. We really should make a list of forbidden topics, she mused.
“All right,” she said. “Your mother thinks I’m converting to Judaism. We’ll just let her think that I am. I don’t see why that should be a problem.”
Walter leaned back in his chair. “She’s a Jewish mother,” he said miserably. “They can tell when you’re lying.”
“Nonsense,” Jane said.
Walter looked at her. “You don’t know,” he said. “I’m telling you, they’re mind readers. When I was a boy, my mother always knew when I wasn’t telling her the truth. Always.”
“Then shouldn’t she have figured out by now that you’re fibbing?”
Walter shook his head. “That’s over the phone,” he said. “But once she sees me in person, it’s all over.”
Jane stifled a laugh. Part of her thought Walter was joking, but the expression on his face, and his continued nervousness, said otherwise.
“So as far as she knows, I’m considering converting, correct?” she said.
Walter nodded.
“Then we’ll just keep pretending that I’m considering it. That won’t be a lie.”
“I told her you’ve already begun studying with a rabbi,” Walter said.
“A rabbi?” Jane felt a flush of anger, which she forced down. “All right,” she said when she’d calmed down. “I’m studying with a rabbi. How long have I been doing this?”
“Just a couple of months.”
Jane nodded. “And what would I have learned in that time?”
“I don’t know,” Walter answered.
“You don’t know?” said Jane. “How can you not know?”
“I didn’t have to convert!” Walter said. “It came built in.”
“Then we’ll just have to find out what it entails,” said Jane. “I’m sure I can catch up enough to be able to answer any questions your mother might have. When is she coming?”
“In two weeks,” Walter said.
“Two weeks!” Jane slumped in her chair. There was no way she would be able to learn what she had to learn before then, especially if the film company was coming as well. She looked at Walter, shaking her head. “Oy vey!” she said.
“HERE ARE THE SALES TOTALS FOR LAST WEEK.”
Jane looked up at the young man standing in front of the desk. Small of stature, he had fair skin, blond hair, and eyes the pale blue color of Arctic ice. When he smiled a dimple appeared in his chin, rendering him even more striking.
“Thank you …” She glanced at Lucy Sebring, who was standing behind the young man, looking over his shoulder.
Ned, Lucy mouthed.
“Ned,” Jane said. “Thank you, Ned.”
“You’re very welcome,” said Ned. “If there’s anything else you need, just ask me or Ted.” He smiled, revealing perfect teeth, and left the office.
“I don’t know how you tell them apart,” Jane remarked as Lucy took a seat in the chair beside the desk.
After her novel topped the bestseller lists and Jane had become busy promoting it and working on her follow-up, running Flyleaf Books had become impossible. She had made Lucy manager and hired Ned and Ted Hawthorne as clerks. Twins, the boys were completely indistinguishable.
There were only two differences between them: one was gay and the other was not, and one was a vampire and the other was not. Jane could never remember which was which, and even when she successfully attached the correct name to the correct young man, she could not then recall which one was—as Lucy so cleverly put it—playing on her team.
It was due to Byron that Jane had come to employ the twins. They were former students of his from a short stint teaching English literature at a small college in the Midwest. Byron had become infatuated with the young men and cultivated an intimate friendship with them. Eventually he came to favor one over the other and one night, fueled by too much wine, made the decision to turn him so that they could be forever together.
Unfortunately, he had as much trouble telling the twins apart as everyone else did and turned the wrong one. Curiously, the other twin had so far refused to be similarly transformed. With the passage of time one of the Hawthorne boys would continue to age while the other remained forever twenty-one. At the moment the difference was not noticeable, but inevitably it would be, and time was running out for the nonvampire twin to make a decision.
“I have no trouble telling who’s who,” said Lucy. “You just need to spend more time around them.”
“Which is the gay one?” asked Jane.
“Ted,” Lucy answered. “The one who wasn’t just in here.”
“And he’s the vampire one as well?”
Lucy shook her head. “Ned—the straight one—is the vampire. Hence the problem. And by the way, shouldn’t you be able to tell the undead from the not undead?”
Jane sighed. “One of my many failings as a creature of the night,” she answered. “Remember, I didn’t even realize Our Gloomy Friend was a vampire.”
Our Gloomy Friend was a joke, but also something of a precaution. Jane half feared that if they spoke Charlotte Brontë’s name aloud it would somehow cause her to appear. Lucy and Byron humored her in this, although Jane suspected they agreed with her more than they cared to admit.
“Speaking of Our Gloomy Friend,” said Lucy, “her books have been selling like crazy lately. We moved twenty-three copies of Jane Eyre last week. Apparently the high school assigned it as summer reading.”
“How nice for her,” Jane remarked. “Pity she won’t see any of the royalties.”
“Says the woman who should be collecting half a million a year from the sales of her own books,” Lucy teased.
“At least I have a recent bestseller to my credit,” Jane countered.
“There’s that,” said Lucy. She hesitated. “Do you think she’s really gone for good?”
Jane, who had been wondering the same thing, heard herself say, “I do. If she was going to try anything, she would have done it by now.”
“I hope so,” Lucy said. “I still check under my bed every night.”
“Monsters only hide under the bed in horror films,” Jane said. “Where you really need to check is the closets.”
Lucy laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said. “And since we’re on the subject, what’s happening with the Constance film?”
Jane groaned. She told Lucy the news about the production crew’s imminent arrival in Brakeston.
“That’s so exciting!” Lucy said.
“It’s horrifying,” said Jane. “You have no idea what Hollywood people are like. They talk far too quickly, are forever fidgeting with their phones, and don’t eat anything yet manage to end up with two-hundred-dollar tabs. For lunch.” She shuddered, remembering her three days meeting with producers in Los Angeles following the purchase of the film rights to Constance. “They’re terrifying,” she whispered.
“I still think it’s exciting,” Lucy told her. “And Portia Kensington as Constance! She’s the hottest thing around right now.”
“So I understand,” said Jane. “To be honest, I was hoping they’d get a more serious actress. Like Maude Firk.”
Lucy made a face. “Don’t you want people to actually see the film?”
“Maude Firk is an excellent actress,” Jane argued. “She’s won two Oscars.”
“And both of them before 1924,” said Lucy. “Anyway, at least you got the director you wanted. If anyone can make a good film out of your book, it’s Julia Baxter.”
“There is that,” Jane admitted. “I suppose it will be nice to spend some time with her.”
&nb
sp; “That’s the spirit,” said Lucy, standing up. “I should get back to work.”
“Oh,” Jane said as Lucy walked out. “Do you know if we have any books on becoming Jewish?”
Lucy popped her head back in the office. “On becoming Jewish?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Jane. “You know, converting.”
“We have Judaism for Dummies,” Lucy said.
“I suppose that’s as good a place to start as any,” Jane said. “Could you set a copy aside for me?”
“Sure,” said Lucy. “May I ask why?”
“It’s a long story,” Jane replied. “Actually, it’s not so much long as it is complicated. I’ll tell you later, though. I promise.”
“Okay,” said Lucy. “I’ll go find the book.” She gave Jane a peculiar look before leaving without another word.
I might as well get used to that look, Jane thought. I have a feeling I’m going to see quite a lot of it.
She returned to looking through the store receipts, but it took her all of five minutes to see that Lucy, Ned, and Ted were doing just fine without her. She felt a pang of jealousy. Although she didn’t want anything bad to happen in her absence, she liked to think that she was crucial to the store’s continued well-being.
“Here’s the book you asked for,” said a male voice.
“Thank you,” Jane said. She glanced up and saw Byron standing beside her.
He held out the book. “Interesting reading,” he remarked.
“Yes,” said Jane, taking the book from him. “I’m doing some research for my novel. One of my characters is Jewish.”
“And how is the new book coming along?” Byron inquired.
“Brilliantly,” said Jane.
“That well?” Byron remarked.
Jane picked at a loose thread on her blouse. “It’s very difficult producing art under pressure,” she said. “I’m not a machine.”
Byron nodded. “I imagine it must be very trying.”
“Stop gloating,” said Jane irritably.
“Me?” Byron objected. “I’m not gloating.”
“You are,” Jane insisted. “I can tell by your tone.”
“You wound me,” Byron said. “You know I wish you nothing but success. Why, I bought six copies of Constance to give as gifts.”
Jane Goes Batty Page 2
