Jane Austen Girl - A Timbell Creek Contemporary Romance

by Inglath Cooper

  “Yeah,” Bobby Jack said, unable to keep the defeat from his response. He crossed the office and helped her unload, placing her things on her desk.

  “Hey, now,” Alice said, patting his shoulder with a hand arthritis was starting to get the better of. “They don’t know what they’re saying at that age. Their brain’s been temporarily taken hostage by hormones.”

  “Isn’t there something a doctor can prescribe for that?”

  Alice laughed, picking up her purse and putting it behind her desk, then walking over to give Florence a pat on the head. “If there was, I don’t know a parent who wouldn’t be lining up at Doc Barker’s door. Unfortunately, it’s one of those things you just have to swim through to get to the other side.”

  Bobby Jack sat down at his own desk, leaned back with his hands laced behind his head. “Why can’t they stay like they were when they were ten? Before all the puberty crap? At ten, you can have an honest conversation with them, and yet they still look at you like you might know a thing or two.”

  Alice lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “That, you’ll have to ask the man upstairs. So what was the upset between you, anyway?”

  “She wants to enter some ridiculous contest to win a date with a duke.”

  Alice raised penciled-in eyebrows. “Really, now?”

  “Like there’s even a remote possibility the thing is on the up and up.”

  “And? What’s the worst that can happen if it’s not?”

  He considered this, then shook his head. “She’ll end up feeling foolish.”

  “So let her.”

  “Let her?” Bobby Jack shot back. “What kind of advice is that?”

  “The only kind that’s going to get you out of the dog house.”

  “If it keeps her from making a mistake, I’m willing to stay there a while.”

  “Bobby Jack. You’ve got to let that girl start making some of her own mistakes. For the child’s whole life, you’ve been throwing yourself in front of her every time she gets ready to fall. How’s she ever going to learn what it’s like to have to pick herself back up when you’re no longer there to act as a mattress?”

  “You got plans for her to go somewhere or something?”

  “The last I checked you’re as human as the rest of us. At some point, you have to let them grow up, Bobby Jack.”

  He glanced out the window, saw Priscilla’s banana yellow Corvette pull into a parking space across the street. “Yeah, maybe. But first there’s something else I’ve got to do.”

  Florence at his heels, he stepped outside of the office onto the sidewalk, then jaywalked in front of Pete Thompson’s old clunker farm use truck. Pete, almost as ancient in appearance as the truck itself, shook a finger out his rolled down window and honked the horn.

  Bobby Jack just smiled and waved, as if he couldn’t hear Pete’s grumbling through the lowered window.

  Most days, Bobby Jack went to great lengths to avoid run-ins with his ex-wife, succeeding largely even though their respective businesses were right across the street from one another. When she’d sailed back into town a few years ago and opened up her Well-Kept Woman Day Spa and Salon right across the street from him, he’d considered moving. But he liked his office. As a matter of principle, if anyone moved, it should be Priscilla.

  In the parking lot, he stopped just short of her car, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep from giving in to the temptation to strangle her.

  “What the devil kind of nonsense are you trying to fill my daughter’s head with now?”

  “You mean our daughter.” Priscilla Randall leaned forward to check her hair and lipstick in the rearview mirror before opening the door and giving him a look of concern. “And Bobby Jack, you better watch that temper of yours. High blood pressure can certainly become an issue at your age. I mean who would take care of poor Florence if you up and left us?”

  “I’ll worry about my own damn blood pressure,” he said, even as he felt his face redden. “Try and stick to the subject if you can.”

  “And what was the subject again?” she asked, sliding one curvy leg from the car and then the other, before closing the door and executing a Supermodel catwalk to the beauty salon, not even bothering to check to make sure he was following. Men had been following Priscilla since she’d first learned how to blink her big baby blue eyes, and she’d never once questioned the continuing success of her efforts. Certainly not where Bobby Jack was concerned.

  “Our daughter. See if you can hang onto that thought for the next ten seconds.”

  “Now, see, Bobby Jack, that’s where you get your backwards reputation. It’s hardly politically correct to make fun of those of us afflicted with ADD.”

  Bobby Jack resisted the impulse to roll his eyes. Somewhere along the way, Priscilla had found a doctor who had diagnosed her inability to stick with one man, one project, one interest as symptoms that fell under the latest disorder umbrella. He didn’t doubt that for some people the problem actually existed. But for Priscilla, it made a handy hat rack on which to hang a lifetime worth of excuses.

  Having been married to her, Bobby Jack would have fine-tuned the diagnosis to a severe case of bored-too-easily, aggravated by a never-ceasing need for the new and different. New shoes. New car. New husband. But then nobody had asked him.

  “All aspersions to your affliction aside, why can’t you encourage Andy to put her efforts into something that might actually lead somewhere?”

  Priscilla turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open, flicking on a light and dropping her purse on the receptionist’s desk. “Well, I think a shot at becoming royalty would qualify as somewhere, don’t you?”

  Florence plopped down on the tile floor, as if she thought this might take a while.

  Bobby Jack stared at his ex-wife for several long moments, completely at a loss as to where to take the conversation from here. How he had ever imagined the two of them compatible enough to actually marry was beyond him. But then he’d had a different rating scale back then, the basis of which had little to do with lifelong compatibility.

  “Do you for one minute actually think that hoax is for real?”

  “Why, yes,” she said, splaying a hand on one hip. “Yes, I do.”

  “Are you still trying to tell her the tooth fairy’s for real, too?”

  This got him a look of real annoyance. “Don’t be ridiculous, Bobby Jack.”

  “The tooth fairy’s ridiculous, but this isn’t?”

  “Not when it has an honest-to-God TV network and a well-known image consultant backing it.”

  She made the pronouncement as if the President himself had signed off on the whole proposal. Bobby Jack shook his head, speechless. “She’s a straight A student, Priscilla. She could go to any Ivy League school of her choosing if she keeps her grades where they are now, and you think this is how she should be spending her time?”

  Priscilla circled the salon, flipping on lights. “She’s also a girl, Bobby Jack. Something I think you’d do well to notice once in a while.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly what it sounds like. You take her out working with that obnoxious crew of yours like she’s just another redneck with a hammer.”

  “That ‘obnoxious’ crew of mine happens to be a good bunch of guys, so I’d appreciate it if you’d table the slander. And Andy helps out because she wants to.”

  Priscilla picked up a brush, began pulling out excess hair and dropping it in a trashcan. “Maybe when she was twelve. In case you haven’t noticed, that’s no longer true.”

  “Did she say something to you?”

  “She didn’t have to.”

  “Oh, you’re a mind reader now?”

  “A mother senses these things.”

  That statement alone was enough to send Bobby Jack off on a tangent. “I advise you not to go there, Priscilla.”

  Her blue eyes narrowed. “I know what kind of mother you think I am, Bobby Jack. But Andy is my daughter
. And I do love her. Whether you like it or not.”

  “Since when do loving mothers run off and leave their baby?”

  Priscilla made a sound that was half laugh, half disbelief. “You cannot let it go, can you?”

  “Actually, no, I can’t. I don’t see why I should have to. You’re the one who made the choices you made, Priscilla. Nobody forced you to leave and spend the next eleven years pretending you were still a teenager.”

  “People get divorced every day,” she said, her voice heating up. “And people find a way to make it work. But not you, Bobby Jack! You’re so all-fired convinced that you’ve been wronged, you let that bitterness eat away at you a little more each day. Pretty soon, there’s not going to be anything even recognizable of the old you left. You’re just going to be this dried up old fart who rides around with a hound in the front seat of his truck instead of a woman!”

  “I didn’t come over here to rehash our history,” he cut her off in a sharp voice. “I came over to tell you to quit filling Andy’s head with nonsense!”

  “First of all, I don’t take orders from you. And second of all, she doesn’t see it as nonsense. Did you ever think she might want to know that you believe in her, Bobby Jack?”

  “I do believe in her. I believe she can do great things with her life. And that’s what I want for her.”

  “As long as those things fall under your definition of great, right?”

  He started to answer, then stopped. He didn’t have to listen to this crap from the woman who had conveniently dropped him and their daughter three years into their marriage, as if they were yesterday’s old newspapers. “You know what, Priscilla? This was a complete waste of time. As talking to you always is.”

  Flo got up and trotted after Bobby Jack just as Priscilla threw out, “Come on back again when you don’t have such a bee in your bonnet. You could use a good hair cut!”

  The state of your closet is a direct indicator of the state of your life. Trousers mixed in with dresses? Summer clothes mixed with winter? A shoe missing in action? If this sounds familiar, it’s a good bet chaos is ruling outside the closet as well.

  Grier McAllister - Blog at Jane Austen Girl

  CHAPTER THREE

  By the time Marty towed Grier’s car into the garage, it was almost four-thirty, and she’d all but wilted from the events of the afternoon. Even Sebbie drooped and showed definite signs of needing a nap.

  Amy had reserved a room for her at the Mockingbird Inn where the selection process would take place. The ever-accommodating Marty drove them over in the tow truck and dropped them at the front with a promise to have Grier’s car up and running again by tomorrow. He’d recommended giving it a check-up just to be safe.

  With Sebbie at her side, she rolled her suitcase into the small lobby and headed for the registration desk. A friendly young man with slightly bucked teeth checked them in, the name Beaner Purdy stitched across the pocket of his burgundy uniform.

  “I believe you’re here for the Jane Austen Girl auditions, aren’t you, ma’am?” he asked, smiling a big blinding smile.

  “Yes,” she said, following along with Sebbie as Beaner pulled her suitcase to the elevator.

  “It’s got the whole town buzzin’.”

  “I hope that means we’ll have a good turnout for the auditions then.”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. I expect you’ll fill the place up. My sister, Edith? She’s a shoe-in for your makeover. If it weren’t for the wart on her chin, she’d look just like that actress with the tattoo on her shoulder. The one who adopted all the children?”

  “Really?” Grier said.

  “I keep tellin’ her she oughta get one of them laser doctors to take that thing off. But she just gets on her high horse and starts sayin’ how men are all about the superficial.”

  “Hm,” Grier said, not sure what to add that would be anything remotely resembling diplomatic.

  The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open.

  Beaner stepped out and beckoned for Sebbie and her to follow. “You and your buddy are right down this way, Ms. McAllister.” At her door, he took the card and slid it into the lock. She stepped inside, removing Sebbie’s leash. He made a beeline for the king-size bed, hopping up and making himself at home among the quartet of pillows propped at the headboard.

  Beaner pointed out the room’s amenities, mini-bar, TV, and pullout couch should she need it for any reason. “If you want anything at all now, you just buzz the front desk and ask for me.”

  “Thank you so much,” she said, handing him a five.

  He nodded, grinned and then ducked his head once before letting himself out of the room. As soon as the door closed behind him, Grier collapsed onto the bed next to Sebbie.

  Her feet literally throbbed, and she held one foot in the air, managing to gingerly remove the strappy sandals before letting them drop to the floor. “Ah,” she said, thinking she might actually cry with the relief.

  Sebbie cracked one eye as if to make sure she was all right, then buried his nose beneath a pillow and resumed his nap.

  Her cell phone rang. She considered not answering it, then grabbed her purse off the floor and fumbled through the outside pocket until she found it.

  Amy’s number flashed on the screen. “Hey,” Grier said.

  “You’re there,” Amy Langley said on what sounded like a sigh of relief. “I’ve been calling for hours.”

  “The service here seems to be somewhat intermittent,” Grier said, collapsing onto the bed again.

  “You sound funny. Are you all right?”

  “I had a little car trouble. Sebbie and I both are out of gas.”

  “Tell him I miss him terribly.”

  “I will,” Grier said, smiling.

  “Is your car fixed?”

  “It’s in the shop.”

  “Should I get you a rental?”

  “If it’s not ready by tomorrow. I won’t need it tonight.”

  “How does it feel to be back home?”

  “Strange.”

  “Everything look the same?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Seen any old boyfriends yet?” Amy asked, cheeky.

  “Unfortunately.” She immediately regretted the admission, not wanting to get Amy started on her find-a-man-for-Grier campaign.

  “Really?”

  “It was no big deal.”

  “High school flame?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Ah. Is he married?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Grier said, eager to change the subject. “I won’t be seeing him again.”

  “Too bad,” Amy said. “I thought for a second there you might be ending your dating drought.”

  “I like my dating drought.”

  “Grier, they’re not all like. . .”

  “My last ten dates?”

  Amy laughed. “They weren’t all bad.”

  “Bad enough.”

  “You just haven’t met the right one.”

  “And I’m not looking.”

  “Well, it’s been like ages since you went out with anyone.”

  “Have you heard me complaining?”

  “No, but. . .”

  “All right then. Gotta go. Busy here.”

  “It’s not normal!” Amy managed to get in before Grier ended the call, flopping back on the bed and folding herself around a pillow. She wasn’t lonely. She’d turn herself into the Sahara desert of loneliness before she ever gave Darryl Lee Randall the satisfaction of knowing she’d given him a second thought in the years since she’d last been home.

  When the rumbling of her stomach began to disturb Sebbie, who made his displeasure known with breathing sounds that could only be equated to a heavy sigh, she got up and headed for the shower. She stood under the warm spray for a good twenty minutes, her feet finally coming back to life along with the rest of her.

  She dug some running clothes out of her suitcase, opting for comfort over style, and then left Sebbie still sleeping
while she went in search of food, heading out of the Inn and walking the two blocks that led to Main Street. At almost four o’clock, the sun was still hot so she pulled off her running shirt and tied it around her waist, the white tank top she’d put on underneath much more pleasant.

  She dropped her head back and breathed deep. Amazing that a place could have its own scent, Timbell Creek’s signature blend of freshly mowed grass and honeysuckle. She thought she could identify it anywhere. These streets were familiar to her, too. She’d once known them as well as she now knew Manhattan. Better, actually.

  Maple led to Sycamore. Sycamore to Hampton. And then across to Main where she turned right and headed toward the center of town, hoping Angell’s Bakery still sat in the same place. With the smell of fresh baked bread, she grew hopeful. But the name had changed. It was now the Maple Leaf Bread Company. The aroma promised good things though, so she went inside and stood at the front counter, reading the menu behind the register.

  A teenage boy with a nice smile popped out of the back, wiping his hands on his white apron. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ll have a tomato and Havarti on rye with a little mustard.”

  “Anything to drink?”

  “Iced tea, please.”

  “Sweet tea?”

  “Why not?” she conceded.

  The front door opened, the bell hanging above it jangling once. Grier glanced over her shoulder at the tall blonde woman who’d just come in.

  “Earnest,” she said, “you got any more of that cinnamon raisin bread y'all made up yesterday?”

  “Just baked some fresh loaves, Ms. Randall.”

  At the name, Grier’s ears perked up, and she gave the woman a sideways assessment. Darryl Lee’s Ms. Randall?

  The woman turned and looked at Grier, her smile wide and white. Grier smiled back, trying not to show her curiosity, then glanced away.

  But she reached out to press a hand to Grier’s arm. “Oh. My. Goodness. Are you the lady doing auditions for that show tomorrow?”

  “Ah, yes,” Grier said. “I am.”

  “Well I sure never expected to run into you here.” She stuck out a hand that featured perfectly manicured nails. “I’m Priscilla Randall.”